Dalinar grinned in satisfaction, then grew chill. A few of those bodies with burned eyes—three men he could spot—wore blue. His own men, bearing the armband of the elites.
“Brightlord,” Kadesh said. “Blackthorn, your task is accomplished!” He pointed toward a troop of horsemen charging across the plain. They bore the silver on red flag of his enemy, bearing a glyph in the shape of a mountain. Highprince Kalanor had committed to the battle, left no choice. Dalinar had destroyed several battalions on his own; only another Shardbearer could stop him.
“Excellent,” Dalinar said. He pulled off his helm and took a cloth from Kadesh, using it to wipe his face. A waterskin followed. Dalinar drank the entire thing.
Dalinar tossed away the empty skin, his heart racing, the Thrill thrumming within. It pushed him toward the next confrontation, frustrated that he’d stopped. “Pull back the elites,” Dalinar said. “Do not engage unless I fall.” He pulled his helm back on, and felt the comforting tightness as the latches pulled it into place.
“Yes, Brightlord.”
“Gather those of us who . . . fell,” Dalinar said, waving toward the Kholin dead. “Make certain they, and theirs, are cared for.”
“Of course, sir.”
Dalinar took off running toward the oncoming force, his Shardplate crunching against stones. He actually felt sad to have to engage a Shardbearer, instead of continuing his fight against the ordinary men. No more laying waste; he now had only one man to kill.
He could vaguely remember a time when facing lesser challenges hadn’t sated him as much as a good fight against someone capable. What had changed?
His run took him toward one of the rock formations on the eastern side of the field—a group of enormous spires, weathered and jagged, like a row of stone stakes that had been broken in half by the storms. As he entered the shadows, he could hear fighting from the other side of the tall stones. Portions of the armies had broken off and tried to flank each other by rounding the formations.
In front of him, Kalanor’s honor guard split, revealing Kalanor himself on horseback. His Plate was overlaid with a silver coloring, perhaps steel or silver leaf. Dalinar had ordered his Plate buffed back to its normal slate grey; he’d never understood why people would want to “augment” the natural majesty of Shardplate.
Kalanor’s horse was a tall, majestic animal, brilliant white with a long mane. It carried the Shardbearer with ease. A Ryshadium. Yet Kalanor dismounted. He patted the animal fondly on the neck, then stepped forward to meet Dalinar, Shardblade appearing in his hand.
“Blackthorn,” he called. “I hear you’ve been single-handedly destroying my army.”
“They fight for the Tranquiline Halls now.”
“Would that you had joined to lead them.”
“Someday,” Dalinar said. “When I am old and too weak to fight here, I suspect I’ll welcome being sent.”
“Curious, how quickly tyrants grow religious. It must be convenient to tell yourself that your murders belong to the Almighty instead.”
“They’d better not belong to him!” Dalinar said. “I worked hard for those kills, Kalanor. The Almighty can’t have them; he can merely credit them to me when weighing my soul!”
“Then let them weigh you down to Damnation itself.” Kalanor waved back his honor guard, who seemed stupidly eager to throw themselves at Dalinar. He’d have welcomed the clash, something to warm him up a little before fighting Kalanor.
Alas, the highprince seemed determined to fight on his own. He swiped with his sword, a long, thin weapon with a large crossguard and glyphs down its length. “If I kill you, Blackthorn,” he said, “what then?”
“Then Sadeas gets a crack at you.”
Kalanor grunted. “No honor on this battlefield, I see.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you are any better,” Dalinar said. “I know what you did to rise to the throne of your princedom. You can’t pretend to be a peacemaker now.”
“Considering what you did to the peacemakers,” Kalanor said, “I’ll count myself lucky. And perhaps I am the old and weak one, as you say. But I certainly don’t welcome being killed, as you claim you someday will.”
“Then you’ve grown too weak.”
Dalinar didn’t wait for further invitation, but leaped forward, falling into Bloodstance—a stance for someone who didn’t care if they got hit. He was younger, more agile than his opponent. He counted on being able to swing faster, harder.
Strangely, Kalanor chose Bloodstance himself. The two clashed, bashing their swords against one another in a pattern that sent them twisting about in a quick shuffle of footings—each trying to hit the same section of Plate repeatedly, to open a hole to flesh.
Dalinar grunted, battering away his opponent’s Shardblade when he could. Kalanor was old, but skilled. He had an uncanny ability to pull back before Dalinar’s strikes, deflecting away some of the force of the impact, preventing the metal from breaking. After furiously exchanging blows for several minutes, both men stepped back, a web of cracks on the left sides of their Plate leaking Stormlight into the air.
“It will happen to you too, Blackthorn,” Kalanor growled. “If you do kill me, someone will rise up and take your kingdom from you. It will never last.”
Dalinar came in for a power swing. One step forward, then a twist all the way about. Kalanor struck him on the right side as he turned—a solid hit, but insignificant, as it was on the wrong side. Dalinar, on the other hand, came in with a sweeping stroke that hummed in the air. Kalanor tried to move with the blow, but this one had too much momentum.
The Shardblade connected, destroying the section of Plate in an explosion of molten sparks. The blast tossed Kalanor to the side, and the older Shardbearer grunted as he hit stone and rolled, dropping his Blade. The Blade vanished in a puff of white fog that held its form for a moment before dispersing. His honor guard danced away to avoid being crushed by the armored form of their highprince.
Kalanor caught himself, rolling up onto his hands and knees. Then he stumbled up, gauntleted hand covering the hole in his armor, which continued to leak Stormlight at the edges. Half the breastplate had shattered.
“You fight like you lead, Kholin,” he growled. “Reckless.”
Kalanor was trying to buy time to resummon his Blade. Dalinar ignored the taunt and charged instead.
Kalanor ran away, plowing through his honor guard. That sent them tumbling, bones breaking.
Dalinar almost caught him, but Kalanor reached the edge of the large rock formations that jutted from the ground. He sprang, grabbing hold of an outcropping, and started to climb.
Dalinar reached the base of the natural tower moments later; boulders littered the ground nearby. This formation must once have been a tall hill, and probably not that long ago; here in the east you couldn’t have edges that sharp for long, with highstorm winds and cremfall. In the mysterious way of the storms, this hillside had been ripped in half, leaving this unlikely formation poking into the air.
Dalinar couldn’t climb one-handed. That was probably the point. He dropped his Blade and leapt, snagging an outcropping, his fingers grinding on stone. He dangled before getting a footing, then proceeded up the steep wall after Kalanor. The other Shardbearer tried to kick rocks down, but they bounced off Dalinar harmlessly.
He was faster than Kalanor, though by the time he caught up they had climbed some fifty feet. Down below, soldiers gathered and stared, pointing.
Dalinar reached for his opponent’s leg, but Kalanor yanked it out of the way and then—still hanging from the stones—summoned his Blade and began swiping down. After getting battered on the helm a few times, Dalinar growled and let himself slide down out of the way.
Kalanor gouged a few chunks from the wall to send them clattering at Dalinar, then dismissed his Blade and continued upward.
Dalinar followed more carefully, now climbing along a parallel route to the side. He eventually reached the top and peeked over the edge. The summit of the formation
was some flat-topped, broken peaks that didn’t look terribly sturdy. Kalanor sat on one of them, Blade across one leg, his other foot dangling.
Dalinar climbed up a safe distance from his enemy, then summoned Oathbringer. Storms. There was barely enough room up here to stand. Wind buffeted him, a windspren zipping around to one side.
“Nice view,” Kalanor said. Though the forces had started out with equal numbers, below them were far more fallen men in silver and red strewn across the grassland than there were men in blue. “I wonder how many kings get such prime seating to watch their own downfall.”
“You were never a king,” Dalinar said.
Kalanor stood and lifted his Blade, extending it in one hand, point toward Dalinar’s chest. “That, Kholin, is all tied up in bearing and assumption. Shall we?”
Clever, bringing me up here, Dalinar thought. Dalinar had the obvious edge in a fair duel—and so Kalanor brought random chance into the fight. Winds, unsteady footing, a plunge that would kill even a Shardbearer.
At the very least, this would be a novel challenge. Dalinar stepped forward carefully. Kalanor changed to Windstance, a more flowing, sweeping style of fighting. Dalinar chose Stonestance for the solid footing and straightforward power.
They traded blows, shuffling back and forth along the line of small peaks. Each step scraped chips off the stones, sending them tumbling down over a hundred feet toward the battlefield below.
Kalanor obviously wanted to draw out this fight, to maximize the time for Dalinar to make a mistake or slip. Dalinar, fortunately, was the better swordsman. He tested back and forth, letting Kalanor fall into a rhythm, then broke it to strike with everything he had, battering down in overhand blows.
Each blow fanned something burning inside Dalinar, a thirst that his earlier rampage hadn’t sated. The Thrill wanted more.
Dalinar scored a series of hits on Kalanor’s helm, backing him away to the farthest of the peaks, one step away from a fall. The last blow destroyed the helm entirely, exposing an aged face, clean-shaven, mostly bald.
Kalanor growled, teeth clenched, and struck back at Dalinar with unexpected ferocity. Dalinar met it with his own, and stepped forward to turn it into a shoving match—their Blades locked, neither with room to maneuver.
Dalinar grunted, meeting his enemy’s gaze. In those eyes, he saw something. Excitement, energy. A familiar bloodlust.
Kalanor felt the Thrill too, of course.
Dalinar had heard others in the army speak of it, this euphoria of the contest. The secret Alethi edge. But seeing it right there, in the eyes of a man trying to kill him, made Dalinar angry. He couldn’t explain why. It wasn’t betrayal he felt. More . . . that he should not have to share such an intimate feeling with this man.
He grunted and—in a surge of strength—tossed Kalanor back. The man stumbled, then slipped. A seasoned fighter, he instantly dropped his Shardblade and, in a frantic motion, managed to grab the rock lip of the small, flat-topped peak he’d been standing upon.
Helmless, Kalanor dangled. The sense of the Thrill in his eyes faded to panic, and fearspren boiled out of the rock wall beside him.
“Mercy,” he whispered.
“This is a mercy,” Dalinar said, then struck him straight through the face with his Shardblade.
He watched Kalanor’s eyes burn as he dropped off the top of the spire trailing twin lines of black smoke. The corpse scraped rock before hitting far below, on the opposite side of the tower from where they’d started climbing.
Dalinar breathed out, then sank down, wrung out. Shadows stretched long across the land as the sun met the horizon. It had been a fine fight. He’d accomplished what he’d wanted. He’d conquered all who stood before him.
And yet he felt empty. A voice in him kept saying, “That’s it? Weren’t we promised more?”
Down below, a group of figures in Kalanor’s colors approached the formation. They immediately made for the fallen body, and Dalinar felt a spike of outrage. That was his kill, his victory. He’d won those Shards!
He scrambled off the top of the rock formation and started down in a reckless half-climb. The descent was a blur; he was seeing red by the time he hit the ground. The soldiers were trying to pry the Shardplate off Kalanor’s corpse, which was wedged horrifically into some rubble.
Dalinar attacked, dropping the men too foolish to run. He killed six in moments, then took off running after the others. Unaided, they were slower than he was, and he caught one by the shoulder, whipping him around and smashing him down into the stones. He killed another with sweep of the Shardblade.
More. Where were more? Dalinar looked around, furious, but saw no men in the red of Kalinor’s army. Only some in blue—a beleaguered set of soldiers who flew no flag. In their center, however, walked a man in Shardplate. Gavilar rested here from the battle, in a place behind the lines to take stock, get something to drink, and give orders.
The hunger inside of Dalinar grew. The Thrill came upon him in a rush, overwhelming. Shouldn’t the strongest rule? Why should he sit back so often, denying the fight, listening to men chat instead of war?
There. There was the man who held what he wanted. A throne . . . a throne and more. The woman Dalinar should have been able to claim as his own. A love he’d been forced to abandon, for what reason?
No, his fighting today was not done. This was not all!
He started toward the group, his mind fuzzy, his insides feeling a deep ache. Passionspren—like tiny, crystalline flakes—dropped around him.
Shouldn’t he have passion in his life?
Shouldn’t he be able to love? Shouldn’t he have a reward for all he had accomplished?
Gavilar was weak. He intended to give up his momentum and rest upon what Dalinar had won for him. Well, there was one way to make certain the war continued. One way to keep the Thrill alive.
One way for Dalinar to get everything he deserved.
He was running. Some of the men in Gavilar’s group raised hands in welcome. Weak. No weapons presented against him! He could slaughter them all before they knew what had happened. They deserved it! Dalinar deserved to—
Gavilar turned toward him, pulling free his helm and smiling an open, honest grin.
Dalinar pulled up, stopping with a lurch. He stared at Gavilar, his brother.
Oh, Stormfather, Dalinar thought. What am I doing?
He let the Blade slip from his fingers and vanish. Gavilar strode up, unable to read Dalinar’s horrified expression behind his helm. As a blessing, no shamespren appeared, though he should have earned a legion of them in that moment.
“Brother!” Gavilar said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Have you seen? The day is won! Highprince Ruthar brought down Gallam, winning Shards for his son. And Talanor took a Blade for himself. The fight is complete, even though we have seen no sign of Kalanor.”
“He . . .” Dalinar licked his lips, breathing in and out. “He is dead.”
“What!”
“Dead. By my Blade.” Dalinar pointed toward the fallen form, visible only as a bit of silvery metal shining amid the shadows of the rubble.
“Dalinar, you wonderful, terrible man!” Gavilar turned toward his soldiers. “Hail the Blackthorn, men. Hail him!” Gloryspren burst around Gavilar, golden orbs that rotated around his head like a crown.
Dalinar blinked amid their cheering, and suddenly felt a shame so deep, he wanted to crumple up. This time, a single spren—like a falling petal from a blossom—drifted down around him.
He had to do something. “Blade and Plate,” Dalinar said to Gavilar urgently. “I won them both, but I give them to you. A gift. For your son. For little Elhokar. The heir.”
“Ha!” Gavilar said. “He’ll be the only baby in the kingdom who is a Shardbearer! No, no. You—”
“Keep them,” Dalinar pled, grabbing his brother by the arm. “Please.”
“Very well, if you insist,” Gavilar said. “I suppose you do already have Plate to give your firstborn son.”
“If I have one.”
“You will!” Gavilar said, sending some men to recover Kalanor’s Blade and Plate. “Ha! Toh will have to agree, finally, that we can protect his line. I suspect the wedding will happen within the month!”
As would, likely, the official re-coronation where—for the first time in centuries—all ten highprinces of Alethkar would bow before a single king. Dalinar sat down on a stone, pulling free his helm and accepting water from a young messenger woman.
Stormfather. Had he really been about to kill his own brother? And . . . if there was no war to lead, what was left for him? Who was he?
“Gavilar?” he asked, drawing his brother’s attention away from a group of officers. “Where will I find these codes you speak of so often? Let us assume that I wish to hear of them.”
Gavilar grinned more broadly.
Shawn Speakman
* * *
I was planning Unfettered II when my mother, Kathy Jane Speakman, was diagnosed with terminal cancer.
I had already written a short story that would be published in the sequel to Unfettered, a phoenix tale set in my Annwn Cycle series. But when she died, I decided to write something different for Unfettered II. Something that would memorialize her. That would share with the world her kindness. The fondness she had for gardens. Of flowers. And the love she had for her children and new grandchild.
“The Last Flowers of the Spring Witch” is that short story, a literary memory of her last days. She never had the chance to read it. I think she would have enjoyed meeting Heliwr of the Yn Saith Richard McAllister and his irascible fairy guide Snedeker.
It is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write.
I miss you, Mom.
Shawn Speakman
Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy Page 54