Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  The regular soldiers on both sides kept their distance, forming a pocket of space around the two. Jasnah resisted using her powers. With her Shards, she should be evenly matched against this creature—and her powers would quickly reveal who she was, as there were no other Surgebinders in the coalition army who had their own Plate.

  There is another reason you fight, Ivory said, challenging her.

  Yes, there was. Instead of confronting that, Jasnah threw herself into the duel, Stormlight raging in her veins. She sheared free one of the Fused’s axe-hands, but the other slammed into her and sent her sprawling. She shook her head, resummoning her Blade and sweeping upward as the Fused rammed its hand down. She cut off the axe, but the trunk of the creature’s arm slammed against her chest. Carapace grew over her like the roots of a tree, pinning her to the ground.

  The Fused stepped away, snapping the carapace free at its elbow, leaving her immobilized. Then he turned as her honor guard distracted him.

  Ah, we’re getting so much wonderful experience, Ivory said to her. Delightful.

  Other soldiers came in at Jasnah and began ramming thin pikes through her faceplate. One pierced her eye, making her scream. Stormlight healed her though, and her helm sealed the slit to prevent further attacks. With Stormlight, she didn’t need it to breathe anyway. But this, like her quick summoning of her Blade, was a concession. It risked revealing what she was.

  She ripped her hand free of the constricting carapace, then used Ivory as a dagger to cut her way out. She rolled free, tripping singers and kicking at their legs to send them sprawling. But as she came out of her roll, that storming Fused lunged in, slamming two axe-hands at her head, cracking the Plate. The helm howled in pain and annoyance, then lapped up her Stormlight to repair itself.

  Such fun is, Ivory said. But of course, Jasnah mustn’t use her powers. She wants to play soldier.

  Jasnah growled, going to one knee and punching her fist at the Fused’s knee—but it overgrew with carapace right before she connected. Her punch didn’t even move the creature. Ivory became a short sword in her hand as she slashed at the Fused—but this exposed her to another hit in the helm, which laid her flat. She groaned, putting one hand against the rock.

  Steady stone, a part of her mind thought. Happy and pleased with its life on the plains. No, it would resist her requests to change.

  Ivory formed as a shield on her arm as the enemy began smashing. Blood on her cheek mixed with sweat; though her eye had healed, the regular soldiers were trying to get at her again, her honor guard doing their best to hold them back.

  Fine.

  She reached out to the air, which was stagnant and morose today. Draining Stormlight from the gemstones at her waist, she gave it a single command. Change. No begging, as she’d tried when younger. Only firmness.

  The bored air accepted, and formed into oil all around them. It rained from the sky in a splash, and even appeared in the mouths of fighting soldiers. Her honor guard knew to withdraw at that sign, coughing and stumbling as they stepped back from the fight around her in a ten-yard circle. The enemy soldiers remained in place, cursing and coughing.

  Jasnah slammed her fists together—one affixed with steel, the other with flint. Sparks erupted in front of her, and the entire section of the battlefield came alight.

  The Magnified One stumbled in shock, and Jasnah leaped at him, forming Ivory into a needle-like Blade that she rammed directly into his chest. Her lunge was on target, and pierced the enemy’s gemheart. The Fused toppled backward, eyes burning like the fires around her.

  She finished off as many of the enemy soldiers as she could find in the flames. Her helm—transparent as glass from the inside—started to get covered in soot, and soon she had to retreat out of the fire.

  Her vision was clear enough to see the horror of the nearby singers as they witnessed a burning Shardbearer explode from the fires, as if from the center of Damnation itself. That fear stunned them as she hit their line like a boulder, working death upon the collapsing ranks. Their corpses fell among the gleeful spren that writhed on the battlefield, exulting in the powerful emotions. Fearspren, painspren, anticipationspren.

  She fought like a butcher. Hacking. Kicking. Throwing bodies into the lines to panic the others. Making waves that her soldiers exploited. At one point, something slammed into her from behind, and she assumed she’d have to face another Fused—but it was a dead Windrunner, dropped from the skies above by a passing Heavenly One.

  She left the dead man on the bloody ground and returned to the battle. She didn’t think of strategy. Strategy was for stuffy tents and calm conversations over wine. She simply killed. Striking until her arms were sluggish despite both armor and Stormlight. Though her troops rotated, she didn’t give herself that luxury. How could she? They were struggling and bleeding in a foreign land, for stakes she promised them were important. If she rested, more of them died.

  After what seemed like an eternity, she found herself gasping, wiping blood from her helm to see. The helm opened vents on the side, bringing in cool fresh air, and she stumbled, standing alone on the battlefield. Wondering why she’d started breathing again.

  Running out of Stormlight, she thought, numb. She looked down at her gauntleted palm, which was stained with orange singer blood. How had she gotten so much on her? She vaguely remembered fighting another Fused, and some Regals, and …

  And her block of troops was marching up toward the center of the battle, on trumpeted orders that echoed in her head. Horn blasts that meant … that meant …

  Jasnah, Ivory said. To the side, see what is.

  One of the Edgedancers moved among the fallen, searching for those they could heal. The second stepped up to Jasnah and pressed a large topaz into her hand. He then gestured toward the rear lines.

  “I need to do more,” Jasnah said.

  “Continue in this state,” the Edgedancer said, “and you will do more harm than good. More soldiers will die to protect you than you will cost the enemy. Do you want that, Your Majesty?”

  That cut through the numbness, and she turned to where he pointed. Reserves formed up there, among standards proclaiming battle commanders and field medic stations.

  “You need to rest,” the Edgedancer said. “Go.”

  She nodded, accepting the wisdom and stumbling away from the battlefield. Her honor guard—reduced to half its former size—followed her in an exhausted clot. Shoulders slumped. Faces ashen. How long had it been? She checked the sun.

  That can’t be, she thought. Not even two hours?

  The battle had moved away from this region, leaving corpses like fallen branches behind a storm. As she approached, a figure in black broke off from the reserves and hastened through the mess to meet her. What was Wit doing here?

  He was trailed by a small group of servants. As they reached her, he snapped his fingers, and the servants rushed forward to towel down Jasnah’s armor. She dismissed her helm, opening her face to the air—which felt cold, despite Emul’s heat. She left the rest of her armor in place. She didn’t dare remove it, in case enemies came hunting her.

  Wit proffered a bowl of fruit.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Valet service.”

  “On the battlefield?”

  “A place without much Wit, I agree. Or, I should say, a place that only exists when Wit has failed. Still, I should think I would be welcome. To offer a little perspective.”

  She sighed, but didn’t object further. Most Shardbearers had crews to help keep them fighting. She did need a drink and some more Stormlight.

  She found herself staring, however. At … well, all of it.

  Wit remained quiet. He was expert at knowing when to do that, though admittedly he rarely employed the knowledge.

  “I’ve read about it, you know,” she eventually said. “The feeling you get out there. The focus that you need to adopt to cope with it, to keep moving. Simply doing your job. I don’t have their training, Wit. I kept gett
ing distracted, or frightened, or confused.”

  He tapped her hand. The closed left gauntlet, where she held the Edgedancer’s topaz. She stared at it, then drew in the Light. That made her feel better, but not all of her fatigue was physical.

  “I’m not the unstoppable force I imagined myself to be,” she said. “They know how to deal with Shardbearers; I couldn’t bring down a Fused in a fair fight.”

  “There are no fair fights, Jasnah,” Wit said. “There’s never been such a thing. The term is a lie used to impose imaginary order on something chaotic. Two men of the same height, age, and weapon will not fight one another fairly, for one will always have the advantage in training, talent, or simple luck.”

  She grunted. Dalinar wouldn’t think much of that statement.

  “I know you feel you need to show the soldiers you can fight,” Wit said softly. “Prove to them, maybe to yourself, that you are as capable on a battlefield as Dalinar is becoming with a book. This is good, it breaks down barriers—and there will be those wrongheaded men who would not follow you otherwise.

  “But take care, Jasnah. Talented or not, you cannot conjure for yourself a lifetime of experienced butchery through force of will. There is no shame in using the powers you have developed. It is not unfair—or rather, it is no more unfair when the most skilled swordsman on the battlefield falls to a stray arrow. Use what you have.”

  He was right. She sighed, then took a piece of fruit—gripping it delicately between two gauntleted fingers—and took a bite. The cool sweetness shocked her. It belonged to another world. It washed away the taste of ash, renewing her mouth and awakening her hunger. She’d grown that numb after just two hours of fighting? Her uncle had, on campaign, fought for hours on end—day after day.

  And he bore those scars, she supposed.

  “How goes the battle?” she asked.

  “Not sure,” Wit said. “But the generals were right; the enemy is determined to stand here. They must think they can win, and so let us perpetuate this pitched battle, rather than forcing us into temperamental skirmishes.”

  “So why do you sneer?”

  “It’s not a sneer,” he said. “Merely my natural charisma coming through.” He nodded to the side, to where a distant hill—small but steep-sided—flashed with light. Thunder cracked the air despite the open sky. Men tried to rush the position, and died by the dozens.

  “I think we’re coming to the end of traditional battlefield formations,” Wit said.

  “They served us well today.”

  “And perhaps will for a time yet,” Wit said. “But not forever. Once upon a time, military tactics could depend on breaking enemy positions with enough work. Enough lives. But what do you do when no rush—no number of brave charges—will claim the position you need?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But the infantry block has been a stable part of warfare for millennia, Wit. It has adapted with each advance in technology. I don’t see it becoming obsolete any time soon.”

  “We will see. You think your powers are unfair because you slay dozens, and they cannot resist? What happens when a single individual can kill tens of thousands in moments—assuming the enemy will kindly bunch up in a neat little pike block. Things will change rapidly when such powers become common.”

  “They’re hardly common.”

  “I didn’t say they were,” he said. “Yet.”

  She took a drink, and finally thought to order her honor guard to rest. Their captain would send in fresh men.

  Wit offered to massage her sword hand, but she shook her head. She instead ate another piece of fruit, then some ration sticks he gave her to balance the meal. She accepted a few pouches of spheres as well. But as soon as her fresh honor guard arrived, she marched out in search of a field commander who would know where to best position her.

  * * *

  Seven hours later, Jasnah tromped across a quiet battlefield, searching for Wit. He’d visited her several times during the fighting, but it had been hours since their last encounter.

  She hiked through the remnants of the battle, feeling an odd solitude. As darkness smothered the land, she could almost pretend the scattered lumps were rockbuds, not bodies. The scents, unfortunately, did not go away with the light. And they remained a signal, defiant as any banner, of what had happened here. Blood. The stench of burning bodies.

  In the end, loss and victory smelled the same.

  They sounded different though. Cheers drifted on the wind. Human voices, with an edge to them. These weren’t cheers of joy, more cheers of relief.

  She made for a particular beacon of light, the tent with an illuminated set of coalition flags flying at the same height, one for each kingdom. Inside, she’d be welcomed as a hero. When she arrived, however, she didn’t feel like entering. So she settled down on a stone outside within sight of the guards, who were wise enough not to run and fetch anyone. She sat for some time and stared out at the battlefield, figuring Wit would locate her eventually.

  “Daunting, isn’t it?” a voice asked from the darkness.

  She narrowed her eyes, and searched around until she found the source: a small man sitting nearby, throwing sparks from his Herdazian sparkflicker in the night. Each burst of light illuminated the Mink’s fingers and face.

  “Yes,” Jasnah said. “‘Daunting’ is the right word. More so than I’d anticipated.”

  “You made a wise choice, going out there,” the Mink said. “Regardless of what the others said. It’s too easy to forget the cost. Not only to the boys who die, but to the ones who live. Every commander should be reminded periodically.”

  “How did we do?”

  “We broke the core of their strength,” he said. “Which is what we wanted—though it wasn’t a rout. We’ll need another battle or two on nearly this scale before I can tell you if we’ve really won or not. But today was a step forward. Do that often enough, and you’ll inevitably cross the finish line.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Never take casualty reports on the night of the battle, Brightness,” he said. “Give yourself a little time to enjoy the meal before you look at the bill.”

  “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

  “Ah, but I am,” he said. “I am staring at the open sky, and wearing no chains.” He stood up, a shadow against the darkness. “I’ll tell the others I’ve seen you, and that you are well, if you’d rather retreat to your tent. Your Wit is there, and unless I misunderstand, something has disturbed him.”

  She gave the Mink her thanks and stood. Wit was disturbed? The implications of that harried her as she marched through the frontline warcamp to her tent. Inside, Wit sat at her travel table, scribbling furiously. So far, she’d caught him writing in what she thought were five different alien scripts, though he didn’t often answer questions about where they had originated.

  Today, he snapped his notebook closed and plastered a smile on his face.

  She trusted him, mostly. And he her, mostly. Other aspects of their relationship were more complicated.

  “What is it, Wit?” she said.

  “My dear, you should rest before—”

  “Wit.”

  He sighed, then leaned back in his seat. He was immaculate, as always, with his perfectly styled hair and sharp black suit. For all his talk of frivolity, he knew exactly how to present himself. It was something they’d bonded over.

  “I have failed you,” he said. “I thought I’d taken all necessary precautions, but I found a pen in my writing case that did not work.”

  “So … what? Is this a trick, Wit?”

  “One played on me, I’m afraid,” he said. “The pen was not a pen, but a creature designed to appear like a pen. A cremling, you’d call it, cleverly grown to the shape of something innocent.”

  She grew cold, and stepped forward, her Plate clinking. “One of the Sleepless?”

  He nodded.

  “How much do you think it heard?”

  “I’m uncertain.
I don’t know when it replaced my real pen, and I’m baffled how my protections—which are supposed to warn me of entities like this—were circumvented.”

  “Then we have to assume they know everything,” Jasnah said. “All of our secrets.”

  “Unfortunately,” Wit said. He sighed, then pushed his notebook toward her. “I’m writing warnings to those I communicated with. The bright side is that I don’t think any of the Sleepless are working with Odium.”

  Jasnah had only recently learned that the Sleepless were anything other than a myth. It had taken meeting a friendly one—seeing with her own eyes that an entity could somehow be made up of thousands of cremlings working in concert—for her to accept their existence.

  “If it’s not working for the enemy, then who?” she asked.

  “Well, I’ve written to my contacts among them, to ask if it is one of theirs keeping a friendly eye on amiable allies. But … Jasnah, I know at least one of them has thrown their lot in with the Ghostbloods.”

  “Damnation.”

  “I believe it is time,” Wit said, “that I told you about Thaidakar.”

  “I know of him,” Jasnah said.

  “Oh, you think you do,” he said. “But I’ve met him, several times. On other planets, Jasnah. The Ghostbloods are not a Rosharan organization, and I don’t think you appreciate the danger they present.…”

  As we dig further into this project, I am left questioning the very nature of God. How can a God exist in all things, yet have a substance that can be destroyed?

  —From Rhythm of War, page 21

  Light was far more interesting than Navani had realized.

  It constantly surrounded them, flooding in through windows and beaming from gemstones. A second ocean, white and pure, so omnipresent it became invisible.

  Navani was able to order texts brought from Kholinar, ones she’d presumed lost to the conquest. She was able to get others from around the tower, and there were even a few with relevant chapters already here in the library room. All were collected at Raboniel’s order and delivered, without question, to Navani for study.