Rhythm of War (9781429952040)

by Brandon Sanderson

  It was a weapon for killing men.

  Humans are a poem. A song.

  —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days

  “Hey,” someone said to the Rhythm of Reprimand, “what are you doing?”

  Rlain turned, shifting the barrel of water from one shoulder to the other. Dabbid pulled in close to him, frightened at the challenge. The two of them were in a nondescript passage of Urithiru, close to the steps down to the basement. This was the last guard post, and Rlain thought they had made it past.

  “We’re delivering water,” Rlain said to Consolation, tapping his small water barrel. He wore makeup covering his tattoo, blending it into his skin pattern. “To the scholars.”

  “Why are you doing it?” the singer said. Not a Fused or Regal, merely an ordinary guard. She walked over and put a hand on Rlain’s shoulder. “Let the human do that kind of work, friend. You are meant for greater things.”

  He glanced at Dabbid—who looked at the ground—and attuned Irritation. This wasn’t the kind of resistance he’d anticipated.

  “It’s my job,” Rlain said to the guard.

  “Who assigned axehounds’ work to a singer?” she demanded. “Come with me. You strike an imposing figure in warform. I’ll teach you the sword. We’re recruiting for our squad.”

  “I … I would rather do what I’m supposed to,” he said to Consolation. He pulled free, and thankfully she let him go. He and Dabbid continued along the hallway.

  “Can you believe it?” she said from behind. “How can so many keep on thinking like slaves? It’s sad.”

  “Yeah,” one of the other guards said. “I wouldn’t expect it of that one most of all, considering.”

  Rlain attuned Anxiety.

  “That one?” the femalen said, her voice echoing in the hallway.

  “Yeah, he’s that listener, isn’t he? The one that was in prison until Raboniel’s Voice pulled him out?”

  Damnation. Rlain walked a little quicker, but it was no use, as he soon heard boots chasing him. The guard grabbed him by the elbow.

  “Wait now,” she said. “You’re the listener?”

  “I am,” Rlain said to Consolation.

  “Delivering water. You. A traitor?”

  “We’re not…” He attuned Determination and turned around. “We’re not traitors. Venli is Raboniel’s Voice.”

  “Yeah,” the femalen said. “Well, you’re not going down where the human queen is, not until I get confirmation that you’re allowed. Come with me.”

  Dabbid pulled in closer to Rlain, trembling. Rlain looked toward the singer guards. Four of them.

  No. He wasn’t going to fight them. And not only because of the numbers. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s ask your superior, so I can get on with my duty.”

  They pulled him away, and Dabbid followed, whimpering softly as they were led—step by step—farther from their goal. Well, if the Sibling wanted him down there for some reason, they’d have to find a way to get him out of this.

  * * *

  The Pursuer lunged for Kaladin. Kaladin, however, was ready. He activated Navani’s device, which was still attached to his belt. That tugged Kaladin backward faster than a man could leap, and so he stayed out of the Pursuer’s grip.

  By this point, the singers had cleared most of the atrium of civilians. They’d lined the walls with soldiers—but not the flat side of the room with the window—though crowds continued to watch from the hallways and the balconies. Trusting in Kaladin.

  Heavenly Ones hovered above the circular chamber, as if to judge the contest. In effect it was an arena. Kaladin projected as much strength and confidence as he could. He almost started to feel it, the worn-out, weathered fatigue retreating.

  He needed the Pursuer to believe. To understand. That he had far more to lose from this contest than Kaladin did.

  And he seemed to. For as Kaladin reached the other side of the room and disengaged Navani’s device, the creature ejected his second body and shot toward Kaladin as a ribbon. He wanted to end this battle quickly.

  The window had darkened from the approaching stormwall, which announced the highstorm. It hit with a fury that Kaladin could barely hear, and spheres became the room’s only source of light.

  Kaladin seized the Fused out of the air as he formed, and they clashed again. That was the Pursuer’s third body. If he ejected this time, he’d have to go recharge, or risk forming a fourth body—and being killed.

  They went to ground again, rolling as they wrestled, Kaladin trying to maneuver his knife. The Pursuer could heal with Voidlight, but the more of that he lost, the more likely he’d have to retreat.

  This time the creature offered no taunts as he tried to get a grip on Kaladin’s head. Likely to smash it into the ground, as he knew Kaladin’s healing wasn’t working properly. That gave Kaladin a chance to stab upward, forcing the Pursuer to grab his arm instead.

  “You’re no soldier,” Kaladin said loudly, his voice echoing to all of those listening. “That’s what I realized about you, Defeated One. You’ve never faced death.”

  “Silence,” the Pursuer growled, twisting Kaladin’s wrist.

  Kaladin grunted, then rolled them both to the side, narrowly protecting his wrist from serious damage. He dropped the knife. Fortunately, he had found others.

  “I’ve faced it every day of my life!” Kaladin shouted, rolling on top of the Fused. “You wonder why I don’t fear you? I’ve lived with the knowledge that death is hounding me. You’re nothing new.”

  “Be. QUIET!”

  “But I’m something you have never known,” Kaladin shouted, slamming the Pursuer down by his shoulders. “Thousands of years of life can’t prepare you for something you’ve never met before, Defeated One! It can’t prepare you for someone who does not fear you!”

  Kaladin pulled out his boot knife and raised it. The Pursuer, seeing that coming, didn’t do what he should have. He didn’t try to grapple or knee Kaladin’s stomach. He panicked and shot away as a ribbon of light, fleeing.

  He materialized a short distance away in front of the watching soldiers. His fourth body. His last one. The one he was vulnerable in. He turned to look back at Kaladin, now standing atop his husk.

  “I am death itself, Defeated One,” Kaladin said. “And I’ve finally caught up to you.”

  * * *

  Venli found a mob of people blocking the central corridor as she tried to reach the atrium. She attuned Anxiety and pushed through the press. Since she was a Regal, people did make way. Eventually she reached the front of the crowd, where a group of warforms stood in a line, blocking the way forward.

  She suspected she knew what was happening. Rlain and his friends had already begun their rescue plan. She was too late.

  “Make room,” Venli demanded to Derision. “What is happening?”

  One of the warforms turned. Venli didn’t know him personally, but he was one of the Pursuer’s soldiers. “Our master is fighting Stormblessed,” he said. “We’re to keep a perimeter, prevent people from interfering.”

  Venli craned her neck, tall enough to see that the room was being guarded by about a hundred of the Pursuer’s troops, though she also saw some of Raboniel’s personal guard—which she’d picked up from Leshwi.

  Venli attuned the Terrors. What now? Could she help? She found, as she searched, that she genuinely wanted to. Not because Timbre was pushing her, and not because this was merely the path she was on. But because of the songs of the stones. And the whispers of those who had come before her.

  “I’m the Voice of the Lady of Wishes,” Venli said. “You think that your blockade applies to me? Step aside.”

  Reluctantly, the soldiers made way for her. And once she had a clear view, she couldn’t help but pause. There was something about the way Stormblessed fought. Even grappling with the Pursuer, rolling across the ground, there was a certain determination to him. He freed himself from the grapple, then somehow leaped back twenty feet, though his powers shouldn
’t have been working that well.

  The Pursuer became a ribbon and chased him, but Stormblessed didn’t run. He reached out and seized the Pursuer right as he appeared. Fascinating. She could see why Leshwi found the human so interesting.

  There was nothing Venli could do about this battle. She had to think about Rlain, and Lirin and his family. She searched the air and located Leshwi hovering nearby.

  Venli made her way over to Leshwi as Stormblessed stood tall atop the Pursuer’s husk. The lady floated down. She would not interfere in a duel such as this.

  “This looks bad for Stormblessed,” Venli whispered.

  “No,” Leshwi said to Exultation. “The Pursuer has used all of his husks. He will need to flee and renew.”

  “Why doesn’t he?” Venli asked.

  “Look,” Leshwi said, and pointed at the silent atrium. A perimeter of soldiers with humans crowded behind them, peeking through. Fused in the air. All staring at the two combatants.

  An incredible soldier, who seemed immortal and impervious, completely in control.

  And a Fused, who somehow looked small by comparison.

  * * *

  Teft dodged through the infirmary. He didn’t dare engage Moash directly; instead he tried to stay out of reach. Buying time. For what though?

  Moash drifted closer to them, eyes glowing.

  “Stormblessed isn’t going to come in and help, is he?” Phendorana asked softly, floating beside Teft.

  “Kaladin can’t be everywhere at once,” Teft said. “He’s just one man, though he often forgets that.” He jumped backward over a body. Lift had stirred, and was quietly pulling herself across the ground toward one of the nearby Radiants, her legs dragging behind.

  Good girl, Teft thought. He needed to keep Moash’s attention.

  “Never known a man to turn traitor as hard as you did,” Teft called to Moash. “What was it that got you? What made you willing to kill your own?”

  “Peace,” Moash said, halting in the middle of the room. “It was peace, Teft.”

  “This is peace?” Teft said, gesturing. “Fighting your friends?”

  “We’re not fighting. You run like a coward.”

  “Every good sergeant is a coward! And proud of it! Someone needs to talk sense to the officers!”

  Moash hovered in place, a black stain in the air. Before he could look and see Lift, Phendorana appeared to him, standing a short distance away. Moash glanced toward her sharply. Good, good. Distraction.

  Moash, however, casually turned and slashed his Shardblade through the face of a Radiant beneath him. The unconscious woman’s eyes burned and Lift cried out in horror, heaving herself forward to reach the body—as if she could do anything.

  Moash glanced at Teft, then raised his Blade toward Lift.

  “Fine!” Teft said, striding forward. “Bastard! You want me? Fine! Fight me! I’ll show you who the better man is!”

  Moash landed beside the body and walked straight toward Teft. “We both know who the better warrior is, Teft.”

  “I didn’t say better warrior, you idiot,” Teft said, lunging in with his knife. The stab was a feint, but Moash knew it. He sidestepped at precisely the right time, and tripped Teft as he tried to turn and swing again.

  Teft went down with a grunt. He tried to roll, but Moash landed and kicked him in the side, hard. Something crunched in Teft’s chest. A wound that blossomed with pain and didn’t heal, despite his Stormlight.

  Moash loomed overhead and raised his Blade, then swung it down without further comment. Teft dropped his knife—useless against a Blade—and raised his hands. He felt something from Phendorana. A harmony between them.

  Teft was forgiven. Teft was forgiven and he was close.

  Moash’s Shardblade met something in the air—a phantom spear shaft, barely coalescing between Teft’s hands—and stopped. It threw sparks, but it stopped. Teft gritted his teeth and held on as Moash finally showed an emotion. Surprise. He stumbled back, his eyes wide.

  Teft let go, and Phendorana appeared beside him on the ground, puffing from exertion. He felt sweat trickling down his brow. Manifesting her like that—even a little—had been like trying to push an axehound through a keyhole. He wasn’t certain he, or she, could do it a second time.

  Best to try something else. Teft held his side, grimacing as he forced himself into a kneeling position. “All right, lad. I’m done. You got me. I surrender. Let’s wait for Kaladin to show up, and you can continue this conversation with him.”

  “I’m not here for Kaladin, Teft,” Moash said softly. “And I’m not here for your surrender.”

  Teft steeled himself. Grapple him, he thought. Make that Blade a liability, too big to use. His best hope.

  Because Teft did have hope. That was what he’d recovered, these years in Bridge Four. The moss might take him again, but if it did … well, he would fight back again. The past could rot.

  Teft, Windrunner, had hope.

  He managed to get to his feet, prepared for Moash to lunge at him—but when Moash moved, it wasn’t toward Teft. It was toward Phendorana.

  What? Teft stood stunned as Moash pulled a strange dagger from his belt and slammed it down—right where Phendorana was kneeling.

  She looked up with surprise and took the knife straight in the forehead. Then she screamed.

  Teft leaped for her, howling, watching in horror as she shrank, writhing as Moash’s dagger pinned her to the floor. Her essence burned, flaring outward like an explosion.

  Something ripped inside Teft. Something deeper than his own heart. A part of his soul, his being, was torn away. He collapsed immediately, falling near the white spot in the sand that was all that remained of Phendorana.

  No. No …

  It hurt so much. Agony like a sudden terrible stillness. Nothingness. Emptiness.

  It … it can’t be.…

  Moash tucked the dagger away methodically. “I can’t feel sorrow anymore, Teft. For that I am grateful.”

  Moash turned Teft over with his foot. His broken ribs screamed, but felt like such an insignificant pain now.

  “But you know what?” Moash said, standing over him. “There was always a part of me that resented how you were so eager to follow him. Right from the start, his little axehound. Licking his feet. He loves you. I thought I’d have to use his father. But I am … satisfied to have found something better.”

  “You are a monster,” Teft whispered.

  Moash took Teft calmly by the front of his burned shirt and hoisted him up. “I am no monster. I am merely silence. The quiet that eventually takes all men.”

  “Tell yourself that lie, Moash,” Teft growled, gripping the hand that held him, his own hand clawlike from the horrible pain. “But know this. You can kill me, but you can’t have what I have. You can never have it. Because I die knowing I’m loved.”

  Moash grunted and dropped him to the ground. Then he stabbed Teft directly through the neck with his Shardblade.

  Confident, and somehow still full of hope, Teft died.

  For ones so soft, they are somehow strong.

  —Musings of El, on the first of the Final Ten Days

  The highstorm blowing outside the enormous window presented a view that Kaladin often saw, but others rarely knew. Flashing lightning, a swirling tempest, power raw and unchained.

  Kaladin stepped off the Pursuer’s decaying husk and walked forward. Toward the enemy.

  The Pursuer searched around, likely realizing how large his audience was. Hundreds watching. He lived by lore, by reputation. He always killed anyone who killed him. He won each conflict eventually.

  Now he saw that crumbling. Kaladin could hear it in the increasingly panicked rhythm the Pursuer hummed. Saw it in his eyes.

  “Run,” Kaladin told him. “Flee. I’ll chase you. I will never stop. I am eternal. I am the storm.”

  The Pursuer stumbled back, but then encountered his soldiers holding the perimeter, humming an encouraging rhythm. Behind them humans ga
wked, their foreheads painted.

  “Has it been long enough, do you think?” Syl whispered. “Are the others free?”

  “Hopefully,” Kaladin said. “But I don’t think they’ll be able to escape into that highstorm.”

  “Then they’ll have to come out here, and we’ll have to push for the crystal pillar room,” she said, looking toward the infirmary. “Why haven’t they appeared yet?”

  “Once we defeat the Pursuer—when he breaks and runs—we’ll find out,” Kaladin said, unhooking Navani’s device from his waist.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said softly. “Something dark…”

  Kaladin stepped to the very center of the atrium, marked by a swirling pattern of strata. He pointed his knife at the Pursuer. “Last body,” Kaladin called. “Come fight, and we’ll see who dies. We’ll see if your reputation survives the hour.”

  The Pursuer, to his credit, came charging in. As he arrived, grabbing Kaladin, Kaladin pressed Navani’s device against the Pursuer’s chest and Lashed the bar down, binding it in place.

  It launched backward, carrying the Pursuer with it. He slammed into the glass of the window, and his carapace cracked as he struck. He shook himself, recovering quickly—but didn’t heal. He’d used up his Voidlight.

  With effort, the Pursuer struggled to move the device, and managed to extricate himself from it—leaving it pressed to the window, which was smeared with his orange blood. More blood dripped from the cracked carapace at his chest.

  Kaladin stalked toward him, holding the knife. “Flee.”

  The Pursuer’s eyes widened and he stepped to the side, toward his soldiers.

  “Flee!” Kaladin said.

  The creature fell silent, no humming, no speaking.

  “RUN FROM ME!” Kaladin demanded.

  He did, dripping blood and shoving his way past the singer soldiers. He’d retreated from previous battles, but this time they both knew it meant something different.

  This creature was no longer the Pursuer. He knew it. The singers knew it. And the humans watching behind knew it. They began to chant, gloryspren bursting in the air.

  Stormblessed.