Elhokar marched alone—even the ever-present Meridas was keeping his distance. Jasnah sought out Dalenar with her eyes. Her stately uncle also bore a dark expression, and he strode a good distance behind the king. Dalenar was a Parshen—one of Elhokar’s two Second Lords. On a day such as this, after such a great victory, his place was at his king’s side.
Something was wrong. Jasnah kicked off her sandals and stepped out onto the stone. The rock was still wet and cool beneath her feet—the stormlands weren’t just barren, they were also unusually cold. She suppressed a shiver, holding up her talla slightly and striding toward the column of men as quickly as the restrictive dress would allow.
“My lady?” Shinri asked with concern, stepping to stand beside Balenmar at the edge of the tent’s mat.
Jasnah hustled forward toward Elhokar. The king, however, did not wait. He brushed past her with a quick pace, walking toward his tent.
“Elhokar!” Jasnah demanded.
He ignored her. Jasnah ground her teeth in annoyance, turning toward a more promising target. She moved to the right, cutting off Dalenar.
“Uncle, what is going on here?” she asked.
Dalenar, tall and ponderous in his silver Shardplate, paused and looked down at her. His armor was also scarred, his gauntlets stained with dark blood, and he smelled of sweat. Yet the gloom of his armor was no match for his face.
“Ask your king,” he siad sharply, and continued past her.
Jasnah turned with amazement, watching him go. Armored men clanked around her, calling for healers, armorers, or servants. They were all noblemen, of course—the citizens would have stayed in the lower camp. Jasnah watched Dalenar for a moment, then turned to stare after Elhokar. She stood amidst the churning aftermath of the battle, the soldiers splitting deferentially around her—a blue blot against a background of metal and stone.
“It’s all right, Jasnah,” a calm voice said.
Jasnah turned. Renarin, with his relaxed posture and soothing eyes, stood nearby with his customary smile. Short—even a few inches shorter than Jasnah—he seemed out of place amongst the towers of Shard and steel that were the army’s noblemen.
“What, Renarin?” she demanded. “What is all right?”
The young man shrugged. “I didn’t need a Blade anyway. Why waste it on me? I never even duel.”
Jasnah stood, stunned. Renarin smiled wistfully, then trailed after his father. Jasnah watched him go, then spun and stalked toward her brother’s tent.
She threw back the flap, heedless of the rainwater it splattered across her dress. Elhokar stood inside, several aides removing his Shardplate with careful hands.
“You took away Renarin’s Shardblade?” she snapped, wiping her feet on the cleaning mat at the front of the tent.
Elhokar did not answer, simply raising his arms as the aides removed his cuirass.
“Elhokar, how could you?” Jasnah asked. “You took away his Blade in front of the men, in front of his father? Lord Dalenar is your Parshen! If you humiliate him, you undercut your own authority!”
Elhokar accepted a water flask from a servant, then waved the aides away, clearing the tent. Only one of the window flaps was open, and the rest of the tent was lit by a dim lantern in the corner.
“Our uncle should never have brought that boy to the battlefield,” Elhokar finally said as he took a swig of the newly-gathered rainwater. “Renarin has no place commanding an army. We both know that. He doesn’t trust himself, and the men don’t trust him.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to demote him,” Jasnah replied, folding her arms.
“He disobeyed my orders,” Elhokar said, cupping a bit of the water and splashing it on his face. “The Traitor was to die at my hands. Renarin commanded the force that killed the man—the fault is his. Besides, the boy is a liability—I need to think about my kingdom, Jasnah—all of it. That Shardblade should be carried by a man who can use it in defense of Alethkar.”
“The ‘boy’ is only five years your younger, Elhokar,” Jasnah said. “And he has served you well these last three years. Not everyone is meant to be a duelist. You should not have—”
Elhokar slammed the flask down on his small wooden table. “I should not have done what, Jasnah?” he snapped. “Would you command my men as well as lead my armies? Am I not king?”
Jasnah closed her mouth, grinding her teeth as Elhokar sighed and took another drink. She had to be calm. The harder she pushed, the more difficult Elhokar would become.
“Who did you give the Blade to?” she asked in a more reserved voice.
“No one, yet,” Elhokar said, moving toward the far side of the tent and pulling open one of the window flaps. “I might give it to Meridas.”
Jasnah exhaled softly in annoyance.
“What?” Elhokar asked.
“I don’t trust him. Meridas is too . . . calculating.” Too clever. I can’t watch everyone for you, Elhokar.
Her brother snorted. “You don’t trust anyone, my dear sister. Sometimes I wonder if you even trust me.” He looked at her. After a moment, he simply chuckled and turned to stare out the window flap toward the south. He held up a hand—cutting Jasnah off even as she opened her mouth.
“Very well,” he said. “Perhaps I was too hard on Renarin. I will try and think of a way to make it up to Dalenar. Is that sufficient?”
She didn’t reply, but he knew her silence—signifying the end of the argument—was word enough.
“This should be a day of joy, not anger,” Elhokar said, still staring out the window. “Regardless of the methods, our father is avenged.”
“And the war is over,” Jasnah said, stepping around the water he’d dripped on the floor and moving toward him.
Elhokar did not answer. He continued to stare out the window. Toward the south. Toward the free kingdoms of Distant Prall—a collection of loosely-organized states, young and tempestuous, with weak militaries and weaker alliances.
“Elhokar?” Jasnah asked, stepping up behind him. “The war is over. The Traitor is dead.”
“And if we were to . . . continue?” Elhokar asked without turning.
“You would become a tyrant?” Jasnah asked.
“The difference between a tyrant and a liberator depends on who writes the history,” Elhokar said.
“The difference between a tyrant and a liberator, Elhokar, is one of intention. Would you conquer those people for their benefit, or for your own?”
Elhokar stood for a moment, then snorted quietly, turning from the window and walking away from her, toward his chair on the other side of the tent. “You sound like Dalenar, always spouting morality at me from The Way of Kings.”
The king eased into his chair. As he settled back, she could see the fatigue behind the ambition. And beneath that . . . a young boy, desperate for validation.
“Elhokar,” she said softly, “your men are tired, your lands are overburdened, and you are exhausted. The kingdoms of Distant Prall have had enough suffering and conflict—do not bring them a war no one needs.”
Elhokar didn’t respond.
“You have a wife waiting for you, Elhokar,” Jasnah continued. “And a son you barely know. You’ve proven that the Kholin line is strong—you brought justice to the man who killed our father, and you destroyed the kingdom that harbored him. Our scouts say Orinjah is defenseless—we could take the city within five days, and the Prallan Oathgate would be ours. We could be home before the month is over.”
Elhokar glanced toward the south one last time, then met her eyes. “Very well,” he said. “We will return.”
Jasnah sighed quietly in relief. “There is one other thing,” she said.
“Speak quickly,” Elhokar said. “I’m tired from the battle.”
“It’s about the second battlefield, the one where you found the Traitor dead.”
“What about it?” Elhokar asked, his face darkening at her mention of the Traitor.
“Well, don’t you find it a bit odd?”
Jasnah asked. “Twenty thousand men, killed by five? And in such a short time—barely two hours?”
“It could be done,” Elhokar said. “Four-to-one isn’t really that bad of odds.”
It’s far worse than I’d ever want to face, Jasnah thought. “Something’s wrong, Elhokar. The death of the Traitor . . . the faceless Shardbearer who attacked you . . .”
“You’re being paranoid again, sister,” Elhokar said with a wave of his hand. “Go speak to Dalenar about these things, if you must. He was muttering about something similar on the battlefield. In fact, go speak to him now—leave me in peace. It has been a difficult day.”
Jasnah frowned, but bit off a response, instead turning to leave the king to his ‘peace.’ She had gotten what she wanted from him.
The war was finally over.
chapter 3
Merin 1
The monks taught that wind was the voice of the Almighty. The storms were His fury—a tempest to remind of His omnipotent will. The gentle breezes were His love—a calm reminder that He was watching, and that He cared for those below.
From his haze of near-wakefulness, Merin could feel the wind blowing across his face. Despite the slight pounding in his head, he lay peacefully, letting the wind soothe him. Wherever he had gone in life, the wind had been his companion. It had blown over his back as he worked the fields back in Alethkar. It had ruffled his cloak as he marched across lonely stormlands in Prallah. It had been behind his spear as he fought in the King’s Army. At times, Merin thought he could feel the presence of the Almighty, that he could hear the wind before it arrived. Then he knew that he was not alone. Someone was watching over him.
He took a deep breath, then opened his eyes. The tent ceiling overhead was unexpected. He groaned slightly, propping himself up. He lay on a comfortable mat in a large, open-sided tent. He recognized it—he had helped put it up on several occasions. It was the healer’s tent—but he was on the wrong side. He wasn’t lying with the regular soldiers, but was instead on a special pallet, over in the . . .
“Merin!” a voice exclaimed.
Merin turned as a couple of figures approached, smiling. Ren, Sanas, and Vezin were spearmen from his squad—spearmen, like himself, who had come from small Tenth Villages in rural Alethkar. As they approached, Merin sensed a hesitance in their faces.
“Uh, are you feeling better, my lord?” Sanas asked as the men paused beside Merin’s pallet, just inside the tent.
Merin frowned. “Lord? Who are you . . . ?” then he saw it. Sitting at the end of his cot, lying across the top of a cloth-wrapped package.
A Shardblade.
It came back to him. He had been on the battlefield, in his formation. Orders had come from the generals to divide the enemy troops, splitting them along the fissure created by the king’s honor guard. Merin’s squad had fought on the eastern internal flank, pushing the enemy back, making way for their towers to roll forward.
Then he had come. The martial force that every spearman feared, yet every spearman dreamed of defeating. A Shardbearer.
Riding a massive war stallion, his armor unadorned, the man had cut through the Aleth ranks with ease, slaughtering footmen, batting away spears. That blade had cut the tip from Merin’s own weapon as it passed, leaving him with a useless stub. The soldier standing beside him had died with an almost casual swipe of the Shardbearer’s weapon.
Merin had watched the king’s horse die from a single blow. He had seen his squad scattering in fear before the deadly blade. And . . . he had run. Dropping his broken spear, he had dashed forward, and . . .
“By the winds,” Merin mumbled. “That has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done!”
“It worked, though,” Ren said quietly, looking toward the end of the mat.
Merin paused. He can’t be saying what I think he’s saying. It can’t be . . .
Merin slowly pulled the blanket off his legs and knelt before the sword, ignoring the pain in his head. He reached forward tentatively, running his fingers along the blade. It was enormous, almost as long as a footman’s spear. The weapon glistened silvery, but the design of the metal made it seem as if it were crafted from thousands of small quartz gemstones. Four intricate glyphs were etched into the blade, subtly created by the orientation of the quartz pattern.
“It’s . . .” Merin trailed off. It was his. He grabbed the handle with suddenly eager fingers, hefting the Blade.
“Wow,” he mumbled. “It’s a lot heavier than I thought it would be. The stories always say Shardblades are light!”
Of course, it was a lot lighter than a weapon its size would normally have been. Even with two years of spearman’s training, Merin probably wouldn’t have been strong enough to lift such a massive weapon if it had been constructed of normal steel. The Shardblade was heavy, but no heavier than a regular sword.
“Here,” he said, turning to the others. “Try it.”
The three spearmen didn’t move.
“What?” Merin asked.
“You’re not supposed to let anyone else hold your Blade, um, my lord,” Sanas said. “They told us to wait here until you awakened, to make sure nothing happened to the Blade. Now that you’re up, we’re supposed to go back to the squad camp . . .”
Merin moved to stand. “I’ll go with you. It would be good to see everyone.”
The three exchanged awkward glances. “Um, if you want to, my lord . . .” Sanas said.
Merin paused. Even the normally enthusiastic Ren seemed reserved. They were obviously happy to see him awake, but they were still . . . uncomfortable.
“Maybe I’ll just wait here,” Merin said.
The three smiled. “You’re a lord now, Merin,” Sanas explained. “A Fifth Lord. You don’t belong with spearmen. But, well . . . you give us hope. It’s good to know someone made it, after all the talk and stories.”
“Everyone in the army heard about you,” Ren said eagerly. “You saved the king’s life! Old captain Tunac wasn’t very happy when you got the Blade instead, but what’s he going to do about it? Eh, uh, my lord?” The short man chuckled.
The three stood awkwardly for a moment. Then they bowed and left. Merin watched them go, fingers still resting on the hilt of the Shardblade. You’re a lord now. It was unfathomable.
Outside, he could see signs of the camp breaking down. No wonder his friends needed to return—deconstructing camp was an enormous task, and every hand was needed. Merin turned, motioning toward a healer. The aging man looked up, then quickly rushed over to Merin’s mat.
“Yes, my lord?” he asked. His sleeves and clothing were speckled with blood, and his posture was tired.
“Um, yes,” Merin said. How exactly did one speak like a lord, anyway? “Why are we breaking down camp?”
“The Traitor is dead, my lord,” the healer explained, eager to help despite his obvious weariness. “As is the Prallan king. The war is ours—Lord Elhokar plans to march on Orinjah before the day is out.”
Over. They had known it would end this day, one way or another. Captain Tunac had said this would probably be Pralir’s last stand.
“Are you feeling better, my lord?” the healer asked. “You took a strong blow to the head, and slept all through the night. You woke a few times, but you were dazed and incoherent.”
“I don’t remember that,” Merin confessed. “My head hurts a little bit, but I think I’m all right.”
“Might I recommend a little more rest, my lord?” the man asked.
Merin glanced toward the camp. Everyone had something to do. It felt wrong to sleep when everyone was so busy. “Am I allowed to leave?” Merin asked.
“Of course, my lord. Just don’t do anything too strenuous, and check back with the healers at the end of the day.”
Merin nodded, and the healer withdrew. As the man left, however, Merin realized something. “Healer,” he called.
The elderly healer turned, eyebrow raised. “Yes, my lord?”
“What is it I’m supposed to
do? As a lord, I mean?”
“I’m not sure, my lord,” the man said with amusement. “Perhaps that would be a question best asked of another lord.”
“Good idea,” Merin said, climbing out of his bed. He was a bit dizzy as he stood, but the wave passed quickly. He reached over and picked up the Shardblade, then regarded the package underneath.
“Your Shardplate, my lord,” the healer explained helpfully. “I can send some packmen for it, if you wish.”
“Yes, that would be wonderful,” Merin said. He stepped outside the tent, standing in the morning light, and stopped.
Now what?
He thought for a moment, then glanced down at his Shardblade. There was one thing he’d always wondered. He walked over to a large boulder, then raised the Blade and thrust it into the stone.
The ballads had exaggerated a bit. The Shardblade didn’t ‘cut through stone like the breezes cut the air.’ There was a resistance to his pushing, but with a small amount of effort, he was able to slide the blade into the boulder up to its hilt.
Merin pulled the blade free, looking down at it with wonder. He backed up, hefting the Blade up over his shoulder, and swung with a mighty two-handed blow. The Blade sheared through the middle of the boulder—as if the momentum somehow increased the weapon’s sharpness—and whipped out the other side to slice clean through one of the healing tent’s support poles.
The tent lurched slightly, one side drooping. Healers and patients alike looked out at a sheepish Merin, who lowered his Shardblade. “Uh, sorry!” he called before blushing and hurrying away.
Still, the exhilaration of the moment did not pass. He finally let himself believe what had happened. He was a Shardbearer—he outranked a good three quarters of the noble population. Only the lords of independent cities and their heirs were of a higher stature than Shardbearers. To capture a Blade on the field of battle . . . it was the dream of every lowly footman. It was the possibility that spawned stories, the hope that gave normal men the courage to face a Shardbearer, despite their bleak chances of success. But it had happened to Merin.
The Way of Kings Prime Page 5