The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  The newcomer wore black.

  His features were obviously inhuman, which meant he had been an Awakener for a long time indeed. His face was . . . sharp, and too linear. Like most Awakeners, it was hard to distinguish specific differences between his face and those of a regular person. The fine edges of his features, such as the nose and eyes, were just . . . too distinct. The smoothed parts, such as the cheeks, were too smooth. He didn’t blink—in fact, he didn’t even move. Not a muscle twitched as he sat, looking toward Kemnar.

  And then, he was looking at her. Jasnah started. The man hadn’t seemed to move at all. Instead, it was as if . . . he had simply ceased to be in one location, and appeared in a second. He sat there, staring at her for a long moment, drawing her attention so soundly that she jumped when Kemnar touched her elbow.

  “Unnerving, eh?” he asked. “I can never catch him moving, even if I’m looking at him when he does. It’s like he isn’t real, but a series of paintings of a person, each in a slightly different position.”

  Jasnah nodded. The creature was still staring at her. “Where . . . ?”

  “He was with the Veden army,” Kemnar said. “That’s how they moved so quickly. They didn’t have to carry food with them, or even stop to gather water. Taln’s saddlebags carry a sack of emeralds as big as your head, and mine carry another one filled with zircons.” Kemnar paused, and when he continued, she could hear discomfort in his voice. “Convenient way to travel, I guess, if you can put up with the company. Those things are . . .” He trailed off, his voice becoming guilty.

  He’d forgotten that I’m one of them.

  She forced herself to turn from the creature, instead looking at Kemnar. He was a bit ragged and tired from a long ride, but overall he looked well. He’d let his beard get a little longer than he usually did, but there was an excited twinkle in his eyes.

  “You have news,” she said. “What happened out there? What did he do to the invaders?”

  “I don’t know everything,” Kemnar said. “But I can guess.”

  “Why don’t you know for certain?” Jasnah asked. “Weren’t you with him?”

  Kemnar shook his head as the two of them backed away from the ring of torches and the men caring for the newly-acquired horses. “No,” he continued. “Taln lost me the second day of our travels—he was gone when I woke up. Do you have any idea how hard it is to track a single person in the stormlands? Fortunately, I knew the general direction of the army. I found them, but . . .”

  “What?” Jasnah prompted.

  “Well,” Kemnar said. “Everything seemed normal, and there was no sign of Taln. The army stopped for the night, and I made my own camp a short ways back. That night there was a disturbance. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I talked to some deserters a few days later. Apparently, someone had killed every single one of the guards on watch that night. He left the bodies, decapitated, beside their watch posts, with strange patterns carved into the ground around them. I saw some of these when I followed the army the next day. Taln obviously cut them with his Shardblade, but the army didn’t know that. They only saw eerie patterns in the stone, odd things that looked kind of like glyphs, but somehow not quite right.”

  Jasnah frowned. “He was trying to scare them?”

  Kemnar smiled in the wan light. “Yes, and it worked. Each night, Taln killed every man set on watch, until they began to set their watches closer and closer and set more and more men up at night. That, however, only made the army more tired when it marched the next day—slowing it considerably. Then Taln started killing the scouts and their horses too. Soon, no one wanted to ride point, and the scouts they did send always stayed within view of the army. This slowed them even further, since they couldn’t watch for gullies or wash-outs.

  “If they sent out patrols to villages, those patrols never returned. If anyone went to the privy alone at night, they were found beheaded when morning came. By the fourth day, the desertions began—and Taln let them leave without being killed. Well, that probably didn’t help morale any, and soon the Vedens had to set watches on their own men. Taln even got into camp sometimes and killed these watches, though I don’t know how he did it unseen.”

  Kemnar stopped.

  “And?” Jasnah said.

  “And that’s all I know,” he confessed. “The next night, he found me and told me not to follow any more. He gave me a few horses that he had stolen, kept one for himself, and told me to stay where I was. He said that if he didn’t return in three days, I was to ride and find you and tell you what I knew.”

  “And you did what he commanded?” Jasnah asked with annoyance. “You stayed there?”

  “My lady,” Kemnar said flatly. “He was not in a mood to be disobeyed. I thought it wise to accommodate him.”

  Jasnah paused, thinking back to the dark, unnerving expression Taln had borne when he first arrived back in camp. “All right,” she said. “There’s little we can do about it now. What happened then? He returned, I assume?”

  Kemnar nodded. “There was a highstorm late the next evening—that was four days ago—and he found me a day later. He led a group of horses, one of them bearing the Awakener. When I asked him about the army, he simply said that it would follow us no more.”

  Jasnah folded her arms in dissatisfaction. Kemnar looked away guiltily, and she saw—really saw—for the first time how tired he was. “Go and get something warm to eat,” she told him, “then get some rest. I’ll deal with Talenel.”

  Kemnar smiled. “Thank you, my lady,” he said, bowing. Then he disappeared into the night. Jasnah stood, watching the men remove saddles and hobble the horses, another bringing grain for the beasts to eat. The Awakener climbed down from his mount, and it was as Kemnar had said—he didn’t seem to move. It was as if with him, her eyes didn’t work—they registered him as if she were blinking rapidly, only catching sight of him for brief glimpses, each one freezing him mid-motion. Yet he changed positions from sitting horseback to standing beside the animal—he just did it without any apparent motion.

  Jasnah shivered as she watched, though this time it really was from the cold. Her sodden clothing was plastered to her skin—it probably wouldn’t dry until it got sunlight the next day. Suddenly, someone set a cloak on her shoulders. It was wet too, but was still warm from the body that had worn it, and her skin relished the delightful heat. It was far too big for her.

  “He’s a Taln Pole,” Taln said from beside her, looking at the Awakener. “The Essence, I mean. Stone. He’s only moderately strong, but he should be able to make enough grain to keep the army fed—at least, on half rations. It would be unwise to overtax him.”

  Jasnah pulled the cloak tighter. Taln looked down at her, meeting her eyes, and smiled. The shadows she had seen in him before were still there, but they were masked now. “I’ll tell you,” he said, obviously noting the question in her eyes, “but not right now. Later.”

  She sighed. “Very well.”

  He nodded thankfully.

  She looked down, away from his face. “Taln, I . . . I didn’t think you would return. I assumed you were dead, that whatever you had planned, it had failed. I told Meridas otherwise, but he saw the truth in me. I didn’t trust you.” She didn’t know why she spoke; her words sounded foolish in her ears. Yet she felt a need to somehow explain herself, to expose what now seemed like such a betrayal.

  He chuckled. “I half expected to die myself,” he said. “Almost did, actually. But then I felt it.”

  “It?” Jasnah asked.

  Taln held up his Blade—his own sword, the one he had taken back from Meridas the night before he left. “The presence of my brethren,” he said. “I feel them, through the sword. They’re here, Jasnah. Ahead, in the Holy City. They’re waiting for me. I couldn’t die, not until I had found them and knew they would see to your safety.” He raised his head, nodding toward the camp. “To all of your safety.”

  Jasnah frowned. He obviously still held to his delusions. And yet, sh
e had thought that Lhan was delusional for saying that Taln would survive. She looked up at Taln. So humble, yet so strong. So innocent, yet still intelligent. Could she trust without believing? For a moment, she was almost willing to do so.

  “What would they be doing there?” she asked. “Your brethren, I mean. Jorevan is ruled by a tyrant.”

  “Someone controls the Holy City?” Taln asked.

  Jasnah nodded. “He calls himself Lord Aneazer, and he claims to rule the surrounding area, dominating the nearby towns.”

  Taln frowned. “He has an army, then?”

  “A large one,” Jasnah said. “At least, for a single city, and for a despot in Riemak.”

  Taln nodded knowingly. “It makes sense. This wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been forced to work with undesirable allies, assuming there were no others to be found.”

  “It’s going to be difficult to get you into the city,” Jasnah warned.

  “We’ll manage it,” Taln said, smiling.

  She smiled, then paused, her logical side giving whispered warning. “Taln,” she finally said. “Remember your promise. If they aren’t there, if . . . for some reason, we don’t find the Heralds, you said you’d return with me to Alethkar.”

  Taln just shook his head. He reached out, touching her lightly on the shoulder, and Jasnah felt herself blush slightly.

  “Ah, Lady Kholin,” he said. “Someday you’re going to have to lose that skepticism of yours. We’ll find them, you’ll see. You’re just going to have to learn to trust me.”

  Trust me. His hand remained on her shoulder, almost tender in its touch. Finally she just shook her head. “Well,” she said, “we shall see. For now, let’s take you to Meridas. I wouldn’t want to miss his expression when he sees for himself that you have returned from the dead.”

  chapter 69

  Dalenar 6

  Each boy Dalenar struck down seemed to have the face of one of his sons. Aredor died a tenset times before him, his eyes those of every Shardbearer Dalenar slew. Poor Renarin seemed to be every frightened spearman, boys with lives and loves, but whose worth was rendered as naught because they couldn’t face a Shardblade. Even Sheneres, now years dead, appeared in the proud faces of the noblemen Dalenar fought.

  Dalenar killed them anyway. This was war; this was death. Through most of the Pralir campaign he had remained at the command tower, directing the carnage from afar. This time he could not stay back—he could not order his soldiers to kill their cousins and brothers while he rested far from the terrible work. So, he fought amidst them, Shardblade making the air red with his guilt.

  He killed tensets of men. He fought with the horrible, full capacity of a Shardbearer—a warrior virtually untouchable by regular troops. And yet, that didn’t stop them. The men were Aleth soldiers, well-trained and disciplined. They attacked with coordination, knowing that it was occasionally possible for a group of twenty to pull down a Shardbearer then slip past his armor with knives or spearheads. They knew that if someone didn’t face Dalenar, he would simply cut through their ranks, decimating them anyway.

  And so they died. Occasionally, one of Elhokar’s remaining Shardbearers would appear to challenge Dalenar, and a duel would follow. Dalenar followed Protocol, but it was a dirty, battlefield kind of Protocol. He had slain five Shardbearers before the afternoon sun was overhead—most of them young men who had, just months before, fought for honor in the dueling competition.

  Dalenar faced courtly acquaintances, distant cousins, and even friends. These were the worst, for he knew some of them to be men of honor—men who believed that it was their duty to follow the throne regardless of the king’s actions. Dalenar understood their decision; in slightly different circumstances, he knew he would be with them, fighting at Elhokar’s side.

  He killed them. Somewhere near late afternoon, he began to lose the melancholy reticence that had afflicted him for most of the Pralir campaign. Old spirits awakened—passions that were a memory of the old Dalenar, the man before he became known as Tyrantbane, the man who had slain hundreds on the battlefield, and had enjoyed every moment of it.

  As afternoon passed, he began to fight with fury instead of shame.

  Within his heart, he knew that this war was not about duty. He spoke of Elhokar’s offenses and inability to lead, but the would-be honor within Dalenar would not accept those reasonings. As the anger came free, giving him strength once simple resolve tired, Dalenar was forced to admit that this was no war of justice. It was a war of vengeance.

  As evening approached, it became increasingly obvious who would win this day. Elhokar had suffered massive desertions the two nights before the battle, and while many had not joined with Dalenar instead, some had—including a fair number of Shardbearers. Elhokar’s towers fell early in the battle, as per Dalenar’s battle-orders, and Dalenar’s Shardbearers put heavy pressure on the infantry—forcing Elhokar to commit his own Shardbearers to duels. By noon, the forces were balanced. By early evening, Dalenar held a strong advantage. Without men to duel them, Dalenar’s Shardbearers sheared through the regular troops almost unhindered.

  Elhokar would not surrender. Dalenar had known that the boy wouldn’t, and within the fury, Dalenar didn’t really care. He remained rational—he hadn’t entered a mindless frenzy. Yet, he could kill without pain. Guilt and questioning were fed to the anger, allowing Dalenar to continue without their annoying buzzings. The old, frightening joy returned—the thrill of a perfect battle, the excitement of facing a foe and proving yourself his better. It wasn’t about fair contests or duels; it was about destroying, and knowing the power of having destroyed.

  And then he saw Echathen.

  His friend’s light blue Shardplate ran red with the blood of his enemies, many of whom lay in pieces at his feet. The ground was damp and pooling with the lives of the fallen, and Echathen swept through a squad of heavy infantrymen, his Blade easily cutting down the well-armored men, whose bulk made for difficult maneuvering.

  Echathen smiled as he fought. Dalenar knew that smile, he felt its strength within himself. Yet, when he saw the pleasure in Echathen’s eyes, something shattered within Dalenar. He stopped mid-swing, though his honor guard quickly finished off the man he had been about to kill.

  Dalenar lowered his Blade and looked down at his bloodstained armor, then at the bodies around him. Aredor, Renarin, and Sheneres looked back at him again.

  I cannot do this, he thought sickly. I cannot be this man again.

  He stood for a moment, suddenly feeling old, sore, and impossibly tired. Then he raised his blade and pointed toward Echathen, indicating for his honor guard to meld with those of the Khardinar lord.

  Echathen gave Dalenar a broad smile as he approached. “I feel alive again, Dalenar!” he said. “Like before everything went wrong, before the traitor, Pralir, and that fool boy took the throne!”

  Dalenar could not express the disgust he felt for his old friend at that moment. He knew, however, that he had to reserve an equal portion of that same disgust for himself.

  “The battle is going too long,” Dalenar said over the din of fighting. Was it really that loud, or were his ears simply ringing after countless—yet ineffective—strikes to his helm? “We have obviously won the day; Elhokar needs to surrender.”

  “I don’t think he intends to,” Echathen replied.

  Dalenar shook his head, scanning the battlefield. “I don’t intend to kill every lad here, Echathen. These are our people—their only fault is loyalty to their king. Perhaps if we pull back, there will be more desertions tonight.”

  “Pull back?” Echathen asked, waving for his honor guard to form a perimeter so the to lords could continue talking. It was a barely necessary gesture—few squads of men were willing to attack a pair of Shardbearers who seemed to have no intent on killing for the moment.

  “Retreat when we’re winning so soundly?” Echathen asked. “Dalenar, you know as I do that we need to continue. The victory must be decisive, otherwise those fa
ctions loyal to your nephew might get ideas a few years down the line.”

  Dalenar looked up, toward the sun. There were still several hours of daylight remaining, and Echathen was probably right. Show weakness now, when his reign was beginning, and Dalenar might have to fight another war soon thereafter.

  You’re already calling it ‘your reign,’ he realized. What of Ahrden? What of your promise to abdicate when the boy reaches age?

  “It must be done, Dalenar,” Echathen said. “You must be firm—at least, until we find and dispatch Elhokar. I’m surprised he hasn’t sought you out, actually.”

  “So am I,” Dalenar said with a frown. Striking out to duel Dalenar directly was exactly the sort of brash move he had expected from Elhokar.

  “Perhaps the boy’s more clever than we give him credit,” Dalenar said. “He’s fought with me for years, and I with him—he’ll know what I expect him to do. That in itself is good enough reason not to do it.”

  Echathen shrugged, then sighed slightly, stretching an arm where the Shardplate was scarred from a duel. While the light of destruction had not completely left Echathen’s eyes, it had abated somewhat. By unspoken agreement, the two lords commanded their honor guards to lead them back to safety, where they could rest for a time and reassess the battle strategies.

  At their mobile camp a short distance away, Dalenar was pleased to find that his engineers had managed to right one of the captured towers. As Echathen went to replace his tarnished pauldron with a spare off a man he had killed, Dalenar forced himself to climb the ladder up three flights to the top of the tower.

  He ignored salutes, feeling his fatigue as he made his way to the front of the tower and scanned the visible battlefield. The war was going even more poorly for Elhokar than he had assumed below. The king’s forces were boxed together with only marginal chances for a retreat, and Dalenar’s forces were making headway on the fourth flank.