The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  You foolish, foolish boy, he thought with a sigh. What had gone wrong? How had the child turned out so differently from the father? Was it because Nolhonarin had been absent so often, campaigning to restore Alethkar’s borders? Had it been because of his obvious favoritism of Jasnah? Despite his reverence for the fallen man, Dalenar was forced to admit the grand flaw of his brother’s reign. Somehow, the great king had failed his kingdom in a way more subtle than he would have ever acknowledged—by ignoring his heir, Nolhonarin had left his people with a failure for a king.

  “That boy just doesn’t know when he’s beaten,” Echathen said, clomping across the tower top. He stepped up beside Dalenar, handing over a waterskin.

  Dalenar took a long drink. He was tempted to wash the blood free from his armor, but it seemed a futile gesture. More would simply follow.

  “Perhaps I could make him an offer,” Dalenar said. “His surrender in exchange for banishment.”

  “So he could raise an army to come get back his throne?” Echathen asked.

  Dalenar shook his head. His musings were simply that—he knew what needed to be done. He moved to go—there were still men he had to kill. As he turned, however, he promised himself one reserved vow. He would not enjoy the killing. The men he slew deserved that much, at least.

  Echathen didn’t follow. Dalenar turned, frowning at his friend. “You coming?”

  Echathen didn’t respond. He leaned against the tower rail, squinting. “Dalenar, do you see something—there, to the southwest?”

  Dalenar paused, then walked back up to join his friend. He followed the gesture. “There is something there,” he realized. It looked like a shadow, but there were no clouds in the sky . . .

  “An army,” Echathen breathed. “By the Almighty, that’s why he keeps fighting. He’s managed to get reinforcements from somewhere!”

  Dalenar cursed, realizing Echathen was right. He pulled off his helm, wiping his brow as he called for aids and messengers. He would not be returning to the battlefield anytime soon—reinforcements changed their battle plan severely, and he would need to direct troop reassignments.

  “How many, would you say?” Echathen asked.

  Dalenar looked up from the piecemeal battle map thrown together by his scouts. The new army was close now—it was moving at a very quick march. Only an hour had passed since Echathen had pointed it out, but it was already nearing the battlefield.

  “I don’t know,” Dalenar said somberly. “Looks like at least forty-thousand by scout reports.”

  Echathen whistled softly. The Khardin lord had removed his helm and gauntlets, and stood with his bald head exposed. He had wiped most of the blood away.

  “Don’t forget,” Dalenar said, turning back to the map. “You’re the one who persuaded me to do this in the first place. You’re not allowed to get timid now.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” Echathen assured with a smile. “I just want to make certain we have an accurate count—for when the ballads are sung.”

  Dalenar snorted, but he could feel little mirth at the comment. The reports were not good. His men were tired and wounded; their retreat would be slow. He had lost nearly a third of his force, and while Elhokar had suffered far worse, that wouldn’t matter now. Dalenar’s troops could not stand against three-to-one odds, especially if the reinforcement army hadn’t been marching long.

  The only option was to do Elhokar had not. Dalenar had cursed the boy’s pride in not surrendering, but now the situation was reversed. If Dalenar gave himself up, most of his men would undoubtedly be spared—Elhokar would need them too much, considering the losses he had suffered. Only Dalenar—and probably his generals, Shardbearers, and high lords—would need die.

  Echathen obviously saw the look in Dalenar’s eyes. “There’s not going to be a ballad about this day, is there?”

  “Not unless it’s one with a very depressing ending,” Dalenar said. “We’ll try a retreat, but it took us too long to disengage. They’ll give chase, and they’ll catch us. After that . . .”

  Echathen nodded.

  “You will flee,” Dalenar said. “Elhokar won’t dare invade Khardinar, not with so little resources. You should—”

  “Dalenar,” Echathen said softly, “we both know that Elhokar is not the type to forgive a grudge. He’ll come for me eventually—and he’ll take my family too. If I go now, then he will probably leave them alone.”

  Dalenar nodded. He looked up from the map and out over his forces. They had come to serve the Tyrantbane. They had come for justice, but had found failure. Now they knew the truth about him, the truth he had been hiding for over fifteen years. He hadn’t ever intended his secret to be manifest quite so dramatically, but he probably deserved it. No man was to take a kingship upon himself—though he had acted in the supposed name of justice, he had violated the strongest and most revered tenet of The Way of Kings. He had become a conqueror.

  The reinforcement army arrived. Dalenar made the orders for official retreat—he had begun the process as quickly as possible, but the main body of troops hadn’t been ready until just moments before. As he stood, watching his people withdraw, he noticed something.

  Elhokar’s forces weren’t moving to meet with the reinforcements. It was a strange move—they should have retreated as soon as possible to join the larger force, lest Dalenar make a desperate strike to try and capture Elhokar before the reinforcements could arrive to help.

  Yet, Elhokar kept his forces together in their defensive block. Though they were a distance away, they didn’t look like a force welcoming long-awaited allies.

  Dalenar’s frown deepened. “Do we know who they are yet?”

  Echathen shook his head. “The only thing we know about them is that they’re winds-cursed good at killing scouts.”

  The reinforcements began fanning out into an offensive line, preparing to curl around Elhokar’s forces. Dalenar watched, slowly comprehending.

  “Those aren’t reinforcements,” Dalenar said.

  Echathen didn’t need to be told. He was already watching the third army, as were the scribes and messengers on the tower top.

  “By the Almighty!” Echathen said with relief. “They’ve come to help us, not Elhokar. Who are they!”

  Dalenar sensed a wrongness. “No,” he said with growing understanding. “No, Echathen, they aren’t here to help us.” I should have realized. Forty-thousand men. That’s not the size of an unnoticed reinforcing party.

  “I want messengers out now!” Dalenar bellowed. “Split our forces, leave a column in the center for Elhokar to retreat through us! Send light cavalry to harry the newcomers, and double-pace the retreat!”

  Echathen frowned. “What?” he asked as the messengers jumped into motion. “What is this?”

  Dalenar shook his head. “Those aren’t reinforcements for either side, old friend. Alethkar has been invaded.”

  Elhokar’s forces were hesitant to accept aid, but that was only natural, considering its source. Eventually, the king was forced to make the best of two unenviable decisions. If Dalenar’s forces betrayed him, then he would die. If he stayed, he would die. Better to hope upon the honor of his uncle and the danger of a common enemy.

  Dalenar watched the retreat, determined to stay atop the broken tower as long as was safe. Fortunately, the invaders hadn’t been given full time to spread out their army, and a retreat was still possible.

  But, who are they? Dalenar thought, trepidation increasing. He feared he knew the answer. Months ago, on the stormlands of Pralir, another phantom army had appeared. It had left thousands of men dead in its wake, then disappeared into the uncivilized wilderness of the east. Rantah, the rebels of Pralir, had apparently decided to bring their fight to Alethkar.

  But where had they gathered such an army? Scout reports were sparse—there was too much chaos, and the invaders’ army had obviously been keeping careful watch for spies. However, early reports said that the enemy was amazingly well-equipped, with full squadrons o
f heavy infantry and archers. No towers, but such would have been difficult to move stealthily.

  Dalenar shook his head. He should have known better—this was the price of internal squabbling. This is why Bajerden warned against the lords of a kingdom taking up arms against one another. At their strength, even after Pralir, the Aleth forces would have had little difficulty facing an army of forty thousand. Now, however, they were a shattered and wounded group.

  “Keep that eastern flank moving!” Dalenar ordered, waving toward the messengers. One man jumped into motion, climbing down the tower to deliver the order.

  The order would go to men who were expecting it, however. The officers were undoubtedly trying their best to keep their men moving, but the infantry would be weak. Dalenar tried not to think about the wounded and exhausted—both would have to be abandoned by the main force. Hopefully, these invaders would show honor to the captured.

  Below, great troops of men—barely organized in their flight—backed away, retreating northward. Elhokar’s forces marched down the middle, in the gap left by Dalenar’s split flanks. Only the cavalry remained behind—mounted archers used to harry for a retreat. They were taking heavy casualties, however—Dalenar could see that much without hearing the reports, and he cringed at the loss. Horses fell and died, each beast more valuable than a hundred suits of armor.

  Suddenly, a group of horsemen broke off from Elhokar’s ragged line. Dalenar leaned forward, frowning. He could barely make out a gold-armored form leading the force to the east.

  “What is that fool boy doing!” he demanded. No one responded—only messengers waited atop the tower; Echathen had gone below to lead the harrying forces.

  Arrows fell from the invading army as Elhokar passed, but none hit the king. Elhokar spurred his horsemen quickly, making straight for the broken city of Crossguard. A force of horsemen left the invading army, trailing him.

  Dalenar waited tensely as Elhokar disappeared into the city. It seemed odd that he should now be fearing for the boy’s safety—just hours earlier, he had been trying to kill Elhokar. However, the people would need their king—for a time at least—to face this new invader. Personal arguments had to be discarded.

  The invaders reached Crossguard just as Elhokar’s forces burst through a hole in the wall on the other side. Elhokar’s horsemen turned, making straight for the main body of the king’s army.

  What was that about? Dalenar thought with frustration.

  The invading force was getting close—it was about time to abandon the tower. Fortunately, the invading army was moving more slowly than Dalenar had expected. There was a sluggishness to their motions, one almost as obvious as that of his men.

  They’re tired from marching, Dalenar decided—it was the only answer that made sense. They must have come a long way to make their assault.

  It was a chilling realization. If the invaders had waited just another hour or two, they would have caught Dalenar’s forces in camp for the night, even more weakened from the day’s exertions, Elhokar’s forces presumably destroyed.

  “Abandon the base camp,” Dalenar ordered, waving his messengers to climb down from the tower’s top. He waited until they were all down, then followed behind, bellowing for his aids and scribes to retreat. The scene at the base of the tower was one of insane chaos, soldiers and civilians scattering every direction, officers yelling for this chore or that, and people crying that they needed more time. White-robed women scurried about, trying hurriedly to gather up their scribing materials.

  Dalenar waved for his horse, then mounted. The action seemed to bring a bit of focus to the various groups, and many paused, looking up at him.

  “Go!” he ordered, pointing north. “Leave everything you can behind. I don’t want anyone collapsing during the night’s march because they decided to bring a few extra books. Everything can be replaced but you!”

  The words gave them direction, and their fervor seemed to become a little more directed. Dalenar waited a few moments to make certain they moved as per his order, then turned his horse and galloped toward the back of his troop line.

  Too many men straggled behind, clutching wounds barely bandaged. Many just sat where they had collapsed, waiting. Dalenar cursed his inability to help, ignoring their calls as he passed. Fortunately, his main body of troops had retreated well ahead of the oncoming invaders. Most of men would escape—assuming the invaders didn’t press too hard a chase during the night.

  How long Dalenar’s army lasted after that was a mater he didn’t bother worrying about for the moment. They couldn’t run forever—eventually they would be forced into a battle. That would happen another day, however. There would be plans, traps, and perhaps even hope. Perhaps.

  He turned his horse, galloping toward his now-retreating squad of harrying archers. A smiling Echathen nodded to Dalenar as he joined the group, staying just ahead of the oncoming invaders.

  “They were obviously focused on getting to the battlefield in a hurry,” Echathen yelled. “They barely even bothered with us—we killed ten of them for every one we lost!”

  But every one you lost was one on a horse, Dalenar though. A horse that could have carried a wounded man. He had sent two hundred horseback archers to harry. Barely thirty had returned—in just a few moments, Dalenar had lost nearly half his army’s mounts.

  The point was irrelevant—Echathen’s forces had slowed the enemy, if just a bit. Every moment would count.

  The horsemen turned and galloped back past the line of wounded, and Dalenar reined his horse in, grabbing by the arm a young spearman with a wounded leg. The youth looked up in shock as Dalenar lifted him up with a grunt, placing him on the saddle behind. By unspoken command, the other horsemen did likewise, each helping a wounded man up behind them. There were sudden cries from the field nearby as the wounded realized that this time Dalenar would not ride them by without thought.

  There were only thirty horses, however, and hundreds of wounded. Steeling himself against the wails of those left behind, Dalenar ordered his group forward before the other wounded could get too close. The horsemen started forward again, moving less quickly this time, but still fast enough to stay ahead of the main body of invaders.

  The youth on the saddle behind Dalenar held to his Plate with rigid hands as the men behind watched their lord abandon them.

  Dalenar edged his horse closer to Echathen, who rode with a dazed-​looking boy that had a head wound.

  “Did you see Elhokar ride past your force?” Dalenar asked over the sound of hoofbeats.

  Echathen nodded. “He galloped past us in a mean hurry, that pretty wife of his on the horse behind him.”

  Wife. So that was what it had been about—Nanavah had come to war with the king. It made sense, of course; the queen often served as king’s scribe during times of war.

  “Did you see a boy in her arms?” Dalenar yelled.

  Echathen shook his head. “I was kind of busy at the time.”

  Almighty, let it be that he left the prince at home.

  Aredor was dead, Jezenrosh and his family executed, and Renarin missing. If Elhokar’s son died with the rest of the army, it would mark the end of the Kholin line.

  chapter 70

  Merin 15

  In the dusk light, the ships of Merin’s convoy were dark blots upon the blue seas. He leaned against the gunwale of his flagship, wind ruffling his cloak as he looked southward. To his eyes, the air current above was little different from the water below. His flagship left two wakes behind it—one in the air, one in the water.

  His arm still ached. Though he could find no visible marks, his hand had gone numb in the hours following his duels. He had begun to fear that it would remain that way, but a sharp prickling had awoken him that night—the first night at sea. Slowly, like a limb reawaking after being slept upon in the wrong position, sensation returned to his hand. Except, rather than just the normal tingling, this reawakening had brought with it sharp pains.

  He hadn’t bee
n able to sleep that night.

  Fortunately, the pain had dulled. Only the ring of flesh around his wrist, the place where the bracelet had sat, continued to burn with any real pain. The rest of his arm just ached dully, like muscles overworked by spear training.

  Despite the pain, he had only lasted two days without the bracelet. It glistened on his wrist at that moment, gifting him with its strange powers. The winds ahead whispered to him as they parted for his ship, and he was tempted to do more than just watch. He wanted to feel. Feel as he had during that duel, feel the wind cradling him, driving his swings and boosting his movements. The longing was odd, since it was accompanied by an acute memory of the flaring pain. How could he both crave the sensation and fear its agony at the same time?

  He resisted the impulse to call the wind to him. Not only did he worry about the pain and the damage it might do to his arm, but there was something more. He hadn’t noticed it the first time he’d used the wind, but his second combat had done something to the bracelet. When he had taken it out after the two-day hiatus, he had found the jade on the inside powdery and flaking. A good half of it had brushed away at his probing. Whatever he had done when he called the winds, it hadn’t just hurt him, it had burned away the jade as well—just as it had when he had destroyed the glyphward back on the night of the dueling competition. Merin had been forced to have one of the Lakhenran armorers rework the bracelet to fit the newly thinned stones so that they would still touch his skin when worn.

  The winds rustled behind him. “My lord?” a voice asked.

  “Yes?” Merin asked, turning to find Kalden standing respectfully, his new Shardblade—still unbonded, of course—resting on his shoulder. Since swearing his oath to Merin, the soldier had taken it upon himself to be a liaison between Merin and the Lakhenran royalty.

  “The new scout reports have arrived, my lord,” Kalden said. “His Majesty has requested your presence at the debriefing.”