The Way of Kings Prime

by Brandon Sanderson

  “As I said, Jasnah,” Meridas said with obvious annoyance, “we are quite capable of—”

  “No, wait, Meridas,” Aneazer said, pulling at his frazzled grey beard, studying the map with consternation. “The woman’s words have merit.”

  “Kholinar undoubtedly still has troops guarding its walls,” Jasnah continued. “When they see our attack, they’ll raise the gates and sally, trapping the Veden army between two hostile foes. They’ll be boxed—armies to the north and south, arrows falling from the west, and a lait cliffside to their west. Their towers will have fallen, and I doubt the force has even a single Shardbearer—it would be foolish to waste Shardblades on what is intended to be little more than a blockade.”

  Meridas frowned. “It is too early to make definite plans,” he finally said. “Let us get closer to Kholinar, where we can perform better reconnaissance, then we will develop a firm strategy.”

  Aneazer nodded in agreement, and after a brief pause, Jasnah nodded as well, admitting the truth to Meridas’s words. The two noblemen left together, Meridas postulating whether or not the Awakener knew how to create Shinavar Dalaltatan, and suggesting that the two try the vegetable for their evening repast. Taln stood, feeling a sudden tension as Jasnah’s eyes fell on him, then hurried out of the tent without looking at her. She remained behind, beside the battle map, watching him go.

  He stepped out into the late afternoon light, taking a deep breath to still his tension. He knew it was foolish to avoid her, as if he were a child fleeing before the censure of a displeased parent. And yet, those eyes of hers only lent fuel to his own questionings and uncertainties. He had to decide, but he couldn’t do so with her looking at him like that.

  The aggregate Herald’s Army was arrayed before him. Aneazer’s troops were well-disciplined, their dark brown tents arranged in careful squadrons of a hundred men, each one emblazoned with the Zar glyph. Zar: Preparation. Indeed, this was no despot’s ragged, bullying collection of thugs. This was a true army. Its presence helped discipline within Taln’s own troops. The men became stronger and more unified simply by being forced to march alongside Aneazer’s superior warriors. The two groups of men retained a division, true, but the whole was a far more effective group than Taln’s men had been on their own.

  Yes, this was an army now. The men were beginning to feel like soldiers, and their training reflected that. Taln had once told Jasnah that he would not lead these men under false pretenses. He had persuaded himself to continue even after he had discovered her manipulations, for he felt that training the men would help them against the Khothen. But, if he was no Herald, then he had perpetuated lies of the most blasphemous degree. His self-righteous proclamation that ‘intention mattered’ now seemed laughable. What of the intentions of a madman? What good did it matter to the soldiers whether they had been gathered by a man who sincerely thought himself a Herald or not? The result was the same. They had been lied to.

  Taln sighed, walking away from the command tent. Years of conditioning kept his head high, his step firm, despite his inner turmoil. That too was a lie. The men saw him, and gathered strength from his supposed confidence. But that was the way it had always been, hadn’t it? His questioning was like a rodent, digging and gnawing at a wall that had been poorly patched. Jasnah’s questions unearthed shames and uncertainties Taln had thought long buried. Even during his moments of greatest confidence, they had been there—a tiny but unnoticed leak in the presumably indestructible wall of his own morality. He knew, even when he tried to forget, that the Heralds were not what mankind presumed them to be. He knew secrets, things that his brethren hid from their own people. Burdens taken in the name of the greater good.

  But what were these things? Ravings? Reflections of his own paranoia? As he walked, he saw the horse pens. Aneazer kept two tensets of the animals; Taln had known kings with less fine stock. He remembered the difficulty in bringing the beasts to Roshar, and—upon visiting again eight hundred years later for the Second Return—he remembered his relief upon discovering that mankind had found a way to breed and keep horses despite Roshar’s harshness. Almost every other sign of Lhar had died out, but horses remained. What of these memories? These things seemed so logical to him—was his mind so wounded that it could fill in holes in its own reasonings, accepting for fact things that others would have found laughable?

  This army would go to war in just a few days. He had little time to decide. If he determined that he was not a Herald, then he could no longer ride at their head—this much he promised. He would not lie to others as he had lied to himself. Yet, if he was a Herald, he had no business going to war on Alethkar’s behalf. After the destruction of Kanar, Jezrien and Nale had decided that Heralds could not engage in the politics of men. The Elin were to leave the wars of mankind alone unless absolutely necessary for the protection of the greater good. As a Herald, it was Taln’s duty to move on. Probably to Thalenah, which he had heard retained a very stable monarchy.

  And if you are a Herald, where are the others? The swords had been buried for hundreds of years. If he was a Herald, then he was alone. That in itself was almost a powerful enough worry to make him wish to be mad, rather than face the prospect of protecting Roshar on his own.

  And, behind all of his fears and deliberations sat those beautiful, concerned eyes. Even more powerful than uncertainty was another emotion he had never thought to feel again. There had never been time or opportunity for it before, and now that it came upon him, he was completely surprised by its appearance—and equally uncertain how to deal with it.

  Taln sighed, looking east, toward Kholinar and the concerns of men. He would soon be forced to make a decision, one way or another.

  chapter 75

  Dalenar 7

  Dalenar pulled off his helm, wiping the blood from his brow as he led his horse back toward his army’s main body. Beside him, Echathen’s voice rang with the mutterings of a tenset curses.

  Light infantry marched around them. What had begun as a tensquad had taken serious casualties, leaving barely five hundred men alive. The ambush should have gone far better. It wasn’t that Dalenar had expected to do serious damage to the Veden army—this ambush, like others, had simply been another delaying tactic. As long as the Vedens feared ambush, they would move more carefully, and Dalenar’s struggling force could stay ahead. No, this day’s skirmish had not been intended to deal any serious damage.

  Elhokar Kholin had obviously thought differently.

  “Kenalhin, Kepralin, and Kechahin!” Echathen swore, using the first three names of the Almighty. One of Echathen’s tributing lords, Lord Tenmach, had been among those killed this day. Tenmach’s squad had been cut off from the main troop, flanked by enemy forces who should have been detained by Elhokar’s tensquad. Elhokar, however, hadn’t stayed back as the plan dictated—instead, he had pushed his troops forward, trying to cut through to the Veden commanders. By the time Elhokar had realized the futility of the action, Dalenar’s force had already suffered massive casualties.

  Dalenar glanced behind. The Veden force was there, of course, ever behind them like a dark mold on the horizon. They weren’t giving specific chase to Dalenar’s group—their leader, whoever it may be, was too clever for that. For all he knew, Dalenar’s hasty retreat was leading into a second, more devastating ambush. The invaders had a two-to-one advantage in troops—they were big enough to be confident, but still too small to take hasty risks. That was, perhaps, the only reason why the Aleth forces were still alive.

  The men marching with Dalenar were a morose, solemn lot. Morale was terrible, as could be expected—no army liked to be on the perpetual retreat. However, the Aleth forces suffered from an even greater problem, and the men could sense it. Though Dalenar and Elhokar’s armies remained separated out of principle, they were required to rely on one another to work against the invaders. They camped beside on another, and coordinated delaying tactics. However, neither group held the obvious command.

  The army wa
s like two pigs tied to one rope. Each move was a struggle, each plan a potential disaster. Elhokar refused to meet with Dalenar face to face, instead insisting that they communicate via messengers. The sense of disorder, mixed with the foe behind, left the men with very little to rely upon.

  The main troop had already set camp in the evening light—or, more appropriately, it had set up two separate camps that happened to sit next to one another. Dalenar made for the western camp, which was slightly larger. To the right, he could see Elhokar’s own ambush force marching into camp.

  Dalenar reined in his horse as the men lethargically made their way toward the mess tent. He looked over at Echathen. The Khardin man had always been a soldier of great energy, but even he was beginning to show signs of fatigue. His Plate was a mismatch of pieces, half his regular light-blue, half scavenged from the suits of the fallen—it would take several weeks for his own twisted and scarred pieces to reform themselves. Dalenar’s own Plate looked little better—he kept more of his original pieces, but they were covered with dents, gashes, and nicks.

  “Come, my friend,” Dalenar said. “We have planning to do.”

  Echathen nodded. “For all the good it will do us,” he muttered.

  Impressively, the initial retreat had been performed with relatively little loss. Some of the bulkier items—such as tents and furniture—had been left behind out of necessity. However, their stores of emeralds, sapphires, and basic food-preparation items had mostly survived the chaotic withdrawal. Dalenar could only ascribe the miracle to the effectiveness of his stewards. If the army somehow survived the next few weeks, he vowed to raise the men all a rank or two.

  Dalenar’s pavilion had been far too bulky to bring. However, his stewards had located a smaller tent—brought by a lesser nobleman—and appropriated it in Dalenar’s name. The tent was smaller than he was accustomed to, but at least it was shelter—many of his men didn’t even have that much.

  There were no chairs inside—Dalenar had ordered all lords to abandon any furniture that had survived the original withdrawal. It was too heavy to carry; Dalenar wouldn’t have servants collapsing from the rushed march simply because their lord wanted a comfortable place to sit his posterior.

  Echathen, his Shardplate removed, settled himself on a cushion as the scouts entered the tent to give their report. Dalenar remained standing.

  Palhen, the head of Dalenar’s scouts, was a thick-necked man with a warrior’s build and a bristly mustache. He was a lord, but as the mustache indicated, he had little care for courtly ways. Solitary and curt, but observant, he served well in his place.

  “Well?” Dalenar asked. Palhen didn’t care much for formality.

  “They’re definitely Veden, my lord,” the man said in his grunting voice. “I got close enough to the main body to seen glyphseals from all three of Veden Houses. I recognized a couple of the faces, too.”

  Dalenar nodded. He had concluded the same during this last battle. For a time, he had maintained his belief that the invaders were the mysterious army from Pralir, but that had apparently been a hasty conclusion.

  “Filthy hogs,” Echathen said. “It’s little wonder they wouldn’t give much aid to the Pralir campaign. They were planning to betray Alethkar as soon as it got back.”

  “You didn’t send help to the Pralir war either, my friend,” Dalenar pointed out.

  “Yes, but I always gave my reasons,” Echathen said. “The Vedens, they hedged and promised. It’s a wonder that Nolhonarin ever signed that treaty—everyone knows Vedens are about as trustworthy as smoke.”

  “Were you able to determine who leads the Veden army?” Dalenar asked.

  Palhen shook his head. “Their scouts are storm-cursed good, my lord. I lost three men on this mission as it is. We couldn’t get close enough to read the glyph on the central tent.”

  Dalenar nodded with a sigh. The army was probably led by Talshekh Davar—before the nonsense with Crossguard began, the man had been arranging a coup of the Three Houses. Apparently, he had decided not to stop with his own throne. Dalenar wished he knew how the man had managed to get past the southern Aleth fortifications so quickly and quietly.

  “My lord,” Palhen continued. “I passed by the scene of your skirmish on my way back. They were killing the wounded again.”

  Dalenar closed his eyes, exhaling softly while Echathen muttered a few more curses. Dalenar had sent scouts back to Crossguard, hoping that they would discover that a Veden holding force had been arranged to hold the abandoned men. Instead, they had found only corpses. Anyone Dalenar abandoned was slaughtered.

  “Thank you, Palhen,” Dalenar said, dismissing the scout.

  Palhen nodded. “A messenger from Kholinar arrived while you were gone, my lord,” he said as he withdrew. “Shall I send a scribe to read the letter?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The tent flap rustled as the beefy scout left, and Dalenar shared a look with Echathen.

  “This isn’t good,” the Khardin man noted.

  Dalenar nodded. He walked over and unrolled his map of Alethkar, then weighed it down on the stone floor with rocks at the corners. His female calligraphers had marked the army’s current location, as requested, as well as that of the trailing army.

  They were near the middle of the kingdom, a little to the north and east. At first, Dalenar had hoped to make for Kholinar, where he could have, perhaps, rallied some more forces. Their pursuer, however, had anticipated this intention. The Veden King kept his forces eastward, herding the refugee group to the west, away from Dalenar’s center of power.

  “So what are our choices?” Dalenar asked. “We can’t continue to wander as we have.”

  Echathen cocked his head slightly, as if not in complete agreement. “We need to take the path with the most valleys, Dalenar. Every potential ambush will slow them down.”

  Dalenar shook his head. “Slowing them won’t save us in the end, my friend. They’ll catch us eventually, no matter how clever our pathfinding. We need to make a stand somewhere.”

  “Khardinar?” Echathen offered. “I brought most of my forces with me, but there are some remaining. Our passing would gather several thousand more troops.”

  “And bring an inevitable war to your people,” Dalenar said. “No, I won’t do that to the Restful City. Besides, it’s too far. We’d be dead before we got there.”

  Echathen grunted, leaning over, his shadow falling across the map as he studied their options. “Teth-Kanar,” he finally said.

  Dalenar nodded. The port city was their only option. It was a Third city, of goodly size and fortification.

  “Our only problem will be Lord Intara,” Echathen said.

  “Intara’s not a problem,” Dalenar said. “He’s an advantage. He was the only major Aleth lord who didn’t send troops to either myself or Elhokar. He’ll have men to add to the army.”

  “If he even lets us in the city,” Echathen said with a snort.

  “He won’t have much choice if we plant three armies on his doorstep,” Dalenar said, smiling slightly. The image was increasingly appealing. Teth-Kanar was one of the more defensible cities in the kingdom, despite its . . . unpleasant heritage. The real trick would be persuading Elhokar that it was the best place to go.

  A knock came at the tent post, and Dalenar stood, calling for the visitor to come in. A white-robed woman in her forties entered. He thought he recognized her, but the face was difficult to place—standard dark Aleth hair, cut short and without braids. The wife of a lesser officer, probably, who had become a scribe so that she could remain with her husband during extended campaigns.

  The woman bowed. “Which message would you like me to read first, my lord?” she asked, holding up two sheets of paper.

  Dalenar paused. “There are two?” he asked. “Who from?”

  “The first is from your wife, my lord,” the woman said. “The second is from her majesty, Queen Nanavah. It came just a few moments ago.”

  Nanavah? Dalenar tho
ught, shooting a glance at Echathen. The bald-headed warrior shrugged, leaning back on his cushion in a relaxed position.

  “Read the one from Kinae first,” Dalenar ordered.

  “It is very short, my lord,” the scribe said. “It reads: ‘My dearest betrothed. I don’t know if you got my other messages or not. I did receive your man. He was very brave in escaping the forces that chased him. Kholinar is still under siege, though the army hasn’t attacked us yet. I put two tenset men in painted armor and have them walking the ramparts. Perhaps the invading force will think that we have more Shardbearers than we do. The citizens are training at Shieldhome with all diligence, but I don’t think we have the forces to resist an attack. I don’t know what happened at Crossguard, but I trust you have defeated the king. Please, return to Kholinar with all haste.’”

  The scribe looked up. “And it is signed ‘With love, Kinae Khardinar.’”

  Echathen smiled with pride at the letter’s content, and Dalenar didn’t blame him. Kinae was an impressive young woman—resourceful, clever, and determined. Despite her youth, she would preside over Kholinar in its time of need, giving the people the firm leadership it needed.

  However, her words worried Dalenar. Cutting off Kholinar so decisively was a very clever move. When Talshekh had begun his campaign in Jah Keved, Dalenar had commissioned his spies to prepare a report on the Davar House leader. Nothing in that report had led Dalenar to expect such a competent enemy. Talshekh was supposed to be a fine warrior, but only a passable tactician. Yet the moves he had made so far showed amazing subtlety and preparation.