Mistborn: Secret History

by Brandon Sanderson

  The koloss raged in frustration, unable to reach their enemy. Curiously, their souls started to appear in the Cognitive Realm.

  And they were human.

  Not koloss at all, but people, dressed in a variety of outfits. Many were skaa, but there were soldiers, merchants, and even nobility among them. Both male and female.

  Kelsier gaped. He had never quite known what koloss were, but he had not expected this. Common people, made beasts somehow? He rushed among the dying souls as they faded.

  “What happened to you,” he demanded of one woman. “How did this happen to you?”

  She regarded him with a bemused expression. “Where,” she said, “where am I?”

  In a moment she was gone. It seemed the transition was too much of a shock. The others showed similar confusion, holding out their hands as if surprised to find themselves human again—though not a few seemed relieved. Kelsier watched as thousands of these figures appeared, then faded away. It was a slaughter on the other side, stones crashing down all around. One passed right through Kelsier before rolling away, breaking bodies.

  He could use this, but he would need something specific. Not a skaa peasant, or even a crafty lord. He needed someone who . . .

  There.

  He dashed through fading spirits and dodged between the glowing souls of creatures not yet dead, making for a particular spirit who had just appeared. Bald, with tattoos circling his eyes. An obligator. This man seemed less surprised by events, and more resigned. By the time Kelsier arrived, the lanky obligator was already starting to stretch away.

  “How?” Kelsier demanded, counting on the obligator to understand more about the koloss. “How did this happen to you?”

  “I don’t know,” the man said.

  Kelsier felt his heart sink.

  “The beasts,” the man continued, “should have known better than to take an obligator! I was their keeper, and they did this to me? This world is ruined.”

  Should have known better? Kelsier clutched the obligator’s shoulder as the man stretched toward nothingness. “How? Please, how is it done? Men become koloss?”

  The obligator looked to him and, vanishing, said one word.

  “Spikes.”

  Kelsier gaped again. Around him on the misty plain, souls blazed bright, flashed, and were dumped into this Realm—before finally fading to nothing. Like human bonfires being extinguished.

  Spikes. Like Inquisitor spikes?

  He walked to the slumped-over corpses of the dead and knelt, inspecting them. Yes, he could see it. Metal glowed on this side, and among those corpses were little spikes—like embers, small but glowing fiercely.

  They were much harder to make out on the living koloss, because of the way the soul blazed, but it seemed to him that the spikes pierced into the soul. Was that the secret? He shouted at a pair of koloss, and they looked toward him, then glanced about, confused.

  The spikes transform them, Kelsier thought, like Inquisitors. Is that how they’re controlled? Through piercings in the soul?

  What of madmen? Were their souls cracked open, allowing something similar? Troubled, he left the field and its dying, although the battle—or rather the slaughter—seemed to be ending.

  Kelsier crossed the misty field outside Fadrex, then lingered out here alone, away from the souls of men until Vin returned, trailed by a shadow she didn’t seem to know was there this time. She passed by, then disappeared into the camp.

  Kelsier settled down near one of the little tendrils of Preservation, and touched it. “He has his fingers in everything, doesn’t he, Fuzz?”

  “Yes,” Preservation said, his voice frail, tiny. “See.”

  Something appeared in Kelsier’s mind, a sequence of images: Inquisitors listening with heads raised toward Ruin’s voice. Vin in the creature’s shadow. A man he didn’t know sitting on a burning throne and watching Luthadel, a twisted smile on his lips.

  Then, little Lestibournes. Spook wore a burned cloak that seemed too big for him, and Ruin crouched nearby, whispering with Kelsier’s own voice into the poor lad’s ear.

  After him, Kelsier saw Marsh standing among falling ash, spiked eyes staring sightlessly across the landscape. He didn’t seem to be moving; the ash was piling up on his shoulders and head.

  Marsh . . . Seeing his brother like that made Kelsier sick. Kelsier’s plan had required Marsh to join the obligators. He had deduced what must have happened next. Marsh’s Allomancy had been noticed, as had the fervent way he lived his life.

  Passion and care. Marsh had never been as capable as Kelsier. But he had always, always been a better man.

  Preservation showed him dozens of others, mostly people in power leading their followers to doom, laughing and dancing as ash piled high and crops withered in the mists. Each one was a person either pierced by metal or influenced by people around them who were pierced by metal. He should have made the connection back at the Well of Ascension, when he’d seen in the pulses that Ruin could speak to Marsh and the other Inquisitors.

  Metal. It was the key to everything.

  “So much destruction,” Kelsier whispered at the visions. “We can’t survive this, can we? Even if we stop Ruin, we are doomed.”

  “No,” Preservation said. “Not doomed. Remember . . . hope, Kelsier. You said, I . . . I . . . am . . .”

  “I am hope,” Kelsier whispered.

  “I cannot save you. But we must trust.”

  “In what?”

  “In the man I was. In the . . . the plan . . . The sign . . . and the Hero . . .”

  “Vin. He has her, Fuzz.”

  “He doesn’t know as much as he thinks,” Preservation whispered. “That is his weakness. The . . . weakness . . . of all clever men . . .”

  “Except me, of course.”

  Preservation had enough spark left to chuckle at that, which did Kelsier some good. He stood up, dusting off his clothing. Which was somewhat pointless, seeing as how there was no dust here—not to mention no actual clothing. “Come now, Fuzz, when have you known me to be wrong?”

  “Well, there was—”

  “Those don’t count. I wasn’t fully myself back then.”

  “And . . . when did you become . . . fully yourself?”

  “Only just now,” Kelsier said.

  “You could . . . you could use that excuse . . . anytime. . . .”

  “Now you’re catching on, Fuzz.” Kelsier put his hands on his hips. “We use the plan you set in motion when you were sane, eh? All right then. How can I help?”

  “Help? I . . . I don’t . . .”

  “No, be decisive. Bold! A good crewleader is always sure of himself, even when he isn’t. Especially when he isn’t.”

  “That doesn’t make . . . sense. . . .”

  “I’m dead. I don’t need to make sense anymore. Ideas? You’re crewleader now.”

  “. . . Me?”

  “Sure. Your plan. You’re in charge. I mean, you are a god. That should count for something, I suppose.”

  “Thank you for . . . finally . . . acknowledging that. . . .”

  Kelsier deliberated, then set his pack on the ground. “You’re sure this can’t help? It builds links between people and gods. I’d think it could heal you or something.”

  “Oh, Kelsier,” Preservation said. “I’ve told you that I am dead already. You cannot . . . save me. Save my . . . successor instead.”

  “Then I will give it to Vin. Would that help?”

  “No. You must tell . . . her. You can reach . . . through the gaps in souls . . . when I cannot. Tell her that she must not trust . . . pierced by metal. You must free her to take . . . my power. All of it.”

  “Right,” Kelsier said, tucking away the glass globe. “Free Vin. Easy.”

  He just had to find a way past Ruin.

  3

  “So, Midge,” Kelsier whispered to the dozing man. “You got that?”

  “Mission . . .” the scruffy soldier mumbled. “Survivor . . .”

&nbs
p; “You can’t trust anyone pierced by metal,” Kelsier said. “Tell her that. Those exact words. It’s a mission for you from the Survivor.”

  The man snorted awake; he was supposed to have been on watch, and he stumbled to his feet as his replacement approached. Kelsier regarded the glowing beings, anxious. It had taken precious days—during which Ruin had kept him far from Vin—to search out someone in the army who was touched in the head, someone with that distinctive soul of madness.

  It wasn’t that they were broken, as he had once guessed. They were merely . . . open. This man, Midge, seemed perfect. He responded to Kelsier’s words, but he wasn’t so unhinged that the others ignored him.

  Kelsier followed Midge eagerly through camp to one of the cookfires, where Midge started chatting, animatedly, with the others there.

  Tell them, Kelsier thought. Spread the news through camp. Let Vin hear it.

  Midge continued speaking. Others stood up around the fire. They were listening! Kelsier touched Midge, trying to hear what he was saying. He couldn’t make it out though, until a thread of Preservation touched him—then the words started to vibrate through his soul, faintly audible to his ears.

  “That’s right,” Midge said. “He talked to me. Said I’m special. Said we shouldn’t trust none of you. I’m holy, and you just ain’t.”

  “What?” Kelsier snapped. “Midge, you idiot.”

  It went downhill from there. Kelsier stepped back as men around the cookfire squabbled and started shoving one another, then they began a full-on brawl. With a sigh, Kelsier settled down on the misty shadow of a boulder and watched several days’ worth of work evaporate.

  Someone laid a hand on his shoulder, and he glanced toward Ruin, who had appeared there.

  “Careful,” Kelsier said, “you’ll get you on my shirt.”

  Ruin chuckled. “I was worried, leaving you alone, Kelsier. But it seems you’ve been serving me well in my absence.” One of the brawlers punched Demoux right across the face, and Ruin winced. “Nice.”

  “Needs to follow through more,” Kelsier mumbled. “You need to really commit to a punch.”

  Ruin smiled a deep, knowing, insufferable smile. Hell, Kelsier thought. I hope that’s not what I look like.

  “You must realize by now, Kelsier,” Ruin said, “that anything you do, I will counter. Struggle serves only Ruin.”

  Elend Venture arrived on the scene, gliding on a Steelpush that Kelsier envied, looking properly regal. That boy had grown into more of a man than Kelsier had ever expected he would. Despite that stupid beard.

  Kelsier frowned. “Where is Vin?”

  “Hm?” Ruin said. “Oh, I have her.”

  “Where?” Kelsier demanded.

  “Away. Where I can keep her in hand.” He leaned toward Kelsier. “Good job wasting time on the madman.” He vanished.

  I absolutely hate that man, Kelsier thought. Ruin . . . he was no more impressive, deep down, than Preservation was. Hell, Kelsier thought, I’m better at this god stuff than they are. At least he had inspired people.

  Including Midge and the rest of the brawlers, unfortunately. Kelsier stood up from the rock and finally acknowledged a fact he’d been wanting to avoid. He couldn’t do anything here, not with Ruin so focused on Vin and Elend right now. Kelsier had to get to someone else. Sazed maybe? Or perhaps Marsh. If he could get through to his brother while Ruin was distracted . . .

  He had to hope that the wards on that orb would shade him from the dark god’s eyes, as they had when Kelsier had first arrived at Fadrex. He needed to leave this place, strike out, lose Ruin’s interest and then try to contact Marsh or Spook, get them to relay a message to Vin.

  It hurt him to leave her behind in Ruin’s clutches, but there was nothing more he could do.

  Kelsier left that very hour.

  4

  Kelsier was nowhere in particular when God finally died.

  He couldn’t place the location. No town nearby, at least not one that hadn’t been buried in ash. He had intended to head toward Luthadel, but with all the landmarks covered over—and with no sun to guide him—he wasn’t certain he’d been going the right direction.

  The land trembled, the misty ground quivering. Kelsier pulled up short, looking at the sky, at first expecting that Ruin was causing this tremor.

  Then he felt it. Perhaps it was the small Connection he had to Preservation from his time at the Well of Ascension. Or maybe it was the piece inside him that the god had placed, the piece inside them all. The light of the soul.

  Whatever the reason, Kelsier felt the end like a long, drawn-out sigh. It sent a chill up his spine, and he scrambled to find a thread of Preservation. They had been all over the ground earlier in his trip, but now he found nothing.

  “Fuzz!” he screamed. “Preservation!”

  Kelsier . . . The voice vibrated through him. Goodbye.

  “Hell, Fuzz,” Kelsier said, searching the sky. “I’m sorry. I . . .” He swallowed.

  Odd, the voice said. After all these years appearing for others as they died, I never expected . . . that my own passing would be so cold and lonely. . . .

  “I’m here for you,” Kelsier said.

  No. You weren’t. Kelsier, he’s splitting my power. He’s breaking it apart. It will be gone . . . Splintered. . . . He’ll destroy it.

  “Like hell he will,” Kelsier said, dropping his pack. He reached inside, gripping the glowing orb filled with liquid.

  It’s not for you, Kelsier, Preservation said. It’s not yours. It belongs to another.

  “I’ll get it to her,” Kelsier said, taking up the sphere. He drew in a deep breath, then used Nazh’s knife to smash the orb, spraying his arm and body with the glowing liquid.

  Lines like threads burst out from him. Glowing, effulgent. Like the lines from burning steel or iron, except they pointed at everything.

  Kelsier! Preservation said, his voice strengthening. Do better than you have before! They called you their god, and you were casual with their faith! The hearts of men are NOT YOUR TOYS.

  “I . . .” Kelsier licked his lips. “I understand. My lord.”

  Do better, Kelsier, Preservation commanded, his voice fading. If the end comes, get them below ground. It might help. And remember . . . remember what I told you, so long ago. . . . Do what I cannot, Kelsier. . . .

  SURVIVE.

  The word vibrated through him, and Kelsier gasped. He knew that feeling, remembered that exact command. He’d heard that voice in the Pits. Waking him, driving him forward.

  Saving him.

  Kelsier bowed his head as he felt Preservation fade, finally, and stretch into the darkness.

  Then, full of borrowed light, Kelsier seized the threads spinning around him and Pulled. The power resisted. He didn’t know why—he had only a rudimentary understanding of what he was doing. Why did the power attune to some people and not others?

  Well, he’d Pulled on stubborn anchors before. He yanked with all his might, drawing the power toward him. It struggled, defying him almost like it was alive . . . until . . .

  It broke, flooding into him.

  And Kelsier, the Survivor of Death, Ascended.

  With a cry of exultation, he felt the power flow through him, like Allomancy a hundred times over. A feverish, molten, burning energy that washed through his soul. He laughed, rising into the air, expanding, becoming everywhere and everything.

  What is this? Ruin’s voice demanded.

  Kelsier found himself confronted by the opposing god, their forms extending into eternity—one the icy coolness of life frozen, unmoving. The other the scribbling, crumbling, violent blackness of decay. Kelsier grinned as he felt utter and complete shock from Ruin.

  “What was it,” Kelsier asked, “that you said before? Anything I can do, you will counter? How about this?”

  Ruin raged, power flaring in a cyclone of anger. The persona cracked apart, revealing the thing, the raw energy that had plotted and planned for so long, only to be stopped n
ow. Kelsier’s grin widened, and he imagined—with delight—the sensation of ripping apart this monster that had killed Preservation. This useless, outdated waste of energy. Crushing it would be so satisfying. He willed his boundless power to attack.

  And nothing happened.

  Preservation’s power resisted him still. It shied away from his murderous intent, and push though he would, he couldn’t make it hurt Ruin.

  His enemy vibrated, quivering, and the shaking became a sound like laughter. The churning dark mists recovered, transforming back into the image of a deific man stretching through the sky. “Oh, Kelsier!” Ruin cried. “You think I mind what you have done? Why, I’d have chosen for you to take the power! It’s perfect! You’re merely an aspect of me, after all.”

  Kelsier gritted his teeth, then stretched forth fingers made of rushing wind, as if to grab Ruin and throttle him.

  The creature merely laughed louder. “You can barely control it,” Ruin said. “Even assuming it could harm me, you couldn’t accomplish such a task. Look at you, Kelsier! You haven’t form or shape. You’re not alive, you’re an idea. A memory of a man holding the power will never be as potent as a real one with ties to all three Realms.”

  Ruin shoved him aside with ease, though Kelsier felt a crackling at the thing’s touch. These powers reacted to one another like flame and water. That made Kelsier certain there was a way to use the power he held to destroy Ruin. If he could figure it out.

  Ruin turned his attention from Kelsier, and so Kelsier took to trying to acquaint himself with the power. Unfortunately, each thing he tried was met with resistance—both from Ruin’s energy and from the power of Preservation itself. He could see himself now, in the Spiritual Realm—and those black lines were still there, tying him to Ruin.

  The power he held didn’t like that at all. It tumbled inside him, churning, trying to break free. He could hold on, but he knew that if he let go, it would escape him and he would never be able to recapture it.