Dalenar spun, pointing at his sons. “Aredor, come with me. Renarin,
hold the tower.”
Renarin, the younger of the two at seventeen, paled visibly at the com-
mand. “Father, I—”
“Renarin, we don’t have time for your worries,” Dalenar snapped as
Aredor obediently leapt over the tower’s ledge. “You’re the king’s cousin.
Hold the west and press the east. I need to try and keep our fool of a king from getting himself killed.”
“Yes, father,” Renarin said.
Dalenar ignored Meridas’s hostile glare—the clever merchant might
be wealthy, and he might have the king’s ear, but he was too low a rank
to be given command. Dalenar took a breath, then hoisted his legs over the tower’s rail and leapt off the side.
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He plummeted some fifteen feet before landing with a grunt on the
archer’s tier, the reinforced wood thumping loudly beneath his feet. His
Shardplate softened the brunt of the blow, but his legs still protested the fall. Shardplate notwithstanding, falling from the top of a tower while
wearing thirty brickweights of steel was not a casual hop. Gritting his teeth, Dalenar jumped off the archer’s ledge and fell to the second tier, then finally dropped one last time to the ground ten feet below.
Stone cracked beneath his armored feet, and he reached up, steadying
himself against the tower as a page approached with Stormwind, his
horse. Ahead, he could see Elhokar galloping toward the distant tower,
riding directly through the Prallan lines, his honor guard—unmounted, of
course—frantically trying to cut their way toward their king. Aredor rode
a short distance behind, moving with the swiftness of youth.
Dalenar heaved himself into his saddle, keeping his mutterings about
the king to himself, and kicked the beast into motion. The Prallan high-
rock hills were slick and barren during the summer, their uniform tans
and browns broken only by the blood of men. They called the heights
Stormlands for good reason—the highstorms had swept the land clean of
everything but bleached stone and boulders.
Stormwind—a massive Shinavar beast—snorted as it approached the
enemy line. Dalenar reached out his arm to the side and summoned his
Shardblade.
It took ten heartbeats. Dalenar counted them as the smoke gathered
around his palm, forming into the shape of a sword nearly six feet in length.
Smoke became steel at the tenth beat, and the weapon fell into his waiting grasp. It was light and familiar in his hand—it knew him as he knew
himself. It had become part of him the day he’d bonded it, and had grown
to fit his exact needs. Dalenar’s Blade was a simple and utilitarian weapon, straight and double-edged with little ornamentation—only a single glyph
patterned in the center of the metal. Morn, the glyph of loyalty.
Dalenar quickly overtook the king’s honor guard and galloped into
the enemy ranks, his only companion Gelnin, his shieldbearer, who rode
on Dalenar’s second horse. The tattered Prallan spearmen were loosely
organized, and most of them made way before his charging beast. Those
who had the courage to attack a Shardbearer—attempting to win the Blade,
armor, and title for themselves—already lay in pieces on the ground, slain by quick strikes from either Elhokar or Aredor.
Dalenar charged through the brown-uniformed ranks, using his mount’s
momentum to barrel past the spearmen. A few moments later he broke
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 7
through the back of their line, then pushed Stormwind in a gallop parallel to the fighting. Elhokar rode ahead, but Aredor had been slowed by an
ambitious squad of soldiers. Aredor had been forced to stop and fight them, lest they cut his mount out from beneath him.
Dalenar kept moving, cursing the king as he avoided a group of heavy
infantry. Shardblades could cut through steel as easily as lightning cut
through the sky, and Shardplate couldn’t be pierced by regular weapons.
A determined group of spearmen, however, could eventually wear down
even the finest duelist. Youth, rank, and equipment made Elhokar brazen.
The Prallan tower loomed ahead. It was pulled by several teams of
men—the Prallans hadn’t the resources to afford chulls. Hissing sounds
announced arrows falling from above, and Gelnin moved out in front,
deftly blocking what arrows he could. Dalenar was barely gaining on the
king—Elhokar rode at an insane gallop toward the tower, without even a
shieldbearer to protect him.
Dalenar moved in quickly, galloping his mount toward the tower while
the archers were mostly focused on the king. Even still, several of them
noticed him, and the arrows continued to fall. As Dalenar approached, he
made out a brown banner on the front of the tower—it bore the glyph Jie, the symbol of a man forsaken, the Traitor’s adopted crest.
Suddenly, a galloping horse moved in beside Dalenar. Aredor’s face was
urgent as he gestured to the side. “Father, there!”
Dalenar turned, then cursed quietly as he noticed three mounted figures
rounding the back of the tower. All three bore glistening armor, and all
three rode directly for the king. Dalenar hadn’t seen many Prallan Shard-
bearers during Elhokar’s three-year campaign—Pralir had been a poorer
country even before sheltering the Traitor and inviting Alethkar’s invasion.
Apparently, they had been saving some surprises.
“The tower is a ruse,” Aredor said. “The men atop it bear the armor of
footmen.”
Dalenar nodded. Elhokar’s hatred for the Traitor was well-known. This
wasn’t the first time Elhokar had left the safety of his lines to try and kill his enemy. The king had sworn an oath that no hand would take the head
of the Traitor but his own.
“I’ll help the king,” Dalenar said, turning Stormwind. “You move around
to the side and try and take down that tower.”
Aredor nodded, breaking off to the right to dodge another swarm of
arrows. Dalenar galloped toward Elhokar, hoofbeats beating against the
slick rock.
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A sudden, inhuman scream sounded ahead of him, and his shieldbearer’s
mount toppled to the ground with an arrow in its chest, throwing Gelnin
from his saddle. Dalenar barely ducked his own mount to the side to avoid
the wreckage, continuing on without a backward glance.
The king stood defiantly on the rocky ground, arrows hailing around
him. His horse had fallen, and he was raising his weapon toward the
approaching Shardbearers.
An arrow snapped against Dalenar’s shoulder, marring the silver gild-
ing but not even scratching the Shardplate beneath. Dalenar ground his
teeth—they had already lost two horses, an incalculable price for Elhokar’s foolishness. If he lost Stormwind to an arrow as well . . .
Fortunately, it didn’t appear as if that would happen. A last hail of arrows fell, several striking the ground around Dalenar, as Aredor reached the
tower. The boy had summoned his Shardblade, and the weapon twinkled
brightly as he swung it to the side. The Blade sheared through the side
of the tower, cutting free an enormous chunk of wood—including the
axle of the front side wheel.
The tower lurched, the pullmen at the front
scattering. Aredor’s weapon flashed again, and the tower tipped to the side, throwing free archers and spearmen alike as it crashed to the stones below.
The cessation of the arrows felt like a weight lifting from Dalenar’s
shoulders, and he took a deep breath. Ahead, the three Shardbearers had
reached the king. Elhokar’s Shardblade was thinner than Dalenar’s, but
far more intricate. In fact, it looked more like a piece of art than a weapon, inscribed with a tenset glyphs and a massive sunburst at its center.
The lead Prallan Shardbearer—a man in dark charcoal Shardplate bearing
a crest that Dalenar did not recognize—dismounted and leapt toward the
king, a Shardblade glistening in his hands. The other two men pulled
backward to wait for the results of the fight, as proscribed by Protocol.
Dalenar charged the nearest of the two, a younger man with no crest on
his armor—though he wore one on his cloak. The boy’s Shardplate, in fact,
looked beaten and was scarred in several areas—he had probably inherited
it recently, his brother or father dead in a duel, and it hadn’t had time to repair itself. The young man’s Blade was simple and nondescript, probably
unbonded.
Dalenar tried to ignore the boy’s apparent inexperience—hesitance, even
in the name of mercy, brought death. He swung as he charged past the
boy, his Shardblade slicing the air. The boy parried deftly, but the move still threw him off-balance; he obviously wasn’t accustomed to mounted dueling.
Before Elhokar’s invasion, the lad probably hadn’t seen swordplay outside
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 9
of courtside duels. A better man than Dalenar would have dismounted and
allowed the boy to fight as he was accustomed.
Dalenar spun Stormwind, using the momentum to smash Oathbringer
into the boy’s weapon, knocking it aside. His backhand slice took the young man in the neck. There was a clang of metal, Blade biting Plate, cutting and bending the magical steel as only a Shardblade could. The boy’s Plate held, but it was badly scarred. His neckguard was twisted to the side, and the
metal of the helm could no longer turn, forcing the boy to watch Dalenar
sideways.
Dalenar raised his blade. The boy raised his own, refusing to yield.
With an inward sigh, Dalenar nudged Stormwind forward and finished
the job. A second blow, placed at the exact angle of the first, broke the
already-strained armor. Body and head slid from the horse separately,
and the boy’s Shardblade dropped from limp fingers. The weapon hit the
ground point-first and sank several feet into the hard stone.
Dalenar lowered his weapon, and a second later Stormwind screamed
in pain, throwing Dalenar free as a Prallan spearman rammed his weapon
through the beast’s neck.
Dalenar crashed to the ground. He lay dazed for a moment, the sounds
of battle distant. Even before his hearing returned, he locked on the sight of a spear descending toward his face.
He raised a desperate hand to block the blow. His hand was empty—he
had dropped his Blade. So, instead, he kicked the spearman’s knee with
the full power of Shardplate’s Awakened strength. There was a crack and
a scream, and Dalenar rolled, sighting Oathbringer beside him, grabbing
the weapon as he climbed to his feet.
He came up facing a nervous group of five spearmen. They wore mis-
matched armor of wood and leather, bearing steel only in their caps and
their spearheads. Their faces were desperate—they had been pushed across
the Prallan Highlands for the better part of nine months, Elhokar’s armies defeating them at every conflict. They knew that this would be their last
battle.
Dalenar stepped backward, eyeing his opponents. The men should have
attacked more quickly, while he had been prone. If not then, they should
have rushed him at once, while he was still dazed, grabbing for his sword
arm or striking at his face. They might have taken him. Their fear, however, held them back, and by the time they rushed forward—a mass of hysterical
faces and quivering spears—Dalenar was ready.
He spun, holding Oathbringer in two hands. The first pass sliced the
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ends off their spears. The second cut down all five in one sweep. Steel, flesh, or wood, it mattered not to the Shardblade.
Dalenar shook the blood from his Blade, pausing to throw a glance at
the king. Elhokar still fought—his opponent was far more skilled than
Dalenar’s had been. Dalenar turned, searching for the final Shardbearer,
and found him battling against Aredor a short distance away. Both men
were still mounted, and they fought unmolested by outside combatants. The
spearmen knew better than to break Protocol by attacking Aredor while
he was engaged in a duel.
Dalenar stood for a moment, watching his son. Then he tore his eyes
away. Aredor would be all right—the lad was nearly as fine a swordsman as
his brother had been, and this wouldn’t be his first battlefield duel. Instead, Dalenar kept a wary eye on the Prallan soldiers. Their line was fracturing in several broad sections, and he was pleased to see a group of blue-uniformed soldiers peek through a short distance away.
Within a few moments, the Prallan spearmen had retreated toward the
thick of the battle. Above them, in the distance, the approaching highstorm dominated the sky, its darkness rolling forward like approaching night. It would hit soon. Dalenar turned, his section of the battlefield suddenly quiet as men moved to fight in other directions, leaving the dueling Shardbearers beside the corpse of the fallen tower.
Dalenar caught motion out of the edge of his vision, and glanced toward
Aredor’s battle. His son swung, striking his opponent in the chest with
a powerful blow, sending the man backward off his horse to crash to the
ground, Shardblade dropping from his fingers. Aredor lowered his Blade,
and the Prallan raised his hands in a sign of yielding. He would lose his
armor and Blade, but would keep his life.
Elhokar, however, wasn’t faring as well. He fought with the smooth
sweeping blows of Airform—a dueling stance that had never quite suited
him. Elhokar was a man of quick temper and firm strikes, but he had always resisted Dalenar’s suggestions that he study Fireform or Quartzform.
Airform was the form of kings, Elhokar had always claimed.
His opponent fought with the careful, misdirecting attacks of Smoke-
form. The man in brown armor was an obvious master of the style. He struck carefully—never with much force, but each blow weakening Elhokar’s
Shardplate. The king’s own blows missed far more often than not.
Dalenar stepped forward quietly, joining his son and the defeated
enemy Shardbearer in watching the royal duel. After everything that had
happened—the years of accusations, the squabbles on the borders, and the
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 11
final daring invasion across the thin-necked sea of Chomar—it could all
end with a simple stroke of the sword. Elhokar should have known to stay
on his tower, to remain where he could not be challenged.
Yet, Dalenar felt it difficult to stoke his frustration. Elhokar’s father
had known better, but that was because he had learned better. Nolhonarin had nearly lost his life in a half-tenset foolish duels before learning t
emperance.
It happened in a flash. Elhokar, off-guard. The man in brown striking.
The blow took Elhokar in the head, bending his helm, twisting it to block
his vision and throwing him to the ground with its force. Dalenar inhaled
quickly, thinking of his own duel just moments before.
And then Elhokar attacked. His blade guided by instinct, his eyes
blocked by steel, Elhokar drove his blade upward as he knelt on the stone.
It slid smoothly through the small space beneath his opponent’s breastplate, driving up to the heart. The enemy Shardbearer jerked, then dropped his
Blade and toppled backward. The weapon clanged to the ground before
Elhokar.
“Your majesty,” Dalenar said with relief, stepping forward as Elhokar
stood and pulled off his helmet. “That was too close a duel.”
The king tossed the mangled helm to the side with an off-handed gesture.
“I was always in control, Uncle.”
“Even when you couldn’t see what you were doing?” Dalenar said with
a snort.
Elhokar turned toward him, eyes unyielding. “You’re the one who taught
me that a true duelist strikes with his soul, not with his eyes. My opponent was a fool.” He turned, obviously considering the topic to be at an end, and regarded the fallen tower. “The Traitor was not here.”
“No, your majesty,” Dalenar said, nodding for his son to go and gather
the Shardblades of the fallen men. As the spoils of battlefield duels won
by men who already had Blades themselves, the weapons would become
the property of the king, to be distributed as he wished.
Elhokar frowned, turning toward the battlefield and studying the
movements of troops. It was difficult to make much sense from the mass of
brown and blue without the tower’s vantage. Thousands of men, hundreds
of squads, fought on the field. They had to get the king back to the safety of their lines before the Traitor’s generals decided to try for his life again.
“What is that?” Elhokar said, pointing with a gauntleted fist. At first,
Dalenar worried he had seen another tower. The king, however, was
pointing toward a stony hillside at the back of the battlefield, behind the Aleth line.
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Dalenar squinted, trying to make out what had drawn the King’s atten-
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 2
