Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01]

by The Way of Kings Prime (ALTERNATIVE VERSION) (pdf)

  Aredor chuckled again, moving over to speak with the nearby squad

  captain. Merin stood unsteadily for a moment. There was a dull ache

  through the lower part of his body, reminiscent of that first horrible day when he had joined the army and begun his training with the spear.

  Soreness would set in before too long.

  He sighed, turning back to his horse and untying his Shardblade from

  the back of the saddle. The roan beast looked back at him, watching with

  an almost amused expression—as if it received no end of pleasure from

  torturing those who saw fit to climb on its back.

  Though several days had passed, Merin still felt a strange numbness

  regarding his new position. It just didn’t seem possible that he was a lord.

  Who was he, Merin of Stonemount, to carry a Shardblade and ride with

  Lord Dalenar’s heir? Yet, whenever Merin slipped and called Aredor ‘my

  lord,’ the older man was quick to correct him. In fact, Aredor treated Merin like an equal. Like a friend. True, Aredor had been ordered to help

  Merin adapt, but the man hardly needed to be as accommodating as he was.

  Merin tried to maintain his perspective—as Meridas had said, he wasn’t

  really a lord, not like the others. However, Aredor’s affable personality was disarming; Merin couldn’t help treating the man like one of the spearmen from his squad. Or, at least, a very well-dressed and mannered

  spearman.

  Merin sighed, hefting his Shardblade and resting it on his shoulder. That

  seemed to be the best way to carry the weapons until they were bonded.

  He turned, studying the landscape. The scenery was familiar—the barren

  stones and distant cliffs proved that he was still in Prallah. The main bulk of the army had moved on toward Orinjah, the once-capital of Pralir, creeping at the pace of the unwieldy creature it was.

  Merin had been looking forward to leaving the third peninsula, traveling

  through the Oathgate back to Alethkar. He’d never seen an Oathgate

  before, but apparently one could use one to transport instantly back to Ral Eram, the capital of Alethkar. Ground that had taken years of fighting to

  cross could instead be covered in a few heartbeats. However, Orinjah would

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  have to wait, for the moment. Dalenar had ordered his sons and Merin to

  return to the scene of the battlefield several days before; Aredor had yet to explain their errand to Merin.

  “It’s so cold here,” Renarin said in a quiet voice.

  Merin paused as a young soldier led his horse away. Renarin stood a short

  distance away, beside a small hill.

  “Cold?” Merin asked. While the stormlands were generally a bit cooler

  than Alethkar, it was still mid-summer. It was rarely ‘cold,’ except maybe following a highstorm.

  Then, however, Merin noticed the smoke. Ahead of them, just over a

  slick-topped hil , several dark trails crept toward the sky. Burning stations—

  the places where those soldiers unfortunate enough to draw corpse-duty

  were gathering and burning the bodies of their fallen comrades. Thousands

  of men had died on this battlefield—many more Prallans than Aleths, but

  in death all were treated the same. Their corpses were transformed through fire, their souls sent to the Almighty, continuing the cycle of Remaking.

  Renarin stared quietly up at the columns of smoke. He was so different

  from his brother. Short with dark, curly hair, Renarin was as unpreten-

  tious as Aredor was outgoing. Yet both had a strange way of drawing one’s

  attention. Aredor did it with sheer force of personality, Renarin with his unnerving, somber eyes. Apparently, Merin and Renarin were the same

  age, but Merin always felt like a child before those eyes.

  Merin shivered slightly, reaching for his glyphward—then realized he

  didn’t have it on. Aredor had given him some nobleman’s clothing to wear

  beneath Dalenar’s cloak. The seasilk was unusually soft on his skin, not to mention amazingly tough. It wasn’t as lavish as his cloak, but it was noble, and he had decided not to wear the crom-stained glyphward his mother

  had given him the day he left for the war. Now he wished he hadn’t been

  so prideful. He stood uncomfortably beside Renarin, glad when Aredor

  finished his conversation and approached.

  Aredor paused beside the two of them, growing subdued as he regarded

  the trails of smoke. “Come on,” he said, nodding to the horses.

  Merin groaned. “You’re kidding.”

  “Just a short distance this time,” Aredor promised. “The second battlefield isn’t far away.”

  So thiS iS it, Merin thought, looking across the simple field of rock.

  This is the place where Renarin lost his Shardblade. Like everyone else in the army, Merin had heard the stories of the strange mid-highstorm battle.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 51

  Five thousand Aleth troops and three Shardbearers had faced down and

  defeated a troop of twenty thousand, killing the Traitor and the Pralir king in the process.

  Merin looked down at his Shardblade. It seemed unfair to him that

  Renarin should bear the king’s anger, losing his Blade on the same day

  Merin had gained one. Merin’s weapon still showed the markings of its

  previous owner, though they were hidden by the impromptu ‘sheath’ Aredor

  had given him. The sheath was little more than a folded piece of metal,

  shaped so that it could be placed over the sharp edge of the Blade and tied tight at the back. The sheath was another remnant from Epoch Kingdom

  days—it had been fashioned from the same metal as Shardplate, to be used

  by men during their hundred-days bonding period.

  Set in the pommel, held by four clasps, was a medium-sized opal. Merin

  eyed the stone careful y, looking for some sort of change in its color. He could find none—it still glistened with the same multicolored sheen as before.

  Aredor chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s only been a couple

  of days, Merin,” he said. “You won’t be able to notice anything yet.”

  “How long?” Merin asked.

  Aredor shrugged. “You should begin to see a change in ten days or so.

  Don’t worry, it’s working. When the stone has turned completely black, one hundred days will have passed, and you’ll have bonded the Blade.”

  Merin nodded. Ahead, Renarin was already walking down the trail to

  the battlefield. Merin grimaced slightly as the wind changed, bringing

  with it the stink of death. While the main battlefield was mostly clean of bodies, this one had barely been touched. A small squad of men worked

  at a burning station a short distance away, but most of the corpses still lay where they had fallen.

  “Aredor,” he asked, frowning. “What winds brought us here?”

  “You were a spearman, right?” Aredor asked, handing Merin a seasilk

  handkerchief that smelled strongly of perfume.

  “Yes,” Merin replied, thankfully holding the cloth to his face as they

  followed Renarin toward the battlefield.

  “Father wants you to look at the uniforms and armor of the dead men,”

  Aredor explained, voice slightly muffled by his cloth. “Look for anything . . .

  odd.”

  “Odd how?”

  “I’m not sure,” Aredor confessed. “Anything irregular or out of place—

  discrepancies that make you think the men might not actually be from

  our army.”

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>   “What?” Merin asked, frowning.

  Aredor paused, eyeing the battlefield distrustfully, then turning toward

  Merin. “Something very strange happened here, Merin. You were a foot-

  man. How would you feel, facing a force four times your size? How likely

  would you have been to win?”

  Merin shivered. Four to one? Two to one was practically an assured loss.

  “The king says that the Almighty gave them victory,” Merin replied.

  “The king says a lot of things,” Aredor replied. “He doesn’t believe my

  father’s suspicions—he claims that one Aleth soldier is easily worth four

  Prallans. In a way, he’s right. Our men have far better training, superior equipment, and strong morale . . . but even still, four to one?”

  “But what other explanation is there? The Prallans wouldn’t have killed

  themselves.”

  “No, but someone else might have done it,” Aredor explained. “Father

  thinks there was a third force in this battle. One of the arguments against a third army is the fact that they left no bodies behind. Or, at least, that’s what it seemed like originally.”

  “Lord Dalenar thinks they were disguised?” Merin asked.

  “It would answer a lot of questions,” Aredor said. “The third force could have approached the battlefield wearing Prallan uniforms. Once they attacked,

  their dead would have been indistinguishable from those they killed.”

  Merin nodded, turning toward the battlefield again. Several Aleth

  soldiers approached, bowing and giving them rods to use for examining the

  bodies. Even still, it was grisly work. Merin, however, had been assigned

  to corpse detail before. After a while, he was able to ignore the faces and focus on the uniforms.

  He picked across the field, Aredor doing likewise. Merin tried to look

  for anything unusual or suspicious. It was difficult work. Footmen were

  given weapons and armor at the beginning of their training, and cared for

  their own equipment—oiling and polishing after highstorms, fitting and

  padding to improve flexibility and reduce discomfort. It was difficult to

  distinguish what might be odd, and what was simply personalized.

  The Aleth soldiers wore leather skirts and vests covered by wooden plates

  running down the chest. It was relatively cheap, but still effective—the

  leather and wood could be created easily through Awakening, and required

  no further smithing. The Prallans wore similar materials, though it was

  more piecemeal and of a far lesser quality. Merin didn’t know the enemy

  uniforms well enough to determine if they were odd or not. All of them

  seemed similar enough.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 53

  Merin picked his way across the field. Most of the men appeared to

  have died from crushing blows. He recognized spear wounds, and most of

  these weren’t caused by spears. The corpses were bloodied and mangled,

  but they weren’t cut. Other than that, he had difficulty discerning any-

  thing strange.

  Eventually, Aredor approached him, waving his hand. They retreated to

  the peripheral of the battlefield. “Anything?” he asked.

  Merin shook his head. “I don’t know, Aredor. I keep seeing things that

  might be odd, but then again they might just be individual peculiarities.”

  “I agree,” Aredor said. “I did a quick count, and there appear to be about five thousand Aleths—which is the number Renarin sent. If the third

  force imitated our men, they didn’t leave enough dead behind to make it

  noticeable.”

  “And if they imitated the Prallans?”

  Aredor sighed. “I looked. I can’t see anything—I don’t think even the

  Prallans could. They were forced to stretch for resources during the last part of the war. A lot of their soldiers had makeshift armor, or none at all. You can’t find inconsistencies where there’s no regularity.”

  Merin nodded.

  “We could count the enemy numbers,” Aredor continued, musing to

  himself, “but we never did have a very accurate count in the first place. Of course, it would make sense for a third force to imitate the Prallans, since they’re less uniform.”

  Merin nodded, looking across the field again. He and Aredor stood near

  the western edge, beside a rift in the ground. At first, Merin thought it

  might have hid some secret, but the chasm was obviously empty. Its empty

  bottom was smooth and well-lit in the afternoon sun—no caves or other

  secrets hid in its sides.

  “There is one thing,” Merin said.

  Aredor raised an eyebrow.

  “These men weren’t killed by spearmen.”

  Aredor nodded. “Father noticed that too. The third force must have been

  very well-equipped with heavy infantry.”

  “Yes,” Merin said. “But I think it’s more than that. There should have

  been fields of sliced-up bodies where the Shardbearers fought.”

  Aredor paused. “By the Truthmaker!” he said. “You’re right. I didn’t see

  any bodies killed by Shardbearers—yet, we know there were at least five on the battlefield. Our three, the Traitor, and the Pralir king. The Prallans probably had a couple more, too.”

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  Aredor stood with a dissatisfied posture, regarding the battlefield again.

  As he thought, Renarin approached. Dalenar’s second son paused a short

  distance from Merin and Aredor, however, choosing to turn and stand apart

  from them as he began his own contemplations.

  Dalenar’s second son had looked through the battlefield as well, but his

  movements had been more erratic. He hadn’t examined bodies like Merin,

  or made counts like Aredor. Eventually, Renarin whispered something to

  himself.

  Aredor turned. “What was that, Renarin?”

  “I said that this is my fault,” the younger son repeated. “I sent these men to their doom. The king was right to take my Blade away.”

  Aredor walked over, placing a comforting hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong, Renarin. The king would probably have

  done exactly what you did.”

  Renarin shook his head, falling silent.

  Merin joined them, studying the battlefield with a careful eye. He was

  no military expert, but he had spent several years fighting, and had seen

  large battles before. “I don’t know much, Aredor,” he said, “but I think your father might be right about the third army.”

  “Yes, but the king will want evidence,” Aredor said, stepping up beside

  Merin. Behind them, Renarin sighed and sat down on the ground, staring

  down at the rocks in front of him. “Elhokar can be winds-cursed stubborn,

  and he doesn’t want to bother with the possibility of a third army.”

  “Then we have to find a way to prove that some of these corpses in

  Prallan uniforms weren’t part of the Traitor’s army,” Merin said. “That has to be the answer.”

  “No,” Renarin whispered from behind.

  Merin turned, then shivered. Renarin was doing it again, looking at him with those eyes of his. Staring, yet unfocused.

  “These corpses were all either men from our army, or men from the

  Traitor’s force,” Renarin said.

  Aredor frowned. “You’re saying there wasn’t a third army?”

  Renarin shook his head. “There was. It just didn’t leave any bodies

  behind. They must have taken their corpses with them.”r />
  Merin frowned, looking back at the battlefield. That seemed like an

  awful lot of trouble to go through—not to mention the time factor. The

  highstorm had been only a couple of hours long. It would have been near

  impossible to kill twenty-five thousand men in that time, let alone pick out the corpses of the fallen and transport them somewhere.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 55

  Merin turned skeptical eyes toward Aredor. The elder brother, however,

  was regarding Renarin with interested eyes.

  “You’re sure, Renarin?” Aredor asked.

  Renarin nodded, looking a bit sick. “I can see it in the patterns of their bodies. There were dead here that are gone now.” He waved distractedly

  toward a section of the battlefield. “The two sides had begun to disengage, in preparation for the highstorm. Then someone else came—over there,

  on the southern side. After that, our men and the Traitor’s army fought

  together. They’re all dead now, though. Every one.”

  Aredor stood for a moment, contemplative. Renarin volunteered no

  more.

  “Let’s go back,” Aredor finally said.

  As little as Merin wanted to admit it, the trip back to the army was

  nowhere near as arduous as the previous ride had been. Perhaps the growing soreness and fatigue in Merin’s body distracted him from the unnatural

  motions, or perhaps the ‘gallop’ before had shown him that regular horse

  speeds were comparably sane.

  As the hours passed, his grip relaxed, his mind too tired to bother being

  terrified. Evening was approaching by the time they reached the location of the army’s morning campsite. It was, of course, now empty—the army had

  moved on, leaving behind remnants of cloth, trash, fire-scars, and cesspits.

  The three continued riding. Aredor was confident that they could

  reach the army by nightfall—Orinjah was supposed to be less than a day’s

  march from the campsite. Indeed, as they moved on, Merin began to

  notice a gradual shift in the landscape. They had already begun to leave the stormlands behind, and as they moved farther to the southeast, the scenery became eerily familiar.

  The barren rock of the highlands changed to the more sheltered hillsides

  of common farmlands. The rocky hills lay in belts of land sheltered by

  the higher grounds nearby, which weakened highstorms. The lower the