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.
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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 of heavy infantry and
archers. No towers, but such would have been difficult to move stealthily.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 653
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 be-
hind—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-ar-
mored 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.
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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 chil ing 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 col apsing 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.
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 655
“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 been 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
THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 657
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.”
Merin nodded, trying to ignore the worshipful glint in Kalden’s eyes.
Merin had incorrectly assumed that the impression would fade as time
progressed. The young soldier still regarded Merin with the same mixture
of reverence and respect he had displayed on that first day.
You shouldn’t blame the man, Merin thought. You probably spent your first weeks as a Shardbearer in a similar daze. The soldier’s respect was discomforting nonetheless.
“When?” Merin asked.
“Shortly, my lord,” Kalden said. “After the king finishes his meal.”
Merin nodded, and Kalden took the gesture as a dismissal, though
Merin would have preferred that the man stay. Merin felt almost as alone
as he had during his days of captivity. Renarin stayed locked in his quarters most of the time, Shinri always made Merin feel guilty with those looks of hers, and the Lakhenrans universally regarded him as some kind of divine
hero. Since his failure to save Aredor—and subsequent discussions with
Renarin—had convinced Merin of just how un heroic he was, the people’s general regard made him feel deceitful somehow.
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Merin sighed. This night’s report would be like the others. He would sit
quietly, not saying anything as the captain of the fast-moving scout ships relayed what his men had discovered from talking to villagers along the
coast. Merin’s silence had a simple and practical motivation: he had nothing to add. What he knew of war came from a spearman’s viewpoint, and was
of little use to macroscopic plannings. He had no experience with scouting, foraging, or planning assaults.
Yet the other men in the conference—King Tamar, along with the other
two former regents as his Parshen s and the collected Lakhenran admirals and generals—always mistook Merin’s silence for thoughtfulness. When
he did say something, they all nodded appreciatively—as if his single
sentence contained truths beyond what normal men could comprehend.
They always consulted him on decisions regarding the fleet, and even went
so far as to ask his permission for minor course changes.
Merin sighed, turning to stroll down the left side of the ship. Port?
Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Page 91
