Words of Radiance (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Sanderson, Brandon

  Kaladin hobbled up to them, knowing he must look a sight, soaked through and through, limping on a leg that—he noticed—was trailing blood. He’d split the sutures on his wounds.

  “Stop,” said one of the men. The fellow had a chin so cleft, it looked like he’d taken an axe to the face as a baby. He looked Kaladin up and down. “You’re the one they call Stormblessed.”

  “You’re Graves’s men.”

  The two looked at each other.

  “It’s all right,” Kaladin said. “I’m with you. Is Moash here?”

  “He’s off for the moment,” the soldier said. “Getting some sleep. It’s an important day.”

  I’m not too late, Kaladin thought. Luck was with him. “I want to be part of what you’re doing.”

  “It’s taken care of, bridgeman,” the guard said. “Go back to your barrack and pretend nothing is happening.”

  Kaladin leaned in close, as if to whisper something. The guard leaned forward.

  So Kaladin dropped his crutch and slammed his spear up between the man’s legs. Kaladin immediately turned, spinning on his good leg and dragging the other one, whipping his spear toward the other man.

  The man got his spear up to block, and tried to shout. “To arms! To—”

  Kaladin slammed against him, knocking aside his spear. Kaladin dropped his own spear and grabbed the man by the neck with numb, wet fingers and cracked his head against the wall. Then he twisted and dropped, bringing his elbow down onto Cleft-chin’s head, driving it down into the floor.

  Both men fell still. Light-headed from the sudden exertion, Kaladin slammed himself back against the door. The world spun. At least he knew he could still fight without Stormlight.

  He found himself laughing, though it turned into a cough. Had he really just attacked those men? He was committed now. Storms, he didn’t even really know why he was doing this. The king’s sincerity was part of it, but that wasn’t the true reason, not deep down. He knew this was what he should do, but why? The thought of the king dying for no good reason made him sick. It reminded him of what had been done to Tien.

  But that wasn’t the full reason either. Storms, he wasn’t making any sense, not even to himself.

  Neither guard moved save for a few twitches. Kaladin coughed and coughed, gasping for breath. No time for weakness. He reached up a clawlike hand and twisted the door handle, forcing it open. He half fell into the room, then stumbled to his feet.

  “Your Majesty?” he called, propping himself up on his spear and dragging his bad leg. He reached the back of a couch and used it to pull himself fully upright. Where was the—

  The king lay on the couch, unmoving.

  * * *

  Adolin swept broadly with his Blade, maintaining perfect Windstance, the sword’s point spraying water as he sheared through the neck of a Parshendi soldier. Red lightning crackled from the corpse in a bright flare, connecting the soldier to the ground as he died. Nearby Alethi were careful not to step in puddles beside the corpse. They had learned the hard way that this strange lightning could kill quickly via water.

  Raising his sword and charging, Adolin led a rush against the nearest Parshendi group. Curse this storm and the winds that had brought it! Fortunately, the darkness had been pushed back somewhat, as Navani had sent fabrials to bathe the battlefield in an extraordinarily even white light.

  Adolin and his team clashed again with the Parshendi. However, as soon as he got among the enemy, he felt something tug on his left arm. A loop of rope? He jerked back. No rope could hold Shardplate. He growled and yanked the rope free of the hands holding it. Then he jerked as another rope looped his neck and pulled him backward.

  He shouted, spinning and sweeping his Blade through the rope, severing it. Three more loops leaped from the darkness for him; the Parshendi had sent an entire team. Adolin turned to defensive sweeps, as he’d been trained by Zahel to resist a dedicated rope strike. They’d have strung other ropes across the ground in front of him, expecting that he’d charge them . . . Yes, there they were.

  Adolin backed away, slicing free the ropes that reached him. Unfortunately, his men had been depending on him to break the Parshendi line. As he backed away instead, the enemy pressed against the Alethi line in force. As always, they didn’t use traditional battle formations, instead attacking in squads and pairs. That was frightfully effective on this chaotic, rain-soaked battlefield, with cracks of lightning and bursts of wind.

  Perel, the field commander that he’d put in charge near the lights, called the retreat for Adolin’s flank. Adolin let out a series of curses, cutting loose one final rope and stepping backward, sword out in case the Parshendi pursued.

  They didn’t. Two figures, however, shadowed him as he joined the retreat.

  “Still alive, bridgemen?” Adolin asked.

  “Still alive,” Skar said.

  “You’ve got some loops of rope stuck to you still, sir,” Drehy said.

  Adolin held out his arm and let Drehy cut them free with his side knife. Over his shoulder, Adolin watched the Parshendi re-form their lines. From farther back, the sound of that harsh chanting reached him between crashes of lightning and bursts of wind.

  “They keep sending teams to engage and distract me,” Adolin said. “They don’t intend to defeat me; they just want to keep me out of the battle.”

  “They’ll have to really fight you sooner or later,” Drehy said, cutting off another of the ropes. Drehy reached up and ran his hand over his bald head, wiping the rain off. “They can’t just leave a Shardbearer alone.”

  “Actually,” Adolin said, narrowing his eyes, listening to that chanting. “That’s exactly what they’re doing.”

  Through sheets of windborne rain, Adolin jogged in a clanking run up to the command position, near the lights. Perel—wrapped in a large stormcoat—stood there bellowing orders. He gave Adolin a quick salute.

  “Status?” Adolin asked.

  “Treading water, Brightlord.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” Adolin said.

  “Swimming term, sir,” Perel said. “We’re fighting back and forth, but we’re not making any headway. We’re fairly evenly matched; each side is looking for an edge. I’m most worried about those Parshendi reserves. They should have committed those by now.”

  “The reserves?” Adolin asked, peering across the dim plateau. “You mean the singers.” To both right and left, Alethi troops engaged other Parshendi units. Men shouted and screamed, weapons clashed, the familiar deadly sounds of a battlefield.

  “Yes, sir,” Perel said. “They’re up against that rock formation at the middle of the plateau, singing their storming hearts out.”

  Adolin remembered that rock outcropping, looming in the dim light. It was easily large enough for a battalion on top. “Could we climb it from behind?”

  “In this rain, Brightlord?” Perel asked. “Not likely. Maybe you could, but would you really want to go alone?”

  Adolin waited for the familiar eagerness to urge him forward, the desire to rush into the fight without concern for the consequences. He’d trained himself to resist that urge, and was surprised to find it . . . gone. Nothing.

  He frowned. He was tired. Was that the reason? He considered the situation, thinking to the sound of rain on his helmet.

  We need to get to those Parshendi at the back, he thought. Father wants the reserves engaged, the song broken off . . .

  What had Shallan said about these inner plateaus? And the rock formations on them?

  “Gather me a battalion,” Adolin said. “A thousand men, heavy infantry. Once I’ve been gone with them for a half hour, send the rest of the men in a full assault against the Parshendi. I’m going to try something, and I want you to provide a distraction.”

  * * *

  “You’re dead,” Dalinar shouted toward the sky. He spun about, still on the central plateau between the three battlefields, startling the aides and attendants near him. “You told me you had been killed!”


  Rain pelted his face. Were his ears playing tricks on him in this havoc of rain and shouting?

  “I am not the Almighty,” the voice said. Dalinar turned, searching among his startled companions. Four bridgemen in stormcoats stepped back, as if frightened. His captains watched the clouds unsteadily, holding hands on swords.

  “Did any of you hear that voice?” Dalinar asked.

  Women and men alike shook heads.

  “Are you . . . hearing the Almighty?” asked one of the messenger women.

  “Yes.” It was the simplest answer, though he wasn’t sure what was happening. He continued to cross the central plateau, intending to check on Adolin’s battlefront.

  “I am sorry,” the voice repeated. Unlike in the visions, Dalinar could find no avatar speaking the words. They came out of nowhere. “You have striven hard. But I can do nothing for you.”

  “Who are you?” Dalinar hissed.

  “I am the one left behind,” the voice said. It wasn’t exactly as he’d heard it in the visions; this voice had a depth to it. A density. “I am the sliver of Him that remains. I saw His corpse, saw Him die when Odium murdered Him. And I . . . I fled. To continue as I always have. The piece of God left in this world, the winds that men must feel.”

  Was he responding to Dalinar’s question, or speaking a mere monologue? In the visions, Dalinar had originally assumed he was having conversations with this voice, only to find that its half of the seeming dialogue had been preset. He could not tell if this was the same or not.

  Storms . . . was he in the middle of a vision now? He froze in place, suddenly imagining a horrible picture of himself, sprawled on the floor of the palace, having imagined everything leading up to this battle in the rain.

  No, he thought forcefully. I will not travel down that path. He had always recognized when he was in a vision before; he had no reason to believe that had changed.

  The reserves he’d ordered for Aladar trotted past, spearmen with points toward the sky. That would be storming dangerous if real lightning came, but they didn’t have much choice.

  Dalinar waited for the voice to say more, but nothing happened. He proceeded, and soon approached Adolin’s plateau.

  Was that thunder?

  No. Dalinar turned and picked out a horse galloping across the plateau toward him, a messenger on its back. He held up a hand, interrupting a tactical report by Captain Javih.

  “Brightlord!” the messenger shouted. She reared the horse. “Brightlord Teleb has fallen! Highprince Roion has been routed. His lines are broken, his remaining men surrounded by Parshendi! He’s trapped on the northern plateau!”

  “Damnation! Captain Khal?”

  “Still up, fighting toward where Roion was last seen. He’s nearly overwhelmed.”

  Dalinar spun to Javih. “Reserves?”

  “I don’t know what we have left,” the man said, face pale in the dim light. “Depends on if any have rotated out.”

  “Find out and bring them here!” Dalinar said, running to the messenger. “Off,” he told her.

  “Sir?”

  “Off!”

  The woman scrambled from the saddle as Dalinar placed foot into stirrup and swung into position. He turned the horse—thankful, for once, he didn’t have on any Shardplate. This light horse wouldn’t have been able to carry him.

  “Gather whatever you can and follow!” he shouted. “I need men, even if you have to pull that battalion of spearmen back from Aladar.”

  Captain Javih’s reply was lost in the rain as Dalinar leaned low and cued the horse with his heels. The animal snorted, and Dalinar had to fight it before getting it to move. The pops of lightning in the distance had the creature skittish.

  Once pointed the right direction, he gave the horse its head, and it galloped eagerly. Dalinar crossed the plateau in a rush, triage tents, command posts, and food stations passing in a blur. As he neared the northern plateau, he reined in the horse and scanned the area for Navani.

  No sign of her, though he did see several large tarps laid on the ground here—expansive squares of black cloth. She’d been at work. He called a question to an engineer, and she pointed, so Dalinar rode along the chasm in that direction. He passed a succession of other tarps that had been arranged on the stone.

  Across the chasm to his left, men died with shouts and screams. He saw firsthand how terribly Roion’s battle was progressing. The danger was manifest in broken groups of men flying beleaguered banners, split into vulnerable small bunches by red-eyed enemies. The Alethi would fight on, but with their line fragmenting, their prospects were grim.

  Dalinar remembered fighting like that himself two months ago, surrounded by a sea of enemies, without hope for salvation. Dalinar pushed his horse faster, and soon spotted Navani. She stood beneath an umbrella directing a group of workers with another large tarp.

  “Navani!” Dalinar shouted, pulling his horse to a slippery stop across the tarp from her. “I need a miracle!”

  “Working on it,” she shouted back.

  “No time for working. Execute your plan. Now.”

  He was too distant to see her glare, but he felt it. Fortunately, she waved workers away from her current tarp and began shouting orders to her engineers. The women ran up to the chasm, where a line of rocks was arrayed. They were attached to ropes, Dalinar thought, though he wasn’t sure how this process worked. Navani shouted instructions.

  Too much time, Dalinar thought, anxious, watching across the chasm. Had they recovered Teleb’s Shards? He couldn’t spare grief for the man, not now. They needed those Shards.

  Behind Dalinar, soldiers gathered. Roion’s archers, finest in the warcamps, had been useless in this rain. The engineers backed up at a barked order from Navani, and the workers shoved the line of some forty rocks into the chasm.

  As the rocks fell, tarps jumped fifty feet into the air, pulled at the front corners and centers. In an instant, a long line of improvised pavilions flanked the chasm.

  “Move!” Dalinar said, urging his horse between two of the pavilions. “Archers forward!”

  Men dashed into the protected areas under the tarps, some muttering at the lack of any visible poles holding them in the air. Navani had pulled up only the fronts, so the tarps slanted backward, away from the chasm. The rain streamed down in that direction. They also had sides, like tents, so only the open faces were toward Roion’s battlefront.

  Dalinar swung from the horse and handed the reins to a worker. He jogged under one of the pavilions to where archers were forming ranks. Navani entered, carrying a large sack over her shoulder. She opened it to reveal a large glowing garnet suspended within a delicate wire lacework fabrial.

  She fiddled with it for a moment, then stepped back.

  “We really should have had more time to test this,” she warned to Dalinar, folding her arms. “Attractors are new inventions. I’m still half afraid this thing will suck the blood out of anyone who touches it.”

  It didn’t. Instead, water quickly started to pool around the thing. Storms, it worked! The fabrial was pulling moisture from the air. Roion’s archers removed bowstrings from protected pockets, bending bows and stringing them at the orders of their lieutenants. Many of the men here were lighteyes—archery was seen as an acceptable Calling for a lighteyed man of modest means. Not everyone could be an officer.

  The archers began loosing waves of arrows across the chasm into the Parshendi who had surrounded Roion’s forces. “Good,” Dalinar said, watching the arrows fly. “Very good.”

  “The rain and wind are still going to make aiming the arrows difficult,” Navani said. “And I don’t know how well the fabrials will work; with the front of the pavilions open, humidity is going to flood in constantly. We might run out of Stormlight after just a short time.”

  “It’s enough,” Dalinar said. The arrows made an almost immediate difference, drawing Parshendi attention away from the beleaguered men. It wasn’t a maneuver to try unless you were desperate—the r
isk of hitting allies was great—but Roion’s archers proved deserving of their reputation.

  He pulled Navani close with one arm. “You did well.” Then he called for his horse—his horse, not that wild messenger beast—as he charged out of the pavilion. Those archers would give him an opening. Hopefully it wasn’t too late for Roion.

  * * *

  No! Kaladin thought, rounding the couch to the king’s side. Was he dead? There was no obvious wound.

  The king shifted, then groaned in a lazy way and sat upright. Kaladin let out a deep breath. An empty wine bottle rested on the end table, and Kaladin could smell the spilled wine now that he was closer.

  “Bridgeman?” Elhokar’s speech was slurred. “Have you come to gloat over me?”

  “Storms, Elhokar,” Kaladin said. “How much have you had?”

  “They all . . . they all talk about me,” Elhokar said, flopping down on the couch. “My own guards . . . every one. Bad king, they say. Everyone hates him, they say.”

  Kaladin felt a chill. “They wanted you to drink, Elhokar. Makes their job easier.”

  “Huh?”

  Storms. The man was barely conscious.

  “Come on,” Kaladin said. “Assassins are coming for you. We’re getting out of here.”

  “Assassins?” Elhokar leapt to his feet, then wobbled. “He wears white. I knew he’d come . . . but then . . . he only cared about Dalinar . . . Not even the assassin thinks I’m worthy of the throne. . . .”

  Kaladin managed to get under Elhokar’s arm, holding his spear for support with one hand. The king slumped against him, and Kaladin’s leg cried out. “Please, Your Majesty,” Kaladin said, almost collapsing, “I need you to try to walk.”

  “Assassins probably want you, bridgeman,” the king muttered. “You’re more a leader than I am. I wish . . . wish you’d teach me . . .”

  Thankfully, Elhokar then did support himself to an extent. It was a struggle to walk the two of them to the doorway, where the guard’s body still lay—