Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy

by Shawn Speakman

Dalinar fell to his knees, his vision blurry, the sword slipping from his fingers. His foe was breathing deeply, cursing between breaths, winded by the short, frantic contest. He reached to his belt for a knife.

  An emotion stirred inside Dalinar. A fire that filled the pit within. It washed through him and awakened him, bringing clarity. The sounds of his elites fighting the brightlord’s honor guard faded, metal on metal becoming clinks, grunts becoming merely a distant humming.

  Dalinar smiled. Then the smile became a toothy grin. His vision returned as the brightlord—knife in hand—looked up and started, stumbling back. He seemed horrified.

  Dalinar roared, spitting blood and throwing himself at the enemy. The swing that came at him seemed pitiful and Dalinar ducked it, ramming his shoulder against his foe and shoving him backward. Something thrummed inside Dalinar, the pulse of the battle, the rhythm of killing and dying.

  The Thrill.

  He knocked his opponent off balance, then reached for his sword. Dym, however, hollered Dalinar’s name and tossed him a poleaxe, with a hook on one side and a broad, thin axe blade on the other. Dalinar seized it from the air and spun, ducking the brightlord’s swing. At the same time he hooked the man around the ankle with the axe head, then yanked.

  The brightlord fell in a clatter of steel. Before Dalinar could capitalize on this, the honor guard became a bother. Two had managed to extricate themselves from Dalinar’s men, and came to the defense of their brightlord.

  Dalinar caught their sword strikes on his poleaxe and twisted it around, backing away and burying the axe head into one man’s side. Dalinar ripped it free and spun again—smashing the weapon down on the rising brightlord’s helm and sending him to his knees—before coming back and barely catching the remaining guard’s sword on the haft of the poleaxe.

  Dalinar pushed upward, holding the poleaxe in two hands, sweeping the guard’s blade into the air over his head. He stepped forward until he was face-to-face with the fellow. He could feel the man’s breath.

  Dalinar spat blood from his shattered nose into the guard’s eyes, then kicked him in the stomach. He turned toward the brightlord, who had scrambled—again—to his feet and now was trying to flee. Dalinar growled, full of the Thrill, and swung the poleaxe with one hand, hooking the spike into the brightlord’s side, and yanked, dropping him a third time.

  The brightlord rolled over. He was greeted by the sight of Dalinar slamming his poleaxe down with both hands, driving the spike right through his breastplate and into his chest. It made a satisfying crunch, and Dalinar pulled it out bloodied.

  As if that blow had been a signal, the honor guard and other soldiers finally broke before his elites. Dalinar grinned as he watched them go, gloryspren popping up around him like glowing golden spheres. Damnation, it felt good to best a force larger than your own.

  The Thrill, unfortunately, dwindled. He could never hold on to it as long as he wanted. Nearby, the man he’d felled groaned softly. Dalinar stepped over, curious, kicking at his armored chest.

  “Why . . .” the man said from within his helm. “Why us?”

  “Don’t know,” Dalinar said, tossing the poleaxe back to Dym.

  “You . . . you don’t know?” the dying man said.

  “My brother chooses,” Dalinar said. “I just go where he points me.” He gestured toward the dying man, and Dym rammed a sword into the armored man’s armpit, finishing the job. The fellow had fought reasonably well; no need to extend his suffering.

  Another soldier approached, handing Dalinar his sword. It had a chip the size of a thumb right in the blade. Looked like it had bent as well. “You’re supposed to stick it into the squishy parts, Brightlord,” Dym said, “not pound it against the hard parts.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Dalinar said, tossing the sword aside as one of his men selected a replacement from among the fallen of high enough rank to have one.

  “You . . . all right, Brightlord?” Dym asked.

  “Never been better,” Dalinar said, voice faintly distorted by the clogged nose. Hurt like Damnation itself, and he drew a small flock of painspren—like little sinewy hands—up from the ground.

  His men formed up around him, and Dalinar led the way farther down the street. Before too long, he could make out the bulk of the enemy still fighting ahead, harried by his army.

  He halted his men, considering his options.

  Thakka, captain of the elites, turned to him. “Orders, sir?”

  “Raid those buildings,” Dalinar said, pointing at a line of homes. “Let’s see how well they fight while they see us rounding up their families.”

  “The men will want to loot,” Thakka said.

  “What is there to loot in hovels like these?” Dalinar said with a shrug. “Soggy hogshide and old rockbud bowls?” He pulled off his helm to wipe the blood from his face. “They can loot afterward. Right now I need hostages. There are civilians somewhere in this storming town. Find them.”

  Thakka nodded, shouting the orders. Dalinar reached for some water. He’d need to meet up with Sadeas, and—

  Something slammed into Dalinar’s shoulder. He caught only a brief sight of it, a black blur that hit with the force of a roundhouse kick. It threw him down, and pain flared up from his side.

  “An arrow?” he said, blinking as he found himself lying on the ground. A storming arrow had sprouted from his right shoulder, with a long, thick shaft. It had gone straight through the chain mail, just to the side of where his cuirass met arm.

  “Brightlord!” Thakka said, kneeling, shielding Dalinar with his body. “Kelek! Brightlord, are you—”

  “Who in Damnation shot that?” Dalinar demanded.

  “Up there,” one of his men said, pointing at the ridge above the town.

  “That’s got to be over three hundred yards,” Dalinar said, shoving Thakka aside and standing. “That can’t—”

  He was watching, so he was able to jump out of the way of the next arrow, which dropped a mere foot from him, slamming against the stone ground. Dalinar stared at it, then started shouting. “Horses! Where are the storming horses!” Had the fires delayed them?

  No, fortunately. A small group of soldiers had guided them more carefully across the fields, but had caught up by now. They came trotting forward as Dalinar’s order was passed, bringing all eleven horses. Dalinar had to dodge another arrow as he seized the reins of Fullnight, his black gelding, and heaved himself up into the saddle.

  He galloped back the way they’d come in, trailed by ten of his best men. There had to be a way up that slope . . . There! A rocky set of switchbacks, shallow enough that he didn’t mind running Fullnight up them. No more dangerous than charging into battle had been for Dalinar himself. The horse slipped a few times, but nothing drastic. Dalinar was more worried that by the time he reached the top, his quarry would have escaped.

  He eventually burst onto the top of the ridge; an arrow slammed into his left breast, going straight through the breastplate near the shoulder, nearly throwing him from the saddle.

  Damnation! Dalinar hung on somehow, clenching the reins in one hand, and leaned low, peering ahead as the archer—still a distant figure—stood upon a rocky knob and launched another arrow. And another. Storms, the fellow was quick!

  Dalinar jerked Fullnight to one side, then the other, feeling the thrumming sense of the Thrill return. It drove away the pain, brought him clarity, and returned his vision as he started to fade.

  No. No! Hooves made a clatter on stone as another arrow zipped past his face, dangerously close. Dalinar gritted his teeth, pushing Fullnight forward.

  Ahead, the archer finally seemed to grow alarmed, and leaped from his perch to flee.

  Dalinar charged Fullnight over that knob a moment later, jumping the horse after the fleeing archer, who turned out to be a man in his twenties wearing rugged clothing. Dalinar had the option of running him down, but instead galloped Fullnight right past and kicked the archer in the back, sending him sprawling.

>   Dalinar pulled up his horse, then turned it about to approach the groaning archer, who lay in a heap amid spilled black arrows.

  Dalinar’s men caught up as he lurched from the saddle, an arrow sprouting from each shoulder. He seized the archer, who had finally struggled to his feet and, though dazed, was scrabbling for his belt knife.

  Ignoring his own pain, Dalinar turned the fellow about, noting the blue tattoo on his cheek. The archer gasped and stared at Dalinar, covered in soot from the fires, his face a mask of blood from the nose and the cut scalp, stuck with not one but two arrows.

  “You waited until my helm was off,” Dalinar demanded. “You are an assassin. You were set here specifically to watch for me.”

  The man winced as Dalinar gripped him hard—an action that caused pain to flare up Dalinar’s side. The man nodded.

  “Amazing,” Dalinar said, letting go of the fellow. “Show me that shot again. How far is that, Thakka? I’m right, aren’t I? Over three hundred yards?”

  “Almost four,” Thakka said, pulling over his horse. “But with a height advantage.”

  “Still,” Dalinar said, stepping up to the lip of the ridge. He looked back at the befuddled archer. “Well? Grab your bow!”

  “My . . . bow,” the archer said.

  “Are you deaf, man?” Dalinar snapped. “Go get it!”

  The archer regarded the ten armed elites on horseback, grim-faced and dangerous, before wisely deciding to obey. He picked up his bow and a few arrows, then stepped hesitantly over to Dalinar.

  “Went right through my storming armor,” Dalinar muttered, feeling at the arrow that had hit him at the side of the breastplate. He shook his head, shading his eyes, inspecting the battlefield. To his right, the armies clashed down below, and his main body of elites had come up to press at the flank. The rearguard had found some civilians and was shoving them into the street.

  “Pick a corpse,” Dalinar said, pointing toward an empty square where a skirmish had happened. “Stick an arrow in one down there, if you can.”

  The archer licked his lips, still seeming confused. Finally, he took a spyglass off his belt and studied the area. “The one in blue, near the overturned cart.”

  Dalinar squinted, then nodded. Nearby, Thakka had climbed off his horse and had slid out his sword, resting it on his shoulder. A not-so-subtle warning. The archer contemplated this, then drew his bow and launched a single black-fletched arrow. It flew true, sticking into the chosen corpse.

  A single awespren burst around Dalinar, like a ring of blue smoke. “Stormfather,” Dalinar said, lowering his hand. “Thakka, before today, I’d have bet you half the princedom that such a shot wasn’t possible.” He turned to the archer. “What’s your name, assassin?”

  The man raised his chin, but didn’t reply.

  “Well, either way, welcome to my elites,” Dalinar said. “Someone get the fellow a horse.”

  “What?” the archer said. “I tried to kill you!”

  “Yes, from a distance,” Dalinar said, letting one of his men help him up onto his horse. “Which shows remarkably good judgment. I can make good use of someone with your skills.”

  “We’re enemies!”

  Dalinar nodded toward the town below, where the beleaguered enemy army was—at long last—surrendering. “Not anymore. Looks like we’re all allies now!”

  The archer spat to the side. “Slaves beneath your brother, the tyrant.”

  Dalinar leaned forward, turning his horse. “If you’d rather be killed, I can respect that.”

  The archer grew pale as Thakka unsheathed his sword again.

  “Alternatively,” Dalinar said, “you can join me and name your price.”

  “The life of my brightlord Yezriar,” the archer said. “The heir.”

  “Is that the fellow . . . ?” Dalinar said, looking to Thakka.

  “. . . That you just killed down below?” Thakka said. “Yes, sir.”

  “He’s got a hole in his chest,” Dalinar said, looking back to the assassin. “Tough break.”

  “You . . . you monster!” the assassin sputtered. “Couldn’t you have captured him?”

  “Nah. The other princedoms are digging in their heels. Refuse to recognize my brother’s crown. Games of ‘catch me’ with the high lighteyes just encourage people to fight back. If they know we’re out for blood, they’ll think twice.” Dalinar shrugged. “How about this instead? Join with me, and we won’t pillage the town. What’s left of it, anyway.”

  The man blinked, then looked down at the surrendering army.

  “You in or not?” Dalinar said. “I promise not to make you shoot anyone you like.”

  “I . . .”

  “Great!” Dalinar said, turning his horse and trotting it off, not waiting for a further response. The man sputtered, and obviously considered.

  A short time later, when Dalinar’s elites rode up to him, the sullen archer was on a horse with one of the other men. He’d chosen life, and service, as Dalinar had known he would.

  The pain flared in him again as the Thrill faded, but it was manageable. He’d need surgeons to look at the arrow on the right, though the one on the left hadn’t dug deep. It had gone through both breastplate and chain—remarkably—but hadn’t had much punch left after that.

  Once they reached the town again, he sent orders to stop the looting. His men would hate that, but this town wasn’t worth much anyway. The riches would come once they started into the centers of the princedoms.

  He let his horse carry him in a leisurely gait through the town, passing soldiers who had settled down to water themselves and rest from the protracted engagement. His nose still smarted, and he had to forcibly prevent himself from snorting up blood through his nose. If it was well and truly broken, that wouldn’t turn out well for him.

  He rolled his right shoulder, winced, and kept moving, fighting off the dull sense of . . . nothingness that often followed a battle. This was the worst time. He could still remember being alive, but now had to face a return to mundanity.

  He’d missed the executions. Sadeas already had the local highprince’s head—and those of his officers—on spears by the time Dalinar rode up. Such a showman, Sadeas was. Dalinar passed the grim line, shaking his head, and heard a muttered curse from his new archer. He’d have to talk to the man, reinforce that earlier he’d shot an arrow at an enemy. That was to be respected. If he tried something against Dalinar or Sadeas now, it would be different. Thakka would already be searching out the fellow’s family.

  “Dalinar?” a voice called.

  Dalinar stilled his horse, turning toward the sound. Torol Sadeas, resplendent in golden yellow Shardplate that had already been washed clean, pushed through a cluster of officers. The red-faced man looked older than he had a year ago. No longer a youth in his early twenties, despite his age.

  “Dalinar!” Sadeas repeated, looking him up and down. “Are those arrows? Stormfather, man, you look like a thornbush! What happened to your face?”

  “A fist,” Dalinar said, nodding toward the heads on spears. “Nice work.”

  “We lost the crown prince,” Sadeas said. “He’ll mount a resistance.”

  “That would be impressive,” Dalinar said, “considering what I did to him.”

  Sadeas relaxed visibly. “Oh, Dalinar. What would we do without you?”

  “Lose,” Dalinar said, shading his eyes. “Someone get me something to drink and a pair of surgeons. In that order. Also, Sadeas, I promised we wouldn’t pillage the city. No looting, no slaves taken.”

  “You what?” Sadeas demanded. “Who did you promise?”

  Dalinar thumbed over his shoulder at the archer.

  “Another one?” Sadeas said with a groan.

  “He’s got amazing aim,” Dalinar said. “Loyal, too.” He glanced to the side, where Sadeas’s soldiers had rounded up some weeping women for Sadeas to pick from.

  “I was looking forward to tonight,” Sadeas noted.

  “And I was looking f
orward to breathing through my nose. We’ll live. More than can be said for the kids we fought today.”

  “Fine, fine,” Sadeas said, sighing. “I suppose we could spare one town. A symbol that we are not without mercy.” He looked over Dalinar again. “We need to get you some Shards, my friend.”

  “To protect me?”

  “Protect you? Storms, Dalinar, at this point I’m not certain a rockslide could kill you. No, it just makes the rest of us look bad when you accomplish what you do while practically unarmed!”

  Dalinar shrugged. He didn’t wait for the wine or the surgeons, but instead led his horse back to gather his elites and give them subtle orders to guard the city from looting. Once done, he left the half-burned, bleeding city, walking his horse across smoldering ground to his camp outside.

  He was done living for the day. It would be weeks, maybe months, before he got another opportunity.

  Thirty-Four Years Ago

  Dalinar danced from one foot to the other in the morning mist, feeling a new power, an energy in every step. Shardplate. His own Shardplate.

  The world would never be the same place. They’d all expected he would someday have his own Plate or Blade, but he’d never been able to quiet the whisper of uncertainty from the back of his mind. What if it never happened?

  But it had. Stormfather, it had.

  He was a Shardbearer. Plate only, so far. He couldn’t help but bask in how grand it felt.

  “Calm, Dalinar,” Sadeas said from beside him in the mist. Sadeas wore his own golden Plate. “Patience.”

  “It won’t do any good, Sadeas,” Gavilar—clad in bright blue Plate—said from Dalinar’s other side. All three of them wore their faceplates up for the moment. “The Kholin boys are chained axehounds, and we smell blood. We can’t go into battle breathing calming breaths, centered and serene, as the ardents teach.”

  Dalinar kept his eyes forward, shifting, flexing and unflexing his hand, feeling the cold morning fog on his face. He wanted to dance with the anticipationspren, whipping in the air around him. Behind, the army waited in disciplined ranks; their footsteps, clinkings, coughs, and murmured banter rose from their unseen figures, carrying through the fog, casting phantoms.