Unfettered II: New Tales By Masters of Fantasy

by Shawn Speakman

  Dalinar almost felt as if he didn’t need that army. He wore a massive hammer on his back, so heavy an unaided man—even the strongest of them—wouldn’t be able to lift it. He barely noticed the weight. Storms, this power. He had never noticed before how much it felt like the Thrill.

  “Have you given thought to my suggestion, Dalinar?” Sadeas asked.

  “No.”

  Sadeas sighed.

  “If Gavilar commands me,” Dalinar said, “I’ll marry.”

  “Don’t bring me into this,” Gavilar said, summoning then dismissing his Shardblade. He did that repeatedly as they talked.

  “Well,” Dalinar said, “until you say something, I’m staying single.” The only woman he’d ever wanted belonged to Gavilar now. And his brother must never know.

  “But think of the benefit, Dalinar,” Sadeas said. “Your wedding could bring us alliances, Shards. Perhaps you could win us a princedom—one we wouldn’t have to storming drive to the brink of collapse before they join with us!”

  After three years of fighting, only four of the ten princedoms had accepted Gavilar’s rule—and two of those, obviously, had been easy. One from Gavilar himself, and one from Sadeas.

  The end result was a united Alethkar—united against house Kholin. The remaining six princedoms had dropped their own perennial squabbles to face the new Kholin threat.

  Gavilar was convinced that he could still play them off one another, that their natural selfishness would lead them to stab one another in the back. Sadeas, in turn, pushed Gavilar toward greater brutality. He claimed that the fiercer their reputation, the more cities would turn to them willingly rather than risk being pillaged and enslaved.

  “Well?” Sadeas asked. “Will you at least consider a union of political necessity?”

  “Storms, you still on that?” Dalinar said. “Let me fight. You and my brother can worry about politics.”

  Sadeas sighed. “You can’t escape this forever, Dalinar. You realize that, right? We’ll have to worry about feeding the darkeyes, about city infrastructure, about ties with other kingdoms. Politics.”

  “You and Gavilar,” Dalinar said.

  “All of us,” Sadeas said. “All three.”

  “Weren’t you trying to get me to relax?” Dalinar snapped. Storms.

  The rising sun finally started to disperse the fog, and that let him see their target: a wall about twelve feet high. And before that, nothing. A flat, rocky expanse, or so it appeared. The chasm was difficult to spot from this direction. They had nicknamed it the Rift, an entire city inside a rip in the ground.

  “Brightlord Tanalan is a Shardbearer, right?” Dalinar asked.

  Sadeas sighed, lowering his faceplate. “We only went over this four times, Dalinar.”

  “I was drunk. Tanalan. Shardbearer?”

  “Blade only, Brother,” Gavilar said.

  “He’s mine,” Dalinar whispered.

  Gavilar laughed. “Only if you find him first! I’ve half a mind to give that Blade to Sadeas. At least he listens in our meetings.”

  “All right,” Sadeas said from behind his faceplate. “Let’s do this carefully. Remember the plan. Prudence must reign here. Gavilar, you—”

  Gavilar gave Dalinar a grin, slammed his faceplate down, then took off running to leave Sadeas mid-sentence. Dalinar whooped and joined him, Plated boots grinding against stone.

  Behind, Sadeas cursed loudly and followed.

  This fortification, around the holding of Rathalas, was supposed to have received reinforcements days ago. They hadn’t come in time, and Gavilar had guessed they would not. He claimed that was a sign of weakness—that the highprinces were more interested in weakening one another than they were in protecting a vital strategic point.

  They might claim to be fighting together, but they were still fractured. Time to make those fissures wider.

  The three Shardbearers charged the field alone, as the rocks started falling. Catapults from behind the wall hurled solitary boulders or sprays of smaller rocks. Chunks slammed down around Dalinar, shaking the ground, causing rockbud vines to curl up in sudden shock.

  A boulder struck just ahead, then bounced, spraying chips of stone. Dalinar skidded past it, the Plate lending a spring to his motions, and raised his arm before his eye slit as a hail of arrows darkened the sky.

  “Watch the ballistas!” Gavilar shouted.

  Atop the wall, soldiers aimed massive crossbowlike devices mounted to the stone. One launched a sleek bolt—the size of a spear—directly at Dalinar, and it proved far more accurate than the catapults. He threw himself to the side, Plate grinding on stone as he rolled out of the way. The bolt hit the stone with such force that the wood shattered on impact.

  Other shafts trailed netting and ropes, hoping to trip a Shardbearer and render him prone for a second shot. Dalinar grinned, feeling the Thrill awaken within him, and recovered his feet. He leaped over a bolt trailing netting.

  Tanalan’s men launched volley after volley. They delivered a storm of wood and stone, but it wasn’t nearly enough. Dalinar took a stone in the shoulder, but though it caused him to lurch in place, he quickly regained his momentum. Arrows were useless against him, the boulders were too random, and the ballistas too slow to reload.

  This was how it should be. He, Gavilar, Sadeas. Together. Other responsibilities didn’t matter. Life was about the fight. A good battle in the day—then at night, a warm hearth, tired muscles, and a good vintage of wine.

  Dalinar reached the wall and leaped, propelling himself in a mighty jump. He gained just enough height to grab one of the crenels of the wall’s top. Men raised hammers to pound his fingers, but he hurled himself over the lip and onto the wall-walk, crashing down amid panicked defenders. He jerked the release rope on his hammer—dropping it behind him, crushing an enemy—then swung out with his fist, sending men broken and screaming before him.

  This was almost too easy! He seized his hammer, then brought it up and swung it in a wide arc, tossing men from the wall like leaves before a gust of wind. Just beyond him, Sadeas kicked over a ballista, destroying the device with a casual blow. Gavilar attacked with his Blade, dropping corpses by the handful, their eyes burning. Up here, the fortification worked against the defenders, leaving them cramped and clumped up—perfect for Shardbearers to destroy.

  Dalinar surged through them, and in a few moments likely killed more men than he had in his entire life. At that, he felt a surprising, yet profound, dissatisfaction. This was not about his skill, his momentum, or even his reputation. You could have replaced him with a toothless gaffer and produced practically the same result.

  He gritted his teeth against that sudden, useless emotion. He dug deeply, and found the Thrill waiting. It surged inside him, filling him, driving away his dissatisfaction. Within moments he was roaring his pleasure. Nothing these men did could touch him. He was a destroyer, a conqueror, a glorious maelstrom of death. A god.

  Sadeas was saying something. The silly man gestured in his blue Shardplate, now stained red. Dalinar blinked, looking out over the wall. He could see the Rift proper from this vantage, a deep chasm in the ground that hid an entire city, mostly built up the sides of either wall.

  “Catapults, Dalinar!” Sadeas said. “Bring down those catapults!”

  Right. Gavilar’s armies had started to charge the walls. Those catapults down below—near the way down into the Rift proper—were still launching stones, and would drop hundreds of men.

  Dalinar leaped for the edge of the wall, passing mangled bodies, and grabbed a rope ladder to swing down. The ropes, of course, immediately snapped, sending him toppling to the ground. He struck with a crash of Plate on stone. It didn’t hurt, but his pride took a serious blow. Above, Sadeas looked at him over the edge. Dalinar could practically hear his voice.

  Always rushing into things. Take some time to think once in a while, won’t you?

  That had been a flat-out greenvine mistake, as if he were some raw recruit who expected enemies
to stand still on the battlefield so he could stab them. Dalinar growled and climbed to his feet, searching for his hammer. Storms! He’d bent the handle in his fall, almost snapped it. How had he done that? It wasn’t made of the same strange metal as Blades and Plate, but it was still good steel.

  Soldiers guarding the catapults swarmed toward him while the shadows of boulders passed overhead. Dalinar set his jaw, the Thrill saturating him, and reached for a stout wooden door set into the wall nearby. He ripped it free, the hinges popping, and stumbled. It came off more easily than he’d expected.

  There was more to this armor than he’d ever imagined. Maybe he wasn’t any better with the Plate than some old gaffer, but he would change that. At that moment, he determined that he’d never be surprised again. He’d wear this Plate morning and night—he’d sleep in the storming stuff—until he wasn’t just used to it, but more comfortable in it than out.

  He raised the wooden door and swung it like a bludgeon, sweeping soldiers away and opening a path to the catapults. Then he dashed toward the machines, wishing he had the hammer. As soldiers scattered, he grabbed the side of one catapult and ripped its wheel off, splintering wood and sending the machine teetering. He stepped onto it, grabbing the catapult’s arm itself and ripping it free.

  Only ten more to go. He stood atop the wrecked machine when he heard a distant voice call his name. “Dalinar!”

  He looked back toward the wall, where Sadeas reached back and heaved his Shardbearer’s hammer. It spun in the air before slamming into the catapult next to Dalinar, wedging itself into the broken wood.

  Sadeas raised a hand in salute, and Dalinar waved back in gratitude, then grabbed the hammer. The destruction went a lot faster after that. He pounded the machines, leaving behind shattered wood and equally broken corpses. Engineers—many of them women—scrambled away, screaming, “Blackthorn, Blackthorn!”

  By the time he neared the last catapults, Gavilar had secured the gates and opened them to his soldiers. A flood of men entered, joining those who had scaled the walls. Dalinar kicked the final broken catapult, sending it rolling backward across the stone toward the lip of the Rift.

  It tipped, then fell over. Dalinar stepped forward, walking onto a section of rock with a railing to prevent people from slipping over the side. From this vantage, he could lean out and get his first good look down at the city.

  The Rift. A good name. From a distance, the area seemed like an uninterrupted field, nothing but rockbuds and cremlings. When you approached, however, a wide chasm appeared. He’d have been hard pressed to throw a stone across to the other side, even with Shardplate.

  And below, you found life. Gardens, bobbing with lifespren. Buildings built up, practically on top of one another, and an entire network of stilts, bridges, and wooden walkways. Dalinar let out a deep breath. Even having had it described to him, he was impressed with how the city looked.

  Wide at the top, narrow at the bottom, the enormous chasm made a kind of V shape. The city, as he’d heard, was built up the sides on tiers and networks of stilts. They left the very bottom—the wash—completely clear, to allow rainwaters to pour through and not flood. But the rest of the valley-like chasm was covered in buildings.

  Dalinar turned around and looked back at the wall that ran in a wide circle around the opening of the Rift on all sides except the west, where the canyon continued until it merged with the lake.

  To survive in Alethkar, you had to find shelter from the storms. A wide cleft like this one was perfect for a city. But how did you protect it? Any attacking enemy would have the high ground. Many cities walked a risky line between security from storms and security from men. That wall was barely high enough to be an inconvenience, and was easily breached by Shardbearers. But build it higher, and the winds would knock it flat.

  Dalinar looked down into the Rift again, studying the houses built up the walls. Braced bridges crossed between the sides, hanging free in the air. Most of the place was built of wood; he’d hate to be the ones trying to defend it. Rathalas might be perfectly placed for trade, and sheltered like no other city in the kingdom, but it was obviously a nightmare to protect.

  Dalinar shouldered Sadeas’s hammer as Tanalan’s soldiers to the right and left flooded down from the walls, forming up to flank Gavilar’s army. They’d try to press against the Kholin troops from both sides, but with three Shardbearers to face, they were in trouble. Where was Highlord Tanalan himself? Why hadn’t he been waiting on the wall?

  Dalinar was supposed to fall back at this point and join the other two in protecting the army’s flanks. Instead, he lingered at the edge of the Rift. The city below felt ghostly, bridges abandoned, shutters on buildings closed. The city was undoubtedly still populated—the people were just hiding, hunkering down, hoping and praying.

  Behind, Thakka approached with a small squad of elites, joining him on the stone viewing platform. Thakka put his hands on the railing, whistling softly.

  “Something’s going on in that city,” Dalinar said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. . . .” Dalinar might not pay attention to the grand plans Gavilar and Sadeas made, but he was a soldier. He knew battlefields like a woman knew her mother’s recipes: he might not be able to give you measurements, but he could taste when something was off.

  The fighting continued behind him, Kholin soldiers clashing with Tanalan’s defenders. Three Shardbearers, Dalinar thought. Tanalan has to be planning to deal with us somehow.

  Tanalan’s armies didn’t fare well, and Dalinar’s aid wasn’t needed. Demoralized by the advancing Kholin army, the enemy ranks quickly broke and scrambled into a retreat, clogging the ramps down into the city. Gavilar and Sadeas didn’t give chase; they had the high ground now. No need to rush into an ambush.

  Gavilar pulled back from the ranks, then clomped across the stone, Sadeas beside him. They’d want to survey the city and rain arrows upon those below—maybe even use stolen catapults, if Dalinar had left any functional. They’d siege this place until it broke.

  “No!” Dalinar shouted. “Stay back! It’s a—”

  The enemy must have been watching him, for the moment he shouted, the ground fell out from beneath him.

  The ground tipped under their feet. Dalinar caught a glimpse of Gavilar—held back by Sadeas—looking on in horror as Dalinar, Thakka, and a handful of other elites were toppled into the Rift.

  Storms. The entire section of stone where they’d been standing—the lip hanging out over the Rift—had broken free!

  The large section of rock crashed downward, crashing into the first buildings, twisting and tipping. Dalinar and his elites were thrown free. He was tossed to the side, flung into the air above the city. Everything spun around him.

  A moment later, he crashed through a building with an awful crunch. Something hard hit his arm, an impact so powerful he heard his armor there shatter.

  The building failed to stop him. He tore right through it and continued tumbling, helm grinding against stone as he somehow came in contact with the side of the rift.

  The next hit came a heartbeat later, and blessedly, here he finally stopped. He groaned, feeling a sharp pain from his left hand. He shook his head, and found himself staring upward some fifty feet through a shattered section of the tiered city.

  The rim of the edge—the stone lip, with the railing where he’d been standing—had neatly broken off and fallen, crashing down through the city. It had obviously been rigged to fall, and it had been so appealing a position to survey the city. They’d been waiting for the shardbearers to gather there to look down.

  The large wedge of stone had torn a swath down through the city as it tumbled along the steep incline, smashing homes and walkways. Dalinar had been flung just to the north, and he’d gone right through two buildings, and a walkway, like a stone tossed by a catapult.

  He didn’t see signs of his men. Thakka, the other elites. But without Shardplate . . . He growled, angerspren boiling around him,
like pools of blood on the wooden walkway. He stood, but the pain in his hand made him wince. His armor all down his left arm had shattered, and in falling, he’d ripped off fingernails, scraped his skin.

  His Shardplate leaked glowing white smoke from a hundred fractures, but the only pieces he’d lost completely were from his left arm and hand.

  He gingerly pried himself from the rooftop, but as soon as he shifted, he broke through and fell into the home. He grunted as he hit, then turned over and climbed to his feet. The Stormlight rising from the cracks in his armor illuminated a small but rich room. Ornate woven rug. Silver cups on the walls. Whoever lived here had been evacuated abruptly; Tanalan hadn’t told the people of his plan to crush a quarter of his own city in a desperate attempt to deal with the enemy Shardbearers.

  Dalinar shoved open the door—breaking it with the strength of his push—and stepped out onto a wooden walkway that ran before the homes on this tier of the city.

  A hail of arrows immediately fell on him. He turned his right shoulder toward them, growling, shielding his eye slit as best he could while he inspected the source of the attack. Fifty archers were set up on a garden platform on the other storming side of the Rift from him. Wonderful.

  He recognized the man leading the archers. Tall, with an imperial bearing and stark white plumes on his helm. Who put chicken feathers on their helms? Looked ridiculous. It was Tanalan though. A fine enough fellow, chicken feathers notwithstanding. Dalinar had beat him once at pawns, and Tanalan had paid the bet with a hundred glowing bits of ruby, each dropped into a corked bottle of wine. Dalinar had always found that amusing.

  Reveling in the Thrill, which rose in him and drove away pain, Dalinar charged along a walkway, ignoring arrows. Above, Sadeas was leading a force down one of the ramps outside the path of the rockfall in an attempt to reach him, but it would be slow going. By the time they arrived, Dalinar intended to have a new Shardblade.

  He charged onto one of the bridges that crossed the Rift. Unfortunately, he knew exactly what he would do if preparing this city for an assault. Sure enough, a pair of soldiers hurried down the other side of the Rift, then used axes to attack the support posts to Dalinar’s walkway. It had soulcast metal ropes holding it up, but if they could get those posts down—dropping the lines—his weight would surely cause the entire thing to drop.