Brandon Sanderson - [Stormlight Archive 01] Read online

  shells; with the fall of the highstorm rains, the false rocks split, revealing the delicate petals and thirsty vines that hid inside. The plants opened only after storms, their petals uncurling to lap up a few moments of sun, their vines creeping down to soak in the puddles of rainwater. Tiny, crab-like

  crustaceans scurried from fissures and cracks, digging in the temporary

  muck and feeding on the exposed plants.

  Traipsing across the slick stone, seeing the rockbuds in bloom, made

  Dalenar think of his home—a land where the plants didn’t need to cower

  within rocky shells between highstorms. Kholinar, a land where stone walls were covered with blooming polyps, where the boulders were draped in

  vines and the air was cool with humidity. The highstorms were weak back

  in the Kholinar Lait—the lowland valley was surrounded with hills just

  steep enough to protect it from the fury of the winds, yet not sheer enough to bring danger of flash floods.

  Once, battle had made Dalenar thirsty for more of the same, but now

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 19

  it only seemed to make him long for the warmth of his hearth. If all went

  well, he could be back at Kholinar within the month.

  Elhokar rode defiantly ahead, crossing the rock on someone’s roan stal-

  lion. Around him strode seven thousand troops and a tenset Shardbearers,

  Dalenar and his two sons included. If the Traitor truly marched with this

  flanking force, then he would not escape a duel with Elhokar.

  Dalenar hustled, his armor clanking as he jogged up beside the king’s

  horse. His body protested the motion—he had taxed it much these last few

  weeks, and the remainder of the trip would be even worse. Elhokar rode

  on one of the last horses in the entire army—the beasts were extremely

  expensive to import from Shinavar, and even harder to care for in the

  harsh stormland climate. Even many noblemen had difficulty affording

  a mount—of the ten Dalenar had brought with him to Prallah, only two

  remained, and he didn’t plan to risk any more in battle.

  “Elhokar,” Dalenar said as he approached the king’s horse, “I don’t like

  this. We’ve had no word from the force my son sent, and we still don’t

  know the size of the enemy. We could be marching into an ambush.”

  Elhokar didn’t reply. He did, however, have his Blade in hand already. “I

  sent scouts, Uncle,” he replied. “We will not make your son’s same mistake.”

  Dalenar sighed. The stormlands expanded into the distance, endless hills

  of naked stone, broken only by the occasional formation of rock. Directly

  ahead of them, the stone rose into a moderate-sized butte, steep-sided and formed of dark brown stone. Their last report from the reserve forces placed them a short distance ahead, on the other side of the butte.

  Something seemed wrong to Dalenar. They were too far away to see

  anything, but his conclusions came from instinct rather than sight. His

  feeling of dread was confirmed by the sight of an approaching scout,

  running across the hills with an urgent step.

  “Halt the column,” Dalenar ordered.

  Elhokar eyed him, but did not contradict the order. The seven tensquads

  pulled to a halt, waiting for the solitary scout to approach.

  “What is up there?” Elhokar demanded as soon as the man arrived. “Is

  there fighting?”

  The scout shook his head, puffing for breath. “No, your majesty . . . or,

  at least, it isn’t going on any more . . .”

  “What?” Elhokar demanded. “What did you see?”

  The scout shook his head again, looking confused. “They’re . . . dead,

  your majesty. All of them.”

  20

  BRAND ON SANDERS ON

  The scout had not exaggerated. Dalenar stepped solemnly through

  the field of corpses, blue and brown uniforms intermixed, weapons clutched in dead fingers. The small valley was a scene of absolute carnage. Nothing stirred. Even the wind seemed silent, as if the Almighty Himself were

  hesitant to speak.

  The soldiers of their seven tensquads stood at the edge of the battlefield, looking in at the fallen, remaining where the king had ordered them. Only

  Shardbearers and a few important commanders picked their way across the

  field, examining the dead.

  Dalenar frowned, kneeling beside the body of a fallen soldier—a young

  spearman in blue. The boy wore the leather skirt and wooden plate armor

  of the standard Aleth footman. Yet he had not been killed by another

  spearman—the side of his head had been crushed in. Heavy infantry, then?

  Most heavy infantry carried hammers, maces, or axes instead of spears. Yet, heavy infantry made up a very small percentage of most armies, and that

  was especially true of the Prallans, who hadn’t the resources of the Aleth military.

  He stood, wandering across the field, examining the fallen—trying to

  see beyond the faces of the dead, trying to sense the flow of the battle

  that had claimed their lives. It was immediately obvious that the Prallan

  force had been larger—far larger. There were at least three brown-clothed

  corpses on the ground for every blue one.

  Over fifteen thousand . . . Dalenar thought with amazement. How in the name of the Lawbringer did our men stand against such odds?

  The valley was hedged on one side by the plateau, and bore a large crack

  in the ground directly opposite. It would have been possible for the

  Aleth soldiers to use the column-like valley to hold a strong line, keeping themselves from being surrounded. But that was a defensive maneuver—

  even if the Aleths had managed to successfully hold such a formation, they couldn’t have killed so many of the enemy.

  Besides, the corpses told Dalenar a different story. They spoke of no

  defensive formation, but a haphazard offense—a scattered mixing of sides.

  Very few men on the entire field had been killed by spears—yet nearly all

  of them wielded them. Their wounds were washed of blood—as if they had

  fought and died during the rains of the highstorm.

  It didn’t make sense. Even assuming that there had been Prallan sur-

  vivors, it seemed impossible that so many had been killed by the Aleth

  force—especially if the Prallan army had contained as much heavy infantry

  as the damage seemed to imply. It was wrong, all wrong.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 21

  There is no way our force did this, Dalenar thought, scanning the battlefield.

  Even with three Shardbearers, they could not have done this much damage.

  Something very strange had happened on this battlefield. The dead

  whispered to him clues of their struggle, and only one thing made sense.

  A third force had attacked both of them. But how would such a force

  have gathered without Elhokar’s scouts locating them, and how had they

  escaped so cleanly?

  They would still be close. “Your majesty!” Dalenar said. “I want you out

  of here. Now.”

  The king ignored him, stepping over a body, accompanied by Meridas

  and—by Dalenar’s command—Renarin and Aredor for protection. Elhokar

  walked through the bodies with an indifference—or, rather, a preoccupa-

  tion. He was not callous, just determined. His eyes sought one thing.

  Dalenar studied the landscape urgently, sensing danger. He saw none,

  however. The plateau was low, and he could see nothing at its top. He
/>   waved over a few scouts and sent them searching anyway. Then he made his

  way over to the chasm. It was not an irregular feature—the highstorm rains carved out many a gully and fissure in the stone. The sides were sheer, and the bottom contained only rubble. No men had attacked from within its

  reaches.

  “There!” the king cried suddenly. Dalenar looked up to see Elhokar jump

  over a body and break into a run. Dalenar cursed, forcing himself to follow after, jogging in his Shardplate and trying to be as respectful toward the dead as possible. He kept his eyes up, the sense of danger still keen. Yet no army appeared to attack—if, indeed, a third force had come upon these

  men in the rains, it had fled quickly to forestall retribution.

  Dalenar caught up to the king as Elhokar knelt down to tug at a bloodied

  banner. It bore the glyph Jie. Beneath it lay a haunting face. He had once been known as Oshlen Reil, though his lord’s name had been stripped

  from him after his murder of King Nolhonarin. Since that day, Oshlen

  had simply been known as the Traitor.

  And he was very, very dead.

  “No . . .” Elhokar said, falling to his knees on the bloodied ground,

  bowing his head.

  Aredor nudged Dalenar, pointing to the side. “That one’s Talhmeshas,”

  he said, pointing at another corpse. Talhmeshas Pralir—king of the Prallan state of Pralir, the nation that had harbored the Traitor and invited Aleth invasion. Dalenar frowned, studying the bodies. Both had been stripped

  of their Plate and Blades.

  22

  BRAND ON SANDERS ON

  Elhokar knelt stunned beside the body of the man who had killed his

  father. Eventually, he picked up his Blade and rammed it into the stone

  beside the dead man’s face. “All these years,” Elhokar whispered, “fighting.

  Looking for him. Longing to feel his blood on my Blade . . .”

  Dalenar shook his head. At least the king had no one to blame for

  stealing his vengeance—the man who had killed the traitor undoubtedly

  lay dead on this field somewhere.

  The king looked up with a sudden motion, then stood, sliding his Blade

  free from its stone sheath. There was . . . danger in his eyes.

  Dalenar felt a chill. There was no one to blame, unless—

  Elhokar pointed at Renarin. “You took this from me,” he hissed.

  Dalenar gritted his teeth, placing his hand on Elhokar’s iron shoulder.

  “Your majesty—”

  Elhokar shook the hand free with a sharp movement. “Stay out of this,

  Uncle.” The king raised his blade, falling into Airform’s dueling stance, one foot placed forward, Blade held in two hands.

  Renarin took an uncertain step backward—his Blade wasn’t even sum-

  moned. Elhokar had been right about one thing; the boy was a terrible

  duelist. And, despite his shortcomings, Elhokar was one of the finest in

  Alethkar.

  “Elhokar!” Dalenar snapped, stepping between the two. “This is my son! ”

  Elhokar stood, weapon outstretched. Dalenar had only seen such a

  seething hatred in the young king’s eyes one other time—the day he had

  found his father’s body. Finally, he hissed in anger, but dismissed his blade.

  “He forfeits his Shardblade,” Elhokar snapped, standing upright. “He

  drops from Fifth to Thirteenth Lord, and he shall not inherit, even if

  Aredor should die.”

  “What?” Aredor asked incredulously, steeping up to his younger broth-

  er’s side. Aredor’s Blade was still out, Dalenar noticed—and, unlike his

  brother, Aredor was quite competent.

  “Elhokar,” Dalenar said quietly, stepping up to the king. “This is excessive.

  The boy only did what—”

  “The boy’s leadership made me an oathbreaker,” Elhokar said. “I swore to

  take the Traitor’s life myself—every man in the army knew that. The soldiers who disobeyed my order are dead, but the responsibility for their act lies with the one who commanded them.”

  Dalenar held his tongue, afraid that his response would be unbefitting

  of a nobleman. His hand, however, quivered as he gripped Oathbringer’s

  familiar hilt.

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 23

  “It’s not just the traitor’s death, Uncle. The boy nearly cost us this day’s battle. I will not have him in a position where he can take command again.

  Either he gives up the Blade now, or he duels me for the opportunity to

  keep it.”

  The wind finally started blowing again, a light breeze, sending a ripple

  across the tattered cloaks of the fallen men. The Voice of the Almighty,

  it was called. Dalenar felt it whisper to him—whisper temperance as he

  gritted his teeth, facing down the son of the brother he had loved so much.

  Finally, he turned away.

  “Do as he says, Renarin,” he said.

  “Father, no!” Aredor cried.

  Renarin, however, was his normal quiet self as he summoned his

  Blade. Ten heartbeats passed as a season, and the boy knelt, proffering

  the Blade. Nolhonarin had presented the weapon to Dalenar on the eve

  of the boy’s birth, as he had done the day Aredor was born. Renarin had

  carried it since the day of his Charan.

  Elhokar took the weapon, then pulled out a steel-handled dagger. He

  slammed the butt of the dagger against the pommel of Renarin’s Shard-

  blade, knocking free the black opal that formed the pommelstone—the

  opal was the “Shard” of a Shardblade, the object that made it possible to

  bond weapon and man.

  The opal dropped to the stones, clicking softly. Then, Elhokar spun,

  marching from the battlefield. The col ected Shardbearers and commanders,

  who had gathered around the scene, slowly trickled away, their faces

  uncomfortable.

  Renarin stared down at the opal. Aredor knelt by his brother, his

  face dark. He would have fought to keep his Blade—he was like his older

  brother, Sheneres. Determined, unyielding. Sheneres had died at the hands

  of the Traitor that same night, the night Nolhonarin had died. The boy

  had died in defense of his king, but there had been no time for Dalenar to seek his own vengeance. Only the king’s revenge mattered. Dalenar was

  Elhokar’s Parshen. His will was swallowed in that of his king. Such was his duty.

  Dalenar turned away from the boys, looking up toward the horizon. He

  could still see the darkness of the highstorm retreating in the distance.

  “Come, Renarin, Aredor,” he mumbled. “We must return to the camp.”

  chapter 2

  JASNAH 1

  “The traitor is dead, my lady.”

  Jasnah closed her eyes, exhaling softly and sitting back in her

  chair. It is over. Three years of war had come to an end. She sat for a moment, enjoying the peace of finality, before finally sitting upright and opening her eyes.

  The messenger still knelt before her. He had obviously come directly

  from the battlefield; the bottoms of his boots were slick with brownish

  crom—the muck that fell with highstorms—and his cloak was still wet

  from the rains. He wore no armor—just a leather vest and a simple pair

  of loose trousers tied with a string. Runners had to remain unencumbered

  and mobile.

  The tent pavilion’s main audience room was large and spacious, though

  the metal supports gave it a more cluttered look than Jasnah would have

  preferred. The ground was covered w
ith a large reed-woven mat—which,

  Jasnah noticed with displeasure, was dappled with crom from the messen-

  ger’s boots. Now that the highstorm had passed, the flaps on the side of

  the tent had been pulled aside to let in the sunlight.

  Jasnah could smell the humid coolness lingering from the storm, but the

  tent itself was warm and dry. The highstorm had been unusually powerful

  for late spring, but the pavilion had held to its stakes. The structure was of

  THE WAY OF KINGS PRIME 25

  Veden make—wel -designed for extended campaigns, though Jasnah would

  be loath to test it against summer highstorms here on the Pral an highlands.

  Fortunately, it didn’t look like the war would come to that.

  “My brother?” Jasnah asked.

  “King Elhokar is unharmed, my lady,” the messenger replied.

  No thanks to his earlier stunt, Jasnah added, though she kept her face calm. No matter how many precautions she took, no matter how flawless

  her battle strategies, Elhokar always managed to get himself into some

  kind of trouble. Like most young Shardbearers, Elhokar thought himself

  immortal. He could no longer afford such brashness—he was king now.

  “Tell me of the battle,” she commanded. “It is over quickly. Did my

  brother finally find and duel the Traitor?”

  The messenger gave his report, and as he did so, Jasnah allowed a frown

  to creep onto her face. It was possible that five thousand could defeat such a larger force, but hardly likely. She wasn’t the only one surprised by the report—she sat in the command tent, along with a group of older generals

  who were too aged to take part in the actual battle. Several of these mut-

  tered to themselves at the oddity. As the messenger finished his report, one of the generals walked over to the logistics map—which was set on a low

  table in the center of the room—and began arguing over how the battle

  might have proceeded.

  The messenger waited patiently, still kneeling. Jasnah dismissed him

  with a wave of her hand, and he retreated from the large tent pavilion. The thick tent flap dripped a trickle of water as he brushed past it on his way out.

  Jasnah glanced to the side as the generals continued to argue. “Well?” she asked of her companion, the only other woman in the room.

  Shinri Davar, Jasnah’s ward, pursed her lips. Of medium build with a