Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

“Make certain the armies we’re going to fight in Emul haven’t been secretly reinforced. That could be terrible for us—the only true disaster I can envision here is Azimir being besieged, and unable to be resupplied via the Oathgates. Having seen that city, I’d hate to be trapped there.”

“Agreed,” Dalinar said.

The Mink leaned out further, precariously, as he watched the battlefield below. It was hard to hear—muffled clangs, shouts from far away. Men moved like lifespren.

But Dalinar could smell the sweat. Could hear the roar. Could feel himself standing among the struggling, screaming, dying bodies and dominating with Blade in hand. Once you’d tasted the near invincibility of wearing Plate and wading in among mortals, it was a … difficult flavor to forget.

“You miss it,” the Mink said, eyeing him.

“Yes,” Dalinar admitted.

“They could use you on the ground.”

“Down there, I’d be merely another sword. I can do more in other positions.”

“Pardon, Blackthorn, but you were never merely another sword.” The Mink crossed his arms, leaning against the wooden railing. “You keep saying you’re more use elsewhere, and I suppose you make a pretty good storm for renewing spheres. But I can sense you stepping away. What are you planning?”

That was the question. He sensed there was so much more for him to do. Greater things. Important things. The tasks of a Bondsmith. But getting to them, figuring them out …

“They’re breaking,” the Mink said, standing up straight. “You want to let them go, or pin them and crush them?”

“What do you think?” Dalinar asked.

“I hate fighting men who feel they have no way out,” the Mink said.

“We can’t afford to let them reinforce the enemy to the south,” Dalinar said. That would be their true battlefield, once this skirmish was over. The war for Emul. “Keep pressing them until they surrender.”

The Mink began giving the orders. From below, drums washed over the battlefield: the frantic attempts by enemy commanders to maintain discipline as the lines disintegrated. He could almost hear their shouted, panic-tinged cries. Desperation in the air.

The Mink is right, Dalinar thought. They made a real effort here to strike at us—but something is wrong. We’re missing a piece of the enemy’s plan.

As he was watching, a nondescript soldier stepped up beside him. Dalinar had brought only a handful of bodyguards today: three men from the Cobalt Guard, and a single Shardbearer. Cord, the Horneater woman, who had taken it upon herself to join his guards for reasons he didn’t quite understand.

He also held a hidden weapon—the man who stood beside him, so ordinary in his Alethi uniform, holding a sheathed sword that was admittedly longer than regulation. Szeth, the Assassin in White, wearing a false face. He didn’t speak, though the complex Lightweaving he wore would disguise his voice. He simply watched, his eyes narrowed. What did he see in this battlefield? What had caught his attention?

Szeth suddenly grabbed Dalinar by the front of his uniform and towed him to the side. Dalinar barely had time to shout in surprise as a glowing figure rose up beside the archer platform, radiant with Stormlight and bearing a silvery Blade. Szeth stepped between Dalinar and the Skybreaker, hand going to his sword. But Dalinar caught him by the arm, preventing him from drawing it. Once that weapon came out, dangerous things happened. They would want to be absolutely certain it was needed before unleashing it.

The figure was familiar to Dalinar. Dark brown skin, with a birthmark on his cheek. Nalan—called Nale. Herald and leader of the Skybreakers. He had shaved his head recently, and held out his Blade in a defiant—perhaps challenging—posture as he addressed Dalinar.

“Bondsmith,” Nale said, “your war is unjust. You must submit to the laws of the—”

An arrow slammed into his face, dead center, interrupting him. Dalinar glanced back, then stopped Cord, who was drawing her Shardbow again. “Wait. I’d hear him.”

Nale, with a suffering expression, pulled the arrow free and dropped it, letting his Stormlight heal him. Could this man be killed? Ash said the enemy had somehow killed Jezrien—but before, when Heralds died, their souls had returned to Damnation to await torture.

Nale didn’t continue his diatribe. He lightly stepped up onto the railing of the platform, then dropped to the deck. He tossed his Blade away, letting it vanish to mist in midair.

“How are you a Bondsmith?” Nale asked Dalinar. “You should not exist, Blackthorn. Your cause is not righteous. You should be denied the true Surges of Honor.”

“Perhaps it is a sign that you are wrong, Nalan,” Dalinar said. “Perhaps our cause is righteous.”

“No,” Nale said. “Other Radiants can lie to themselves and their spren. So-called honorspren prove that morality is shaped by their perceptions. You should be different. Honor should not allow this bonding.”

“Honor is dead,” Dalinar said.

“And yet,” Nale said, “Honor still should prevent this. Prevent you.” He looked Dalinar up and down. “No Shardblade. Fair enough.”

He launched forward, reaching for Dalinar. Szeth was upon him in a moment, but hesitated to draw his strange Blade. Nale moved with a skyeel’s grace, twisting Szeth about and slamming him to the deck of the wooden platform. The Herald slapped aside Szeth’s sheathed sword, punching him in the crook of the elbow and making him drop his weapon. Nale casually reached up and caught the arrow launched from Cord’s Shardbow mere feet away—an inhuman feat.

Dalinar pressed his hands together, reaching beyond reality for the perpendicularity. Nale leaped over Szeth toward Dalinar as the others on the platform shouted, trying to react to the attack.

No, the Stormfather said to Dalinar. Touch him.

Dalinar hesitated—the power of the perpendicularity at his fingertips—then reached out and pressed his hand to Nale’s chest as the Herald reached for him.

Flash.

Dalinar saw Nale stepping away from a discarded Blade rammed into the stone.

Flash.

Nale cradling a child in one arm, his Blade out as dark forces crawled across a ridge nearby.

Flash.

Nale standing with a group of scholars and unrolling a large writ, filled with writing. “The law cannot be moral,” Nale said to them. “But you can be moral as you create laws. Ever must you protect the weakest, those most likely to be taken advantage of. Institute a right of movement, so that a family who feels their lord is unrighteous can leave his area. Then tie a lord’s authority to the people who follow him.”

Flash.

Nale kneeling before a highspren.

Flash.

Nale fighting on a battlefield.

Flash.

Another fight.

Flash.

Another fight.

The visions came faster and faster; Dalinar could no longer distinguish one from another. Until

Flash.

Nale clasping hands with a bearded Alethi man, regal and wise. Dalinar knew this was Jezerezeh, though he couldn’t say how.

“I will take this charge,” Nale said softly. “With honor.”

“Do not consider it an honor,” Jezerezeh said. “A duty, yes, but not an honor.”

“I understand. Though I had not expected you would come to an enemy with this offer.”