Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

All of this ate away at their time. They were also slowed by the need to carry both the wounded and the unconscious Radiants. Rlain did what he could to keep the main group moving, taking them through the Breakaway, avoiding the central corridor—where they’d be too easily exposed to Heavenly Ones from above.

However, he found himself attuning Despair. They were being watched—that cremling that harbored a Voidspren was following them along the wall. Rlain’s band wasn’t quite halfway through the market—still a fair distance from the front of the tower—when cracks broke the air, causing gawking marketgoers to flee. Stormform lightning strikes, used as a signal to empty the streets.

Rlain backed his haggard group against the wall of the large cavern and put their soldiers up front, the Heavenly Ones flying above. Deepest Ones began to emerge from the floor in front of them, and dozens of stormforms approached.

“You’re right, listener,” Leshwi said, lowering down beside him. “I couldn’t have talked us out of this. He knows what we did. Those who approach are humming the Rhythm of Executions.”

“Maybe we should have tried to reach the crystal pillar room,” Rlain said. “And escaped through the tunnels beneath, as Venli suggested.”

“No,” Leshwi said. “Those tunnels are blocked. Our best hope was to escape out the front entrance of the tower, and perhaps cross the mountains. Unfortunately, judging by those rhythms, these who come aren’t being sent by Raboniel. Odium wants me to know. I will be tortured like the Heralds once I return to Braize.” She saluted Rlain. “So first, we fight.”

Rlain nodded, then gripped his spear. “We fight,” he said, then turned to Venli, who had stepped up by his side. “Are there any other spren like the one who bonded you? Would some want other willing singers? Someone like me?”

“Yes,” Venli said to Mourning, “but I sent them away. The Fused would have seen them, hunted them.” She paused, then her rhythm changed to Confusion. “And Timbre says … she says you’re spoken for?”

“What?” he said. “By that honorspren who said he’d take me? I turned him down. I…”

The room went dark.

Then it shone as crystals grew out from his feet like … like stained glass windows, covering the floor. They showed a figure rising in blue-glowing Shardplate, and a tower coming alight.

Keep fighting, a voice said in his head. Salvation will be, Rlain, listener. Bridger of Minds. I have been sent to you by my mother, at the request of Renarin, Son of Thorns. I have watched you and seen your worthiness.

Speak the Words, and do not despair.

* * *

Sigzil blocked Ishar’s attack using his Shardblade. The other Windrunners swarmed forward to protect Dalinar. Szeth, however, stumbled away. The sight of that Honorblade had plainly upset him.

The watching Tukari soldiers started to close their circle, but Ishar ordered them back. Then he danced away from Sigzil, shouting at Dalinar. “Fight me, champion! Face me alone!”

“I brought no weapon, Ishar,” Dalinar said. “The time for the contest of champions has not yet come.”

Ishar fought brilliantly as the other Windrunners tried to gang up on him. He was a blur with a flashing Blade, parrying, dodging, skepping his Blade—making it vanish for a brief moment to pass through a weapon trying to block it. The Windrunners had only recently started practicing the technique; Ishar performed the complex move with the grace of long familiarity.

He is a duelist, Dalinar thought. Storms, and a good one.

What did you expect? the Stormfather rumbled in his mind. He defended mankind for millennia. The Heralds were not all warriors when they began, but all were by the end. Existing for three thousand years in a state of near-constant war changes men. Among the Heralds, Ishar was average in skill.

Ishar faced all five Windrunners at once, and it seemed easy for him. He blocked one, then another, stepping away as a third tried to spear down from above, then swept around with his Blade, slicing the heads off two non-Shard spears.

Sigzil’s Shardblade became a long dueling sword designed for lunges. He struck when Ishar’s back was turned, but the Herald casually twisted and caught the Blade with one finger—touching it along the unsharpened side—and guided it past him. Sigzil stumbled as he drew too close, and Ishar lifted that same hand and slammed it against Sigzil’s chest, sending him sprawling backward to the stones.

Ishar then turned and raised his Shardblade in one hand to deflect one of Lyn’s strikes. Leyten came in, trying to flank, but he looked clumsy compared to the old Herald. Fortunately for the five, Ishar merely defended himself.

Despite earnestly trying, none could land a blow. It was as if … as if they were trying to hit where Ishar was, while he was able to move in anticipation of where they would be.

He is average among them? Dalinar asked. Then … who was the best?

Taln.

The one who sits in my camp? Dalinar thought. Unable to do more than mumble?

Yes, the Stormfather said. There was no dispute. But take care; Ishar’s skill as a duelist is a lesser danger. He has recovered his Honorblade. He is a Bondsmith unchained.

Ishar suddenly dashed forward, rushing into one of Sigzil’s attacks. The old man ducked the strike, then came up and touched Sigzil on the chest. When Ishar’s hand withdrew, he trailed a line of Stormlight behind him. He touched his hand to the ground, and Sigzil stumbled, gasping as his glow started to fade. Ishar had apparently tethered Sigzil to the stones with some kind of glowing rope that drained the Stormlight out and into the ground.

The other four followed, almost faster than Dalinar could track. One after another, tethered to the stone. Not bound, not frozen, but their Light draining away—and all of them stumbled, slowing, as if their lives were being drained with it.

Dalinar glanced at Szeth, but the Shin man had fallen to his knees, wide eyed. Storms. Dalinar should have known better than to depend on the assassin as a bodyguard. Navani had warned him; Szeth was nearly as unstable as the Heralds.

Dalinar didn’t want to see what happened when his troops ran out of Stormlight. He braced himself and thrust his hands between realms, then slammed them together as closed fists, knuckles meeting. In this, he united the three realms, opening a flash of power that washed away all color and infused the Radiants with Light.

Within the well of Light, Dalinar was nearly blinded—figures were mere lines, all shadows banished. Ishar, however, was distinct. Pale, eyes wide, whitened clothing rippling. He dropped his Blade and it turned to mist. Transfixed, he stepped toward Dalinar.

“How?” Ishar asked. The word sounded clear, an incongruity against the soundless rush of power surrounding them. “You … you open Honor’s path.…”

“I have bonded the Stormfather,” Dalinar said. “I need you, Ishar. I don’t need the legend, the Herald of Mysteries. I need the man Ash says you once were. A man willing to risk his life, his work, and his very soul to save mankind.”

Ishar strode closer. Holding the portal open was difficult, but Dalinar kept his hands pressed together. For the moment only he and Ishar existed here, in this place painted white. Ishar stopped a step or two from Dalinar. Yes, seeing another Bondsmith had shaken him.

I can reach him, Dalinar thought.