Arcanum Unbounded: The Cosmere Collection by Brandon Sanderson
He probably shouldn’t have won. Shezler was the more accomplished and practiced Allomancer—but it was obvious he was unaccustomed to fighting someone as strong as he was. He battered at Kelsier with the dueling cane. But with pewter Kelsier could ignore that as well, and instead he punched his shard of glass into the man’s neck—three times.
In seconds it was over. Kelsier stumbled back, aches beginning to register. Shezler might have broken some of his bones with his battering; the man had pewter too, after all. The nobleman lay in his own blood though, twitching. Pewter could save you from a lot of things, but not a slit throat.
The man choked on his own blood. “No,” he hissed. “I can’t … not me … I can’t die.…”
“Anyone can die,” Kelsier whispered, dropping the bloodied shard of glass. “Anyone.”
And a thought, a seed of a plan, began to form in his mind.
“That was too quick,” Gemmel said.
Kelsier looked up, blood dripping from the tips of his fingers. Shezler croaked a final attempt at breath, then fell still.
“You need to learn Pushes and Pulls,” Gemmel said. “Dancing through the air, fighting as a real Mistborn does.”
“He was a real Mistborn.”
“He was a scholar,” Gemmel said, walking forward. He kicked at the corpse. “I picked a weak one first. Won’t be so easy next time.”
Kelsier walked back into the room with the skaa. He freed them, one by one. He couldn’t do much more for them, but he promised that he’d see them safely out of the keep’s grounds. Maybe he could get them in touch with the local underground; he’d been in the city long enough to have a few contacts.
Once he had them all freed, he turned to find them looking toward him in a huddled group. Some of the life seemed to have rekindled in their eyes, and more than a few were peeking into the room where Shezler’s corpse lay on the floor. Gemmel was picking through a notebook on one of the tables.
“Who are you?” asked the matronly woman he’d spoken to earlier.
Kelsier shook his head, still looking toward Gemmel. “I’m a man who has lived through things he shouldn’t have.”
“Those scars…”
Kelsier looked down at his arms, sliced with hundreds of tiny scars from the Pits. Removing his coat had exposed them.
“Come on,” Kelsier said to the people, resisting the urge to cover up his arms. “Let’s get you to safety. Gemmel, what in the Lord Ruler’s name are you doing?”
The older man grunted, leafing through a book. Kelsier trotted into the room and glanced at it.
Theories and suppositions regarding the existence of an Eleventh Metal, the scrawl on the page read. Personal notes. Antillius Shezler.
Gemmel shrugged and dropped the book to the table. Then he carefully and meticulously selected a fork from the fallen tools and other scattered laboratory remains. He smiled and chuckled to himself. “Now that is a fork.” He shoved it into his pocket.
Kelsier took the book. In moments, he was ushering the wounded skaa away from the keep, where soldiers were prowling the yards, trying to figure out what was happening.
Once they were out into the streets again, Kelsier turned back to the glowing building, which was lit with bright colors and beautiful windows. He listened in the curling mists as the guards’ shouting became frantic.
The numbness was gone. He’d found something to replace it. His focus had returned. The spark was back. He’d been thinking too small.
A plan began to bud, a plan he barely dared consider for its audacity. Vengeance. And more.
He turned into the night, into the waiting mists, and went to find someone to make him a mistcloak.
POSTSCRIPT
This short piece was originally published in the Mistborn Adventure Game pen and paper role-playing game by Crafty Games. When we signed on with Crafty, I promised them a short piece of fiction to go in the book, as a sweetener to fans.
I knew I wanted to do a Kelsier story, and it made sense to do a backstory piece digging into the time when he was training as a Mistborn. Showing Gemmel (whom Kelsier had mentioned in the main series) was important, as it is part of the story of how Ruin manipulated Kelsier into doing what he did in the first volume of the trilogy.
At the same time, I also knew that this story would potentially be read by people who hadn’t read the series. Having played many RPGs myself, I know that often one or two people in the group get really excited by a setting and do a campaign there—towing along the rest of the group, who aren’t as familiar with it.
One of my goals with this piece, then, was to have something that would act as a little showpiece for the setting—I wanted something the game master could give to his players who were unfamiliar with the books. Something that would get across the tone, explain the magic system quickly, and act as a short introduction.
Because of that, it’s a little more expository than the other Mistborn pieces in this collection, which assume that you’re already invested in the characters and setting.
ALLOMANCER
JAK
AND THE
PITS OF ELTANIA
EPISODES TWENTY-EIGHT THROUGH THIRTY
SPECIAL BOUND COLLECTION OF ALL THREE EPISODES!
EDITED AND ANNOTATED BY HANDERWYM, JAK’S OWN FAITHFUL TERRIS STEWARD!
This story contains minor spoilers for The Alloy of Law.
I BEGIN this week’s letter as I awake to a mighty headache.
Truly, dear readers, this pain was incredible—and the effect was a din inside my mind not unlike that of a hundred rifles firing. I groaned and rolled to my knees in the darkened chamber; my face had been resting upon cold rock. My vision shook and took time to recover.
What had happened to me? I remembered my contest with the koloss challenger—a brute sized like a steamrail engine, with strength to match. I had defeated him with a bullet through the eye, had I not? Had I not in so doing maintained the loyalty of the entire koloss clan?*
I climbed to my feet and felt gingerly at the back of my head. There, I found dried blood. Fear not, for the wound was not terrible. Surely I had weathered far worse. This was not nearly as bad as when I had found myself sinking in the ocean, my arms bound, my feet tied to a metal bust of the Survivor as I sank.†
The arid air and whistling sound of the wind through broken rock indicated I was still in the Roughs, which was good. These lands of adventure and danger are my natural habitat, and I thrive upon the challenge they provide. If I were to spend too long in the safe and mundane environment of milky Elendel, I fear I would wilt away.
My enclosure was a natural cavern of some sort, with rough stone walls and drooping stalactites on the ceiling. The cavern was shallow, however, and I found that it ended only a few feet back from my initial position. I would not be escaping in that direction, then.*
Cautious of potential gunfire, I edged to the front of the cavern and looked out. As I had guessed from the slight chill to the air, I was elevated. My cavern was on the wall of a small canyon, and the mouth opened only to a steep drop onto a group of rounded rocks far below.
Across from me, atop the ridge on the other side of the canyon, a group of blue figures watched my cavern. The hulking koloss were older ones, their skin stretched and broken, their bodies tattooed and draped with leather created from the skin of the men they had slain and eaten.†
“Why have you stranded me here, dread beasts?” I shouted at them, my voice echoing in the canyon. “And what have you done with the fair Elizandra Dramali? If you have harmed one hair upon her ever-beauteous scalp, you shall know the fury of an Allomancer enraged!”
The savages offered me no reply. They sat around their smoldering fire, and did not even turn in my direction.
Perhaps my situation was not as ideal as I had decided upon my first assessment. The canyon wall outside my cavern was as slick as glass and was as steep as the price of whiskey at Marlie’s waystop. I surely could not survive an attempt to climb down, n
But neither could I simply wait. Miss Dramali, my dear Elizandra, might surely be in danger. Curse that woman and her headstrong ways; she should have remained at camp as instructed. I had no idea what might have happened to her, nor to faithful Handerwym.* The koloss would not dare harm him, because of their vow to the Terris people,† but surely he feared for my safety.
I gave little thought to how I had reached this dire location. I needed metal. My system was clean of it; I had burned the last to steady my hands and eyes as I took the perfect shot at the koloss challenger to my throne. Unfortunately, my captors had stolen Glint—brutes though they are, the koloss are wise enough to take the guns from a man, particularly after seeing my skill with my trusty sidearm. They had also taken my vials of metal. Perhaps they wanted to see if those contained whiskey. Some Roughs Allomancers do store their metals in such solutions, but I have always abstained from the process. The mind of a gentleman adventurer needs to retain clarity at all times.‡
Surely the hidden pouch of tin in the heel of my boot would serve me. By misfortune, however, the heel’s hidden compartment seemed to have been knocked open during my initial scuffle with the koloss champion. I had lost the pouch! I made a note to myself to speak with Ranette about her heel contraption and its tendency to open unexpectedly.
Disaster! An Allomancer without metal. I was left with only my own wits as a tool. Those—though of no small measure—might not be enough. Who knew what kind of trouble the fair Elizandra might be in at this point?
Determined, I began to feel about the cavern. It was an unlikely chance, but we were in highlands prized precisely because of their keen mining opportunities. Indeed, the Survivor favored me this day, for I located a small glimmering strain of metal along the far wall. Almost invisible, I discovered it only by touch.* In the dim cavern I could not judge the metal’s full nature, but I had no other options.
Now, I have found from my infrequent trips to Elendel that I am regarded with a somewhat heroic reputation. I must assure you, good readers, that I am but a humble adventurer, not deserving of an unduly idolized status. That said, while I have never wished for glory,† I do value my reputation. Therefore, if I could remove from your memories the image of this next part of my narrative, I would do so.
However, it has ever been my goal to present to you a sincere and unexpurgated account of my travels in the Roughs. Honesty is my greatest virtue.‡ And so, I offer you the truth of what needed to happen next.
I knelt down and began to lick the wall.
I would not ever wish to look foolish before you, dear readers.§ But in order to survive in the Roughs, a man must be willing to seize opportunity. I did so. With my tongue.
This activity gave me very little tin to burn, but it was enough for a few moments of enhanced senses.¶ I used them to listen with care for some clue as to how I might escape this situation.
I heard two things with my tin-enhanced ears. The first was the tinkling of water. I peeked out of my cavern and saw that the rocks below hid a small stream I had not seen earlier. The other thing I heard was a strange scratching, like that of claws on a branch.
I looked up, hopeful, and there found a crow perched among a sprout of weeds growing from the rocky wall. Could it be?
“Well done!” the crow exclaimed to me in her inhuman voice. “You have found metal even in your prison, Jak. The Survivor is pleased by your ingenuity.”
It was her. Lyndip, my spirit guide, sent by the Survivor to me during my most difficult times of trial.* I have long suspected her to be one of the Faceless Immortals,† as the legends speak of them being able to change forms and take the bodies of animals.
“Lyndip!” I exclaimed. “Is Miss Dramali well? The koloss have not harmed her?”
“They have not, bold adventurer,” Lyndip said. “But she is captured by them and is being held. You must escape, and quickly, for a dire fate awaits her.”
“But how am I to escape!”
“I cannot give you the method,” Lyndip said. “I am a guide, but I cannot solve a hero’s problems for him. It is not the way of the Survivor, who deems that all men must make their own way.”‡
“Very well,” I said. “But tell me, guide: Why was I taken captive again? Had I not earned the loyalty of the koloss clan; was I not their king? I defeated the challenger!”
I am certain my frustration shone through, and I hope you do not think less of me—dear reader—to see such harsh words spoken to my spirit guide. However, I was not only concerned for the safety of my dear Elizandra, but was also devastated to lose the loyalty of this tribe of koloss. Savages though they are, they had seemed close to revealing their secrets to me—secrets I was certain would lead me to the symbol of the spearhead, the bloody footprints, and the Survivor’s Treasure.
“I do not know for certain,” Lyndip said, “but I suspect it was because you used a gun to kill the challenger. Previously, in winning the loyalty of the clan, you did not shoot your rival but frightened him off with the placement of your bullet. Many koloss clans see killing at a distance with guns to be a sign of weakness, not strength.”
Ruthless beasts—savages indeed.* The gun is the most elegant of weapons, the weapon of a gentleman.
“I must escape and rescue the fair Elizandra,” I said. “Guide, did you see how I reached this cavern prison? Do the koloss have a secret passage somewhere, and did they bring me up here by that method?”
“I saw, adventuresome one,” Lyndip said. “But the truth is not what you will wish to hear. There was no secret passage—instead, you were thrown up here by some koloss below.”†
“Rust and Ruin!” I exclaimed. Undoubtedly, the beasts—afraid of the powerful weapons I had used—had placed me here to die of starvation, rather than risking the anger of their gods by killing me with their own hands.
I needed a way out, and quickly. I looked out again, and noticed storm clouds in the near distance. This started me thinking. I glanced down at the trickle of water in the canyon floor below. As I had noticed, the sides of this canyon were particularly smooth. As if … weathered.
Yes! I spotted distinctive lines on the canyon walls—water lines, from when the river ran bold and deep. My avenue of escape was soon to come! Indeed, the rains dumped on the plains upstream, and water soon surged into the canyon and—propelled by the narrower confines here—the river began to swell.
I waited nervously for the right moment to enter the river, and in my waiting, found time despite my anxiety to pen this letter to you. I sealed it in the special, water-proof pocket of my rugged trousers with the hope that if I should meet my end, it would find its way to you somehow once my body was found.
As rain began to fall on the canyon itself, I could wait no longer. I hurled myself into the risen waters below.‡
My readers, I trust this message finds you well. As you may recall, last week’s missive ended with a dangerous leap on my part toward a watery doom. I was certain that my time had come, but I am somewhat pleased to say that I have survived. Only “somewhat” because of the revelation that I must soon impart unto you. If you must read on, be warned: The contents of this letter are dreadful, and might produce discomfort—even sickness—in the more frail and youthful among you.
I did leap from my cavern prison into the rising waters of the river. I must severely advise my readers against this kind of activity unless presented with the most dire of circumstances. The waters of a Roughs-style flash flood are dangerous, full of eddies and deadly rocks. If I had been presented with any other option, I surely would have taken it.
The waters churned around me like a stampede. Fortunately, I had experience with surviving waters of this nature.*
The key to swimming in waters such as these is to not fight. One must travel with the current, as a ship allows the sea to pull it. Still, even keeping afloat in such a tempest requires practice, luck, and force of will.
With strength of arm, I managed to ste
Exhausted, still dizzy from my wound, I flopped to the bank of the river. No sooner was I free, however, than a set of strong arms hauled me into the air.
Koloss. I had been captured again.
The beasts hauled me, sopping wet, away from the roaring river. I left a trail of water in the dust.* I did not fight against my captors. There were six of them, medium-sized koloss, their blue skin starting to pull tight across their bodies, ripping at the sides of the mouths and around the largest of muscles.
They did not speak to me in their brutal tongue, and I knew I could not defeat six at once. Not without my guns and without metal. I deemed it better to let them drag me where they wished. Perhaps I would be placed back in my cavern prison.
Instead, the koloss carted me toward an incongruous stand of trees, hidden within a small valley of rocks. I had never come to this location before—indeed, the koloss had always steered me away from this area, claiming that it was a wasteland. From whence, then, did come the trees?†
The trees hid a small oasis in the dusty ground, a place where water welled up in a natural spring. I found this curious, as prime watering holes are usually marked on my maps.
They drug me past the trees and around the watering hole, and I saw that it was very deep—so deep that the depths were blue, and I could not make out a bottom. The sides were all of stone. And, with a start, I realized that the pool was shaped vaguely like a spearhead.
Could this be it? The location of the Survivor’s Treasure? Had I found it at long last?‡ I looked for the other sign, that of the bloody footprints spoken of in the legends. I did not see them until my wet form was dragged across the stones nearest to the pool.
If you travel long in the Roughs, you will find that water sometimes reveals the true color of stone. This is not so much the case in the city where many of you live, dear readers, as the stones are coated in grime and soot. But here, the land is clean and fresh. The water my body dripped on the stones revealed a pattern in the rock not unlike that of a set of footprints leading into the oasis pool.