Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
“Kaladin is right,” Syl said. “We can’t back down now. Our remaining gemstones won’t last much longer.”
“We have to try,” Kaladin said with a nod.
“Try what, Kal?” Adolin said. “Take on an army of Voidbringers by ourselves?”
“I don’t know how the portal works,” Shallan added. “I don’t even know how much Stormlight it might require.”
“We’ll … we’ll try something,” Kaladin said. “We have Stormlight still. An illusion? A distraction? We could get you to the Oathgate, and you could … find out how to free us.” He shook his head. “We can make it work. We have to.”
Shallan bowed her head, listening to Pattern hum. Some problems could not be fixed with a lie.
* * *
Jasnah carefully stepped out of the way of a troop of soldiers running for the Oathgate. She had been informed via spanreed that troops were gathering in Urithiru to come help. Unfortunately, they would soon have to acknowledge what she already knew.
Thaylen City was lost.
Their adversary had played this hand too well. That angered her, but she kept that emotion in check. At the very least, she hoped that Amaram’s band of malcontents would soak up arrows and spears long enough to let the Thaylen civilians evacuate.
Lightning from the storm lit the city red.
Focus. She had to focus on what she could do, not what she had failed to do. First, she had to see that her uncle didn’t get himself killed fighting a useless battle. Second, she needed to help evacuate Thaylen City; she had already warned Urithiru to prepare for refugees.
Both these goals would wait a short time as she dealt with a matter even more pressing.
“The facts align,” Ivory said. “The truth that has always been, will now soon manifest to all.” He rode upon the high collar of her dress, tiny, holding on with one hand. “You are correct. A traitor is.”
Jasnah undid the buttons on her safehand sleeve and pinned it back, exposing the gloved hand underneath. In preparation, she’d also worn a scout’s yellow and gold havah, with shorter skirts slit at the sides and front, trousers underneath. Sturdy boots.
She turned out of the path of another group of cursing soldiers and strode up the steps to the doorway of the temple of Pailiah’Elin. True to the information she’d been given, she found Renarin Kholin kneeling on the floor inside, head bowed. Alone.
A spren rose from his back, bright red, shimmering like the heat of a mirage. A crystalline structure, like a snowflake, though it dripped light upward toward the ceiling. In her pouch, she carried a sketch of the proper spren of the Truthwatchers.
And this was something different.
Jasnah put her hand to the side, then—taking a deep breath—summoned Ivory as a Shardblade.
* * *
Venli hopped down from the ship’s improvised gangway. The city before her was yet another marvel. Built up the side of a mountain, it looked almost like it had been cut from the stone—sculpted like the winds and rain had shaped the Shattered Plains.
Hundreds of singers streamed around her. Hulking Fused walked among them, bearing carapace armor as impressive as any Shardplate. Some of the ordinary singers wore warform—but unlike their Alethi counterparts, they had not been through combat training.
Azish, Thaylen, Marati … a host of nationalities, these newly awakened singers were frightened, uncertain. Venli attuned Agony. Would they force her to march to the front line? She didn’t have much battle training either; even with a form of power, she’d be cut to ribbons.
Like my people, on the field of Narak, who were sacrificed to birth the Everstorm. Odium seemed very quick to expend the lives of both listener and singer.
Timbre pulsed to Peace in her pouch, and Venli rested her hand on it. “Hush,” she whispered to Agony. “Hush. Do you want one of them to hear you?”
Timbre reluctantly softened her pulsings, though Venli could still feel a faint vibration from her pouch. And that … that relaxed her. She almost thought that she could hear the Rhythm of Peace herself.
One of the hulking Fused called for her. “You! Listener woman! Come!”
Venli attuned the Rhythm of Destruction. She would not be intimidated by these, gods though they be. She stepped up to this one and kept her head high.
The Fused handed her a sword in a sheath. She took it, then attuned Subservience. “I’ve used an axe before, but not—”
“Carry it,” he said, eyes glowing softly red. “You may need to defend yourself.”
She did not object further. There was a fine line between respectful confidence and defiance. She belted the sword on her slender body, wishing she had some carapace.
“Now,” the Fused said to Conceit, striding forward and expecting her to keep up, “tell me what this little one is saying.”
Venli followed him to a gathering of singers in workform, holding spears. She had been speaking to the Fused in the ancient language, but these were speaking in Thaylen.
I’m an interpreter, she thought, relaxing. That’s why they wanted me on the battlefield.
“What was it,” Venli said to Derision, addressing the one the Fused had indicated, “you wished to say to the holy one?”
“We…” The singer licked his lips. “We aren’t soldiers, ma’am. We’re fishers. What are we doing here?” Though a shade of the Rhythm of Anxiety laced his words, his cringing form and face were the stronger indication. He spoke and acted like a human.
She interpreted.
“You are here to do as you are told,” the Fused told them, through Venli. “In return, you are rewarded with further opportunities to serve.” Though his rhythm was Derision, he didn’t seem angry. More … as if he were lecturing a child.
She passed that along, and the sailors looked to each other, shuffling uncomfortably.
“They wish to object,” she told the Fused. “I can read it in them.”
“They may speak,” he said.
She prompted them, and their leader looked down, then spoke to Anxiety. “It’s just that … Thaylen City? This is our home. We’re expected to attack it?”
“Yes,” the Fused said after Venli interpreted. “They enslaved you. They tore your families apart, treated you like dumb animals. Do you not thirst for vengeance?”
“Vengeance?” the sailor said, looking to his fellows for support. “We’re glad to be free. But … I mean … some of them treated us pretty nice. Can’t we just go settle somewhere, and leave the Thaylens alone?”
“No,” the Fused said. Venli interpreted, then jumped to follow him as he stalked off.
“Great one?” she asked to Subservience.
“These have the wrong Passion,” he said. “The ones who attacked Kholinar did so gladly.”
“The Alethi are a warlike people, great one. It’s not surprising they passed this on to their slaves. And perhaps these were better treated?”
“They were slaves for far too long. We need to show them a better way.”
Venli stuck close to the Fused, happy to have found one that was both sane and reasonable. He didn’t shout at the groups they visited, many of whom shared similar complaints. He merely had her repeat the same sorts of phrases.
You must seize vengeance, little ones. You must earn your Passion.
Qualify yourselves for greater service, and you will be elevated to the place of a Regal, given a form of power.
This land was yours long ago, before they stole it. You have been trained to be docile. We will teach you to be strong again.
The Fused remained calm, but fierce. Like a smoldering fire. Controlled, but ready to burst alight. He eventually walked to join some of his fellows. Around them, the singer army formed up awkwardly, coating the land just east of the bay. Alethi troops mustered across a short battlefield, banners flapping. They had archers, heavy infantry, light infantry, even some outriders on horses.
Venli hummed to Agony. This was going to be a slaughter.
She suddenly felt som
Those are the spirits of the dead, she realized. Fused who haven’t yet chosen a body. Most were twisted to the point that she barely recognized them as singers. Two were roughly the size of buildings.
One dominated even these: a creature of swirling violence, tall as a small hill, seemingly made up entirely of red smoke. She could see these overlaid on the real world, but somehow knew they would be invisible to most. She could see into the other world. That happened sometimes right before …
A blistering heat shone behind her.
Venli braced herself. She usually only saw him during the storms. But … this was a storm. It hovered behind, immobile, churning the seas.
Light crystallized beside her, forming an ancient parshman with a face marbled gold and white, and a regal scepter he carried like a cane. For once, his presence didn’t vaporize her immediately.
Venli released a relieved breath. This was more an impression than his true being. Still, power streamed from him like the tendrils of a vinebud waving in the wind, vanishing into infinity.
Odium had come to personally supervise this battle.
* * *
Teft hid.
He couldn’t face the others. Not after … after what he’d done.
Rock and Bisig bleeding. Eth dead. The room destroyed. The Honorblade stolen.
He had … he had on a Bridge Four … uniform.…
Teft scrambled through the rock hallways, passing shamespren in bursts, looking for a place where nobody could see him. He’d done it again, to yet another group that trusted him. Just like with his family, whom he’d sold out in a misguided attempt at righteousness. Just like with his squad in Sadeas’s army, whom he’d abandoned for his addiction. And now … and now Bridge Four?
He tripped on an uneven bit of stone in the dark hallway and fell, grunting, scraping his hand against the floor. He groaned, then lay there, knocking his head against the stone.
Would that he could find someplace hidden, and squeeze inside, never ever to be found again.
When he looked up, she was standing there. The woman made of light and air, with curls of hair that vanished into mist.
“Why are you following me?” Teft growled. “Go pick one of the others. Kelek! Pick anyone but me.”
He rose and pushed past her—she had barely any substance—and continued down the hallway. Light from ahead showed that he’d accidentally made his way to the outer ring of the tower, where windows and balconies overlooked the Oathgate platforms.
He stopped by a stone doorway, puffing, holding on with a hand that bled from the knuckles.
“Teft.”
“You don’t want me. I’m broken. Pick Lopen. Rock. Sigzil. Damnation, woman. I…”
What was that?
Drawn by faint sounds, Teft walked into the empty room. Those sounds … Shouts?
He walked out onto the balcony. Below, figures with marbled skin flooded across one of the Oathgate platforms, the one that led to Kholinar. That was supposed to be locked, unusable.
Scouts and soldiers began to shout in panic down below. Urithiru was under attack.
* * *
Puffing from her run, Navani scrambled up the last few steps onto the wall of Thaylen City. Here, she found Queen Fen’s retinue. Finally.
She checked her arm clock. If only she could find a fabrial that would manipulate exhaustion, not just pain. Wouldn’t that be something. There were exhaustionspren, after all …
Navani strode along the wall walk toward Fen. Below, Amaram’s troops flew the new Sadeas banner: the axe and the tower, white on forest green. Anticipationspren and fearspren—the eternal attendants of the battlefield—grew up around them. Sadeas’s men were still streaming through the gates, but already blocks of archers moved forward. They’d soon start pelting the disorganized parshman army.
That storm though …
“The enemy only keeps coming,” Fen said as Navani approached, her admirals making room. “I’ll soon get to judge your famed Alethi troops firsthand—as they fight an impossible battle.”
“Actually,” Navani said, “we’re better off than it looks. The new Sadeas is a renowned tactician. His soldiers are well rested and—if lacking in discipline—known for their tenacity. We can attack the enemy before it finishes deploying. Then, if they rebound and overwhelm us with numbers, we can pull back into the city until we get reinforcements.”
Kmakl, Fen’s consort, nodded. “This is winnable, Fen. We might even be able to capture some of our ships back.”
The ground shook. For a moment, Navani felt that she was on a swaying ship. She cried out, grabbing the battlement to keep from falling.
Out in the field, between the enemy troops and the Alethi ones, the ground shattered. Lines and cracks split the stone, and then an enormous stone arm pulled itself from the ground—the fractures having outlined its hand, forearm, elbow, and upper arm.
A monster easily thirty feet tall pulled itself from the stone, dropping chips and dust on the army below. Like a skeleton made of rock, it had a wedge-shaped head with deep, molten red eyes.
* * *
Venli got to watch the thunderclasts awaken.
Among the waiting spirits were two larger masses of energy—souls so warped, so mangled, they didn’t seem singer at all. One crawled into the stone ground, somehow inhabiting it like a spren taking residence in a gemheart. The stone became its form.
Then it ripped itself free of the rock. Around her, the parshmen stumbled back in awe, so surprised that they actually drew spren. The thing loomed over the human forces, while its companion climbed into the stone ground, but didn’t rip out immediately.
There was one other, mightier than even these. It was out in the water of the bay, but when she looked into the other world, she couldn’t help but glance toward it. If those two lesser souls had created such daunting stone monsters, then what was that mountain of power?
In the Physical Realm, the Fused knelt and bowed their heads toward Odium. So they could see him too. Venli knelt quickly, knocking her knees against the stone. Timbre pulsed to Anxiety, and Venli put her hand on the pouch, squeezing it. Quiet. We can’t fight him.
“Turash,” Odium said, resting fingers upon the shoulder of the Fused she had been following. “Old friend, you look well in this new body.”
“Thank you, master,” Turash said.
“Your mind holds firm, Turash. I am proud of you.” Odium waved toward Thaylen City. “I have prepared a grand army for our victory today. What do you think of our prize?”
“An excellent position of great import, even without the Oathgate,” Turash said. “But I fear for our armies, master.”
“Oh?” Odium asked.
“They are weak, untrained, and frightened. Many may refuse to fight. They don’t crave vengeance, master. Even with the thunderclast, we may be outmatched.”
“These?” Odium asked, looking over his shoulder at the gathered singers. “Oh, Turash. You think too small, my friend! These are not my army. I brought them here to watch.”
“Watch what?” Venli asked, looking up. She cringed, but Odium paid her no mind. Odium held his hands to the sides, yellow-gold power streaming behind his figure like a wind made visible. Beyond him, in the other place, that red churning power became more real. It was pulled into this realm completely, and the ocean boiled.
Something came surging out. Something primeval, something Venli had felt but never truly known. Red mist. Ephemeral, like a shadow you see on a dark day and mistake for something real. Charging red horses, angry and galloping. The forms of men, killing and dying, shedding blood and reveling in it. Bones piled atop one another, making a hill upon which men struggled.
The red mist climbed up from the surging waves, rolling out on
* * *
The largest of the spren, the roiling mass of red light, vanished from Shadesmar.
Kaladin gasped and walked closer to the outer edge of the trees, feeling that power vacate this place and … go to the other?
“Something’s happening,” he said to Adolin and Shallan, who were still discussing what to do. “We might have an opening!”
They joined him and watched as the strange army of spren began to vanish too, winking out in waves.
“The Oathgate?” Shallan asked. “Maybe they’re using it?”
In moments, only the six Fused remained, guarding the bridge.
Six, Kaladin thought. Can I defeat six?
Did he need to?
“I can challenge them as a distraction,” he said to the others. “Maybe we can use some illusions as well? We can draw them off while Shallan sneaks over and figures out how to work the Oathgate.”
“I suppose we don’t have any other choice,” Adolin said. “But…”
“What?” Kaladin said, urgent.
“Aren’t you worried about where that army went?”
* * *
“Passion,” Odium said. “There is great Passion here.”
Venli felt cold.
“I’ve prepared these men for decades,” Odium said. “Men who want nothing so much as something to break, to gain vengeance against the one who killed their highprince. Let the singers watch and learn. I’ve prepared a different army to fight for us today.”
Ahead of them on the battlefield, the human ranks slumped, their banner wavering. A man in glittering Shardplate, sitting upon a white horse, led them.
Deep within his helm, something started glowing red.
The dark spren flew toward the men, finding welcoming bodies and willing flesh. The red mist made them lust, made their minds open. And the spren, then, bonded to the men, slipping into those open souls.
“Master, you have learned to inhabit humans?” Turash said to Subservience.
“Spren have always been able to bond with them, Turash,” Odium said. “It merely requires the right mindset and the right environment.”