Oathbringer by Brandon Sanderson
A man at the door grabbed Guff by the arm as he shuffled in. “Guff? You’re supposed to be on guard, fool man.”
“I’m storming on storming guard, you pisser,” Guff said, shaking his arm free. “The bright wanted to know if we found any soldiers. Well I found a storming soldier, so storm off.”
The guard turned his attention to Moash, then flicked his eyes to Moash’s shoulder. “Deserter?”
Moash nodded. It was true in more ways than one.
“What’s this?” One of the men stood up, a tall fellow. Something about his silhouette, that bald head, that cut of clothing …
“Deserter, Brightlord,” the guard said.
“From the Shattered Plains,” Guff added.
The highlord, Moash realized. Paladar. Vamah’s kinsman and regent, a notoriously harsh man. In years past, he had nearly run the city to the ground, driving away many darkeyes who had the right of travel. Not a caravan had passed when someone hadn’t complained about Paladar’s greed and corruption.
“From the Shattered Plains, you say?” Paladar said. “Excellent. Tell me, deserter, what news is there from the highprinces? Do they know of my plight here? Can I expect aid soon?”
They put him in charge, Moash thought, spotting other lighteyes. They wore fine clothing—not silks of course, but well-trimmed uniforms. Exceptional boots. There was food aplenty set out at the side of this chamber, while those outside scrounged and did heavy labor.
He’d begun to hope … But of course that had been stupid. The arrival of the Voidbringers hadn’t cast the lighteyes down; the few Moash had seen outside were merely the sacrifices. The fawning darkeyes at the periphery confirmed this. Soldiers, guards, some favored merchants.
To Damnation with them! They’d been given a chance to escape from the lighteyes, and it had only made them more eager to be servants! In that moment—surrounded by the pettiness that was his own kind—Moash had a revelation.
He wasn’t broken. All of them were broken. Alethi society—lighteyed and dark. Maybe all of humankind.
“Well?” the regent demanded. “Speak up, man!”
Moash remained silent, overwhelmed. He wasn’t the exception, always ruining what he was given. Men like Kaladin were the exception—the very, very rare exception.
These people proved it. There was no reason to obey lighteyes. They had no power, no authority. Men had taken opportunity and cast it to the crem.
“I … I think there’s something wrong with him, Brightlord,” the guard said.
“Yeah,” Guff added. “Should maybe have mentioned, he’s storming strange in the head now, storming pisser.”
“Bah!” the regent said, pointing at Moash. “Have that one thrown out. We haven’t time for foolishness if we are to restore my place!” He pointed at Guff. “Have that one beaten, and post a competent guard next time, Ked, or you’ll be next!”
Old Guff cried out as they seized him. Moash just nodded. Yes. Of course. That was what they would do.
The guards took him under the arms and dragged him to the side of the tent. They parted the cloth and hauled him out. They passed a frazzled woman trying to divide a single piece of flatbread between three young, crying children. You could probably hear their weeping from the brightlord’s tent, where he had a stack of bread piled high.
The guards threw him back out into the “street” that ran down the middle of the large bunker. They told him to stay away, but Moash barely heard. He picked himself up, dusted himself off, then walked to the third of the work stations—the one seeking hard laborers.
There, he volunteered for the most difficult job they had, pulling wagons of supplies for the Voidbringer army.
Did you expect anything else from us? We need not suffer the interference of another. Rayse is contained, and we care not for his prison.
Skar the bridgeman ran up one of the ramps outside Urithiru, breath puffing in the cold air as he silently counted his steps to maintain focus. The air was thinner up here at Urithiru, and that made running harder, though he really only noticed it outside.
He wore full marching pack and gear: rations, equipment, helmet, jerkin, and a shield tied to the back. He carried his spear, and even had some greaves stuck to his legs, held in place by the shape of the metal. All of that weighed almost as much as he did.
He finally hit the top of the Oathgate platform. Storms, but the center building looked farther away than he remembered. He tried to pick up his pace anyway, and jogged for all he was worth, the pack clinking. Finally—sweating, breath growing ragged—he reached the control building and dashed inside. He finally pulled to a stop, dropping his spear and resting his hands on his knees, gasping for breath.
Most of Bridge Four waited here, some glowing with Stormlight. Of them all, Skar was the only one who—despite two weeks of practice—still hadn’t figured out how to draw it in. Well, except for Dabbid and Rlain.
Sigzil checked the clock they’d been allocated by Navani Kholin, a device the size of a small box. “That was about ten minutes,” he said. “Just under.”
Skar nodded, wiping his brow. He’d run over a mile from the center of the market, then crossed the plateau and charged the ramp. Storms. He’d pushed himself too hard.
“How long,” he said, gasping, “how long did it take Drehy?” The two had set out together.
Sigzil glanced at the tall, muscled bridgeman who still glowed with residual Stormlight. “Under six minutes.”
Skar groaned, sitting down.
“The baseline is equally important, Skar,” Sigzil said, marking glyphs in his notebook. “We need to know a normal man’s abilities to make comparisons. Don’t worry though. I’m sure you’ll figure out Stormlight soon.”
Skar flopped backward, looking up. Lopen was walking around on the ceiling of the room. Storming Herdazian.
“Drehy, you used a quarter of a Basic Lashing, by Kaladin’s terminology?” Sigzil continued, still making notes.
“Yeah,” Drehy said. “I … I know the precise amount, Sig. Strange.”
“Which made you half as heavy as usual, when we put you on the scale back in the rooms. But why does a quarter Lashing make you half as heavy? Shouldn’t it make you twenty-five percent as heavy?”
“Does it matter?” Drehy asked.
Sigzil looked at him as if he were crazy. “Of course it does!”
“I want to try a Lashing at an angle next,” Drehy said. “See if I can make it feel like I’m running downhill, no matter which direction I go. Might not need it. Holding Stormlight … it made me feel like I could run forever.”
“Well, it’s a new record…” Sigzil mumbled, still writing. “You beat Lopen’s time.”
“Did he beat mine?” Leyten called from the side of the small room where he was inspecting the tiling on the floor.
“You stopped for food on the way, Leyten,” Sigzil said. “Even Rock beat your time, and he was skipping like a girl the last third.”
“Was Horneater dance of victory,” Rock said from near Leyten. “Is very manly.”
“Manly or not, it threw off my test,” Sigzil said. “At least Skar is willing to pay attention to proper procedure.”
Skar remained lying on the ground as the others chatted—Kaladin was supposed to come and transport them to the Shattered Plains, and Sigzil had decided to run some tests. Kaladin, as usual, was late.
Teft sat down next to Skar, inspecting him with dark green eyes with bags underneath. Kaladin had named the two of them lieutenants, along with Rock and Sigzil, but their roles had never really settled into that ranking. Teft was the perfect definition of a platoon sergeant.
“Here,” Teft said, handing over a chouta—meatballs wrapped in flatbread, Herdazian style. “Leyten brought food. Eat something, lad.”
Skar forced himself to sit up. “I’m not that much younger than you, Teft. I’m hardly a lad.”
Teft nodded to himself, chewing on his own chouta. Finally, Skar started into his. It was good, not spi
“Everyone keeps telling me that I’ll ‘get it soon,’ ” Skar said. “But what if I don’t? There won’t be room in the Windrunners for a lieutenant who has to walk everywhere. I’ll end up cooking lunch with Rock.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with being on the support team.”
“Pardon, Sarge, but storm that! Do you know how long I waited to hold a spear?” Skar picked up the weapon from beside his pack and laid it across his lap. “I’m good at it. I can fight. Only…”
Lopen left the ceiling, rotating to get his legs under him and floating gently to the floor. He laughed as Bisig in turn tried flying up to the ceiling and crashed headfirst into it. Bisig hopped to his feet, looking down at them all, embarrassed. But what did he have to be embarrassed about? He was standing on the ceiling!
“You were in the military before,” Teft guessed.
“No, but not for lack of trying. You heard of the Blackcaps?”
“Aladar’s personal guards.”
“Let’s just say they didn’t think much of my application.”
Yes, we let darkeyes in. But not runts.
Teft grunted, chewing on his chouta.
“Said they might reconsider if I equipped myself,” Skar said. “Do you know how much armor costs? I was a stupid rocksplitter with visions of battlefield glory.”
It used to be they’d never speak about their pasts. That had changed, though Skar couldn’t specify exactly when. It came out, as part of the catharsis of having become something greater.
Teft was an addict. Drehy had struck an officer. Eth had been caught planning to desert with his brother. Even simple Hobber had been part of a drunken brawl. Knowing Hobber, he’d probably only gone along with what his squad was doing, but a man had ended up dead.
“You’d think,” Teft said, “that our high and mighty leader would have gotten here by now. I swear, Kaladin acts more like a lighteyes every day.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Skar said.
“I’ll say what I want,” Teft snapped. “If that boy’s not going to come, maybe I should be going. I have things to do.”
Skar hesitated, glancing up at Teft.
“Not that,” Teft growled. “I’ve barely touched the stuff in days. You’d think a man had never had a wild night out, the way you’re all treating me.”
“Didn’t say a thing, Teft.”
“Knowing what we’ve suffered, it’s insane to think that we wouldn’t need something to get us through the day. The moss isn’t the problem. It’s the storming world going all crazy. That’s the problem.”
“Sure is, Teft.”
Teft eyed him, then studied his chouta roll intently. “So … how long have the men known? I mean, did anyone…”
“Not long,” Skar said quickly. “Nobody’s even thinking about it.”
Teft nodded, and didn’t see through the lie. Truth was, most of them had noticed Teft sneaking off to grind a little moss now and then. It wasn’t uncommon in the army. But doing what he’d done—missing duty, selling his uniform, ending up in an alley—that was different. It was the sort of thing that could get you discharged, at best. At worst … well, it might get you assigned to bridge duty.
Trouble was, they weren’t common soldiers anymore. They weren’t lighteyes either. They were something strange, something that nobody understood.
“I don’t want to talk about this,” Teft said. “Look, weren’t we discussing how to get you to glow? That’s the problem at hand.”
Before he could press further, Kaladin Stormblessed finally deigned to arrive, bringing with him the scouts and hopefuls from other bridge crews who had been trying to draw in Stormlight. So far, nobody except men from Bridge Four had managed it, but that included a few that had never actually run bridges: Huio and Punio—Lopen’s cousins—and men like Koen from the old Cobalt Guard, who had been recruited into Bridge Four a couple months back. So there was still hope that others could manage it.
Kaladin had brought roughly thirty people beyond those who had already been training with the team. Judging by their uniform patches, this thirty had come from other divisions—and some were lighteyed. Kaladin had mentioned asking General Khal to round up the most promising potential recruits from throughout the Alethi army.
“All here?” Kaladin said. “Good.” He strode to the side of the single-roomed control building, a sack of glowing gemstones slung over his shoulder. His magnificent Shardblade appeared in his hand, and he slid it into the keyhole in the chamber wall.
Kaladin engaged the ancient mechanism, pushing the sword—and the entire inner wall, which could rotate—toward a specific point marked by murals. The floor began to glow, and outside, Stormlight rose in a swirl around the entire stone plateau.
Kaladin locked the Blade into place at the mark on the floor designating the Shattered Plains. When the glow faded, they’d come to Narak.
Sigzil left his pack and armor leaning against the wall, and strode out. Best they could determine, the entire stone top of the platform had come with them, swapping places with the one that had been out here.
At the platform edge, a group of people climbed across a ramp to meet them. A short Alethi woman named Ristina counted out the bridgemen and soldiers as they passed, marking on her ledger.
“Took you long enough, Brightlord,” she noted to Kaladin—whose eyes glowed faintly blue. “The merchants were beginning to complain.”
It took Stormlight to power the device—some of the gemstones in Kaladin’s sack would have been drained by the process—but curiously, it didn’t take much more to swap two groups than it did to travel one way. So they tried to run the Oathgates when they had people on both sides wanting to exchange places.
“Tell the merchants when they next come through,” Kaladin said, “that the Knights Radiant are not their doormen. They’ll want to accustom themselves to waiting, unless they find a way to swear the oaths themselves.”
Ristina smirked and wrote it down, as if she were going to pass on that exact message. Skar smiled at that. Nice to see a scribe with a sense of humor.
Kaladin led the way through the city of Narak, once a Parshendi stronghold, now an increasingly important human waystop between the warcamps and Urithiru. The buildings here were surprisingly sturdy: well constructed of crem and carved greatshell carapace. Skar had always assumed the Parshendi to be like the nomads who roved between Azir and Jah Keved. He imagined Parshendi who were wild and ferocious, without civilization, hiding in caves for storms.
Yet here was a well-built, carefully laid-out city. They’d found a building full of artwork of a style that baffled the Alethi scribes. Parshman art. They’d been painting even while they fought a war. Just like … well, just like ordinary people.
He glanced at Shen—no, Rlain, it was hard to remember—walking with spear to his shoulder. Skar forgot he was there most of the time, and that made him ashamed. Rlain was as much a member of Bridge Four as anyone else, right? Would he rather have been painting than fighting?
They passed sentry posts full of Dalinar’s soldiers, along with many in red and light blue. Ruthar’s colors. Dalinar was putting some of the other soldiers to work, trying to prevent more dustups between soldiers from different princedoms. Without the fighting on the Shattered Plains to keep them focused, the men were getting restless.
They passed a large group of soldiers practicing with bridges on a nearby plateau. Skar couldn’t hold back a grin as he saw their black uniforms and helms. Plateau runs had been started again, but with more structure, and the spoils were shared equally among the highprinces.
Today, it was the Blackcaps’ turn. Skar wondered if any of them would recognize him. Probably not, even if he had caused quite a ruckus among them. There had been only one logical way to get the equipment he needed for his application: He’d stolen it from the Blackcap quartermaster.
Skar had thought they would praise his ingenuity. He was
Wrong. His reward had been a slave brand and eventual sale to Sadeas’s army.
He brushed his fingers across the scars on his forehead. Stormlight had healed the brands of the other men—they’d covered them all up with tattoos anyway—but it seemed another little dig, dividing him from the others. Right now, he was the only fighting man in Bridge Four who still had his slave brand.
Well, him and Kaladin, whose scars wouldn’t heal for some reason.
They reached the training plateau, crossing the old Bridge Four, which was held in place with some Soulcast rock guideposts. Kaladin called a meeting of the officers as several of Rock’s children set up a water station. The tall Horneater seemed beyond enthused to have his family working with him.
Skar joined Kaladin, Sigzil, Teft, and Rock. Though they stood close, there was a conspicuous gap where Moash should have been. It felt so wrong to have a member of Bridge Four completely unaccounted for, and Kaladin’s silence on the topic hung over them like an executioner’s axe.
“I’m worried,” Kaladin said, “that nobody practicing with us has begun breathing Stormlight.”
“It’s only been two weeks, sir,” Sigzil said.
“True, but Syl thinks several ‘feel right,’ though she won’t tell me who, as she says it would be wrong.” Kaladin gestured toward the newcomers. “I asked Khal to send me another batch of hopefuls because I figured the more people we had, the better our chances of finding new squires.” He paused. “I didn’t specify they couldn’t be lighteyed. Perhaps I should have.”
“Don’t see why, sir,” Skar said, pointing. “That’s Captain Colot—good man. He helped us explore.”
“Just wouldn’t feel right, having lighteyed men in Bridge Four.”
“Other than you?” Skar asked. “And Renarin. And, well, any of us who earn our own Blades, and maybe Rock, who I think might have been lighteyed among his people, even if he has dark—”
“Fine, Skar,” Kaladin said. “Point made. Anyway, we don’t have a lot of time left before I leave with Elhokar. I’d like to push the recruits harder, see if they’re likely to be able to swear the oaths. Any thoughts?”