Chapter 81

Somehow, I’ve never been good at this. Ten thousand years, and some things I just cannot learn.

T he enemy arrived. Hitting Narak Prime, exactly as Sigzil didn’t want them to.

So he fought, hoping his plan with the Lightweaving would divert them. For now he had to hold the skies, creating burning eyes with a silvery spear. Vienta began spinning around him as he flew between clashes, a woman shrouded in flowing cloth. Though he knew she felt more comfortable hidden, she remained visible to encourage him as he soared through the Everstorm’s omnipresent darkness.

Keep going, Sigzil. This is where you belong: the scholar with a spear.

He hadn’t fit in with the scholars at home because he didn’t like sitting in musty rooms reading. He’d wanted to be out doing field research, learning and experiencing. That was why Master Hoid had chosen him as an apprentice. And it was why he was an effective Windrunner.

And now, why he could lead.

He summoned his Shardspear and plummeted from the heights, joined by a force of thirty Windrunners glowing Radiant in defiance of the eternal night.

They clashed with the Skybreakers, who’d flown in to give air support to the major offensive against Narak Prime. Those Focused Ones had proven capable of launching boulders with their springlike musculature, and were trying to bring down walls. That meant the defenders had to change tactics—sending forces out to harry advancing enemies, rather than only flying above the plateau.

In a moment, Sigzil was fighting for his life again. The Skybreakers fought wordlessly, never responding to demands or questions. Slate-faced destroyers who burned the air, a rare few of them wearing glittering Shardplate. At least Nale himself was nowhere to be seen; Sigzil did not fancy his chances against a Herald.

He swept with his spear, then Lashed to the side, whirling around his enemy—who struck at the wrong spot. Sigzil planted a dagger in the man’s neck from behind, and that dagger—made from a stolen enemy lance—pulled Stormlight out. The enemy froze in the air, paralyzed by the trauma.

Sigzil released the knife hilt and left the Skybreaker trembling there, instead defending against two others who tried to save their fellow. He held them off until their companion’s Stormlight finally dwindled. Sigzil ducked backward and yanked the dagger free, timing it perfectly, leaving the unfortunate Skybreaker to drop.

The other two dove after him, exposing their backs to Sigzil—who dove as well, summoning Vienta as a long Shardlance. He rammed it through one of their backs, then formed a Blade to sweep at the other—all while they fell together.

Four figures crashed into the plateau. Only Sigzil rose, standing upright as a ring of Stormlight expanded from him—brushing across three corpses. Fent and Kalleb, two of his squires, swooped in to check on him. The three struck out across the plateau—one without walls, on the outskirts of the battlefield—dodging between clashing Radiants.

Come on, Sigzil thought, glancing toward Narak Three in the distance. It had to be a tempting target, with those lower walls. If the Lightweavers did their job right, Deepest Ones—who peeked through walls and scouted the area—would soon give the report that a huge gemstone stash was there, heavily guarded. Hopefully not suspiciously so.

It was a perfect feint. Just subtle enough, just tempting enough. He had to hope it worked, because those Focused Ones were breaking the wall of Narak Prime—and the Stonewards were running low on Light to repair it.

Storms. He’d never been in a battle such as this, full of so many Radiants and Fused. They dominated this battlefield, Heavenly Ones streaking through the sky. A few rare Husked Ones dropped their bodies, becoming ribbons of light, proving difficult to target and counter. Deepest Ones emerged from stone where the wooden protections had been broken, while Magnified Ones with hulking silhouettes clashed against Stonewards who liquefied the ground.

It was madness. Traditional battle lines and formations were almost impossible to maintain. Sigzil and his squires soared through this mess, targeting a Focused One—who, harried from above, had been forced to begin launching boulders into the sky. Magnified Ones nearby pulled large carts full of the stones as ammunition.

Sigzil and his squires came in low and fast, and Sigzil dismissed his Shardlance and yanked out a conventional sword. The two squires ran interference, distracting guards. In the confusion, the enemy couldn’t determine which was the full Radiant until Sigzil had maximum momentum and rammed a newly formed Shardspear straight through the eye of a Focused One. Others nearby cursed him and began launching boulders at him, but Sigzil used rapid-fire Lashings to yank himself one way, then the other, and left a burning-eyed Focused One behind.

There were barely fifteen of those left, so each one they brought down was a huge loss to the enemy. After regrouping with his squires, he saw a heartening sight. The remaining Focused Ones suddenly pivoted, and the entire army charged instead toward Narak Three—with its lower number of defenders and supposedly rich contents.

“Storms!” Kalleb exclaimed, running a hand through his short dark beard. “Sir, it’s working. ”

With a sense of overwhelming relief, he checked the spanreeds strapped to his arm. With them he sent confirmation of the enemy’s pivot to his generals—and that the next phase of the plan could move forward. The army was to act panicked, pretend they’d been caught with their trousers around their ankles, and mount a hasty defense of Narak Three. Encourage the enemy to double down there and try to break through. It was working.

Except … this other spanreed? That was from Leyten. Sigzil answered it, and the ruby started giving a message via Windrunner code.

Found him. North side.

Sigzil felt a sudden chill. Him.

Moash.

Sigzil quickly sent back a message: Do. Not. Engage.

No response. Damnation.

“Come on!” Sigzil said, diving in the indicated direction.

Fully plated, Adolin ripped the top off the large wooden box his team had brought through the Oathgate when he’d come to Azimir. It was still in the wagon bed; its weight bowed and strained the boards of the vehicle. Two horses had struggled to pull it.

Adolin threw the top aside, revealing the chain.

An enormous aluminum chain—Yanagawn wasn’t the only one with access to the stuff. The Radiants had been experimenting with the exceptionally light metal. Specifically, chains like this one sometimes helped against thunderclasts.

He hurried to the front of the wagon, where Gallant was reluctantly allowing himself to be harnessed. The Ryshadium eyed him.

“I know it’s not glorious,” Adolin said. “But it’s what we need.”

The horse snorted, but stopped nipping at the grooms. In the distance, enormous footsteps shook the ground. It was coming.

“Two ordinary horses could barely pull this,” Adolin added to Gallant. “Stallions.”

Gallant eyed him, then blew out.

“Yes, I’m trying to manipulate you,” Adolin said, with a grin. “Is it working?”

The horse held his head high, and Adolin turned toward his team, who stood among waving ribbons of anticipationspren. These forty soldiers had armed themselves with ropes and hammers, carrying oil in barrels on their backs. All had been of only minor effectiveness against a thunderclast, but it was something.

Storms, he’d hoped never to try this again without Radiants. Adolin grabbed his Shardhammer from the ground near the wagon and pointed, raising a shout of defiance from his soldiers. Then he charged toward the hulking shadow that had climbed over the walls into Azimir and was thundering toward the dome.

Gallant strained forward, pulling the wagon—which squealed in protest, but did move. Adolin’s soldiers charged with him. They somehow had to fight a beast made entirely of stone. Thirty feet tall, with glowing red eyes and a face that evoked the lean, arrowheaded danger of an axehound. This particular thunderclast was more feral-looking than the one Adolin had fought—and failed to defeat—in Thaylen City.

Adolin led his team along a wide city street empty of people, and had flashbacks to Thaylen City. Same heartbeat in the stone, made by massive feet. Same sound of buildings crashing down as it brushed past them. Same thundering in Adolin’s chest as he faced a terrible truth.

He was a common man in a world of giants. Against these things, even Shardweapons were of middling effectiveness.

I might need you, he thought to Maya. I’m sorry.

… Understand … she sent, distant. But … I am close … to what you asked …

I fear I sent you on a meaningless chase, Adolin told her, frank. It might be best if you just return.

Please … she replied.

Well, he wasn’t going to force the issue. No soldier served with him who didn’t want to. It was bad military practice perhaps, but Adolin did a lot of stupid things. Case in point: charging a thunderclast.

Storms, he’d forgotten how big they were.

When his team reached an intersection that the looming thunderclast would most likely pass, he halted them. Horns in the distance announced a major offensive in the dome. As expected, unfortunately. The enemy would be keen to divide the defense. While ordinary troops were basically useless against this thing, it would be an enormous distraction for Adolin and—he saw another figure running up—Neziham, the Azish Shardbearer.

“Commandant says I should aid you,” the man said, his voice echoing in his helm. “But Adolin … those horns.”

“I know,” Adolin said, peeking around the side of the building he was using for cover. The thing was crashing along the large roadway, coming their direction. “But if that thing reaches the dome, it can rip it apart and stomp our armies to pulp.” Adolin glanced back at Neziham, viewing him through the slit in his own helm. “The regular soldiers and the commandant will have to hold the dome.”

“They have more Fused now,” Neziham said, pained.

“I hate it too. I’m sorry.”

Adolin worried that the man might rush back to the dome. But as Adolin had come to expect, the Azish troops were made of harder stuff than that. Neziham nodded to him, summoning his Blade. “For Prime and People,” he whispered. “So long as the emperor is on his throne, I fight. Tell me what to do.”

“Nothing we have can hurt that thing except your Blade,” Adolin said. “The rest of us are here to distract it.”

“I go for the legs, then?” he said.

“I tried that,” Adolin said. “But it’s a lot tougher than it sounds, and it sounds storming tough. ” He pointed to the wagon behind them. “Those chains can hold them briefly, trip them. My troops will oil the ground, try to disorient the beast with ropes and arrows. I’ve never tried this with conventional troops though. We always had Edgedancers and Stonewards …”

He took a deep breath, then forged on. “I’ll run in and try to get the chain around its legs. If I can trip it, strike for the neck. Get your Blade into its spine where neck meets head—made of stone or not—and its eyes will go out, same as a human. It’s a spren; Blades can hurt its body, send it back to Shadesmar, force it to recuperate.” He met Neziham’s iron gaze. “That healing can take weeks. We bring this one down, it’s out of the war forever.”

“So be it,” Neziham said, raising a fist.

Adolin clanged his forearm against the other man’s, then ran to pull out the chain.

Zarb Kushkam, commandant supreme of the Azimir Imperial Guard, had never wanted this post.

Most military officers fought to get promoted to a cushy job in the capital—while he had done everything he could to avoid it. Promotions had found him anyway, relentless, regardless of how clearly his essays explained he would rather remain a common field lieutenant.

Well, today he’d get his wish, because they were going to need every soldier. He stood up from the bedside of one of the wounded—he’d been visiting the hospital—and listened to the horns, reading their notes. Enormous incursion. He took a deep breath. He wouldn’t have his Shardbearer for this fight; he’d already sent him to join Adolin against the thunderclast.

So be it. He took his helmet off the bedside table and saluted the wounded soldiers. Then he pushed through the exit and onto the cobbled plaza outside, dominated by the giant dome. In better times, this plaza was a market filled with merchants and tents. Now it was empty.

No. Not empty. Those were figures rising up from the stone. Smooth-skinned singers with a variety of patterns, but each evoking a sense of emaciated, elongated limbs and wide, dangerous eyes.

Deepest Ones. The Fused were here.

“Yaezir,” he swore softly, gathering his personal guard. The bulk of the troops would already be committed in the dome. So he sent a messenger, then led the charge against the Deepest Ones himself. And prayed this wouldn’t be the day he saw his homeland fall.

Sigzil nearly left his squires behind in his haste to find Leyten. He finally spotted an isolated group of people clashing on a small plateau on the north side of the battlefield.

He summoned his Blade and came screaming in, passing puddles that reflected red lightning, full of corrupted rainspren. He closed in as Leyten and three squires faced a glowing man in black.

The moment Sigzil drew near, his Lashings vanished.

Ever since Kaladin had been caught by the strange fabrial that negated Radiant abilities, they’d trained for this. Still, Sigzil went tumbling, his Lashing canceled but not his inertia. His training fled in the moment, and both he and his squires tumbled to the ground.

He looked up in time to see Moash ram his Shardblade through the head of one of Leyten’s squires, dropping the young man with his eyes burning. As Leyten swung with his knife, Moash rose in the air on a quick Lashing, then kicked, sending Leyten sprawling.

No. No.

Sigzil tried to summon his Shardspear—but nothing happened. You couldn’t do that while within one of these bubbles created by the fabrial. He could almost sense his powers, and his weapon, at the edge of his reach. Moash’s Honorblade made him capable of using powers while the rest of them could not.

This was a death trap.

“Out!” Sigzil shouted to his squires. “Now! Run until you feel your powers return.”

“A hundred and twenty-two feet away,” Vienta said, having noted the exact place they entered the field. He repeated her, sending the squires scrambling, panic in their eyes.

Sigzil ran the other way, toward Leyten.

“Sigzil … I’m afraid,” Vienta said.

“Stay hidden,” he replied. “There’s no sand that I see. No way for him to spot you.”

“Stay strong,” she whispered as he took out the knife he’d used to kill the Skybreaker earlier, though he had no intention of fighting Moash like this. He kept his eyes open for the fabrial, saw nothing.

“Leyten!” he shouted on the run. “Retreat! Now! ”

Leyten backed up, accompanied by his two remaining squires. But Sigzil now saw that they couldn’t retreat. As they tried to escape, Moash—using Lashings—cut them off. Leyten looked at Sigzil—who was dashing the thirty yards or so between them—then pointed to the sides.

His squires ran in opposite directions. Leyten stood his ground to distract Moash.

No. No, no, NO!

Leyten tried valiantly, wielding a simple side dagger against an Honorblade. He wisely ducked the first strike, then got into a grapple, which held Moash off a few moments.

Sigzil arrived a second later, slamming his specialized knife down into Moash’s back as the two struggled.

Moash didn’t so much as flinch, though he did turn and glance at Sigzil.

And the man’s eyes were entirely crystalline.

Two diamonds, glowing with Voidlight, had replaced his eyes—and indeed, they seemed to have lanced through his skull, because pieces of them jutted from the back and sides of his head. As if they’d grown in among his brains, crusting them like a fungus. It looked almost as if he had a crown of crystals.

Sigzil stumbled back, yanking his dagger free, unnerved by that inhuman gaze.

Moash shoved Leyten to the side in a heap—he groaned, still alive—then spun and leveled the Honorblade. In the traitor’s other hand, he carried a bloodied knife, one that warped the air.

Then, with that unnerving gaze pinned on Sigzil, Moash smiled.

Sigzil raised his weapon—though the strange metal at the core of the knife could block a Shardblade, he was just a man with a knife against a fully powered Radiant. So, instead of doing something stupid—well, stupid er —he kept his distance, and tried to get Moash talking.

“Moash,” he said, “you don’t have to do this.”

“Of course I don’t,” Moash said.

“ Why, then?” Sigzil asked, genuinely pained.

“You ask your enemy why he fights you?”

“We weren’t always enemies!” Sigzil said, edging over toward Leyten, who was groaning on the ground.

“We were brothers, Sig,” Moash said. “But then you chose the Alethi lighteyes over me—you went to them, after they murdered us, degraded us. After all that, you became hounds in the laps of the Kholins.” He pointed with his sword. “I used to avoid emotion. Reject it. I welcome it now. It is my sword as much as this Blade.”

“But …” Sigzil trailed off as Moash—whose eyelids blinked normally over those glowing crystal eyes—glanced upward.

“He can see me,” Vienta whispered. “Sigzil, those crystal eyes of his can see me.”

“Go,” Sigzil hissed to Vienta. “ Now. ”

Sigzil braced himself and lunged forward, hoping to catch Moash while he was distracted. But Moash Lashed himself upward, swinging with the knife that distorted the air.

Sigzil heard a piercing shriek that twisted his insides. But it wasn’t Vienta that Moash struck.

Leyten shouted in anguish and stretched bloodied fingers upward. He’d been stabbed during his clash with Moash earlier.

“Ethenia,” Leyten whispered. “No …”

Moash lightly floated away from Sigzil, easily staying out of his reach, and landed near Leyten. There, he plunged the anti-Stormlight knife straight into Leyten’s chest.

“ NO! ” Sigzil screamed.

Moash stood, and glanced toward shouts from nearby—an entire force, fetched by the squires, running this way. He tapped his wrists together in the Bridge Four salute, then took to the sky—streaking away in the darkness.

Weeping, Sigzil reached Leyten, who was bleeding profusely. “Sorry, Sig,” Leyten wheezed. “We … we didn’t mean to engage … We were in the air and he swooped back on us … activated the device so we dropped …”

“Don’t speak, Leyten,” Sigzil said, stanching the wounds, but feeling helpless. Those were deep cuts. He grabbed the man under the arms. “I need to get you out of this bubble so you can be healed.”

“I was stupid …” Leyten said. “I let him get another of us, Sig … I …”

Sigzil began pulling the larger man, even though his medical training said not to move someone with such serious wounds. But within this field, Leyten had no chance.

“I … I see something, Sig. I see you … Storms, I am you …”

“Don’t—”

“I die!” Leyten shouted, spasming. “The Scholar with a Spear! I die by the hands of a friend! My spren screams in death, and I know that I have failed to lead! I am no captain! I am nothing! Vyre strikes me, and my eyes burn!”

Moments later, a pair of Edgedancers—led by Sigzil’s squires—found Sigzil weeping, his fingers bloody as he worked feverishly to sew up the wounds of a man who had already died.

The fabrial proved to be hidden in the shell of a rock, easy to miss. They deactivated it, then stood around Sigzil, solemn. His mind was full of those last words, that Death Rattle, which had prophesied Vienta’s and Sigzil’s own deaths by the terrible hand that had taken Teft and Leyten.