Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive

Dalinar squinted, then nodded. Nearby, Thakka had climbed off his horse and had slid out his sword, resting it on his shoulder. A not-so-subtle warning. The archer drew his bow and launched a single black-fletched arrow. It flew true, sticking into the chosen corpse.

A single awespren burst around Dalinar, like a ring of blue smoke. “Stormfather! Thakka, before today, I’d have bet you half the princedom that such a shot wasn’t possible.” He turned to the archer. “What’s your name, assassin?”

The man raised his chin, but didn’t reply.

“Well, in any case, welcome to my elites,” Dalinar said. “Someone get the fellow a horse.”

“What?” the archer said. “I tried to kill you!”

“Yes, from a distance. Which shows remarkably good judgment. I can make use of someone with your skills.”

“We’re enemies!”

Dalinar nodded toward the town below, where the beleaguered enemy army was—at long last—surrendering. “Not anymore. Looks like we’re all allies now!”

The archer spat to the side. “Slaves beneath your brother, the tyrant.”

Dalinar let one of his men help him onto his horse. “If you’d rather be killed, I can respect that. Alternatively, you can join me and name your price.”

“The life of my brightlord Yezriar,” the archer said. “The heir.”

“Is that the fellow…?” Dalinar said, looking to Thakka.

“… That you killed down below? Yes, sir.”

“He’s got a hole in his chest,” Dalinar said, looking back to the assassin. “Tough break.”

“You … you monster! Couldn’t you have captured him?”

“Nah. The other princedoms are digging in their heels. Refuse to recognize my brother’s crown. Games of catch-me with the high lighteyes just encourage people to fight back. If they know we’re out for blood, they’ll think twice.” Dalinar shrugged. “How about this? Join with me, and we won’t pillage the town. What’s left of it, anyway.”

The man looked down at the surrendering army.

“You in or not?” Dalinar said. “I promise not to make you shoot anyone you like.”

“I…”

“Great!” Dalinar said, turning his horse and trotting off.

A short time later, when Dalinar’s elites rode up to him, the sullen archer was on a horse with one of the other men. The pain surged in Dalinar’s right arm as the Thrill faded, but it was manageable. He’d need surgeons to look at the arrow wound.

Once they reached the town again, he sent orders to stop the looting. His men would hate that, but this town wasn’t worth much anyway. The riches would come once they started into the centers of the princedoms.

He let his horse carry him in a leisurely gait through the town, passing soldiers who had settled down to water themselves and rest from the protracted engagement. His nose still smarted, and he had to forcibly prevent himself from snorting up blood. If it was well and truly broken, that wouldn’t turn out well for him.

Dalinar kept moving, fighting off the dull sense of … nothingness that often followed a battle. This was the worst time. He could still remember being alive, but now had to face a return to mundanity.

He’d missed the executions. Sadeas already had the local highprince’s head—and those of his officers—up on spears. Such a showman, Sadeas was. Dalinar passed the grim line, shaking his head, and heard a muttered curse from his new archer. He’d have to talk to the man, reinforce that in striking at Dalinar earlier, he’d shot an arrow at an enemy. That was to be respected. If he tried something against Dalinar or Sadeas now, it would be different. Thakka would already be searching out the fellow’s family.

“Dalinar?” a voice called.

He stilled his horse, turning toward the sound. Torol Sadeas—resplendent in golden yellow Shardplate that had already been washed clean—pushed through a cluster of officers. The red-faced young man looked far older than he had a year ago. When they’d started all this, he’d still been a gangly youth. No longer.

“Dalinar, are those arrows? Stormfather, man, you look like a thornbush! What happened to your face?”

“A fist,” Dalinar said, then nodded toward the heads on spears. “Nice work.”

“We lost the crown prince,” Sadeas said. “He’ll mount a resistance.”

“That would be impressive,” Dalinar said, “considering what I did to him.”

Sadeas relaxed visibly. “Oh, Dalinar. What would we do without you?”

“Lose. Someone get me something to drink and a pair of surgeons. In that order. Also, Sadeas, I promised we wouldn’t pillage the city. No looting, no slaves taken.”

“You what?” Sadeas demanded. “Who did you promise?”

Dalinar thumbed over his shoulder at the archer.

“Another one?” Sadeas said with a groan.

“He’s got amazing aim,” Dalinar said. “Loyal, too.” He glanced to the side, where Sadeas’s soldiers had rounded up some weeping women for Sadeas to pick from.

“I was looking forward to tonight,” Sadeas noted.

“And I was looking forward to breathing through my nose. We’ll live. More than can be said for the kids we fought today.”

“Fine, fine,” Sadeas said, sighing. “I suppose we could spare one town. A symbol that we are not without mercy.” He looked over Dalinar again. “We need to get you some Shards, my friend.”

“To protect me?”

“Protect you? Storms, Dalinar, at this point I’m not certain a rockslide could kill you. No, it just makes the rest of us look bad when you accomplish what you do while practically unarmed!”

Dalinar shrugged. He didn’t wait for the wine or the surgeons, but instead led his horse back to gather his elites and reinforce the orders to guard the city from looting. Once finished, he walked his horse across smoldering ground to his camp.

He was done living for the day. It would be weeks, maybe months, before he got another opportunity.





I know that many women who read this will see it only as further proof that I am the godless heretic everyone claims.

—From Oathbringer, preface

Two days after Sadeas was found dead, the Everstorm came again.

Dalinar walked through his chambers in Urithiru, pulled by the unnatural storm. Bare feet on cold rock. He passed Navani—who sat at the writing desk working on her memoirs again—and stepped onto his balcony, which hung straight out over the cliffs beneath Urithiru.

He could feel something, his ears popping, cold—even more cold than usual—blowing in from the west. And something else. An inner chill.

“Is that you, Stormfather?” Dalinar whispered. “This feeling of dread?”

This thing is not natural, the Stormfather said. It is unknown.

“It didn’t come before, during the earlier Desolations?”

No. It is new.

As always, the Stormfather’s voice was far off, like very distant thunder. The Stormfather didn’t always reply to Dalinar, and didn’t remain near him. That was to be expected; he was the soul of the storm. He could not—should not—be contained.