Oathbringer: Book Three of the Stormlight Archive

Shardblades can’t stop an arrow in the back, Moash thought, feeling exposed. And neither can Plate, if we’re not wearing it. His armor, and that of Graves, lay bundled in their wagon.

“Look, that is the Triplets,” Graves said, waving toward a rock formation. “It’s right here on the map. We go west now.”

“I’ve been this way before,” Febrth said. “We must continue south, you see. Then east.”

“The map—”

“I have no need for your maps,” Febrth said, folding his arms. “The Passions guide me.”

“The Passions?” Graves said, throwing his hands up. “The Passions? You’re supposed to have abandoned such superstitions. You belong to the Diagram now!”

“I can do both,” Febrth said solemnly.

Moash stuffed another spoonful of “stew” into his mouth. Storms, he hated it when Febrth took a turn cooking. And when Graves took a turn. And when Fia took a turn. And … well, the stuff Moash himself cooked tasted like spiced dishwater. None of them could cook worth a dun chip. Not like Rock.

Moash dropped his bowl, letting the mush slop over the side. He grabbed his coat off a tree branch and stalked out into the night. The cold air felt strange on his skin after so long in front of the fire. He hated how cold it was down here. Perpetual winter.

The four of them had suffered through the storms hiding in the cramped, reinforced bottom of their wagon, which they’d chained to the ground. They’d frightened away rogue parshmen with their Shardblades—they hadn’t been nearly as dangerous as he’d worried. But that new storm …

Moash kicked at a rock, but it was frozen to the ground and he just stubbed his toe. He cursed, then glanced over his shoulder as the argument ended in shouts. He’d once admired how refined Graves seemed. That had been before spending weeks crossing a barren landscape together. The man’s patience had frayed to threads, and his refinement didn’t matter much when they were all eating slop and pissing behind hills.

“So how lost are we?” Moash asked as Graves joined him in the darkness outside camp.

“Not lost at all,” Graves said, “if that idiot would actually look at a map.” He glanced at Moash. “I’ve told you to get rid of that coat.”

“Which I’ll do,” Moash said, “when we’re not crawling across winter’s own frozen backside.”

“At least take the patch off. It might give us away, if we meet someone from the warcamps. Rip it off.” Graves turned on his heel and walked back toward camp.

Moash felt at the Bridge Four patch on his shoulder. It brought memories. Joining Graves and his band, who had been planning to kill King Elhokar. An assassination attempt once Dalinar was away, marching toward the center of the Shattered Plains.

Facing off against Kaladin, wounded and bleeding.

You. Will. Not. Have. Him.

Moash’s skin had gone clammy from the cold. He slid his knife from his side sheath—he still wasn’t used to being able to carry one that long. A knife that was too big could get you into trouble as a darkeyes.

He wasn’t darkeyed anymore. He was one of them.

Storms, he was one of them.

He cut the stitches on the Bridge Four patch. Up one side, then down the other. How simple it was. It would be harder to remove the tattoo he’d gotten with the others, but that he’d had placed on his shoulder, not his forehead.

Moash held up the patch, trying to catch the firelight for a last look, and then couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He walked back and settled by the fire. Were the others sitting around Rock’s stewpot somewhere? Laughing, joking, betting on how many mugs of ale Lopen could drink? Ribbing Kaladin, trying to get him to crack a smile?

Moash could almost hear their voices, and he smiled, imagining that he was there. Then, he imagined Kaladin telling them what Moash had done.

He tried to kill me, Kaladin would say. He betrayed everything. His oath to protect the king, his duty to Alethkar, but most importantly us.

Moash sagged, patch in his fingers. He should throw that thing in the fire.

Storms. He should throw himself in the fire.

He looked up toward the skies, toward both Damnation and the Tranquiline Halls. A group of starspren quivered above.

And beside them, something moving in the sky?

Moash shouted, throwing himself backward off his perch as four Voidbringers descended upon the little camp. They smashed into the ground, wielding long, sinuous swords. Not Shardblades—those were Parshendi weapons.

One creature struck where Moash had been sitting an instant before. Another creature stabbed Graves straight through the chest, then yanked the weapon free and beheaded him with a backhand swipe.

Graves’s corpse tumbled and his Shardblade materialized, clanging to the ground. Febrth and Fia didn’t have a chance. Other Voidbringers struck them down, spilling their blood in this cold, forgotten land.

The fourth Voidbringer came for Moash, who threw himself into a roll. The creature’s sword slammed down near him, hitting rock, the blade throwing sparks.

Moash rolled to his feet, and Kaladin’s training—drilled into him through hours and hours spent at the bottom of a chasm—took over. He danced away, putting his back to the wagon, as his Shardblade fell into his fingers.

The Voidbringer rounded the fire toward him, light glittering from her taut, muscular body. These weren’t like the Parshendi he’d seen on the Shattered Plains. They had deep red eyes and red-violet carapace, some of which framed their faces. The one facing him had a swirling pattern to her skin, three different colors mixing. Red, black, white.

Dark light, like inverse Stormlight, clung to each of them. Graves had spoken of these creatures, calling their return merely one of many events predicted by the inscrutable “Diagram.”

Moash’s foe came for him, and he lashed out with his Blade, driving her back. She seemed to glide as she moved, feet barely touching the ground. The other three ignored him, instead picking through the camp, inspecting the bodies. One soared in a graceful leap onto the wagon and began digging in the items there.

His opponent tried again, carefully sweeping her long, curved sword at him. Moash shied back, Shardblade gripped with both hands, trying to intercept her weapon. His motions seemed clumsy compared to the graceful power of this creature. She slipped to the side, clothing rippling in the wind, breath visible in the cold air. She wasn’t taking chances against a Shardblade, and didn’t strike as Moash stumbled.

Storms. This weapon was just too clunky. Six feet long, it was hard to angle right. Yes, it could cut through anything, but he needed to actually hit for that to matter. It had been much easier to wield the thing wearing Plate. Without it, he felt like a child holding an adult’s weapon.

The Voidbringer smiled. Then she struck with blurring speed. Moash stepped back, swinging, forcing her to twist to the side. He took a long cut up the arm, but his move prevented her from impaling him.