Authors: Brandon Sanderson
That explained the flimsiness of the barn. Lights flickered here and there across the hollow, indicating a settlement of several dozen homes. He was on the outskirts. There was a hogpen to Dalinar’s right, distant homes to his left, and just ahead—nestled against the rock hill—was a midsized farm house. It was built in an archaic style, with crem bricks for walls.
His decision was easy. The thing had moved quickly, like a predator. Dalinar wouldn’t outrun it, so he charged toward the farm house. The sound of the beast breaking out through the barn wall came from behind. Dalinar reached the home, but the front door was barred. Dalinar cursed loudly, pounding on it.
Claws scraped on stone from behind as the thing bounded toward them. Dalinar threw his shoulder against the door just as it opened.
He stumbled inside, dropping the girl to the floor as he found his balance. A middle-aged woman stood inside; violet moonlight revealed that she had thick curly hair and a wide-eyed terrified expression. She slammed the door closed behind him, then barred it.
“Praise the Heralds,” she exclaimed, scooping up the girl. “You found her, Heb. Bless you.”
Dalinar sidled up to the glassless window, looking out. The shutter appeared to be broken loose, making the window impossible to latch closed.
He couldn’t see the creature. He glanced back over his shoulder. The building’s floor was simple stone and there was no second story. A fireless brick hearth was set on one side, with a rough-cast iron pot hanging above it. It all looked so primitive. What year was this?
It’s just a vision,
he thought.
A waking dream.
Why did it feel so real, then?
He looked back out the window. It was silent outside. A twin row of rockbuds grew on the right side of the yard, probably curnips or some other kind of vegetable. Moonlight reflected off the smooth ground. Where was the creature? Had it—
Something slick-skinned and black leapt up from below and crashed against the window. It shattered the frame, and Dalinar cursed, falling as the thing landed on him. Something sharp slashed his face, cutting open his cheek, spilling blood across his skin.
The girl screamed again.
“Light!” Dalinar bellowed. “Get me light!” He slammed his fist into the side of the creature’s too-soft head, using his other arm to push back a clawed paw. His cheek burned with pain, and something raked his side, slashing his tunic and cutting his skin.
With a heave he threw the creature off him. It crashed against the wall, and he rolled to his feet, gasping. As the beast righted itself in the dark room, Dalinar scrambled away, old instincts kicking in, pain evaporating as the battle Thrill surged through him. He needed a weapon! A stool or a table leg. The room was so—
Light flickered on as the woman uncovered a lit pottery lamp. The primitive thing used oil, not Stormlight, but was more than enough to illuminate her terrified face and the girl clinging to her robelike dress. The room had a low table and a pair of stools, but his eyes were drawn to the small hearth.
There, gleaming like one of the Honorblades of ancient lore, was a simple iron fire poker. It leaned against the stone hearth, tip white with ash. Dalinar lunged forward, snatching it in one hand, twirling it to feel out its balance. He had been trained in classical Windstance, but he fell into Smokestance instead, as it was better with an imperfect weapon. One foot forward, one foot behind, sword—or, in this case, poker—held forward with the tip toward his opponent’s heart.
Only years of training allowed him to maintain his stance as he saw what he was facing. The creature’s smooth, dark-as-midnight skin reflected light like a pool of tar. It had no visible eyes and its black, knifelike teeth bristled in a head set on a sinuous, boneless neck. The six legs were slender and bent at the sides, appearing far too thin to bear the weight of the fluid, inklike body.
This isn’t a vision,
Dalinar thought.
It’s a nightmare
.
The creature raised its head, clicking teeth together, and made a hissing sound. Tasting the air.
“Sweet wisdom of Battar,” the woman breathed, holding her child close. Her hands shook as she held up the lamp, as if to use it as a weapon.
A scraping came from outside, and was followed by another set of spindly legs slinking over the lip of the broken window. This new beast climbed into the room, joining its companion, which crouched anxiously, sniffing at Dalinar. It seemed wary, as if it could sense that it faced an armed—or at least determined—opponent.
Dalinar cursed himself for a fool, raising one hand to his side to stanch the blood. He knew, logically, that he was really back in the barrack with Renarin. This was all happening in his mind; there was no need for him to fight.
But every instinct, every shred of honor he had, drove him to step to the side, placing himself between the woman and the beasts. Vision, memory, or delusion, he could
not
stand aside.
“Heb,” the woman said, her voice nervous. Who did she see him as? Her husband? A farmhand? “Don’t be a fool! You don’t know how—”
The beasts attacked. Dalinar leapt forward—remaining in motion was the essence of Smokestance—and spun between the creatures, striking to the side with his poker. He hit the one on the left, ripping a gash in its too-smooth skin.
The wound bled smoke.
Moving behind the creatures, Dalinar swung again, sweeping low at the feet of the unwounded beast, knocking it off balance. With the follow-through, he slammed the side of the poker into the face of the wounded beast as it turned and snapped at him.
The old Thrill, the sense of battle, consumed him. It did not enrage him, as it did some men, but everything seemed to become clearer, crisper. His muscles moved easily; he breathed more deeply. He came
alive
.
He leaped backward as the creatures pressed at him. With a kick, he knocked over the table, tumbling it at one of the beasts. He drove the poker at the open maw of the other. As he had hoped, the inside of its mouth was sensitive. The creature let out a pained hiss and scrambled back.
Dalinar moved to the overturned table and kicked off one of the legs. He scooped it up, falling into Smokestance’s sword-and-knife form. He used the wooden leg to fend off one creature while he thrust three times at the face of the other, ripping a gash in its cheek that bled smoke; it came out as a hiss.
There were distant screams outside.
Blood of my fathers,
he thought.
These aren’t the only two.
He needed to be done, and quickly. If the fight dragged on, they’d wear him down faster than he wore them down. Who even knew if beasts like this got tired?
Bellowing, he jumped forward. Sweat streamed from his forehead, and the room seemed to grow just faintly darker. Or, no, more focused. Just him and the beasts. The only wind was that of his weapons spinning, the only sound that of his feet hitting the floor, the only vibration that of his heart thumping.
His sudden whirlwind of blows shocked the creatures. He smashed the table leg against one, forcing it back, then threw himself at the other one, earning a rake of the claws against his arm as he rammed the poker into the beast’s chest. The skin resisted at first, but then broke, his poker moving through easily after that.
A powerful jet of smoke burst out around Dalinar’s hand. He pulled his arm free, and the creature stumbled back, legs growing thinner, body deflating like a leaking wineskin.
He knew he’d exposed himself in attacking. There was nothing to do but throw his arm up as the other beast leapt on him, slashing his forehead and his arm, biting his shoulder. Dalinar screamed, slamming the table leg again and again at the beast’s head. He tried forcing the creature back, but it was terribly strong.
So Dalinar let himself slip to the ground and kicked upward, tossing the beast over his head. The fangs ripped free of Dalinar’s shoulder with a spray of blood. The beast hit the floor in a mess of black legs.
Dizzy, Dalinar forced himself to his feet and fell into his stance.
Always keep the stance.
The creature got to its feet at about the same time, and Dalinar ignored the pain, ignored the blood, letting the Thrill give him focus. He leveled the poker. The table leg had fallen from his blood-slick fingers.
The beast crouched, then charged. Dalinar let the fluid nature of Smokestance direct him, stepping to the side and smashing the poker into the beast’s legs. It tripped as Dalinar turned around, wielding his poker with both hands and
slamming
it directly down into the creature’s back.
The powerful blow broke the skin, passed through the creature’s body, and hit the stone floor. The creature struggled, legs working in effectively, as smoke hissed out the holes in its back and stomach. Dalinar stepped away, wiping blood from his forehead, leaving the weapon to fall to the side and clang to the ground, still impaling the beast.
“
Three Gods
, Heb,” the woman whispered.
He turned to find her looking completely shocked as she stared at the deflating carcasses. “I should have helped,” she mumbled, “should have grabbed something to hit them. But you were so fast. It—it was just a few heartbeats. Where—How—?” She focused on him. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Heb. You fought like a…like one of the Radiants themselves. Where did you learn that?”
Dalinar didn’t answer. He pulled off his shirt, grimacing as the pain of his wounds returned. Only the shoulder was immediately dangerous, but it was bad; his left arm was growing numb. He ripped the shirt in half, tying one portion around his gashed right forearm, then wadded the rest and pressed it against his shoulder. He walked over and pulled the poker free of the deflated body, which now resembled a black silk sack. Then he moved to the window. The other homes showed signs of being attacked, fires burning, faint screams hanging on the wind.
“We need to get someplace safe,” he said. “Is there a cellar nearby?”
“A what?”
“Cave in the rock, man-made or natural.”
“No caves,” the woman said, joining him at the window. “How would men make a hole in the
rock
?”
With a Shardblade or a Soulcaster. Or even with basic mining—though that could be difficult, as the crem would seal up caverns and highstorm rains made for an extremely potent risk of flooding. Dalinar looked out the window again. Dark shapes moved in the moonlight; some were coming in their direction.
He wavered, dizzy. Blood loss. Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself against the frame of the window. How long was this vision going to last? “We need a river. Something to wash away the trail of our scent. Is there one nearby?”
The woman nodded, growing pale faced as she noticed the dark forms in the night.
“Get the girl, woman.”
“‘The girl’? Seeli, our
daughter
. And since when have you called me woman? Is Taffa so hard to say? Stormwinds, Heb, what has gotten into you?”
He shook his head, moving to the door and throwing it open, still carrying the poker. “Bring the lamp. The light won’t give us away; I don’t think they can see.”
The woman obeyed, hurrying to collect Seeli—she looked to be about six or seven—then followed Dalinar out, the clay lamp’s fragile flame quivering in the night. It looked a little like a slipper.
“The river?” Dalinar asked.
“You know where—”
“I hit my head, Taffa,” Dalinar said. “I’m dizzy. It’s hard to think.”
The woman looked worried at that, but seemed to accept this answer. She pointed away from the village.
“Let’s go,” he said, moving out into the darkness. “Are attacks by these beasts common?”
“During Desolations, perhaps, but not in my life! Stormwinds, Heb. We need to get you to—”
“No,” he said. “We keep moving.”
They continued along a path, which ran up toward the back side of the wave formation. Dalinar kept glancing back at the village. How many people were dying below, murdered by those beasts from Damnation? Where were the landlord’s soldiers?
Perhaps this village was too remote, too far from a citylord’s direct protection. Or perhaps things didn’t work that way in this era, this place.
I’ll see the woman and child to the river, then I’ll return to organize a resistance. If anyone is left.
The thought seemed laughable. He had to use the poker to keep himself upright. How was
he
going to organize a resistance?
He slipped on a steep portion of the trail, and Taffa set down the lamp, grabbing his arm, concerned. The landscape was rough with boulders and rockbuds, their vines and leaves extended in the cool, wet night. Those rustled in the wind. Dalinar righted himself, then nodded to the woman, gesturing for her to continue.
A faint scraping sounded in the night; Dalinar turned, tense.
“Heb?” the woman asked, sounding afraid.
“Hold up the light.”
She raised the lamp, illuminating the hillside in flickering yellow. A good dozen midnight patches, skins too smooth, were creeping over rockbuds and boulders. Even their teeth and claws were black.
Seeli whimpered, pulling close to her mother.
“Run,” Dalinar said softly, raising his poker.
“Heb, they’re—”
“Run!” he bellowed.
“They’re in front of us too!”
He spun, picking out the dark patches ahead. He cursed, looking around. “There,” he said, pointing to a nearby rock formation. It was tall and flat. He shoved Taffa forward, and she towed Seeli, their single-piece, blue dresses rippling in the wind.
They ran more quickly than he could in his state, and Taffa reached the rock wall first. She looked up, as if to climb to the top. It was too steep for that; Dalinar just wanted something solid to put at his back. He stepped onto a flat, open section of rock before the formation and raised his weapon. Black beasts crawled carefully over the stones. Could he distract them, somehow, and let the other two flee? He felt so dizzy.
What I’d give for my Shardplate…
Seeli whimpered. Her mother tried to comfort her, but the woman’s voice was unnerved. She knew. Knew those bundles of blackness, like living night, would rip them and tear them. What was that word she’d used? Desolation. The book spoke of them. The Desolations had happened during the near-mythical shadowdays, before real history began. Before mankind had defeated the Voidbringers and taken the war to heaven.