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She sighed, but didn’t object further. Most Shardbearers had crews to help keep them fighting. She did need a drink and some more Stormlight.
She found herself staring, however. At … well, all of it.
Wit remained quiet. He was expert at knowing when to do that, though admittedly he rarely employed the knowledge.
“I’ve read about it, you know,” she eventually said. “The feeling you get out there. The focus that you need to adopt to cope with it, to keep moving. Simply doing your job. I don’t have their training, Wit. I kept getting distracted, or frightened, or confused.”
He tapped her hand. The closed left gauntlet, where she held the Edgedancer’s topaz. She stared at it, then drew in the Light. That made her feel better, but not all of her fatigue was physical.
“I’m not the unstoppable force I imagined myself to be,” she said. “They know how to deal with Shardbearers; I couldn’t bring down a Fused in a fair fight.”
“There are no fair fights, Jasnah,” Wit said. “There’s never been such a thing. The term is a lie used to impose imaginary order on something chaotic. Two men of the same height, age, and weapon will not fight one another fairly, for one will always have the advantage in training, talent, or simple luck.”
She grunted. Dalinar wouldn’t think much of that statement.
“I know you feel you need to show the soldiers you can fight,” Wit said softly. “Prove to them, maybe to yourself, that you are as capable on a battlefield as Dalinar is becoming with a book. This is good, it breaks down barriers—and there will be those wrongheaded men who would not follow you otherwise.
“But take care, Jasnah. Talented or not, you cannot conjure for yourself a lifetime of experienced butchery through force of will. There is no shame in using the powers you have developed. It is not unfair—or rather, it is no more unfair when the most skilled swordsman on the battlefield falls to a stray arrow. Use what you have.”
He was right. She sighed, then took a piece of fruit—gripping it delicately between two gauntleted fingers—and took a bite. The cool sweetness shocked her. It belonged to another world. It washed away the taste of ash, renewing her mouth and awakening her hunger. She’d grown that numb after just two hours of fighting? Her uncle had, on campaign, fought for hours on end—day after day.
And he bore those scars, she supposed.
“How goes the battle?” she asked.
“Not sure,” Wit said. “But the generals were right; the enemy is determined to stand here. They must think they can win, and so let us perpetuate this pitched battle, rather than forcing us into temperamental skirmishes.”
“So why do you sneer?”
“It’s not a sneer,” he said. “Merely my natural charisma coming through.” He nodded to the side, to where a distant hill—small but steep-sided—flashed with light. Thunder cracked the air despite the open sky. Men tried to rush the position, and died by the dozens.
“I think we’re coming to the end of traditional battlefield formations,” Wit said.
“They served us well today.”
“And perhaps will for a time yet,” Wit said. “But not forever. Once upon a time, military tactics could depend on breaking enemy positions with enough work. Enough lives. But what do you do when no rush—no number of brave charges—will claim the position you need?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But the infantry block has been a stable part of warfare for millennia, Wit. It has adapted with each advance in technology. I don’t see it becoming obsolete any time soon.”
“We will see. You think your powers are unfair because you slay dozens, and they cannot resist? What happens when a single individual can kill tens of thousands in moments—assuming the enemy will kindly bunch up in a neat little pike block. Things will change rapidly when such powers become common.”
“They’re hardly common.”
“I didn’t say they were,” he said. “Yet.”
She took a drink, and finally thought to order her honor guard to rest. Their captain would send in fresh men.
Wit offered to massage her sword hand, but she shook her head. She instead ate another piece of fruit, then some ration sticks he gave her to balance the meal. She accepted a few pouches of spheres as well. But as soon as her fresh honor guard arrived, she marched out in search of a field commander who would know where to best position her.
* * *
Seven hours later, Jasnah tromped across a quiet battlefield, searching for Wit. He’d visited her several times during the fighting, but it had been hours since their last encounter.
She hiked through the remnants of the battle, feeling an odd solitude. As darkness smothered the land, she could almost pretend the scattered lumps were rockbuds, not bodies. The scents, unfortunately, did not go away with the light. And they remained a signal, defiant as any banner, of what had happened here. Blood. The stench of burning bodies.
In the end, loss and victory smelled the same.
They sounded different though. Cheers drifted on the wind. Human voices, with an edge to them. These weren’t cheers of joy, more cheers of relief.
She made for a particular beacon of light, the tent with an illuminated set of coalition flags flying at the same height, one for each kingdom. Inside, she’d be welcomed as a hero. When she arrived, however, she didn’t feel like entering. So she settled down on a stone outside within sight of the guards, who were wise enough not to run and fetch anyone. She sat for some time and stared out at the battlefield, figuring Wit would locate her eventually.
“Daunting, isn’t it?” a voice asked from the darkness.
She narrowed her eyes, and searched around until she found the source: a small man sitting nearby, throwing sparks from his Herdazian sparkflicker in the night. Each burst of light illuminated the Mink’s fingers and face.
“Yes,” Jasnah said. “‘Daunting’ is the right word. More so than I’d anticipated.”
“You made a wise choice, going out there,” the Mink said. “Regardless of what the others said. It’s too easy to forget the cost. Not only to the boys who die, but to the ones who live. Every commander should be reminded periodically.”
“How did we do?”
“We broke the core of their strength,” he said. “Which is what we wanted—though it wasn’t a rout. We’ll need another battle or two on nearly this scale before I can tell you if we’ve really won or not. But today was a step forward. Do that often enough, and you’ll inevitably cross the finish line.”
“Casualties?”
“Never take casualty reports on the night of the battle, Brightness,” he said. “Give yourself a little time to enjoy the meal before you look at the bill.”
“You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“Ah, but I am,” he said. “I am staring at the open sky, and wearing no chains.” He stood up, a shadow against the darkness. “I’ll tell the others I’ve seen you, and that you are well, if you’d rather retreat to your tent. Your Wit is there, and unless I misunderstand, something has disturbed him.”
She gave the Mink her thanks and stood. Wit was disturbed? The implications of that harried her as she marched through the frontline warcamp to her tent. Inside, Wit sat at her travel table, scribbling furiously. So far, she’d caught him writing in what she thought were five different alien scripts, though he didn’t often answer questions about where they had originated.
