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Blood flowed across the field, seeking little rifts in the stone, places where rainwater had left its mark. The blood here was more orange than red, but the two mixed to make an unwholesome shade, the off-red of a rotting methi fruit.
The smoke hung heavy in the air. On a battlefield this far afield, you burned the dead right here—sending only the officers home, already made into statues by the Soulcasters. Singer and human bodies smelled the same when they burned, a scent that would always bother him because of a specific battlefield. A specific city. A burned-out scar that was the mark of his greatest failure, and his greatest shame.
Charnel groups moved through the dead today, solemnly cutting patches from uniforms, as each was supposed to have the man’s name inked on the back by the quartermaster scribe. Sometimes that didn’t happen. Or sometimes the writing was ruined in the fighting. Those families would go without closure for the rest of their lives. Knowing, but wondering anyway.
Hoping.
Walking among the dead, he couldn’t help but hear Taravangian’s terrible—yet hauntingly logical—voice. There was a way to see the war ended. All Dalinar had to do was stop fighting. He wasn’t ready yet, but the time might come. Every general knew there was a time to turn your sword point down and deliver it to your enemy with head bowed. Surrender was a valid tactic when your goal was the preservation of your people—at some point, continuing to fight worked contrary to that goal.
He could trust that the Fused were not intent on extinction. Odium, however … he could not trust. Something told Dalinar the ancient god of humankind, long abandoned, would not view this battlefield with the same regret Dalinar did.
He finished his grim survey, Szeth at his side as always. Several Azish generals, each newly decorated for their valor in this battle, also accompanied him. Along with two Emuli leaders, who were archers. Remarkably, the highest calling among the Emuli army was seen as archery. Dalinar knew his way around a bow, though he’d never considered it a particularly regal weapon, but here it was revered.
Dalinar walked a careful line for the local generals. He did not want them to see how much he reviled the deaths. A commander could not afford to revile the work in which he engaged. It did not make them bad men to be proud of their victory, or to enjoy tactics and strategy. Dalinar’s forces would not get far employing pacifists as field generals.
But storms … ever since he’d conquered the Thrill and sent it to be sunk deep in the ocean, he’d found himself loathing these smells, these sights. That was becoming his deepest secret: the Blackthorn had finally become what men had been accusing him of for years. A soldier who had lost the will to kill.
He looped around, leaving the dead behind, instead passing victorious companies feasting in the very shadow of their butchery. He congratulated them, acted like the figurehead he’d made of himself. Of all those he saw, only the Mink seemed to notice the truth. That there was a reason Dalinar had worked so hard to find his replacement.
The short Herdazian man fell in behind Dalinar. “The war in Emul is done as of this battle,” the Mink said. “The rest is cleanup. Unless the enemy infuses his troops here with serious resources—which would be incredibly wasteful at this point—we’ll own Emul within the month.”
“The enemy threw it away,” Dalinar said.
“That’s a stronger term than I’d use,” the Mink said. “They fought. They wanted to hold. At the same time, they knew they couldn’t move resources away from Jah Keved right now. That would risk destabilizing there, and perhaps lead us to claim it in the coming months.
“It is well the enemy wants to occupy and rule, not just destroy. They could have thrown enough at us here to end us on this front—but that would have left the rest of their war efforts in ruin. As it is, they knew exactly how many troops to put in Emul to lure us in with a large enough force—but they also knew to cut their losses if the battle turned against them.”
“You’ve been extremely helpful,” Dalinar said.
“Just remember your promise. Alethkar next, then Herdaz.”
“Urithiru before both,” Dalinar said. “But you have my word. No operations against the Iriali, no attempt to seize Jah Keved, until your people are free.”
He likely didn’t need the promise—the Mink was a wily man, and had easily recognized that if Dalinar were ever to recover Alethkar, it would be the best thing that could happen for an eventual recovery of the Mink’s homeland. Once Jah Keved had gone to the enemy, Herdaz’s tactical importance had soared.
The Mink departed to go enjoy the post-battle celebration with his personal unit of Herdazian freedom fighters. Dalinar ended up in the small battlefield command tent beside a goblet full of rubies. Couldn’t they have been a different color?
Storms. It had been a long time since a battle had affected him like this.
It’s like I’m drifting in the ocean, he thought. We won today, but Navani is still trapped. If he couldn’t retake Urithiru, everything collapsed. Losing it was a huge setback in his true goal: pushing Odium to be frightened enough to make a deal.
So he sprang to his feet with relief when Sigzil the Windrunner entered, along with two of his team and Stargyle the Lightweaver—a handsome man with a soldier’s build and a ready smile. The name was a little much; Dalinar doubted he’d had that one since birth, but he had a reputation for friendliness, and the lighteyed women of the court certainly seemed to think highly of him.
Like the other Lightweavers, the man refused to wear a uniform. Something about not feeling right wearing it again. Indeed, he bowed to Dalinar instead of saluting.
“Tell me good news, Radiant Sigzil,” Dalinar said. “Please.”
“Stargyle?” Sigzil asked.
“Sure thing,” Stargyle said, breathing in Stormlight from a pouch at his belt. He began to paint with his fingers in the air. Each of them did it differently—Shallan had explained that they each needed some kind of focus to make their Surgebinding work. Hers was drawings. Stargyle appeared to have a different method, something more akin to painting.
The Lightweaving created a view from above, surveying a shoreline landscape. An army camped along the shore, though it didn’t have much discipline. Large groups of men around campfires, no real uniforms. A variety of weapons. Ishar’s troops seemed to have good numbers, however, and they were well-equipped. Their success on the battlefields in this region made Dalinar careful not to underestimate them. They might not have proper uniforms, but these were battle-hardened veterans.
“Here, Brightlord,” Stargyle said—and the image began moving, as if in real life. “I can keep it all in my head, so long as I focus on the colors.”
“The colors?” Dalinar said.
“I was a pigmenter’s son growing up, Brightlord. I’ve always seen the world by its colors. Squint your eyes a little, and everything is really just color and shapes.”
Dalinar inspected the moving illusion. It depicted the entire camp of people, and most interestingly a large pavilion at the center. It was colored in ringed patterns, like the bracelets he’d seen Tukari wear. He thought they had religious significance, though he didn’t know much about the region. The Tukari were renowned for their mercenaries, their perfumes, and he believed their jewelry.
