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At least this particular flight was nearly finished. It was a relatively quick jump from the battlefields of Emul down to the border of Tukar, where Ishar’s camp had been spotted. The main bulk of the god-priest’s armies had repositioned during the coalition’s campaign, fortifying positions in case the singers or Dalinar’s army tried to advance into Tukar.
So as Dalinar’s team reached the coast, they found several depopulated camps, marked by large bonfire scars on the stone. The region had been denuded—trees chopped for lumber, hills stripped of anything edible. An army could forage and hunt to stay alive here in the West, where plants grew more readily. In the Unclaimed Hills, that had never been possible.
Sigzil slowed their group of five Windrunners, Dalinar, and Szeth into a hovering position. Beneath them, Ishar’s large pavilion remained, and some hundred soldiers stood in a ring in front. These wore similar clothing: hogshide battle leathers with hardened cuirasses painted a dark blue, closer to black than the Kholin shade. Not a true uniform, but in a theme at least. Considering their lack of Soulcasters and the prevalence of herdsmen in the area, the equipment made sense. They were armed mostly with spears, though some had steel swords.
“They’re ready for us all right,” the Azish Windrunner said, steadying Dalinar in the air so he didn’t drift away. “Brightlord, I don’t like this.”
“We’re all Radiant,” Dalinar said, “with plenty of gemstones and a Bondsmith to renew our spheres. We’re as prepared as anyone could be for whatever will happen below.”
The companylord glanced toward Szeth, who had been ostensibly flown by Sigzil, but had actually used his own Stormlight. Dalinar had let Sigzil in on the secret, naturally—he wouldn’t leave an officer ignorant of his team’s capabilities.
“Let me at least send someone else down first,” Sigzil said. “To talk, find out what they want.”
Dalinar took a deep breath, then nodded. He was impatient, but one did not build good officers by ignoring their legitimate suggestions. “That would be wise.”
Sigzil conferred with his Windrunners, then swooped toward the ground. Apparently “someone else” had meant him. Sigzil landed and was met by Ishar himself, who emerged from the pavilion. Dalinar could identify the Herald immediately. There was a bond between them. A Connection.
Sigzil was not attacked by the soldiers in the large ring. Talking to Shalash these last few days, Dalinar thought he had a good picture of the old Herald. He had always imagined Ishi as a wise, careful man, thoughtful. Really, Dalinar’s image of him had always been similar to that of Nohadon, the author of The Way of Kings.
Shalash had disabused him of these notions. She presented Ishar as a confident, eager man. Energetic, more a battlefield commander than a wise old scholar. He was the man who had discovered how to travel between worlds, leading humans to Roshar in the first place.
One word that Shalash had never used was “crafty.” Ishar was a bold thinker, a man who pulled others after him on seemingly crazed ideas that worked. But he was not a subtle man. Or at least he hadn’t been. Shalash warned that all of them had changed over the millennia, their … personal quirks growing more and more pronounced.
Dalinar was not surprised that Sigzil was able to speak to the man, then fly back up safely. Ishar did not seem the type to plan an ambush.
“Sir,” Sigzil said, floating up beside Dalinar. “I … don’t think he’s altogether sane, despite what Shalash says.”
“That was expected,” Dalinar said. “What did he say?”
“He claims to be the Almighty,” Sigzil said. “God, born again, after being shattered. He says he’s waiting for Odium’s champion to come and fight him for the end of the world. I think he means you, sir.”
Chilling words. “But he’s willing to talk?”
“Yes, sir,” Sigzil said. “Though I must warn you I don’t like this entire situation.”
“Understood. Take us down.”
Sigzil gave the orders, and they made their way to the ground and landed in the center of the ring of soldiers. A few Windrunners summoned Shardblades; the others, not yet of the Third Ideal, carried spears. They surrounded Dalinar in a circular formation, but he patted Sigzil on the shoulder and made them part.
He walked toward Ishar, Szeth shadowing him on one side, Sigzil on the other. Dalinar had not expected the old Herald to look so strong. Dalinar was used to the frailty of men like Taravangian, but the person before him was a warrior. Though he was outfitted in robes and wearing an ardent’s beard, his forearms and stance clearly indicated he was accustomed to holding a weapon.
“Champion of Odium,” Ishar said in a loud, deep voice, speaking Azish. “It has been a long wait.”
“I am not Odium’s champion,” Dalinar said. “I wish to be your ally in facing him, however.”
“Your lies cannot fool me. I am Tezim, first man, aspect of the Almighty. I alone prepare for the end of the worlds. I should not have ignored your previous messages to me; I see now what you are. What you must be. Only a servant of my enemy could have captured Urithiru, my holy seat.”
“Ishar,” Dalinar said softly. “I know what you are.”
“I am that man no longer,” Ishar said. “I am Herald of Heralds, sole bearer of the Oathpact. I am more than I once was and I will become yet more. I shall absorb your power, Odium, and become a god among gods, Adonalsium reborn.”
Dalinar took a tentative step forward, waving for the others to stay back. “I spoke to Ash,” Dalinar said calmly. “She said to tell you that Taln has returned. He’s hurt, and she pleads for your help in restoring him.”
“Taln…” Ishar said. He adopted a far-off look. “Our sin. Bearer of our agonies…”
“Jezrien is dead, Ishar,” Dalinar said. “Truly dead. You felt it. Ash felt it. He was captured, but his soul faded away after that. Her father, Ishar. She lost her father. She needs your counsel. Taln’s madness terrifies her. She needs you.”
“I prepared myself for your lies, champion of Odium,” Ishar said. “I had not realized they would be so … reasonable. Yet you have already done too much to prove who you are. Taking my holy city. Summoning your evil storm. Sending your minions to torment my people. You have corrupted the spren to your side, so you can have false Radiants, but I have discovered your secrets.” He held his hands as if to summon a Blade. “The time for the end is upon us. Let us begin the battle.”
A weapon appeared from mist in his hands. A sinuous Shardblade lined with glyphs Dalinar did not recognize—though the Blade itself was vaguely familiar. Had he seen it before?
Szeth hissed loudly. “That Blade,” he said. “The Bondsmith Honorblade. My father’s sword. Where did you get it? What have you done to my father?”
Ishar stepped forward to strike at Dalinar.
* * *
While some humans left Rlain’s band of rebels—returning to their rooms, hoping they hadn’t been recognized—most of them stayed. Indeed, the numbers increased as many of the resisters fetched their families. Because Rlain had to let them go fetch families. What else could they do? Leave them to the Pursuer, who was known to target the loved ones of people he hunted?
