Brandon Sanderson - Warbreaker

Such great, horrible chaos. The sea in a storm at night. He felt useless, his heart thumping with fright as he watched the young woman get swept into the churning current. He saw flashes of her golden hair twisting in the water. A weak splash of color passing his side of the ship. It would soon be gone.

Men cursed. Llarimar screamed. A woman wept. Lightsong just stared into the bubbling deep, with its alternating froth and blackness. The terrible, terrible blackness.

He still held the rope in his hand.

Without thinking, he leaped up onto the railing and threw himself into the darkness. Icy water took him, but he reached out, thrashing and churning in the tempest. He barely knew how to swim. Something passed him.

He grabbed it. Her foot. He threw the loop around her ankle, somehow managing to get the knot tight despite the water and the waves. As soon as he did, a surge in the undulating water yanked him away. Sucking him down. He reached upward, toward where lighting lit the surface. That light grew distant as he sank.

Down. Into the black deep.

Claimed by the void.

He blinked, waves and thunder fading. He sat on the cool stones of his cell. The void had taken him, but something had sent him back. He’d Returned.

Because he’d seen war and destruction.

The God King was yelling in fear. Lightsong looked over as the fake priests grabbed Susebron, and Lightsong could see into the God King’s mouth. No tongue , Lightsong thought. Of course. To keep him from using all that BioChroma. It makes sense .

He turned to the side. Blushweaver’s body lay red and bloodied. He’d seen that it in a vision. In the vague shadows of morning memory, he’d thought that the image had been of her blushing, but now he remembered. He looked to the side. Llarimar, eyes closed as if asleep—that image had been in his dream as well. Lightsong realized the man had them shut as he wept.

The God King in prison. Lightsong had seen that too. But above it all, he remembered standing on the other side of a brilliant, colorful wave of light, looking down at the world from the other side. And seeing everything he loved dissolve into the destruction of war. A war greater than any the world had known, a war more deadly—even—than the Manywar.

He remembered the other side. And he remembered a voice, calm and comforting, offering him an opportunity.

To Return.

By the Colors . . . Lightsong thought, standing up as the priests forced the God King to his knees. I am a god .

Lightsong stepped forward, moving up to the bars of his cage. He saw pain and tears in the God King’s face and somehow understood them. The man did love Siri. Lightsong had seen the same thing in the queen’s eyes. She had somehow come to care for the man who was to oppress her.

“You are my king,” Lightsong whispered. “And lord of the gods.”

The Pahn Kahl men forced the God King facedown on the stones. One of the priests raised a sword. The God King’s arm jutted out, his hand toward Lightsong.

I have seen the void , he thought. And I came back .

And then Lightsong reached through the bars and grasped the God King’s hand. A fake priest looked up with alarm.

Lightsong met the man’s eyes, then smiled broadly, looking down at the God King. “My life to yours,” Lightsong said. “My Breath become yours.”

DENTH SLASHED, wounding Vasher in the leg.

Vasher stumbled, going down on one knee. Denth struck again, and Vasher barely managed to keep the sword away.

Denth backed off, shaking his head. “You are pathetic, Vasher. There you kneel, about to die. And you still think you’re better than the rest of us. You judge me for becoming a mercenary? What else was I to do? Take over kingdoms? Rule them and start wars, as you did?”

Vasher bowed his head. Denth growled and ran forward, lashing out with his sword. Vasher tried to defend himself, but he was just too weak. Denth knocked Vasher’s weapon aside, then kicked him in the stomach, sending Vasher backward against the wall.

Vasher slumped down, sword lost. He reached for a knife on the belt of a fallen soldier, but Denth stepped up and put his booted foot on Vasher’s hand.

“You think I should just go back to the way I was before?” Denth spat. “The happy, friendly man everyone loved?”

“You were a good person,” Vasher whispered.

“That man saw and did terrible things,” Denth said. “I’ve tried, Vasher. I’ve tried going back. But the darkness . . . it’s inside. I can’t escape it. My laughter has an edge to it. I can’t forget.”

“I can make you,” Vasher said. “I know the Commands.”

Denth froze.

“I promise,” Vasher said. “I will take it all from you, if you wish.”

Denth stood for a long moment, foot on Vasher’s arm, sword lowered. Then, finally, he shook his head. “No. I don’t deserve that. Neither of us do. Goodbye, Vasher.”

He raised his blade to strike. And Vasher moved his arm up, touching Denth’s leg.

“My life to yours, my Breath become yours.”

Denth froze, then stumbled. Fifty Breaths fled from Vasher’s chest and surged into Denth’s body. They would be unwelcome, but he couldn’t turn them away. Fifty Breaths. Not many.

But enough. Enough to make Denth shake with pleasure. Enough to make him lose control for just a second, falling to his knees. And, in that second, Vasher stood—ripping the dagger free from the corpse beside him—then slashed it through Denth’s throat.

The mercenary fell back, eyes wide, neck bleeding. He shook amidst the pleasure of gaining new Breaths even as his life flowed from him.

“Nobody ever expects it,” Vasher whispered, stepping forward. “Breath is worth a fortune. To put it into someone, then kill them, is to lose more wealth than most men will ever know. They never expect it.”

Denth shook, bleeding, and lost control. His hair suddenly bled to deep black, then blond, then an angry red.

Finally, the hair turned white with terror and stayed there. He stopped moving, life fading away, new Breaths and old both vanishing.

“You wanted to know how I killed Arsteel,” Vasher said, spitting blood to the side. “Well, now you do.”

BLUEFINGERS PICKED UP A KNIFE. “The least I can do,” he decided, “is to kill you myself, rather than letting the Lifeless do it. I promise it will be quick. We will make it look like a pagan ritual afterward, sparing you the need to die in a painful way.” He turned to her Lifeless captors. “Tie her to the altar.”

Siri struggled against the Lifeless holding her by the shoulders, but it was useless. They were terribly strong, and her hands were tied together. “Bluefingers!” she snapped, holding his eyes. “I will not die tied to some rock like a useless maid from one of the stories. You want me dead, then have the decency to let me die standing up.”

Bluefingers hesitated, but the authority in her voice actually seemed to make him cringe. He raised a hand, stopping the Lifeless as they pulled her to the altar.

“Very well,” he said. “Hold her tightly.”

“You realize the wonderful opportunity you waste by killing me,” she said as he approached. “The wife of the God King would make a wonderful hostage. You are a fool to kill me, and . . .”

He ignored her this time, taking the knife, placing it against her chest, picking his spot. She started to feel numb. She was going to die. She was actually going to die .

And the war would start.

“Please,” she whispered.

He looked at her, hesitated, then grew grim and drew back the dagger.

The building began to shake.