The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,142

Dalinar grabbed the girl and threw her over his shoulder, then dashed past the confused creature, barreling through the hole in the broken wall.

He burst out into violet moonlight. He was in a small lait—a wide rift in the stone with good enough drainage to avoid flooding and a high stone outcropping to break the highstorms. In this case, the eastern rock formation was shaped like an enormous wave, creating shelter for a small village.

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