Work Text:
Circa 1172
The 2nd ideal. A time to prove himself to Nale. Helaran had never been one to fail at what he had set himself to do. He had been raised surviving nightmares. His family had suffered the pitfalls of gambling, murder, lover’s quarrel, and all in-between. As the eldest son of a backwoods, no-name, Veden family, Helaran had to make a name for himself and show Nale that he deserved to be more than a Skybreaker acolyte. He needed to become strong so that he come home and save his siblings from their dad – the murderer that he was. He did this for Wikim, Jushu, Balat, and for Shallan.
Now, today, he was on the field – heart racing before battle and his ultimate chance to prove himself worthy. To be something to one of the Heralds of old and change the world in a way that would matter. To kill Amaram.
His heart beat in preparation for these final moment before either a great accomplishment or death. Like everyone around him, this could be their last day – they would not be guaranteed tomorrow. With each beat of his heart, he ran through the days of his life that had all led up to this. His childhood playing in the gardens and witnessing the abuse his mother had taken. His outrage at his father for the murder of her and his eventual disownment and quest to journey into the world. Two years ago Helaran had sworn that he would take back his birthright and save his family. Two years ago he had met Nale and that was where his life had changed – it was not a chance encounter. The Skybreakers pursue potential awakened and had come to the Davar residence to find one. They had been alerted, by Stormfather knows what, about the mysterious presence in their family and Nale had come, bearing his crescent-moon shaped scars and sword. He had offered Helaran a choice to join the Skybreakers or to be condemned to death. And so, Helaran swore that he would uphold justice and maintain the very things that order and society are maintained on. After months of training, working along Skybreakers who had all seen prowess in him, Helaran was confident that he could prove myself and be granted the 2nd ideal. In the heartland of Alethkar, civil disputes raged and one man in particular – Meridas Amaram was to be punished. He, like Gavilar before him, had led the Sons of Honor down a path that would only recreate Braize and the horrors of the Desolation. Voidbringers would return and damnation would arrive if he was not to be dealt with. As the leading voice for taking direct action against Amaram, Helaran set out to finish this task himself.
Brought back to reality by the prominent swish of the first volley of arrows from his right, Helaran once again surveyed the battlefield. To his left he could see an undisciplined mass of green troops, packed together for war and for slaughter. For all the discipline and reputation that a man of Amaram had – all the honor that he was said to possess – he was very willing to throw recruits into battle with no training. This casual disposal was what happens when the best and most able-bodied men are sent off to the Shattered Plains, Helaran thought to himself. To his right, Helaran could see an equally unfit army of young men, dressed in the brown uniforms of Vamah. Across both sides, Helaran could see the purplish glob of fearspren rising from the stony ground – betraying the false pretenses of confidence that these men tried to uphold. Although a simple border skirmish, this battle was the perfect opportunity to lure out Brightlord Amaram.
The field between the two armies was bare, flat earth, only occasionally broken by small rockbuds that peaked from the ground, as the overhead sun bathed the plains and hills in a warm light. A single red anticipationspren rose out from the ground underneath Helaran. He had not felt this way since he was a kid. He was grown now, an adult capable of raising families. He had killed, survived assassinations, and had been chosen by one of the oldest beings himself. Yet, here he was, filled with anxiety.
Underneath him, Stormwind, a beautiful black stallion that had been gifted to him by Nale himself, neighed as if mimicking its’ rider’s anticipation. He had raised this animal as his child, and it had been with him through thick and thin. Today they would need each other again and Helaran prepared to look for his opening to join the fray.
Gazing at the battlefield, waiting for the perfect moment when his Shardblade wild card would deal the most devastating damage, Helaran observed from afar, taking in every detail of the battle. His time spent training with the Skybreakers had broadened his understanding of military warfare and tactical expertise. At the far end of the battlefield, Helaran watched as a large clump of Amaram’s men were felled by a volley of arrows. Despite their best attempts to weather the onslaught of arrows, they could not push through to capture the flank of Brightlord Vamah’s men. War horns sounded and, as the men collided, Helaran could see a small patch of Amaram’s men, surely the most capable of them, charge in front, shields down as if unafraid of the arrows. They had attempted to take a favorable vantage point atop a hill and, as chaos encompassed the battlefield, this pocket of spearmen stayed organized. Closer, Helaran could see that a gap in Vamah’s forces had opened and a lighteyes man rode out on a white horse swinging an epic mace, wreaking havoc on the main force of green soldiers. This untrained mass of men faltered underneath the brutal charge of cavalry – rare beasts that rarely saw battle on territorial wars as petty and unless as these. They were too expensive to lose in a battle whose overall result is largely irrelevant for any major war. This noble Brightlord, although his damage was evident and his presence was fierce, did not produce any substantial kills. Helaran evaluated that most of the damage done to Lord Amaram’s party by the cavalry was mere intimidation than raw damage.
In most battles throughout Roshar, many are won not through skill, but fear of death and fear of losing. The most casualties in any battlefield are from retreats rather than pure frontal attacks and clashes. It is only when backs are turned that the true slaughter begins. Having educated himself on the best books about military warfare and, with his brief experience with Alethi generals, Helaran had become aware that even Dalinar himself always allowed an escape for his enemies. It is when they are shoved to their backs that they become fearless and deadly – when they have nothing to lose then that is when there will only be bloodshed driven by the Thrill. Every man knows that a Shardbearer can change the tides of battle with their massive influence. Their majestic blades, enormous and powerful, have the ability to cleave through dozens of people in one strike and some of the most refined users have created piles of hundreds of corpses in a single fight. But no matter who they are, Shardbearers can and will be killed if they are overwhelmed. It is not invincibility that wins wars, but the bravery and discipline – the ability to accept death that wins wars. The true power of a Shardberarer is to make the enemy think they will lose. A man who does not believe they will win a fight and gives up is much easier than someone who accepts that they might die.
Taking himself back to reality, Helaran was keenly aware of the assault by a single, tall soldier in green who rushed the horsed Brightlord and, as if a storm and flurry of movements, managed to stab and kill the Brightlord on his mount single-handedly. Upon seeing their captain fall and crunch to the ground, the man’s honor guard panicked and fled back to the mass of brown. Impressed, Helaran made a mental note that some soldiers here were worth their merit.
Distracted by the noises of the battlefield, Helaran turned his attention back to his true target – killing Amaram. At the start of the battle, Meridas was safely tucked away in the back nest of his army, enjoying the luxury that only a general who commands can afford. As his men were breaking and retreating – a situation that Amaram was surely not expecting – Helaran could make out the panic that was overcoming his men and his force.
However, with the death of the lighteyes noble, the tides of the battle quickly shifted and Amaram’s army was gaining ground, surrounding and butchering pockets of Vamah’s troops. Now was his chance. The months of information Helaran had gained on Amaram told him that the general would lead the final charge at the end. This entire battle was meant to draw Amaram out – and killing him was the only goal. In an already chaotic skirmish, a swift stride atop Stormwind should accomplish what Helaran had set out to do.
Under his breathe, Helaran whispered to himself, “Life before death, strength before weakness, journey before destination”. He leaned back and stared up towards the sky – it was cloudless. The last two years of his life had been dedicated towards this goal. He felt his Shardplate that molded to his body – seamless and incredibly intricate. Almost all Shardbearers paint their armor from a monotonous grey, and Helaran had settled on a prominent gold to match the fiery waves that dominated his blade. It was a perfect suit of golden armor and Helaran, in ten heartbeats, summoned a thin strip of mist that coalesced into his Shardblade. At the pommel of the sword, a gemstone reflected the light off his plate while the ridges of the blade mimicked burning flames. It was engraved and exceedingly beautiful, worth the wealth of many nations for its unrivaled power. Unlike the simple swords wielded by the men beneath him, his sword was as massive as a man was tall, yet exceedingly light for him with the added strength granted by his armor.
Hooves shattered the rockbuds beneath his feet and Stormwind’s galloping mimicked the sound of thunder as he sped down the hill towards Amaram – towards his 2nd Ideal. With the chaos of the ongoing battle, no one would expect a Shardbearer’s presence in the back ranks of the winning army.
Helaran clattered into Amaram’s lines, breaking their formation, and cutting down each man that he passed. Every swift swing sliced through men as if they were air, leaving them on the ground with burnt out eyesockets that trailed wispy smoke. Clumps of green bodies were left in the wake of Helaran’s arrival. Tens of soldiers were trampled as Helaran charged forward, eliminating each soldier in his way with easy strokes. Painspren swelled up from the ground like little orange hands that reached up towards the heaven as if crawling out from below.
Despite his overwhelming presence, a single coalition of men – the same orderly group that had presented themselves at the start of the battle – had held their ground. While Helaran admired their bravery, they were an obstacle for the greater good and each one of them that stood up to him was another one to hit the ground. No one was spared mercy from the most seasoned and graying veterans to children in uniform pretending to be men. Every extra death was an accepted casualty for the Skybreakers and a worthy sacrifice for the greater goal of stifling the Sons of Honor.
Only a few meters away, the green and burgundy colors of Amaram’s banner signaled the general’s personal retinue. All around him, men screamed and tried to flee from Helaran atop his steed that was the color of Death itself. Lines broke and more disorder permeated throughout the battlefield. Although Amaram had managed to keep his cool, Helaran was acutely aware of the subtle panicked orders and movements of his honor guard who looked disoriented as if they did not expect a fight.
Charging towards Amaram, men in both green and brown uniforms broke away and ran, including Amaram’s own honor guard. When faced by a Shardbearer, their honor left them, and they had surrendered themselves to cowardice. Astrid his horse and abandoned, Amaram, encased in silvery plated armor, looked frightened.
Helaran rode further, and with a precise strike to the neck of Amaram’s horse, the destrier’s eyes were burnt and the horse immediately jerked to a halt. The helpless man was pulled down from the saddle and trapped as the horse toppled onto his leg. Amaram cried out and little painspren rose from the ground and surrounded the pinned man. Helaran’s target, inches away, was only one smooth swing from death. Atop Stormwind, Helaran raised his Shardblade with the intent to connect a finishing blow.
Immediately, as if hit by a gust of wind, Helaran was tossed from his mount. He felt a searing pain from his back as the young lad who had bested the mounted lighteyes was on the ground, a shattered spear next to him. It had appeared that this tall spearman was one of the only men worth their merit in the army, but his fearlessness would only achieve Helaran’s respect at the cost of the boy’s life. Around the young spearman, twenty men had joined up as a pseudo-honor guard to defend Lord Amaram. Each man, although fearful, attacked in an onslaught as if their numbers could outmatch the equipment disadvantage.
This green band of spearman charged Helaran from three sides – tactics used to disorientate him and keep him off balance. One of the best ways to overcome a Shardbearer was to surround them and use their biggest advantage and turn it into a weakness – the length of the sword. If the spearman were able to attack him from all sides, there would be little Helaran could do to outmatch their overwhelming blows which would still disorientate him and, with enough time, shatter his armor. A Shardblade was best used to keep men at bay but the closer they got, the harder it became to wield effectively. The men attempted to ram their spears into the chinks of his armor, but Helaran, bemused that 20 men thought they would be enough, only shook his head in pity.
For all that these soldiers had lived for, and for all their soon-to-be widows, their courage would mean nothing as with a quick succession of deadly sweeping strikes, ten men were felled, crumpled with burnt eyes. At the sight of an immediate turnaround, the rest of the spearmen were stunned and backed away in fear, with one man tumbling over the corpse of his comrade leading him to fall to the ground.
Helaran let them go and walked towards the powerless Amaram once again. Out of the corner of his eye, Helaran could see the young spearman rushing towards him from behind, screaming a warcry. In a brief moment, Helaran saw his chance to catch the spearman off guard and swung his Shardblade quickly to the right, but the man, with supernatural speed, dodged his swing and Helaran experienced a brief pain as a spear was slammed into, and subsequently bounced off, his knee. With another quick swing, Helaran attempted to catch the spearman as he was recovering from his failed strike, but the young boy jumped backwards and narrowly avoided a quick death. In a matter of heartbeats, the spearman dashed over the stony ground and attacked yet again, striking Helaran’s neck, before being knocked backwards by a quick kick to the chest by a plated foot.
Helaran could hear crunching as the boy skidded backwards and landed face-up in the dirt. Surely, the full force of his kick, enhanced by Shardplate, had broken some bones. Turning his attention back towards Amaram, Helaran watched the man drag his mangled and splintered leg out from under his horse. He hopelessly tried to crawl away from Helaran’s sight, but this man, like a defenseless axehound before him, was not going to live another day. Without this man, the world would be a better place and the beginning of the end could be stopped. Although each day, more and more Surgebinders were discovered, this would prevent the return of the Desolations for years.
Helaran walked forward on the rocky, flat earth, stepping over the corpses of the cut-down spearmen towards Amaram before he caught sight of the boy in the corner of his eye, glowing slightly with wisps of smoke running off his skin. In a matter of microseconds, Helaran realized that the warning he had received about a Surgebinder in Amaram’s army was this young spearman himself and that this fight was far from over. The boy rushed forward and skirted away from Helaran’s swing, which had managed to catch the top of the spear which was sent flying in the air. The boy was so close that Helaran could make out the individual drops of sweat that ran down his face. Each graceful sidestep reminded Helaran of the wind and every swing flew off the boy as if guided by flowing waves away from his body. As he tumbled in the air, the young spearman threw his knife with perfect aim to pierce the small eyeholes within the armor – the only obvious exposed weakness in the armor – but Helaran managed to move his head in the nick of time. The dagger narrowly missed his eyeslit, and bounced off, but, giving Helaran no time to recover, the boy jumped forward – higher than should have been humanly possible – and caught the spearhead from the sky. It had been falling with only a few inches of shaft that provided the perfect handholds for the boy to hold with his thumb on the base. Helaran watched in slow-motion, unable to react, as the boy came crashing down, hands gripped around the down-ward pointed spearhead, as the spearhead was rammed into the visor slit and everything went black.