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Brendon Sanderson
+15
Uno Nomesta
Zandrin
Assassin
Vazarius
srbul
Chandrian
Zevs86
KrleTuđin
Зимоврел
Narcisa Black
Lord M.
CRNIJASTREB
Prince of Ravens
Lothesse
Sparkling Comet
19 posters
Strana 9 od 19
Strana 9 od 19 • 
1 ... 6 ... 8, 9, 10 ... 14 ... 19 
Re: Brendon Sanderson
od KrleTuđin Ned 07 Feb 2016, 23:51
Aaaaaaah, zašto nisi još uvek pročitao i drugu knjigu, da mogu lepo da ti odgovorim na spojler... 
I nije Džasna već Jasna. Znam, znam šta piše u knjizi, greši prevodilac.
Ma Šalan je super lik..... da te nervira... Težak je gubavac, ali otom potom.
Šta si rešio za drugu knjigu, kupuješ ili čekaš sken?
I nije Džasna već Jasna. Znam, znam šta piše u knjizi, greši prevodilac. Ma Šalan je super lik..... da te nervira...
Težak je gubavac, ali otom potom. Šta si rešio za drugu knjigu, kupuješ ili čekaš sken?
KrleTuđin- Broj poruka : 3002
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Nocnoi_Dozor Ned 07 Feb 2016, 23:55
Kupujem. A već planiram da nabavim i Mistborn trilogiju.
Nocnoi_Dozor- Vitez od Zimovrela
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Nocnoi_Dozor Pet 26 Feb 2016, 19:45
Završih Put kraljeva i kako sam obećao slede utisci.
Rošar mi je jedan od najoriginalnije osmišljenih svetova što se tiče istorije, magije i uređenja. Sviđa mi se kako nas je Sanderson upoznao sa njime kroz poglavlja na Smrskanim ravnicama, u Karbrantu i kroz interludijume koje nam je davao na kašičicu.
Od likova najviše su mi legli Kaladin, Dalinar, Džasna pa i Szet, dok neke nisam zagotivio Šalan hajde de tu i tamo, Adolin mi ide na živce, kao i Elokar dok je Sadeas podmuklija verzija Ruza Boltona. E da i onaj kralj Karbranta me je iznenadio, prava Maloprstićeva škola.
Što se samih Paršendija tiče, bore se kao Kurdi, ali ginu kao Palestinci.
Sve u svemu knjiga je fenomenalna. Uživao sam dok sam krstario Rošarom i nadam se da ću uskoro slušati Reči blistavosti i
Et, to je završetak ispovesti novog člana Sandersonovih svedoka.
Rošar mi je jedan od najoriginalnije osmišljenih svetova što se tiče istorije, magije i uređenja. Sviđa mi se kako nas je Sanderson upoznao sa njime kroz poglavlja na Smrskanim ravnicama, u Karbrantu i kroz interludijume koje nam je davao na kašičicu.
Od likova najviše su mi legli Kaladin, Dalinar, Džasna pa i Szet, dok neke nisam zagotivio Šalan hajde de tu i tamo, Adolin mi ide na živce, kao i Elokar dok je Sadeas podmuklija verzija Ruza Boltona. E da i onaj kralj Karbranta me je iznenadio, prava Maloprstićeva škola.
Što se samih Paršendija tiče, bore se kao Kurdi, ali ginu kao Palestinci.
Sve u svemu knjiga je fenomenalna. Uživao sam dok sam krstario Rošarom i nadam se da ću uskoro slušati Reči blistavosti i
- Spojler:
- priželjkivati dvoboj Kaladin vs Szet.
Et, to je završetak ispovesti novog člana Sandersonovih svedoka.
Nocnoi_Dozor- Vitez od Zimovrela
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od KrleTuđin Pet 26 Feb 2016, 19:55
Hahaha, Sandersonovi svedoci.
Yokoso onda u naš kult.
Bacaj se što pre ti finansije dozvole na Reči i uživaj.
Yokoso onda u naš kult.
Bacaj se što pre ti finansije dozvole na Reči i uživaj.
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Nocnoi_Dozor Pet 26 Feb 2016, 20:04
Krle to ću sledeće da uradim. Jedva čekam da nastavim.
Jedva čekam da nastavim.
Nocnoi_Dozor- Vitez od Zimovrela
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CRNIJASTREB- Lord od Starigrada
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Sparkling Comet Pet 26 Feb 2016, 20:47
Dobrodošao u klub Noćni i oduševljena sam što ti se knjiga dopala.
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Nocnoi_Dozor Pet 26 Feb 2016, 20:49
Jastro, gde sam to rekao? Samo želim da
- Spojler:
- onog malog ćelavog ubicu nauči pameti.
Nocnoi_Dozor- Vitez od Zimovrela
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od CRNIJASTREB Sub 27 Feb 2016, 00:49
Nocnoi_Dozor ::Jastro, gde sam to rekao? Samo želim da
- Spojler:
onog trena kad bi se suočili Kal bi bio pokojni
CRNIJASTREB- Lord od Starigrada
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Zandrin Ned 28 Feb 2016, 16:14
Red magle me je opasno smorio
moguce da su arhive bolje ali necu ih istrazivati s obzirom da sam rekla da vise zapocete a nezavrsene serijale ne citam
toliko je u heroju doba udavio da je to bilo strasno skoro da je iskustvo slicno vukodavu
a prica je po meni prilicno tanka i naivna a kraj kao da je malo iz biblije prepisivao stvari..
nedostaje mu malo ostrine u pisanju malo humora malo necega ..suvise mi je prosto da kazem..bilo decije..kao decja knjiga da je
moguce da su arhive bolje ali necu ih istrazivati s obzirom da sam rekla da vise zapocete a nezavrsene serijale ne citam
toliko je u heroju doba udavio da je to bilo strasno skoro da je iskustvo slicno vukodavu
a prica je po meni prilicno tanka i naivna a kraj kao da je malo iz biblije prepisivao stvari..
nedostaje mu malo ostrine u pisanju malo humora malo necega ..suvise mi je prosto da kazem..bilo decije..kao decja knjiga da je
Zandrin- Zakleta sestra
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Nocnoi_Dozor Ned 28 Feb 2016, 23:41
Priznajem da sam se dvoumio da li da počnem Red magle ili Arhivu i na kraju je ovo drugo prevladalo.
Nocnoi_Dozor- Vitez od Zimovrela
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Зимоврел Sre 02 Mar 2016, 15:37
Архива је квалитетнија од Реда 
Нарочито због тога како је изградио свет и ликове, све је много детаљније, прецизније, мање наивно (за сада).
Нарочито због тога како је изградио свет и ликове, све је много детаљније, прецизније, мање наивно (за сада). 
Зимоврел- Gospa od Zimovrela
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Zandrin Sre 02 Mar 2016, 16:07
Red magle mi je kao neka decja trilogija..u momentima me je ppdsecao i na hari potera ne znam zasto..
Zandrin- Zakleta sestra
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Prince of Ravens Čet 03 Mar 2016, 22:19
Zandrin ::Red magle mi je kao neka decja trilogija..u momentima me je ppdsecao i na hari potera ne znam zasto..
Najveći razlog za to je prevod. Kada sam video kako sve to izgleda prevedeno nije ni čudno što mnogi imaju tu reakciju.
Prince of Ravens- Broj poruka : 5786
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Nocnoi_Dozor Čet 03 Mar 2016, 23:14
Nabavih Reči blistavosti. Uskoro nastavljam sa putovanjem kroz Rošar.
Uskoro nastavljam sa putovanjem kroz Rošar.
Nocnoi_Dozor- Vitez od Zimovrela
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Chandrian- Kralj Rojnara, Andala i Prvih ljudi, gospodar Sedam kraljevstava
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Prince of Ravens Sub 02 Apr 2016, 18:55
Ok ljudi, isečci iz treće knjige Arhive:
- Jasna:
- Jasnah Kholin opened her eyes and gasped, fingers rigid, clawing at the obsidian ground. A knife in her chest! She could feel it grinding on her bones as it slipped between two ribs, glancing off her sternum. She spasmed, rolling into a ball, quivering.
“Jasnah.”
No. She could not lay prone. She fought to her knees, but then found herself raking her fingers across the ground, trembling, heaving breaths in and out. Moving—even breathing—was perversely difficult, not because of pain or incapacity, but because of the overwhelming sense of tension. It made her shake, made her made her want to run, fight, do anything she could to not die.
She shouted, stumbling to her feet, and spun about, hand on her chest.
Wet blood. Her blood. A dress cut with a single knife hole.
“Jasnah.” A figure all in black. A landscape of obsidian ground reflecting a bizarre sky and a sun that did not change locations.
She darted her head from side to side, taking in everything but registering very little of it.
Storms. She could sense that knife again, sliding into her flesh. She felt that same helplessness, that same panic—emotions which had accompanied the knife’s fall. She remembered the darkness consuming her, her hearing fading, the end.
She closed her eyes and shivered, trying to banish the memories. Yet the effort of trying to do so only seemed to solidify them.
She knew that she would remember dying for as long as it took the darkness to claim her again.
“You did well,” Ivory said. “Well, Jasnah.”
“The knife,” she whispered, opening her eyes, angry at how her voice trembled, “the knife was unexpected.” She breathed in and out, trying to calm herself. That puffed out the last of her Stormlight, which she had drawn in at the last possible moment, then used like a lash to pull herself into this place. It had kept her alive, healed her.
Ivory said that while a person held enough Stormlight, only a crushing blow to the head itself would kill. She’d believed him, but storms that hadn’t made it any easier to lay there before the knife. Who would have expected them to stab her? Shouldn’t they have assumed that a blow to the head would be enough to—
Wait. Shallan!
“We have to go back,” Jasnah said, spinning. “Ivory, where is the junction?”
“It is not.”
She was able to locate the ship with ease. In Shadesmar, land and sea were reversed, so she stood on solid ground—but in the Physical Realm, Shallan and the sailors would still be in their ship. They manifest here as lights, similar to candle flames, and Jasnah thought of them as the representation of the person’s soul—despite Ivory telling her that was an extreme simplification.
They spotted the air around her, standing up on deck. That solitary flame would be Shallan herself. Many smaller lights darted beneath the ground—faintly visible through the obsidian. Fish and other sea life.
Nerves still taut, Jasnah searched around for the junction: a faint warping of the air that marked the place of her passage into Shadesmar. She could use it return to the ship, to…
One of the lights up above winked out.
Jasnah froze. “They’re being executed. Ivory! The junction.”
“A junction is not, Jasnah,” Ivory repeated. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, wearing a sharp—yet somehow alien—suit, all black. Here in Shadesmar, it was easier to distinguish the mother-of-pearl sheen to his skin, like the colors made by oil on water.
“Not?” Jasnah said, trying to parse his meaning. She’d missed his explanation the first time. Despite their years together, his language constructions still baffled her on occasion. “But there’s always a junction…”
“Only when a piece of you is there,” Ivory said. “Today, that is not. You are here, Jasnah. I am…sorry.”
“You brought me all the way into Shadesmar,” she asked. “Now?”
He bowed his head.
For years she’d been trying to get him to bring her into his world. Though she could peek into Shadesmar on her own—and even slip one foot in, so to speak—entering fully required Ivory’s help. How had it happened? The academic wanted to record her experiences and tease out the process, so that perhaps she could replicate it. She’d used Stormlight, hadn’t she? An outpouring of it, thrust into Shadesmar. A lash which had pulling her, like gravitation from a distant place, unseen…
Memories of what happened mixed with the terror of those last minutes. She shoved both emotions and memories aside. How could she help the people on the ship? Jasnah stepped up to the light, hovering before her, lifting a hand to cup one. Shallan, she assumed, though she could not be certain. Ivory said that there wasn’t always a direct correlation between objects their manifestation in Shadesmar.
She couldn’t touch the soul before her, not completely. Its natural power repelled her hand, as if she were trying to push two pieces of magnetized stone against one another.
A sudden screech broke Shadesmar’s silence.
Jasnah jumped, spinning. It sounded a trumping beast, only overlaid by the sounds of glass breaking. The terrible noise drove a shiver up her spine. It sounded like it had come from someplace nearby.
Ivory gasped. He leaped forward, grabbing Jasnah by the arm. “We must go.”
“What is that?” Jasnah asked.
“Grinder,” Ivory said. “You call them painspren.”
“Painspren are harmless.”
“On your side, harmless. Here, harmmore. Very harmmore. Come.” He yanked on her arm.
“Wait.”
The ship’s crew would die because of her. Storms! She had not thought that the Ghostbloods would be so bold. But what to do? She felt like a child here, newborn. Years of study had told her so little. Could she do anything to those souls above her? She couldn’t even distinguish which were the assassins and which were the crew.
The screech sounded again, coming closer. Jasnah looked up, growing tense. This place was so alien, with ridges and mountains of pure black obsidian, a landscape that was perpetually dim. Small beads of glass rolled about her feet—representations of inanimate objects in the physical realm.
Perhaps…
She fished among them, and these she could identify immediately by touch. Three plates from the galley, one bead each. A trunk holding clothing.
Several of her books.
Her hand hesitated. Oh storms, this was a disaster. Why hadn’t she prepared better? Her contingency plan in case of an assassination attempt had been to play dead, using faint amounts of stormlight from gems sewn into her hem to stay alive. But she’d foolishly expected assassins to appear in the night, strike her down, then flee. She’d not prepared for a mutiny, an assassination led by a member of the crew.
They would murder everyone on board.
“Jasnah!” Ivory said, sounding more desperate. “We must not be in this place! Emotions from the ship draw them!”
She dropped the spheres representing her books and ran her fingers through the other spheres, seeking… there. Ropes—the bonds tying the sailors as they were executed. She found a group of them and seized the spheres.
She drew in the last of her Stormlight, a few gemstones’ worth. So little.
The landscape reacted immediately. Beads on the ground nearby shivered and rolled toward her, seeking the stormlight. The calls of the painspren intensified. It was even closer now. Ivory breathed in sharply, and high above, several long ribbons of smoke descended out of the clouds and began to circle about her.
Stormlight was precious here. It was power, currency, even—perhaps—life. Without it, she’d be defenseless.
“Can I use this Light to return?” she asked him.
“Here?” He shook his head. “No. We must find a stable junction. Honor’s Perpendicularity, perhaps, though it is very distant. But Jasnah, the grinders will soon be!”
Jasnah gripped the beads in her hand.
“You,” she command, “will change.”
“I am a rope,” one of them said. “I am—”
“You will change.”
The ropes shivered, transforming—one by one—into smoke in the physical realm.
- Kaladin:
Kaladin trudged through a field of quiet rockbuds, fully aware that he was too late to prevent the disaster. The knowledge slowed him, pressing against his shoulders with an almost physical sensation, like the weight of a bridge he was forced to carry all on his own.
The land around him should have felt familiar. Instead, it seemed wild, overgrown, alien. After so long in the stormlands—those eastern lands that bore the brunt of the storms—he had almost forgotten the sights of a more fertile landscape. Rockbuds grew almost as big as barrels, with vines as thick as his wrist spilling out and lapping water from the pools on the stone. Grass spread in fields and came up to his waist, dappled with glowing lifespren. The grass was vibrant green and slow to pull down into its burrows as he approached.
Kaladin shook his head; the grass back near the Shattered Plains had barely grown as high as his ankle, and had mostly come in yellowish patches on the leeward side of hills. Almost anything could be hiding in these fields. All you’d have to do was crouch down and wait for the grass to sneak back up around you, and you’d have a perfect ambush point. How had he never noticed that during his youth? He’d run through fields like this, playing catch-me with his brother, trying to see who was quick enough to grab handfuls of grass before it hid.
Something caught his eye, and he turned toward it, startling a patch of grass around himself. Kaladin felt drained. Used up. Like a . . . a mighty storm that had lost its fury, and was now just a soft breeze. His dramatic flight had begun with more Stormlight than he had thought he could hold, and a wealth more tucked into his pockets and pack, in the form of gemstones. It ended with this, a limping, exhausted trudge through fields. Perhaps he could have flown all the way to northwestern Alethkar from the Shattered Plains if he’d been more practiced with his powers. As it was—despite bearing a king’s wealth in gemstones—he’d run out of Stormlight somewhere in Aladar’s princedom.
He’d traveled hundreds of miles in half a day. And it still hadn’t been enough. This last bit—not thirty miles to walk—had been excruciating. So slow! He would have passed this distance in an eyeblink before, but he’d been walking for two days. He felt like a man who had been winning a footrace, only to trip and break his legs a handspan from the finish line.
He neared the object he’d seen earlier, and the grass obligingly pulled back before him, revealing a broken wooden churn. For turning sow’s milk into butter. Kaladin rested fingers on the splintered wood; only the wealthy had access to enough milk for this sort of thing, and a churn would have been locked up tight before a storm. He glanced to the side at another chunk of wood peeking out over the tops of the grass, like the hand of a drowning man reaching toward the sky.
Syl zipped down as ribbon of light, passing his head and spinning around the length of wood. He could sense an inquisitiveness to her motions, even though she hadn’t manifested a face yet. Was he mistaken, or was their bond growing stronger? His ability to read her emotions, and she his, improving?
Perhaps it was just familiarity. “It’s the side of a roof,” Kaladin said. “The lip that hangs down on the leeward side of a building.” Probably a storage shed, judging by the debris he’d spotted in the field.
Alethkar wasn’t in the stormlands, but neither was it some soft-skinned, stormless western land. Buildings here were built low and squat, particularly outside of big, sheltered cities. They’d be pointed eastward, toward the storms, and windows would only be on the leeward—the westward—side. Like the grass and the trees, mankind bowed before the storms. The alternative was to be ripped apart, for the Stormfather did not suffer the insolent.
But, then, these objects—ripped free in winds, deposited miles from their origins—had not come free in a highstorm. Another more fell wind had done this deed: a storm that blew the wrong direction.
The mere thought of that a panic rise inside of him, a feeling like he got when watching a hail of arrows fall on himself and his men. The everstorm, as it was called, was so wrong, so unnatural—like a baby born with no face. Some things just should not be.
And, the most troubling part was that the storm itself was not the worst of their problems.
He stood and left the debris behind, continuing on his way. He had changed uniforms before leaving—taking the Oathgate to the Shattered Plains, then streaking into the sky and rushing in desperation toward Alethkar. His old uniform had been bloodied and tattered, though this one wasn’t much better. A spare, generic Kholin uniform, not even of the old Cobalt Guard. It felt wrong to not bear the symbol of Bridge Four. But, then, a lot of things felt wrong to him these days.
I swear I recognize this place, he thought to himself, cresting a hill. A river broke the landscape to his right, but it was a small, impermanent one—it would flow only following a storm. Still, trees sprouted along its banks, hungry for the extra water, and they marked the route. Yes . . . That would be Hobble’s Brook. So if he looked directly west . . .
Hand shading his eyes, he spotted them. Cultivated hills; they stuck out like the balding crowns of elderly men. No grass, no rockbuds. They’d soon be slathered with seed-crem, and lavis polyps would start growing. That hadn’t started yet, most likely. This was supposed to be the Weeping. Rain should be falling right now in a constant, gentle stream.
The everstorm that had blown through early in the morning had swept the clouds along with it, stopping the rain. As much as he despised the Weeping, he was not happy to see those rains go. They should have lasted another seven days, but the wrong-way storm had apparently disrupted them. Another unnatural effect.
Kaladin had been forced to weather the thing in a hollow of rock, cut with his Shardblade. Storms, it had been even more eerie than a highstorm.
He crested a hill, inspecting the landscape. As he did, Syl zipped up in front of him, a ribbon of light. “Your eyes are brown again,” she noted.
It took a few hours without touching Stormlight or summoning his Shardblade. Once he did either thing, his eyes would bleed to a glassy light blue, almost glowing. A few hours later, they’d fade again. Syl found the variation fascinating; Kaladin still hadn’t decided how he felt about it.
“We’re close,” Kaladin said, pointing. “Those fields belong to Hobbleken. We’re maybe two hours from Hearthstone.”
“Then you’ll be home!” Syl said, her ribbon of light spiraling and taking the shape of a young woman in a flowing havah, tight and buttoning above the waist, with safehand covered.
Kaladin grunted, continuing down the slope.
“Do you like the new dress?” Syl asked, wagging her covered safehand.
“Looks strange on you.”
“I’ll have you know I put a ton of thought into it,” Syl said with a huff. “I spent positively hours thinking of just how— Oh! What’s that?” She zipped away, turning into a little stormcloud that came to rest over a lurg clinging to a stone. She inspected the fist-size amphibian on one side, then the other, before squealing in joy and turning into a perfect imitation—only pale white-blue. This startled the thing away, and she giggled, zipping back toward Kaladin as a ribbon of light.
“What were we saying?” she asked, forming into a young woman and resting on his shoulder.
“Nothing important.”
“I’m sure I was scolding you,” Syl said, tapping his shoulder with her fingers in a pensive way. “Regardless, you’re home! Yay! Aren’t you excited?”
He shook his head. She didn’t see it—didn’t realize. Sometimes, for all her curiosity, she could be oblivious.
“But . . . it’s your home . . .” Syl said. She huddled down. “What’s wrong? Why are you feeling like this?”
“The everstorm, Syl,” Kaladin said. “We were supposed to beat it here.” He’d needed to beat it here.
Storms, why hadn’t he been faster? He’d spent much of the day before at a forced march, as fast as he could manage, not even stopping to sleep. Perhaps that was why he felt so drained, like even lifting his arm was a chore.
Being without Stormlight after holding so much was part of it too. He felt like a hogshide tube that had been squeezed and squeezed to get the last drops of antiseptic out, leaving only the husk. Was this what it would be like every time he used a lot of Stormlight, then ran dry?
The arrival of the everstorm in the morning had caused him to collapse, finally, and give in to his fatigue. That had been the ringing of the bell, the notice of failure.
He tried to avoid thinking of what he’d discover in Hearthstone. Surely, someone would have survived, right? The fury of the storm, and then the worse fury after? The murderous rampage of once-servants turned into monsters?
Oh, Stormfather. Why hadn’t he been faster?
He forced himself into a double march again, pack slung over his shoulder. The weight was still heavy, dreadfully so, but he found that he had to know. Had to see.
Someone had to witness what had happened to his home.
The rain started again about an hour out of Hearthstone, so at least the weather patterns hadn’t been completely ruined. Unfortunately, this meant he had to hike the rest of the way wet and accompanied by the constant patter of a light rainfall. Storms, but he hated the Weeping.
“It will be all right, Kaladin,” Syl promised from his shoulder. She’d created an umbrella for herself, and still wore the traditional dress, instead of her usual girlish skirt. “You’ll see.”
Her reassurance did little to budge his sense of dread. If anything, her optimism only highlighted his mood—like a piece of dung on a table surrounded by finery only made it look that much more nasty. It wouldn’t be “all right.” That was just not how his life went.
The sky had darkened by the time he finally crested the last lavis hill and looked down on Hearthstone. He braced himself for the destruction, but even still, it shocked him. Buildings without roofs. Debris strewn about. Some houses had even fallen. He couldn’t see the entire town from his vantage, not in the gloom of the Weeping, but the houses he could make out in the waning light were hollow and ruined.
He stood for a long time as night fell. He didn’t spot a glimmer of light in the town. The place was empty.
Dead.
A piece of him scrunched up inside, huddling into a corner, tired of being whipped so often. He’d embraced his power, he’d taken the path he should. Why hadn’t it been enough?
His eyes immediately sought out his parents’ home near the center of town. But no. Even if he’d been able to see it in the rainy evening gloom, he didn’t want to go there. Not yet. Instead, he rounded toward the northwestern side, where a hill led up to the citylord’s manor. He would start his search here; this was where the parshmen had been kept. When the transformation had come upon them, here was where they would have begun their rampage. He was pretty certain he could run across Roshone’s corpse and not be too heartbroken.
He passed the hollow buildings, accompanied only by the sound of rain in the darkness. He went to fish out a sphere for light, but of course he’d used up all of those. They were dun now, and wouldn’t be refreshed until the next highstorm—weeks away, assuming normal weather patterns. Not something one could assume any longer.
He shivered in the chill and walked a little further out from the city, not wanting to feel the holes of those gaping homes upon him like eyes. Though Hearthstone had once seemed enormous to him—it was a town of some hundred buildings, far larger than the numerous tiny villages surrounding it—there was really nothing remarkable about the place. It was one of dozens of towns like it in Alethkar. The larger towns like this, though still very rural, served as a kind of hub to the farming communities spreading out from it.
And, because of that, it was cursed with the presence of a lighteyed ruler of some import. Citylord Roshone, in this case. A man whose greedy ways had ruined far more than one life.
Moash . . . Kaladin thought. He’d have to face what his friend had done at some point. Now, the betrayal was too fresh, and other wounds would need nurturing first. More immediate wounds.
Kaladin climbed up to Roshone’s manor, a very familiar path. Once, he’d come up this way almost daily. Back when they’d had a different citylord. That life was surreal to remember. A past that almost didn’t belong to him any longer.
“Wow,” Syl said. “Gloomspren.”
Kaladin looked up and noted an unusual spren whipping around him. Long, grey, like a large, tattered streamer of cloth in the wind, it wound around him, fluttering as if in a phantom wind. He’d only seen its like once or twice before.
“Why are they so rare?” Kaladin asked, continuing his hike. The manor was just ahead. “People feel gloomy all the time.”
“Who knows?” Syl said. “Some spren are common. Some are uncommon.” She tapped his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure one of my relatives liked to hunt these things.”
“Hunt them?” Kaladin asked. “Like, try to spot them?”
“No. Like you hunt greatshells. Can’t remember her name . . . Anyway, the hunts were grand things. Quite the endeavor.” Syl cocked her head, oblivious to the fact that rain was falling through her form. “What an odd memory.”
“More seems to be coming back to you.”
“The longer I’m with you,” she said with a nod, “the more it happens. Assuming you don’t try to kill me again.” She gave him a sideways look.
“How often are you going to make me apologize for that?”
“How many times have I done it so far?”
“At least fifty.”
“Liar,” Syl said. “Can’t be more than twenty.” She looked at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry.” He sighed. He needed to be on with it. No more delaying.
Wait. Was that light up ahead?
Kaladin stopped on the path. It was light, coming from the manor house. It flickered unevenly. Candles? Someone, it appeared, had survived. That was good, but also worrisome. What if it was the parshmen—or whatever one called them now that they’d transformed? Voidbringers would probably do.
They could have slaughtered the people of the town, then set up here in the manor. He needed to be careful, though as he approached, he found that he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be reckless, angry, destructive. If he found the creatures that had taken his home from him . . .
It was supposed to have been safe. Far from Kaladin, far from his new life of pain and lost friends. “Be ready,” he mumbled to Syl. She was his Shardblade now, his weapon, like the spren companions of the Knights of old.
“He stepped off the pathway, which was kept free of grass or other plants, and crept through the night toward the lights. The manor was occupied. The light he’d spotted earlier shone from windows that had been shattered in the everstorm, which would have come upon the city not only from the wrong direction, but at a completely unexpected time. No Stormwarden could have predicted this. The shutters would not have been put on windows, and people wouldn’t have known to stay indoors.
The rain muted sound and made it difficult to spot much about the manor other than the broken porch, ruined windows, and shifting light. Someone, or something, was inside, though. Shadows moved in front of the lights. Kaladin reached the side of the building, heart thumping, then rounded toward the northern side. The servants’ entrance would be here, along with the quarters for the parshmen.
The rain muted sounds, making it difficult to pick out specifics, but he did hear an unusual amount of noise coming from inside the manor house. Thumping. Motion. Each sound put him further on edge.
It was now fully night, and he had to feel his way through the gardens up to the building’s side. Fortunately, he remembered this place well. He’d spent much of his youth up at the manor, playing with Laral, the old citylord’s daughter. The parshmen had been housed in a small construction at the side of the manor, built in its shadow, with a single open chamber with shelflike benches inside for sleeping. Kaladin reached it by touch and Syl zipped up in front of him, giving off some miniscule light—enough for him to make out a gaping hole in the side of the building.
Well, that wasn’t a good sign. Kaladin felt around it, rain patting his shoulders and head. The entire side of the building had been ripped out, and the inside was apparently empty. He left it, scouting through the gardens—full of chest-high ridges of cultivated shalebark—looking for some sign of what had happened.
Sounds from behind.
Kaladin spun with a curse as the back entrance of the manor opened. Too far from the parshmen quarters to seek cover there, he dove for a shalebark mound, but it was pitifully small. Light bathed him, cutting through the rain. A lantern.
Kaladin raised one hand—no use hiding—and stretched the other to the side, prepared to summon Syl. Then he hesitated. The person who had stepped from the manor was human, a guardsman in an old helm with spots of rust on it.
The man held up his lantern, pale in the face at having seen Kaladin. “Here now.” The guardsman fumbled with the mace on his belt. “Here now! You there!” He pulled free the weapon and held it out in a quivering hand. “What are you? Deserter? Come here into the light and let me see you.”
Kaladin stood up warily, still tense. Someone, at least, seemed to have survived the Voidbringer assault. Either that, or this was a group investigating the aftermath.
Still, it was the first hopeful sign he’d seen since arriving. He held his hands to the side—he was unarmed save for Syl—and let the guard bully him into the building.
- Dalinar:
Rockbuds crunched like skulls beneath Dalinar’s boots as he charged across the burning field. His elites tromped behind him, a handpicked force of soldiers both lighteyed and dark. They weren’t an honor guard. Dalinar didn’t need guards. These were simply the men he considered competent enough not to embarrass him.
Around him, rockbuds smoldered. Moss—dried from the summer heat and long days between storms this time of year—flared up in waves, setting the rockbud shells themselves aflame. Dalinar charged through the smoke, trusting in his padded armor and thick boots to protect him. Flamespren, like tiny people made of fire, danced from one burning patch to the next.
The enemy—pressed by his armies from the north—had pulled back into this town just ahead. Dalinar had held himself back, with difficulty, from entering that initial clash. He’d known the real fighting would take place in the town.
He hadn’t expected the enemy to—in a desperate move—fire this plain, burning their own crops to block the southern approach. Well, no matter. The fires could go to Damnation for all Dalinar cared. He led his men in a charge, and though some were overwhelmed by the smoke or heat, most stayed with him. They’d crash into the enemy from the south, pressing them between his men and the main army.
Hammer and anvil. His favorite kind of tactic: the type that didn’t allow his enemies to get away from him.
As Dalinar burst from the smoky air, he found a few lines of spearmen hastily making ranks on the southern edge of the town. There were remnants of a wall, but that had been torn down in a contest a few years back. Dalinar had forgotten the town’s name, but the location was ideal. A large ridge to the east made a natural break from the storms and had allowed this place to sprawl, almost like a real city.
Dalinar screamed at the enemy soldiers, beating his sword—just a regular longsword—against his shield. He wore a sturdy breastplate and helm along with iron-lined boots. The spearmen ahead of him wavered as his elites roared from the smoke and flame, shouting a bloodthirsty cacophony.
A few of the spearmen dropped weapons and ran. Fearspren, gobs of violet goo, wriggled up en masse around the enemy rank. Dalinar grinned. He didn’t need Shards to intimidate.
He hit the spearmen like a boulder rolling through a grove of saplings, swinging his sword and sending limbs into the air. A good fight was about momentum. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Drive forward and convince your enemies that they’re as good as dead already. That way, they’ll fight you less as you send them to their pyres.
As he waded among them, the spearmen thrust spears frantically—less to try to kill him, more to try to push away this madman. Their ranks collapsed, and many of the men turned their flanks to Dalinar’s men, focused only on him.
Dalinar laughed, slamming aside a pair of spears with his shield, then disemboweling one man with a sword deep in the gut. The man dropped his spear in panic, trying to grab at his entrails, and his allies backed away at the horrific sight. So Dalinar came in swinging, catching the two off balance, killing them with a sword that bore their friend’s blood.
Dalinar’s elites decimated the now-broken line, and the real slaughter began. Dalinar pushed forward, keeping momentum, shearing through the ranks until he reached the back, breathing deeply and wiping ashen sweat from his face. A young spearman fell before him, crying, screaming for his mother as he crawled across the stony ground, trailing blood. Fearspren mixed with orange, sinewy painspren all around.
Dalinar shook his head, picking up a fallen spear and striding past the youth, slamming it down into the boy’s heart as he passed. Men often cried for parents as they died. Didn’t matter how old they were. He’d seen greybeards do it, same as kids like this one. He’s not much younger than I, Dalinar thought. Maybe seventeen. But then, Dalinar had never felt young, regardless of his age.
His elites filled in behind him, having carved the enemy line in two. Dalinar danced, shaking off his bloodied blade, feeling alert, excited, but not yet alive. Where was it?
Come on…
A larger group of soldiers hiked down the street toward him, led by several officers in white and red. Dalinar could see from the way they pulled up, alarmed, that they hadn’t expected their spearmen to fall so quickly.
Dalinar charged. His elites knew to watch, so he was followed by a force of fifty or sixty—the rest had to finish off the unfortunate spearman ranks. Fifty would do. The crowded confines of the town would mean Dalinar shouldn’t need more.
As he neared this newer force, he focused his attention on the one man riding a horse. The fellow wore plate armor obviously meant to re-create Shardplate, though it only of common steel. It lacked the beauty, the power, of true Plate. He still looked like he was the most important person around. Hopefully that would mean he was the best.
The man’s honor guard rushed to engage, and Dalinar felt something stir inside him. Like a thirst, a physical need.
Challenge. He needed a challenge, storm it!
He engaged the first member of the guard, attacking with a swift brutality. Fighting on the battlefield wasn’t like in the dueling arena; Dalinar didn’t dance around the fellow, testing his abilities. Out here, that sort of thing got you stabbed in the back by someone else. Instead, Dalinar slammed his sword down against the enemy, who raised his shield to block. Dalinar hit in a series of quick, powerful strokes, like a drummer pounding out a furious beat. Bam, bam, bam, bam!
The enemy soldier didn’t have an opportunity to mount a counterattack. He clutched his shield over his head, putting Dalinar squarely in control. Dalinar kept hitting as he raised his own shield before him and shoved it against the man, forcing him back until he stumbled. The man’s shield shifted, letting Dalinar’s sword come down at an angle and bite him in the upper arm.
The shield dropped completely. This man didn’t get a chance to cry for his mother.
Dalinar let his elites handle the others; the way was open to the brightlord. Not old enough to be the highprince. Some other important lighteyes? Or…didn’t Dalinar remember something about a son mentioned during Gavilar’s endless planning meetings? Well, this man certainly looked grand on that white mare, watching the battle from within his helm, cape streaming around him.
Dalinar pulled up, swiping his sword eagerly, breathing in and out. The foe raised his sword to his helm in a sign of challenge accepted.
Idiot.
Dalinar raised his shield arm and pointed, counting on at least one of his strikers to have lived and stayed with him. Indeed, Jenin stepped up, unhooked the short bow from his back and—as the brightlord shouted his surprise—shot the horse in the chest.
“Hate shooting horses,” Jenin grumbled as the beast reared in pain. “Like throwing a thousand broams into the storming ocean, Brightlord.”
“I’ll buy you two when we finish this,” Dalinar said as the brightlord fell backward, tumbling off his horse. Dalinar dodged forward around flashing hooves and snorts of pain, seeking out the fallen man. He was pleased to find the enemy rising.
Dalinar came in swinging. The brightlord managed to get his sword up, but Dalinar batted it away, then dropped his own shield completely and came in with a two-handed power swing, intending to knock the lighteyed soldier back down. Fortunately, the man was good enough to recover his stance and intercept the blow with his shield.
They probably heard the subsequent crack all the way in Kholinar. Indeed, it vibrated up Dalinar’s arms.
Momentum. Life was about momentum. Pick a direction and don’t let anything—man or storm—turn you aside. Dalinar battered at the brightlord, driving him backward, furious and persistent. The man withstood it admirably, and managed a surprise feint that caught Dalinar off guard. It let the man get in close to ram Dalinar with his shield.
Dalinar ducked the blow that followed, but the backhand hit him solidly on the side of the head, sending him stumbling. His helm twisted, metal bent by the blow biting into his scalp, drawing blood. He saw double, his vision swimming.
The brightlord, smartly, came in for the kill. Dalinar swung his blade up in a lurching, full-shouldered blow, slapping the brightlord’s weapon out of his hands.
In turn, the brightlord punched Dalinar in the face with a gauntlet—and Dalinar’s nose crunched.
Dalinar fell to his knees, his vision blurry, sword slipping from his fingers. His foe was breathing deeply, cursing between breaths, winded by the short—frantic—contest. He fished at his belt for a knife.
An emotion stirred inside of Dalinar. A fire that filled the pit within. It washed through him and awakened him, bringing clarity. The sounds of his elites fighting the brightlord’s honor guard faded, metal on metal becoming clinks, grunts becoming like a distant humming.
Dalinar grinned. Then the grin became a toothy smile. His vision returned as the brightlord—who had just retrieved his knife—looked up and started, stumbling back. He seemed horrified.
Dalinar roared, spitting blood and throwing himself at the enemy. The swing that came for him seemed pitiful and Dalinar ducked it, throwing his shoulder against his foe and shoving him backward. Something thrummed inside of Dalinar, the pulse of the battle, the rhythm of killing and dying.
The Thrill.
He knocked his opponent off balance, then reached for his sword. Dym, however, hollered his name and tossed him a polearm, with a hook on one side and a broad thin axe on the other. Dalinar seized it from the air and spun, ducking the brightlord’s swing. At the same time, he hooked the man around the ankle with the axehead, then yanked.
The brightlord fell in a clatter of steel. Before Dalinar could attack further, unfortunately, the honor guard became a bother. Two had managed to extricate themselves from Dalinar’s men, and came to the defense of their brightlord.
Dalinar caught their sword strikes on his polearm and twisted it around, backing away and slamming the axehead into one man’s side. Dalinar ripped it free and spun again—smashing the weapon down on the rising brightlord’s head and sending him to his knees—before coming back and barely catching the remaining guard’s sword on the haft of the polearm.
Dalinar pushed upward, holding the polearm in two hands, sweeping the guard’s blade into the air over his head. He stepped forward until he was face to face with the fellow. He could feel the man’s breath.
Dalinar spat blood from his shattered nose into the guard’s eyes, then kicked him in the stomach. He turned toward the brightlord, who had scrambled—again—to his feet and now was trying to flee. Dalinar growled, full of the Thrill, and swung the polearm in one hand, hooking the spike into the brightlord’s side, and yanked, dropping him a third time.
The brightlord rolled. He was greeted by the sight of Dalinar slamming his polearm down with two hands, driving the spike right through his breastplate and into his chest. It made a satisfying crunch, and Dalinar pulled it out bloodied.
The blow seemed a signal of sorts, and the honor guard and other soldiers finally broke before his elites. Dalinar grinned as he watched them go, gloryspren popping up around him like glowing, golden spheres. Damnation, it felt good to best a force larger than your own.
The Thrill, unfortunately, dwindled. He could never seem to hold on to it as long as he wanted. Nearby, the man he’d felled groaned softly. Dalinar stepped over, curious, kicking at the armored chest.
“Why…” the man said from within his helm. “Why us?”
“Don’t know,” Dalinar said, tossing the polearm back to Dym.
“You… You don’t know?” the dying man said.
“My brother chooses,” Dalinar said. “I just go where he points me.” He gestured toward the dying man, and Dym rammed a sword into the hole in the breastplate, finishing the job. The fellow had fought reasonably well; no need to extend his suffering.
Another soldier approached, handing Dalinar his sword. It had a chip in it the size of a thumb right in the blade. Looked like it had bent as well.
“You’re supposed to stick it into the squishy parts, Brightlord,” Dym said, “not pound it against the hard parts.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dalinar said, tossing the sword aside as one of his men selected a replacement from among the fallen of high enough rank to have one.
“You…all right, Brightlord?” Dym asked.
“Never been better,” Dalinar said, then sucked blood up through his broken nose. Hurt like Damnation itself.
His men formed up around him, and Dalinar led the way further down the street. Before too long, he could make out the bulk of the enemy still fighting up ahead, harried by his army.
He halted his men, contemplative.
Thakka, captain of the elites, turned to him. “Orders, sir?”
“Raid those buildings,” Dalinar said, pointing at a line of homes. “Let’s see how well they fight while they see us rounding up their families.”
“The men will want to loot,” Thakka said.
“What is there to loot in a hovel like this?” Dalinar said with a shrug. “Soggy hogshide and old rockbud bowls?” He pulled off his helm to wipe the blood from his face. “They can loot afterward. Right now I need hostages. There are civilians somewhere in this storming town. Find them.”
Thakka nodded, shouting the orders. Dalinar reached for some water. He’d need to meet up with Sadeas, and—
Something slammed into Dalinar’s shoulder. He caught only a brief sight of it, a black blur that hit with the force of a roundhouse kick. It threw him down, and pain flared up from his side.
“An arrow?” he said, blinking as he found himself lying on the ground. A storming arrow sprouted from his right shoulder, with a long, thick shaft. It had gone right through the chain.
“Brightlord!” Thakka said, kneeling, shielding Dalinar with his body. “Kelek! Brightlord, are you—”
“Who in Damnation shot that?” Dalinar demanded.
“Up there,” one of his men said, pointing at the ridge above the town.
“That’s got to be over three hundred yards,” Dalinar said, shoving Thakka aside and standing. “That can’t—”
He was watching, so he was able to jump out of the way of the next arrow, which dropped a mere foot from him, slamming against the stone ground. Dalinar stared at it, then started shouting. “Horses! Where are the storming horses!” Had the fires delayed them?
No, fortunately. A small group of soldiers had guided them more carefully across the fields, but had caught up by now. They came trotting forward as Dalinar’s order was passed, bringing all eleven horses. Dalinar had to dodge another arrow as he seized the reigns of Fullnight, his black gelding, and heaved himself up into the saddle.
He galloped back the way they’d come in, trailed by ten of his best men. There had to be a way up that slope… There! A rocky set of switchbacks, shallow enough that he didn’t mind running Fullnight up them. Dalinar was more worried that by the time he reached the top, his quarry would have escaped.
He eventually burst onto the top of the ridge; an arrow slammed into his left shoulder, going straight through the breastplate, and nearly throwing him from the saddle.
Damnation! He hung on somehow, clenching the reins in one hand, and leaned low, watching ahead as the archer—still a distant figure—stood upon a rocky knob and launched another arrow. And another. Storms, the fellow was quick!
Dalinar jerked Fullnight to one side, then the other, feeling the thrumming sense of the Thrill return, driving away the pain. Hooves made a clatter on stone as another arrow zipped past his face, dangerously close. Ahead, the archer finally seemed to grow alarmed, and leaped from his perch to flee.
Dalinar charged Fullnight over that knob a moment later, jumping the horse after the fleeing archer, who turned out to be a man in his twenties wearing rugged clothing. Dalinar had the option to run him down, but instead galloped Fullnight right past and kicked the archer in the back, sending him sprawling. Dalinar pulled up his horse, then turned it about to pass by the groaning archer, who lay in a heap amid spilled black arrows.
Dalinar’s men caught up as he climbed roughly from the saddle, an arrow sprouting from each shoulder. He seized the archer, who had finally struggled to his feet and was scrambling—dazed—for his belt knife.
Dalinar turned the fellow about, noting the blue tattoo on his cheek. The archer gasped and stared at Dalinar, covered in soot from the fires, his face a mask of blood from the nose and the cut scalp, stuck with not one but two arrows.
“You waited until my helm was off,” Dalinar demanded. “You are an assassin. You were set here specifically to watch for me.”
The man winced as Dalinar gripped him hard—an action that caused pain to flare up Dalinar’s side. The man nodded.
“Amazing,” Dalinar said, letting go of the fellow. “Show me that shot again. How far is that, Thakka? I’m right, aren’t I? Over three hundred yards?”
“Almost four,” Thakka said. “But with a height advantage.”
“Still,” Dalinar said, stepping up to the lip of the ridge. He looked back at the befuddled archer. “Well? Grab your bow!”
“My…bow,” the archer said.
“Are you deaf, man?” Dalinar snapped. “Get it!”
The archer regarded the ten armed elites on horseback, grim-faced and dangerous, before wisely deciding to obey. He picked up his bow and a few arrows, then stepped hesitantly over to Dalinar, giving one glance to the similar shafts that were stuck into him.
“Went right through my storming armor,” Dalinar muttered, shading his eyes. To his right, the armies clashed down below, and his main body of elites had come up to press at the flank. The rearguard had found some civilians and was shoving them into the street.
“Pick a corpse,” Dalinar said, pointing toward an empty square where a skirmish had happened. “Stick an arrow in one, if you can.”
The archer licked his lips, still seeming confused. Finally he took a spyglass off his belt and studied the area. “The one in blue, near the overturned cart.”
Dalinar squinted, then nodded. Nearby, Thakka had climbed off his horse and had slid out his sword, resting it on his shoulder. A not-so-subtle warning. The archer contemplated this, then drew his bow and launched a single black-fletched arrow. It flew true, sticking into the chosen corpse.
“Stormfather,” Dalinar said, lowering his hand. “Thakka, before today, I’d have bet you half the princedom that such a shot wasn’t possible.” He turned to the archer. “What’s your name, assassin?”
The man raised his chin, but didn’t reply.
“Well, either way, welcome to my elites,” Dalinar said. “Someone get the fellow a horse.”
“What?” the archer said. “I tried to kill you!”
“Yes, from a distance,” Dalinar said, letting one of his men help him up onto his horse. “Which shows remarkably good judgment, since the ones I get close to tend to end up very dead. I can make good use of someone with your skills.”
“We’re enemies!”
Dalinar nodded toward the town below, where the beleaguered enemy army was—at long last—surrendering. “Not anymore. Looks like we’re all allies now!”
Prince of Ravens- Broj poruka : 5786
Godina : 35
Raspoloženje : Sorrowfully happy
Reputacija : 791
Points : 6652
Datum upisa : 01.04.2010
Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Sparkling Comet Sub 02 Apr 2016, 23:17
Skakućem 
jest da imamo čekati, ali sjajno je vidjeti dijelove nove knjige.
jest da imamo čekati, ali sjajno je vidjeti dijelove nove knjige.
Sparkling Comet- Broj poruka : 15528
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Raspoloženje : Hope for the best, I always do :)))
Reputacija : 1019
Points : 16631
Datum upisa : 30.08.2012
Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Prince of Ravens Ned 03 Apr 2016, 00:48
Mladi Dalanar podseća na Logena Devetoprstog ... to jest njegovu krvavu šizofreničnu stranu. Baš me zanima kako je ovaj varvarin postao ratnik filozof koga znamo.
Prince of Ravens- Broj poruka : 5786
Godina : 35
Raspoloženje : Sorrowfully happy
Reputacija : 791
Points : 6652
Datum upisa : 01.04.2010
Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Sparkling Comet Ned 03 Apr 2016, 09:19
Poznajući Brendona biće to zanimljivo putovanje i vjerovatno neke velike prekretnice.Prince of Ravens ::Mladi Dalanar podseća na Logena Devetoprstog ... to jest njegovu krvavu šizofreničnu stranu. Baš me zanima kako je ovaj varvarin postao ratnik filozof koga znamo.
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Nocnoi_Dozor Ned 03 Apr 2016, 23:28
Dalinarovu priču ćemo saznati sledeće godine. A što se mene tiče uskoro se spremam da opet posetim Rošar. tj Smrskane ravnice.
Nocnoi_Dozor- Vitez od Zimovrela
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od KrleTuđin Ned 03 Apr 2016, 23:45
Jessss! Nema Šalan. Dalinarov isečak nisam hteo da čitam, to ostavljam kada knjiga stigne.
Sledeće godine? Mislio sam da izlazi ove?
I definitivno se prebacujem na original, Ivanov prevod je stvarno... bože sačuvaj... Ogadi mi Pola Kralja čovek...
Dalinarov isečak nisam hteo da čitam, to ostavljam kada knjiga stigne. Sledeće godine? Mislio sam da izlazi ove?
I definitivno se prebacujem na original, Ivanov prevod je stvarno... bože sačuvaj... Ogadi mi Pola Kralja čovek...
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Prince of Ravens Uto 12 Apr 2016, 18:57
Ljudi za one koji su već pročitali Words of Radiance/ Reči Blistavosti. Sanderson je odlučio da promeni jednu scenu u knjizi. Evo da kopiram šta je rekao na njegovom sajtu.
- WoR Tweak:
- So, in Words of Radiance, I think the scene I worked on the longest both in my head and on the page was the final confrontation between Kaladin and Szeth.
There was something I wanted to do, and took a stab at it in the text, then backed off because I couldn’t make it work. It was important to me that Kaladin refuse to kill Szeth at the end. Kaladin is about protection, not vengeance, and once he realized that Szeth really just wanted to be killed, I wanted Kaladin to hesitate.
It didn’t end up working, and I moved on to a new version and submitted it. But this itched at me, and by the time the book was released, I felt I’d made the wrong choice for that scene. So I’ve taken this chance to roll it back to the previous idea, and written it in a new way, which I like much better.
The events are the same, except for that moment. Szeth is now killed by the storm instead of by Kaladin, which I think is more thematically appropriate.
The question this raises is about Szeth being stabbed by a Shardblade, then being resuscitated. I’m sad to lose this sequence, as it’s an important plot point for the series that dead Shardblades cannot heal the soul, while living ones can. I’m going to have to work this into a later book, though I think it’s something we can sacrifice here for the stronger scene of character for Kaladin and Szeth.
As I’ve said, it’s dangerous to tweak your work after it’s out. I realize this, and I hope you’ll give me some artistic liberty in this case. (Besides, with Tolkien’s after-publication tweaks to The Hobbit being so good, I think there is proof in the genre that changing the text here and there isn’t always bad.)
Thanks, and as always I appreciate you reading and supporting me in this crazy thing that I do.
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Re: Brendon Sanderson
od Sparkling Comet Uto 12 Apr 2016, 19:06
Ovo mi se mnogo, mnogo više dopadaPrince of Ravens ::Ljudi za one koji su već pročitali Words of Radiance/ Reči Blistavosti. Sanderson je odlučio da promeni jednu scenu u knjizi. Evo da kopiram šta je rekao na njegovom sajtu.
- WoR Tweak:
There was something I wanted to do, and took a stab at it in the text, then backed off because I couldn’t make it work. It was important to me that Kaladin refuse to kill Szeth at the end. Kaladin is about protection, not vengeance, and once he realized that Szeth really just wanted to be killed, I wanted Kaladin to hesitate.
It didn’t end up working, and I moved on to a new version and submitted it. But this itched at me, and by the time the book was released, I felt I’d made the wrong choice for that scene. So I’ve taken this chance to roll it back to the previous idea, and written it in a new way, which I like much better.
The events are the same, except for that moment. Szeth is now killed by the storm instead of by Kaladin, which I think is more thematically appropriate.
The question this raises is about Szeth being stabbed by a Shardblade, then being resuscitated. I’m sad to lose this sequence, as it’s an important plot point for the series that dead Shardblades cannot heal the soul, while living ones can. I’m going to have to work this into a later book, though I think it’s something we can sacrifice here for the stronger scene of character for Kaladin and Szeth.
As I’ve said, it’s dangerous to tweak your work after it’s out. I realize this, and I hope you’ll give me some artistic liberty in this case. (Besides, with Tolkien’s after-publication tweaks to The Hobbit being so good, I think there is proof in the genre that changing the text here and there isn’t always bad.)
Thanks, and as always I appreciate you reading and supporting me in this crazy thing that I do.
, Brendon ima plus od mene, nekonvencionalan potez, ali na kraju knjige su njegove, mada ja to više pričam, jer mi se sviđa ova ideja, da moj Kaladin ostane sjajni Kaladin.
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