Sanderson/Warbreaker/1

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

This is a work in progress! It is part of an exercise I did in posting drafts of my

novel, WARBREAKER, on-line as I worked on them.
This book will change form as the writing continues. Not only will it include
typos, but there may be plot elements that are poorly represented, as well as setting,
blocking, and dialogue issues!
In short, please don’t judge my writing solely based on this work. Give my
finished, edited work a chance first. You can find ELANTRIS and MISTBORN in
bookstores around the world.
That said, I hope you enjoy the chapters. If you have feedback, please feel free to
give it on my forums. Thanks for reading!

My website: www.brandonsanderson.com

My forums: http://www.timewastersguide.com/boards/yabb/YaBB.cgi?board=brandon

Warbreaker

Prologue

Why, Vasher thought, does it always have to begin with

me getting thrown into prison?

The guardsmen laughed to one another outside, slamming

the cell door shut with a clang. Vasher stood slowly,

dusting himself off, rolling his shoulder and wincing

slightly at the pain.

“They say you’re pretty tough,” said one of the guards.

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Vasher looked to the side. While the bottom half of

the cell door was made of solid wood, the top half was

barred, and he could easily see the three men outside as

they opened his pack and began rifling through his

possessions.

One of the guardsmen stood facing the cell. He was an

oversized beast of a man with a shaved head and a dirtied

uniform that just barely showed the bright yellow and blue

colorings of the T’Telir city guard.

Bright colors, Vasher thought. I’ll have to get used

to those again. In any other nation, the vibrant blues and

yellows would have been ridiculous on soldiers. This,

however, was Hallendren: land of Returned Gods, lifeless

servants, BioChromatic research, and--of course--color.

Compared to the Hallendren norm, these guard uniforms

were actually rather drab.

“They said you beat down some twenty men in the brawl,”

the guard continued, still standing in front of Vasher’s

cell. The man rubbed his chin. “You don’t look that tough

to me. Either way, you should have known better than to

strike a priest. The others, they’ll spend a night locked

up. You, though--you’ll hang. Colorless bastard.”

Vasher turned away from the guardsman, looking over his

cell. It was functional, if modestly unoriginal. Only a

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thin slit in the top let in light, the stone walls dripped

with water and lichen, a pile of dirty straw decomposed in

the corner. Vasher was, fortunately, the only one in it.

The fewer people he had to deal with, the better.

“You ignoring me?” the guard asked, stepping closer to

Vasher’s cell. As he did so, the colors of his uniform

brightened just slightly, like he’d stepped into a stronger

light. None of the guards had noticed the effect before,

when they’d picked Vasher up from the bar floor. This time,

however, the man paused, frowning.

He had just been confronted by an impossibility.

“Here, now,” one of the men said from behind. “What’s

this?” The two were still searching through Vasher’s

possessions--doing so right outside his cell, rather than in

their guard post, as if to purposely provoke him. Vasher

had always found it odd that the men who patrolled dungeons

tended to be as bad, or worse, than the men they guarded.

Perhaps that was the purpose. Society didn’t seem to care

if such men were outside the cells or in them--just as long

as both groups were kept away from more honest men.

Assuming that such a thing existed.

A guard pulled something free from Vasher’s pack, an

object which finally explained why the bag had to be so

large. The man frowned at the object, then unwrapped a

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protective cloth, revealing a large, thin-bladed sword a

silver sheath.

The lead guard turned from Vasher’s cell, whistling

quietly. “Who’d you steal that from?”

Vasher didn’t answer.

The lead guard turned back toward Vasher, his frown

deepening. It had likely occurred to him that Vasher might

be some kind of nobleman. Though such things didn’t really

exist in Hallendren, there many neighboring kingdoms had

their lords ladies.

Yet, what kind of lord would wear a drab brown cloak,

ripped in several places? What kind of lord would sport

bruises from a bar fight, a half-grown beard, and boots worn

from years of walking? Eventually, the guard turned away,

obviously convinced that Vasher was no lord.

He was right.

“Let me see that,” the lead guard said, taking the

sword from the other two. He grunted, frowning, obviously

surprised by how heavy the weapon was. He turned it about,

noting the clasp that tied from sheath to hilt, keeping the

blade from being drawn. He undid the clasp.

The colors in the room. . .deepened slightly. They

didn’t grow brighter--not like the guard’s vest had when he

approached Vasher. Instead, the room’s colors grew more

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vibrant, yet darker at the same time. Reds became maroon.

The yellows hardened to gold. Blue approached navy.

“Be careful, friend,” Vasher said quietly, “that sword

is sharp.”

The guard looked up. Then, moment broke, he snorted.

He nodded to the others. “Come on,” he said, walking away

from Vasher’s cell. The other two followed, bearing

Vasher’s pack, and all three entered the guard room at the

end of the hallway.

The door thumped shut.

Vasher immediately began to move--he didn’t have much

time. He knelt beside the patch of straw, selecting a

handful of larger, more sturdy lengths. He pulled threads

from his cloak--it was beginning to get quite frayed at the

bottom--and tied the straw into the shape of a small person,

perhaps three inches high. He plucked one of his eyebrows

off, set it against the straw figure’s head, then reached

into his boot and pulled out a brilliant red scarf.

Then, he Breathed.

The Breath flowed from him, puffing into the air,

translucent yet radiant, like the color of oil on water in

the sun. Vasher felt it flow out of him--the BioChromatic

Breath, scholars called it. Vasher felt poor, with only

some hundred and fifty Breaths to work with. That was a

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hundred and forty-nine more than most people ever had, true,

but even Awakening a small figure made from recently killed

organic material--including a piece of his own body as a

focus--drained away some fifty Breaths.

Fifty Breaths, taken from people who would be left

without. It wouldn’t kill them, just. . .change them.

Vasher didn’t know who they were; he hadn’t gathered these

Breaths himself. They had been given to him. But, of

course, that was the way it was always supposed to work.

The little straw figure jerked, sucking in the Breath.

In Vasher’s hand, the brilliant red scarf faded to grey, the

color draining away. Vasher leaned down, completing the

final step of the process as he gave the Command.

“Fetch keys,” he said.

The straw figure stood, Awakened, and raised its single

eyebrow toward Vasher.

Vasher pointed toward the guard room. From it, he

heard sudden shouts of surprise.

Not much time at all, he thought.

The straw person ran along the floor, then jumped up,

vaulting through the bars of his cell. Vasher turned,

pulling off his cloak, then setting it on the floor.

Arranged as it was, it was the perfect shape of a person--

one marked with rips that matched the scars on Vasher’s own
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body, and a hood cut with holes to match Vasher’s eyes. It

had taken time to get right, yet the markings made it much

easier to Awaken.

Vasher leaned down, placing a hand on the cloak, trying

not to think of the days when he’d had enough Breath to

Awaken without regard for shape or focus. That had been a

different time, and his Breaths had been well spent. He

reached up, pulling a tuft of hair from his head, then

sprinkled it across the hood of the cloak.

Once again, he Breathed.

It took the rest of his Breath--the living aura of a

hundred separate people. With it gone--the cloak trembling,

the scarf losing the rest of its color--Vasher

felt. . .dimmer. Colors weren’t as bright. He couldn’t

feel the bustling of thousands of people moving about in the

city above, a connection he always took for granted. It was

the awareness all men had for other people--that thing which

told you, in the drowsiness of sleep, that someone was

standing above you and watching. In Vasher, it had been

magnified a hundred and fifty times.

And now it was gone from him. Sucked into the cloak,

giving it power. It jerked, moving. Vasher leaned down.

“Protect me,” he Commanded, and the cloak grew still. He

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stood, throwing it on as the straw figure returned to his

window. It carried, as he had hoped, a large ring of keys.

The figure’s straw feet were stained red with blood.

It’s color seemed so dull to Vasher.

He took the keys. “Thank you,” he said to the little

figure. He always thanked them. He didn’t really know why,

particularly since the next thing he did was reach up to

touch the Awakened creature on the chest.

“Your breath to mine,” he commanded. The straw person

immediately fell backward off the door--life draining from

it--and Vasher got his Breath back. The familiar sense of

awareness returned, the knowledge of connectedness, of

fitting. He could only take the Breath back because he’d

Awakened this creature himself--indeed, Awakenings of the

sort he preformed were rarely permanent. He used his Breath

like a reservoir, doling it out as needed, then recovering

it when finished.

Compared to what he had once held, fifty Breaths were a

laughably small number. However, when compared to nothing,

it seemed nearly infinite. He shivered slightly in

satisfaction.

The yells from the guard room died out. The dungeon

fell still. He had to keep moving.

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He quickly reached through the bars, using the keys to

unlock his cell. He pushed the thick door open, rushing out

into the hallway, leaving the straw figure discarded on the

ground. He didn’t move toward the entrance to the dungeons,

however--instead, he turned south, penetrating deeper into

their depths.

This was the most uncertain part of his plan. Finding

a bar that was occasionally frequented by priests of the

Iridescent Tones had been easy enough. Getting into a

barfight, then ending it by striking one of those same

priests, had been equally simple. Hallandrens took their

religious figures very seriously--Vasher’s actions had

earned him not the usual imprisonment in a local jail, but a

trip to the royal dungeons themselves.

And, knowing what kind of men tended to guard such

dungeons, he’d had a pretty good idea that they would try to

draw Nightblood. That had given him the distraction he’d

needed to get the keys.

However, all of his planning pointed toward what he

would now attempt. The uncertain part of the plan.

Vasher stopped, Awakened cloak rustling. Cells

extended to either side in the dim light, lining the

hallway. He’d stopped beside one in particular, however.

It was easy to spot--a patch of stone two cells wide had

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been drained of color, leaving the walls grey and dull, like

the wooden door of the cell itself.

It was a place to imprison an Awakener. Drawing out

the color wouldn’t leave an Awakener powerless, but it would

hinder them, force them to use more Breaths to compensate.

Vasher stepped up to the door, looking through the bars

toward the shining figure inside.

The man hung from the ceiling, naked and chained.

But, more importantly, he was gagged. Lack of color to

Bleed could be overcome. Indeed, with enough Breath, one

could Awaken nearly anything--even if it had no human form

or focus at all. The Command, however, was vital. A man

who could not speak clearly could perform no Awakening.

The Harmonics and the Hues, some called it. The

Iridescent tones. The relationship between color and sound,

the requirement of spoken Command to activate the Breath.

No stuttering, no mispronunciation, was allowed. The

Commands had to be delivered clearly and firmly, in the

Awakener’s own native language.

Vasher used the prison keys to unlock the door to this

room, then walked slowly inside. The man before him glowed

with an aura of color, a manifestation of the many Breaths

he held. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. As many as a

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thousand, perhaps--something Vasher could distinguish only

see because he himself held an unnatural number of Breaths.

Vasher had seen figures much brighter--ones that shined

like the suns themselves, though with colors that were deep

and true, rather than blinding. The Returned, known as Gods

here in Hallandren, glowed with such force. This man didn’t

have that much Iridescence--he was, perhaps, as bright as a

well-oiled lantern.

It was enough, however. Far more than Vasher himself

had. Though Vasher couldn’t see his own Iridescence, to

others who held at least fifty Breaths he would glow

slightly, the colors he wore more vibrant. It was hardly

noticeable, but that wasn’t really something he could

complain about at the moment. If any of the guards had

noticed his weight of Breath, he would have found himself

gagged and bound, chained to the ceiling much in the same

way as the figure before him.

The man raised an eyebrow as Vasher approached. Vasher

paused only briefly, then reached up and pulled the gag

free.

“You,” the prisoner whispered, coughing slightly and

wiping his lips with his tongue, manacled hands clanking.

“Here to free me?”

 Sanderson/Warbreaker/12

“No, Pahn,” Vasher said quietly. “I’m here to kill

you.”

Pahn snorted quietly as he hung from his bonds. The

man’s captivity obviously hadn’t been easy. When Vasher had

last seen Pahn, he’d been plump and determined. Now,

judging by the emaciated body and cracked lips, the man had

been without food and water for some time. In addition, the

fresh cuts and burn marks on his face, the scalp with

patches of hair torn free, and the haunted look in his bag-

rimmed eyes bespoke another truth.

Breath could only be transferred by willful,

intentional Command. That Command could, however,

be. . .encouraged.

“So,” Pahn croaked, “you judge me, just like everyone

else.”

“Your crimes are not my concern,” Vasher said. “I just

want your Breath.”

“You and the entire Hallandren court,” Pahn said with a

snort, swinging slightly.

“Yes,” Vasher said. “But you’re going to give it to

me. In exchange for killing you.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a trade,” Pahn said quietly.

There was a hardness--a void of emotion--in him that Vasher

had not seen the last time they had parted, years before.
 Sanderson/Warbreaker/13

Odd, Vasher thought, that I should finally, after all

of this time, find something in the man that I can identify

with.

Vasher stepped forward, but kept a wary distance from

Pahn. Now that the man’s voice was free, he could--

theoretically--Command. However, the only thing he was

touching was the chains, and it would take more Breath than

even Phan contained to Awaken that much metal. It had never

been alive, and it was far from the form of a man. Even

during the height of his power, Vasher himself had only

managed to Awaken metal a few times.

Vasher walked around the chained Pahn, regarding him,

finding it very difficult to offer any sympathy. Pahn had

earned his fate.

Yet, the priests would not let him die while he held so

much Breath--for if he died, it would be wasted. Gone.

Irretrievable. The hundreds of people Pahn had forced to

give him their Breath would continue to live, as Drabs--or

Faded Ones, they were sometimes called--but nobody would

carry or use the Breath they had given away.

Wasted power. Not even the government of Hallandren,

who normally had such strict laws about the buying and

passing of Breath, could let such a wealth die with a

prisoner. They wanted it badly enough to forestall the

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execution of even a high-profile criminal like Pahn. In

retrospect, they would probably curse themselves for not

leaving him better guarded.

But, then, Vasher had been waiting two years for an

opportunity like this one. Someone had been bound to give

him one eventually.

“Well?” Pahn asked roughly.

“Give me the Breath, Pahn,” Vasher said quietly,

stepping forward.

Pahn snorted at the threatening move. “I doubt you

have the skill of the royal torturers, Vasher--and I’ve

withstood them for two weeks now.”

“You’d be surprised,” Vasher said quietly. “But that

doesn’t matter. You are going to give me your Breath.

You’re going to do it because you’re an intelligent man, and

right now, you’re coming to realize that you really only

have two choices. You can give the Breath to me, or you can

give it to your enemies.”

Pahn grew silent, hanging by his wrists, rotating

slowly.

“You don’t have much time to consider,” Vasher said.

“Any moment now, someone is going to discover the dead

guards outside. Then the alarm will be raised. I’ll leave

you, and you will be tortured again, and you will break to
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them. All the power you’ve gathered will go to the very

people you vowed to destroy.”

Pahn swung quietly for a moment. Then, he turned his

head sharply toward Vasher. “That. . .thing you bear. It’s

here, in the city?”

Vasher nodded.

“The screams I heard earlier? It caused them?”

Vasher nodded again.

“How long will you be in T’Telir?”

“For a time,” Vasher said. “A year, perhaps.”

Pahn grew quiet. “It’s yours,” he finally whispered.

Vasher reached over, touching his hand to Pahn’s

forehead--careful not to let any part of his clothing touch

the man’s skin, lest he Awaken it.

Pahn didn’t move. He looked numb. Then, just as

Vasher had begun to worry that the prisoner had changed his

mind, Pahn Breathed.

The color drained from him. The beautiful Iridescence,

the aura of beauty that had made him look majestic despite

his wounds and chains. It flowed from his mouth, hanging in

the air, shimmering like hot air. Vasher drew it in,

closing his eyes.

“My life to yours,” Pahn Commanded, a hint of despair

in his voice. “My Breath become yours.”

 Sanderson/Warbreaker/16

Breath flooded into Vasher, and colors deepened

drastically to his eyes. His brown cloak became the

strongest, most amazing representative of its color that

Vasher could imagine. Pahn’s skin became sharply distinct,

bright despite his captivity, its light tan surface marked

by deep black hairs.

It had been years since Vasher had felt such. . .life.

He gasped, falling to his knees as it overwhelmed him, and

he had to drop a hand to the stone floor, keeping himself

from toppling over from the sheer ecstasy of the heightened

aura.

How did I live without this? he thought.

Everything seemed more real to him. His senses hadn’t

become more keen--he couldn’t see further or hear things

more distant--yet, he felt more alert. More aware of the

beauty of sensation. When he touched the stone floor, he

marveled at its roughness. It was so wonderful. And the

sound of wind passing through the thin dungeon window up

above. Had it always been that melodic? How could he not

have noticed?

“Keep your part of the bargain,” Phan said harshly, and

Vasher noted the tones in his voice, the beauty of each one,

how close they were to harmonics. Perfect pitch. A gift

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for anyone with over two hundred Breath. It would be good

to have that again.

Vasher stood, then pulled out the colorless scarf he

had used earlier. He tossed it over Pahn’s shoulder,

letting it hang down. Then, Vasher Breathed. He didn’t

bother with focus or color--indeed, he used an object that

had itself been Bled of color.

Vasher met Pahn’s resigned eyes.

“Strangle,” Vasher Commanded, fingers touching the

scarf.

It quivered immediately, drawing out a good four

hundred of Vasher’s Breaths. Yet, it came to life,

Awakening and following his command. It quickly wrapped

around Pahn’s neck, tightening, choking him. Pahn didn’t

struggle or gasp, he simply bore the execution, watching

Vasher with hatred until his eyes bulged and he died.

Hatred. Vasher had known enough of that, in his time.

Fortunately, this day he had been the lesser of two

loathings. He quietly reached up and recovered the Breath

from the scarf, then left Pahn dangling in his prison.

Vasher passed quietly though the hallways of cells,

marveling at the color of the woods and even the stones.

After a few moments of walking, he noticed a new color in

the hallway. Red. He stepped around the pool of blood

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which was seeping down the inclined dungeon floor, then

moved into the guard room. The three men he’d seen

earlier--as well as two others--lay dead. One of them sat

in a chair. Nighblood, still mostly sheathed, had been

rammed through his chest. About an inch of a dark black

blade--crafted from something that didn’t have the luster of

metal--was visible beneath the silver sheath.

Vasher reached to the sword’s hilt, then carefully slid

the weapon fully back into is sheath. He quietly did up the

clasp.

I did very well today, a voice said in his mind.

Vasher didn’t respond to the sword.

I killed them all, Nightblood continued. And, they

only managed to draw me out a tiny bit. Aren’t you proud of

me?

Vasher picked up the weapon, accustomed to its unusual

weight, and carried it in one hand. Then, he recovered his

pack and slung it over his shoulder.

I knew you’d be impressed, Nightblood said, sounding

satisfied. Vasher said nothing. He simply slipped out of

the dungeons, entering into the city itself.