Sanderson/Warbreaker/1

Sanderson/Warbreaker/1

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Hi! My name is Brandon Sanderson, and first off, I’d like to say thanks for reading my book! I hope you enjoy it.

In case you don’t know, I’m a professional fantasy novelist. My first book, Elantris, was published in some thirteen languages, earned me a Campbell nomination, and got starred reviews in Publisher’s Weekly and the Library Journal. It was also picked by Barnes and Noble editors as the best fantasy or science fiction book of the year.

My second book, Mistborn, is in stores right now. Mistborn 2: The Well of Ascension will be out August 21st, 2007. I also have a kid’s book Alcatraz versus the Evil Librarians coming out from Scholastic Press in October. You can find sample chapters of these books at the end of this file. If you like Warbreaker, consider buying those!

Warbreaker is something of an experiment for me. As Cory Doctorow is fond of saying, the biggest challenge of a new writer is obscurity. People have to know about my work before they can seek me out in bookstores! Plus, people are, understandably, hesitant to take a chance on a new writer.

So, for a long time, I’ve wanted to be able to provide a novel free for download on my website. The philosophy is that if people like this novel, they’ll seek out copies of my other books. However, I didn’t want to simply throw up one of my old, unpublished novels as the free download, since those would be a poor representation of my current style and abilities.

So, in June of 2006, I began work on a stand-alone epic fantasy. I got permission from Tor to post it on-line as I wrote it. (Tor has the same belief that I do: At this point in my career, the more people who read my books--even for free--the better.) So, with my editor’s support, I began posting chapters of Warbreaker even while they were still in the rough draft form.

The hope was to let readers collaborate a little bit on the book, offering feedback as the novel progressed. It was a risky thing to do, since it allowed some rather unpolished drafts to be read by the public. People might--potentially--judge my entire body of work based on something that was far from finished. However, I felt that the opportunity to connect directly with readers, letting them see a book progress from start to finish, was worth the risk.

And that risk isn’t gone yet! This draft you’re reading is only the third draft of the book. My books usually go through ten. Be warned that there are still going to be a lot of typos and problems in the novel! The second draft fixed some of the larger inconsistencies, and the third polished that, and there are some large-scale problems. So, consider yourself warned!

That said, please enjoy the book! If you feel like making comments on it, please do so! Also, if you do enjoy reading this, please consider tossing a few bucks my way by picking up copies of Elantris or Mistborn. The best thing you can do to make sure you get more books by Brandon Sanderson is to make sure I can feed my family!

My website:

(Find my blog here.)

My forums:

(Give feedback to Warbreaker here!)

Brandon Sanderson,

May, 2007

Note 1: You can find older versions of this book, with changes illustrated in different colors, on my forums or my website. If you’re interested in how a book evolves, check that out.

Note 2: You can select chapters in this document by opening the ‘Document Map’ in Microsoft Word.

Note 3: Email me at

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to the following people who have commented on the book so far, or who have given me proofreading help! Special thanks in this department go to Emily Sanderson, Joevans3, and Dreamking47 for their extensive suggestions.

Also, many thanks to Jeff Creer, Megan Kauffman, thelsdj, Peter Ahlstrom, Miriel, Greyhound, Texxas, Demented Yam, D.Demille, Loryn, Kuntry Bumpken, BarbaraJ, Shir Hasirim, Digitalbias, Spink Longfellow, amyface, Richard Gordon, Swiggly, Dawncawley, Derio, amyface, and David B for their suggestions and encouragement.

Prologue

Why, Vasher thought, do so many things begin with me getting thrown into prison?

The guardsmen laughed to one another outside, slamming the cell door shut with a clang. Vasher stood and dusted himself off, rolling his shoulder and wincing. He glanced about. While the bottom half of his cell door was made of solid wood, the top half was barred, and he could see the three guardsopen his pack and rifle through his possessions.

One of the guardsmen noticed him. The guard 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 Hallandren: land of Returned Gods, Lifeless servants, BioChromatic research, and--of course--color.

The large guard sauntered toward the cell, leaving his friends to their fun with Vasher’s pack. “They say you’re pretty tough,” the man said, sizing up Vasher.

Vasher did not respond.

“The bartender says you beat down some twenty men in the brawl.” The guard rubbed his chin. “You don’t look that tough to me.”

Vasher shrugged.

The guard snorted. “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 fool.”

Vasher turned away, looking over his cell. It was functional, if unoriginal. A thin slit in the top let in light, the stone walls dripped with water and lichen, and a pile of dirty straw decomposed in the corner.

“You ignoring me?” the guard asked, stepping closer to the bars. As he did so, the colors of his uniform brightened faintly, like he’d stepped into a stronger light. The change was slight. Vasher didn’t have much Breath remaining.

The guard didn’t notice the change in color--just like he hadn’t noticed back in the bar, when he and his buddies had picked Vasher up off the floor and thrown him in their cart. He’d soon wish that he’d been more observant.

“Here, now,” one of the men said from behind. “What’s this?” Those two were still looking through Vasher’s pack. 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 intentional. Society didn’t seem to care if such men were outside the cells or in them--just as long as they were kept away from more honest men.

Assuming that such a thing existed.

A guard pulled a long object--wrapped in white linen--free from Vasher’sbag. The man frowned at the object, then unwrapped it, revealing a large, thin-bladed sword in a silver sheath. The hilt was pure black.

The guard whistled quietly. “Who do you suppose he stole this from?”

The lead guard eyed Vasher again, frowning. He was likely wondering if Vasher might be some kind of nobleman. Though such things didn’t really exist in Hallandren, many neighboring kingdoms had their lords and ladies.

Yet, what lord would wear a drab brown cloak, ripped in several places? What lord would sport bruises from a bar fight, a half-grown beard, and boots worn from years of walking? Eventually, the guard turned away, apparently convinced that Vasher was no lord.

He was right. And he was wrong.

“Let me see that,” the lead guard said, taking the sword from the other two. He grunted, obviously surprised by how heavy it was. He turned it about, noting the clasp that tied 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, they stronger, yet darker at the same time. Reds became maroon. The yellows hardened to gold. Blue approached navy.

“Be careful, friend,” Vasher said softly, “that sword can be dangerous.”

The guard looked up. All was still. Then, the guard snorted and nodded to the others. He walked away from Vasher’s cell, still carrying the sword. The other two followed, bearing Vasher’s pack. All three entered the guard room at the end of the hallway.

The door thumped shut.

Vasher immediately knelt beside the patch of straw, selecting a handful of large, 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 off one of his eyebrows, set it against the straw figure’s head, then reached into his boot and pulled out a brilliant red scarf.

Vasher looked down at the little straw person. Then, he Breathed.

The Breath flowed out of him, puffing into the air, translucent yet radiant, like the color of oil on water in the sun. Vasher felt it leave--the BioChromatic Breath, scholars called it. Most just called it Breath.

Vasher felt poor in Breath. He barely had enough to reach the First Heightening, which meant he had somewhere around a fifty Breaths. Yet, that was quite a bit more than most people ever had. One person, one Breath. That was the way it usually went.

He should feel fortunate to have what he did. Unfortunately, even Awakening a small figure made from organic material--including a piece of his own body as a focus--drained away some half of his Breaths.

Breaths that had been taken from other people, leaving them 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. One could not take Breath by force.

The little straw figure jerked, sucking in the Breath. In Vasher’s hand, half of the brilliant red scarf faded to grey. Vasher leaned down--imagining what he wanted the figure to do--and completed the final step of the process as he gave the Command.

“Fetch keys,” he said.

The straw figure stood and raised its single eyebrow toward Vasher.

Vasher pointed toward the guard room. From it, he heard sudden shouts of surprise.

Not much time, he thought.

The straw person ran along the floor, then jumped up, vaulting between the bars. Vasher didn’t watch it go. Instead, he pulled off his cloak, then set it on the floor. Arranged as it was, it was the perfect shape of a person--marked with rips that matched the scars on Vasher’s body, its hood cut with holes to match Vasher’s eyes. The closer an object was to human shape and form, the fewer Breaths it took to Awaken.

Vasher leaned down, trying not to think of the days when he’d had enough Breaths to Awaken without regard for shape or focus. That had been a different time. He pulled 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. With it gone--the cloak trembling, the scarf losing the rest of its color--Vasher felt. . .dimmer. Colors didn’t seem as bright to him. He couldn’t feel the bustling people moving about in the city above, a connection he often took for granted. It was the awareness all men had for other people--that thing which told you, in the drowsiness of sleep, when someone entered the room. In Vasher, with his Breaths, that sense had been magnified a hundred times.

And now it was gone from him. Sucked into the cloak and the straw person, giving them power.

The cloak jerked. Vasher leaned down. “Protect me,” he Commanded, and the cloak grew still. He stood, throwing it on as the straw figure returned to his window. It carrieda large ring of keys.

The figure’s straw feet were stained red. The crimson blood seemed so dull to Vasher.

He took the keys. “Thank you,” he said. He always thanked them. He didn’t really know why, particularly considering what he did next.

“Your Breath to mine,” he commanded, touching the straw person’s chest. 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 that sort were rarely permanent. He used his Breath like a reservoir, doling it out as needed, then recovering it.

Compared to what he had once held, fifty Breaths was a laughably small number. However, compared to nothing, it seemed infinite. He shivered slightly in satisfaction.

The yells from the guard room died out. The dungeon fell still. He had to keep moving.

He 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 to escape the dungeons, however. Instead, he turned south, penetrating into their depths.

This was the most uncertain part of his plan. Finding a tavern that was frequented by priests of the Iridescent Tones had been easy enough. Getting into a bar fight--then striking one of those same priests--had been equally simple. Hallandrens took their religious figures very seriously, and Vasher had earned himself not the usual imprisonment in a local jail, but a trip to the God King’s 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.

But now came the uncertain part.

Vasher stopped, Awakened cloak rustling. He stood beforea particular cell. It was easy to spot, for around it a large patch of stonehad been drained of color, leaving both walls and doors a dull grey.

It was a place to imprison an Awakener. No color meant no Awakening. Vasher stepped up to the door, looking through the bars. The man hung from the ceiling, naked and chained. His color was vibrant to Vasher’s eyes, his skin pure, his bruises brilliant, his hair vibrant.

The man was gagged. Another precaution. In order to Awaken, the man would need three things: Breath, color, and a command.

The Harmonics and the Hues, some called it. The Iridescent tones. The relationship between color and sound. A Command had to be spoken clearly and firmly in the Awakener’s native language--any stuttering, any mispronunciation, would invalidate the Awakening. The Breath would be drawn out, but the object unable to act.

Vasher used the prison keys to unlock the cell door, then stepped inside. The aura of color this man gave off was a manifestation of the many Breaths he held. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. Anyone would be able to notice an aura that strong, though it was much easier for someone who had reached the First Heightening.

It wasn’t the strongest BioChromatic aura Vasher had ever seen--those belonged to the Returned, known as gods here in Hallandren. Still, the prisoner’s BioChroma was very impressive--and much, much stronger than Vasher’s own.

The man swung in his bonds, studying Vasher, gagged lips bleeding from lack of water. Vasher hesitated only briefly, then reached up and pulled the gag free.

“You,” the prisoner whispered, coughing slightly and licking his lips. “Are you here to free me?”

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

Pahn snorted. His captivity obviously hadn’t been easy on him. When Vasher had last seen Pahn, he’d been plump--but now, judging by the emaciated body, he’d been without food for some time. Some of the cuts, burn marks, and bruises on his flesh were new.

Both the torture and the haunted look in Pahn’s bag-rimmed eyes both bespoke a solemn truth. Breath could only be transferred by willful, intentional Command. That Command could, however, beencouraged.

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

“Your crimes are not my concern. I just want your Breath.”

“You and the entire Hallandren court.”

“Yes,” Vasher said. “But you’re not going to give it to one of the Returned. You’re going to give it to me. In exchange for killing you.”

“Doesn’t seem like much of a trade.” There was a hardness--a void of emotion--in Pahn that Vasher had not seen the last time they had parted, years before.

Odd, Vasher thought, that I should finally, after all of this time, find something in the man that I can identify with.