Warbreaker (Warbreaker #1)(202)
She looked back at Tonk Fah, his cloak still touching her cheek. “Your Breath to mine,” she said.
She felt a sudden, welcoming burst of Breath.
“Huh?” Tonk Fah said.
“Nothing,” she said. “Just . . . Attack and grab Denth!” Command made, visualization made, the cloak began to quiver. Tonk Fah’s shirt drained of color, and his eyes widened with surprise. The cloak suddenly whipped into the air, yanking Tonk Fah to the side and causing him to stumble away from her.
That’s why I’m the princess, and you’re just a mercenary, she thought with satisfaction, rolling over.
Tonk Fah cried out. Denth spun at the sound, yelling as the very large, very uncoordinated Pahn Kahl man crashed into him, cloak whipping about.
Denth slammed backward, catching Vasher by surprise as they rammed together. Tonk Fah grunted. Denth cursed.
And Vasher was shoved backward out the window.
Vivenna blinked in surprise. That wasn’t what she’d been intending. Denth cut away the cloak, pushing Tonk Fah back.
All was silent in the room for a moment.
“Go grab our squad of Lifeless!” Denth said. “Now!”
“You think he’ll live?” Tonk Fah asked.
“He just fell out the third-story window, plummeting toward certain doom,” Denth said. “Of course he’ll live! Send the squad to the front doors to slow him!” Denth glanced at Vivenna. “You, Princess, are far more trouble than you’re worth.”
“So people are fond of telling me,” she said with a sigh, raising her bloodied hand to her shoulder again, too exhausted to be as scared as she probably should be.
* * *
VASHER FELL toward the hard stone blocks below. He watched the window retreat above him. Almost, he thought with frustration. I just about had him!
Wind whistled. He screamed in frustration, pulling free the rope at his waist, Vivenna’s Breath a lively strength within him.
“Grab things,” he Commanded, whipping the rope out, drawing color from his bloodstained shorts. They bled to grey, and the rope wrapped around an outcropping of stone on the palace wall. It pulled taut, and he ran sideways along the ebony blocks, slowing his fall.
“Your Breath to mine,” he yelled as his momentum slowed. The rope dropped free and he landed on the first block. “Become as my leg and give it strength!” he Commanded, drawing color from the blood on his chest. The rope twisted down, wrapping around his leg and foot as he leaped off. He landed on the next block, one foot down, the coiled rope—and its strange, inhuman muscles—bearing the brunt of the shock.
Four hops and he hit the ground. A group of soldiers stood amidst some bodies at the front gates, looking confused. Vasher barreled toward them, colorless translucent blood dropping from his skin as he drew his Breath back from the rope.
He scooped a sword from a fallen soldier. The men before the gates turned and readied their weapons. He didn’t have the time, or the patience, for pleasantries. He struck, cutting men down with quick efficiency. He wasn’t as good as Denth, but he had practiced for a very, very long time.
Unfortunately, there were a lot of men. Maybe too many to fight. Vasher cursed, spinning between them, dropping another one. He bent down, slapping his hand against the waist of a fallen soldier, touching both shirt and pants, looping his finger around the colored inner undershirt.
“Fight for me, as if you were me,” he Commanded, draining the man’s undershirt completely grey. Vasher spun, blocking a sword strike. Another came from the side, and another. He couldn’t block them all.
A sword flashed in the air, blocking a weapon that would have hit Vasher. The dead man’s shirt and trousers, having pulled themselves free, stood holding a blade. They struck, as if controlled by an invisible person inside, blocking and attacking with skill. Vasher put his back to the Awakened construct. When he had a chance, he made another one, draining away his remaining Breath.
They fought in a trio, Vasher and his two sets of Awakened clothing. The guards cursed, much more wary now. Vasher eyed them, planning an attack. At that moment, a troop of some fifty Lifeless barreled around the corner, charging toward him.
Colors! Vasher thought. He growled in rage, striking and taking down another soldier.
Colors, Colors, Colors!
You shouldn’t swear, a voice said in his head. Shashara told me that was evil.
Vasher spun toward the sound. A little line of black smoke was trailing out from beneath the closed front doors of the palace.
Aren’t you going to thank me? Nightblood said. I came to save you.
One of his sets of clothing fell, the leg cut off by soldier’s clever strike. Vasher reached back, drawing the Breath back from the second set of clothing, then stepped with an unclothed toe on the fallen set, recovering the Breath from it as well. The soldiers backed away, wary, more than happy to let the Lifeless take him.
And in that moment of peace, Vasher charged for the gates to the palace. He threw his shoulder against them, slamming them open, skidding into the entryway.
A large group of men lay dead on the ground. Nightblood sprouted from one man’s chest, as usual, hilt pointing toward the sky. Vasher hesitated only briefly. He could hear Lifeless charging up behind him.
He ran forward and grabbed Nightblood’s hilt and pulled the sword free, leaving the sheath behind in the body.
The blade sprayed a wave of black liquid as he swung it. The liquid dissolved into smoke before touching walls or floor, like water in an oven. Smoke twisted, some rising from the blade, some falling in a stream to the floor, dripping like black blood.