Suddenly, his sword jerked, then ripped free from his hands, blasted backward by a powerful force. A loud hissing sound exploded from the cut. He had pierced the skin. Kenton caught a faceful of acrid gas—what sandlings had instead of blood—just before one of the monster’s legs caught him full in the chest, flinging him into the air.
Even as he soared away from the creature, Kenton called the sand in his fist to life. He commanded it forward, driving it with all of his skill. Kenton slammed against the rock wall at the same time that his sand hit the creature’s chest, yet he did not release control of his ribbon. He felt his body slump to the ground, but ignored the pain, commanding his sand to find the cut, to wiggle past the terken carapace into the creature’s cavernous insides. He had to fight against air pressure and his own approaching unconsciousness, but he refused to release the sand.
He felt it break through, the resistance of the air pressure suddenly vanishing. With a final surge of effort, Kenton ordered the ribbon around wildly, slicing it through organs inside the monster’s chest. The sandling began to shake and spasm as Kenton commanded the sand to move vaguely upward. A second later Kenton found the head, and the sandling grew rigid in a sudden motion, throwing sand in all directions. Then, as silent in death as it had been in life, the creature slumped to the side, its corpse sinking slightly in the sand before coming to a rest.
Kenton didn’t know where he found the strength to stumble to his feet and cross the sand. He only vaguely remembered retrieving his sword and using it to pry the sixth sphere free from the creature’s carapace.
One image remained stark in his mind, however—that of looking up at the ridge and seeing his father’s hard, angry face. Just behind the Lord Mastrell, the enormous Mount KraeDa towered in the distance. As Kenton watched, the silvery edge of the moon began to peek out from behind the mountain.
POSTSCRIPT
I was thinking that Mistborn: Secret History was the story in this collection that had the longest time between original idea and final publication, but then I remembered that this is in here.
What to say about White Sand? I’m thrilled to, at long last, be publishing this graphic novel. (And I’m very thankful to Dynamite, the publisher, for letting us include this excerpt in the collection.) White Sand started very long ago as a simple image: finding a body buried in the sand. The novel was the first I ever wrote—and also the eighth, as I started it over from scratch to try again once I’d learned more about writing. The excerpt you have here is from the 1999 version, not the 1995 version.
It’s been a long, long road to publication for this story. I’m still very enamored of the world, and consider it a major part of the Cosmere. (The fact that Khriss is an important figure in the unfolding of these things should indicate that.) However, it was getting hard to plan when I’d be able to squeeze the novel in. I still have to finish so many books, I had no idea where to slot this trilogy in. Then Dynamite came to us and suggested the graphic novel. I was up for this from the get-go, as it was a way to get a canonical version of the story on shelves for readers faster than my schedule would otherwise allow.
As for the scene in question—well, you can see from it that my writing style starting with my very first book was focused on magic systems. At that point, I was reading a lot of The Wheel of Time and other similar books. I loved how powerful the characters were, but I wanted to create something that showed off someone who wasn’t particularly powerful in the magic. Kenton was born out of me trying to figure out a magic where finesse would be as valuable as raw strength, and sand mastery grew completely out of that.
The idea of a test he had to complete (one many believed he wouldn’t be able to pass) using the magic seemed the perfect way to show this off. Indeed, it worked out great—and boy does it pop off the page in graphic novel form. Of all my magic systems, this one seems the best for this medium, because it’s so visual.
THE
THRENODITE
SYSTEM
THE THRENODITE SYSTEM
THE Threnodite system is a site warped by an ancient conflict. Long ago, soon after the Shattering, Odium clashed with (and mortally wounded) the Shard Ambition here. Ambition would later be Splintered, though that final act took place in a different location.
The direct clash between two Shards of Adonalsium had a profound effect on the planets of this system. Though the actual battle took place in the vast space between planets—and though the true contest happened mostly in other Realms—the ripples of destruction and change washed through the system. Investigations into how this changed the other planets of the system have been fruitless, as none of them have perpendicularities to allow physical visitation.
Fortunately I have personal access to someone from Threnody, the third planet in the system. Judging by the records that Nazh has provided, I have concluded that some measure of Investiture must have existed on this planet before the battle between Shards. However, the waves of destruction—carrying ripped-off chunks of Ambition’s power—twisted both the people and the planet of Threnody.
The planet is home to two separate continents. The larger of the two has been abandoned to something known as “the Evil,” a force that even Nazh can speak of only in vague terms. A creeping darkness, a terrible force that consumed the entirety of the continent, feasting upon the souls of men. I do not know how much of this is metaphoric, and how much literal. Expeditions sent from the smaller continent to explore have vanished, and the place is dangerous to visit even in the Cognitive Realm.
The smaller continent is a frontier, mostly unexplored and unnamed, with several bastions of civilization. I have visited one of the largest of these, and even it feels unfinished—set up haphazardly by refugees fleeing across the ocean, lacking some basic necessities. They focused on making it a fortress first, and a home second. This makes sense, as the people there live in constant fear that the Evil will find a way across the ocean.
Or perhaps they fear the spirits of the dead. People on Threnody are afflicted with a particular ailment that—upon death—sometimes turns them into what we call a Cognitive Shadow. I will leave aside the nature of whether or not a Cognitive Shadow is actually the soul of the person—this is a question for a theologian or a philosopher.
I can, however, explain what is happening magically. A spirit infused with extra Investiture will often imprint upon that very power. Much as the spren of Roshar become self-aware over time because of people’s focus on the Surges as being alive, this excess Investiture can attain the ability to remain sapient after being separated from its Physical form.
Locally they think of these things as ghosts, though really they are instantiations of self-aware (well, in this case, barely self-aware) Investiture. This is an area deserving of more research. Unfortunately, visiting the planet is difficult, as there is no stable perpendicularity—only very unstable ones that cannot be predicted easily, and have a somewhat morbid origin.
SHADOWS
FOR
SILENCE
IN THE
FORESTS OF HELL
“THE one you have to watch for is the White Fox,” Daggon said, sipping his beer. “They say he shook hands with the Evil itself, that he visited the Fallen World and came back with strange powers. He can kindle fire on even the deepest of nights, and no shade will dare come for his soul. Yes, the White Fox. Meanest bastard in these parts for sure. Pray he doesn’t set his eyes on you, friend. If he does, you’re dead.”
Daggon’s drinking companion had a neck like a slender wine bottle and a head like a potato stuck sideways on the top. He squeaked as he spoke, a Lastport accent, voice echoing in the eaves of the waystop’s common room. “Why … why would he set his eyes on me?”
“That depends, friend,” Daggon said, looking about as a few overdressed merchants sauntered in. They wore black coats, ruffled lace poking out the front, and the tall-topped, wide-brimmed hats of fortfolk. They wouldn’t last two weeks out here in the Forests.
“It de
pends?” Daggon’s dining companion prompted. “It depends on what?”
“On a lot of things, friend. The White Fox is a bounty hunter, you know. What crimes have you committed? What have you done?”
“Nothing.” That squeak was like a rusty wheel.
“Nothing? Men don’t come out into the Forests to do ‘nothing,’ friend.”
His companion glanced from side to side. He’d given his name as Earnest. But then, Daggon had given his name as Amity. Names didn’t mean a whole lot in the Forests. Or maybe they meant everything. The right ones, that was.
Earnest leaned back, scrunching down that fishing-pole neck of his as if trying to disappear into his beer. He’d bite. People liked hearing about the White Fox, and Daggon considered himself an expert. At least, he was an expert at telling stories to get ratty men like Earnest to pay for his drinks.
I’ll give him some time to stew, Daggon thought, smiling to himself. Let him worry. Earnest would ply him for more information in a bit.
While he waited, Daggon leaned back, surveying the room. The merchants were making a nuisance of themselves, calling for food, saying they meant to be on their way in an hour. That proved them to be fools. Traveling at night in the Forests? Good homesteader stock would do it. Men like these, though … they’d probably take less than an hour to violate one of the Simple Rules and bring the shades upon them. Daggon put the idiots out of his mind.
That fellow in the corner, though … dressed all in brown, still wearing his hat despite being indoors. That fellow looked truly dangerous. I wonder if it’s him, Daggon thought. So far as he knew, nobody had ever seen the White Fox and lived. Ten years, over a hundred bounties turned in. Surely someone knew his name. The authorities in the forts paid him the bounties, after all.
The waystop’s owner, Madam Silence, passed by the table and deposited Daggon’s meal with an unceremonious thump. Scowling, she topped off his beer, spilling a sudsy dribble onto his hand, before limping off. She was a stout woman. Tough. Everyone in the Forests was tough. The ones that survived, at least.
He’d learned that a scowl from Silence was just her way of saying hello. She’d given him an extra helping of venison; she often did that. He liked to think that she had a fondness for him. Maybe someday …
Don’t be a fool, he thought to himself as he dug into the heavily gravied food and took a few gulps of his beer. Better to marry a stone than Silence Montane. A stone showed more affection. Likely she gave him the extra slice because she recognized the value of a repeat customer. Fewer and fewer people came this way lately. Too many shades. And then there was Chesterton. Nasty business, that.
“So … he’s a bounty hunter, this Fox?” The man who called himself Earnest seemed to be sweating.
Daggon smiled. Hooked right good, this one was. “He’s not just a bounty hunter. He’s the bounty hunter. Though the White Fox doesn’t go for the small-timers—and no offense, friend, but you seem pretty small-time.”
His friend grew more nervous. What had he done? “But,” the man stammered, “he wouldn’t come for me—er, pretending I’d done something, of course—anyway, he wouldn’t come in here, would he? I mean, Madam Silence’s waystop, it’s protected. Everyone knows that. Shade of her dead husband lurks here. I had a cousin who saw it, I did.”
“The White Fox doesn’t fear shades,” Daggon said, leaning in. “Now, mind you, I don’t think he’d risk coming in here—but not because of some shade. Everyone knows this is neutral ground. You’ve got to have some safe places, even in the Forests. But…”
Daggon smiled at Silence as she passed him by, on the way to the kitchens again. This time she didn’t scowl at him. He was getting through to her for certain.
“But?” Earnest squeaked.
“Well…” Daggon said. “I could tell you a few things about how the White Fox takes men, but you see, my beer is nearly empty. A shame. I think you’d be very interested in how the White Fox caught Makepeace Hapshire. Great story, that.”
Earnest squeaked for Silence to bring another beer, though she bustled into the kitchen and didn’t hear. Daggon frowned, but Earnest put a coin on the side of the table, indicating he’d like a refill when Silence or her daughter returned. That would do. Daggon smiled to himself and launched into the story.
* * *
Silence Montane closed the door to the common room, then turned and pressed her back against it. She tried to still her racing heart by breathing in and out. Had she made any obvious signs? Did they know she’d recognized them?
William Ann passed by, wiping her hands on a cloth. “Mother?” the young woman asked, pausing. “Mother, are you—”
“Fetch the book. Quickly, child!”
William Ann’s face went pale, then she hurried into the back pantry. Silence clutched her apron to still her nerves, then joined William Ann as the girl came out of the pantry with a thick, leather satchel. White flour dusted its cover and spine from the hiding place.
Silence took the satchel and opened it on the high kitchen counter, revealing a collection of loose-leaf papers. Most had faces drawn on them. As Silence rifled through the pages, William Ann moved to the peephole for spying into the common room.
For a few moments, the only sound to accompany Silence’s thumping heart was that of hastily turned pages.
“It’s the man with the long neck, isn’t it?” William Ann asked. “I remember his face from one of the bounties.”
“That’s just Lamentation Winebare, a petty horse thief. He’s barely worth two measures of silver.”
“Who, then? The man in the back, with the hat?”
Silence shook her head, finding a sequence of pages at the bottom of her pile. She inspected the drawings. God Beyond, she thought. I can’t decide if I want it to be them or not. At least her hands had stopped shaking.
William Ann scurried back and craned her neck over Silence’s shoulder. At fourteen, the girl was already taller than her mother. A fine thing to suffer, a child taller than you. Though William Ann grumbled about being awkward and lanky, her slender build foreshadowed a beauty to come. She took after her father.
“Oh, God Beyond,” William Ann said, raising a hand to her mouth. “You mean—”
“Chesterton Divide,” Silence said. The shape of the chin, the look in the eyes … they were the same. “He walked right into our hands, with four of his men.” The bounty on those five would be enough to pay her supply needs for a year. Maybe two.
Her eyes flickered to the words below the pictures, printed in harsh, bold letters. Extremely dangerous. Wanted for murder, rape, extortion. And, of course, there was the big one at the end: And assassination.
Silence had always wondered if Chesterton and his men had intended to kill the governor of the most powerful fort city on this continent, or if it had been an accident. A simple robbery gone wrong. Either way, Chesterton understood what he’d done. Before the incident, he had been a common—if accomplished—highway bandit.
Now he was something greater, something far more dangerous. Chesterton knew that if he were captured, there would be no mercy, no quarter. Lastport had painted Chesterton as an anarchist, a menace, and a psychopath.
Chesterton had no reason to hold back. So he didn’t.
Oh, God Beyond, Silence thought, looking at the continuing list of his crimes on the next page.
Beside her, William Ann whispered the words to herself. “He’s out there?” she asked. “But where?”
“The merchants,” Silence said.
“What?” William Ann rushed back to the peephole. The wood there—indeed, all around the kitchen—had been scrubbed so hard that it had been bleached white. Sebruki had been cleaning again.
“I can’t see it,” William Ann said.
“Look closer.” Silence hadn’t seen it at first either, even though she spent each night with the book, memorizing its faces.
A few moments later William Ann gasped, raising her hand to her mouth. “That seems so foolish of
him. Why is he going about perfectly visible like this? Even in disguise.”
“Everyone will remember just another band of fool merchants from the fort who thought they could brave the Forests. It’s a clever ruse. When they vanish from the paths in a few days, it will be assumed—if anyone cares to wonder—that the shades got them. Besides, this way Chesterton can travel quickly and in the open, visiting waystops and listening for information.”
Was this how Chesterton discovered good targets to hit? Had they come through her waystop before? The thought made her stomach turn. She had fed criminals many times; some were regulars. Every man was probably a criminal out in the Forests, if only for ignoring taxes imposed by the fortfolk.
Chesterton and his men were different. She didn’t need the list of crimes to know what they were capable of doing.
“Where’s Sebruki?” Silence said.
William Ann shook herself, as if coming out of a stupor. “She’s feeding the pigs. Shadows! You don’t think they’d recognize her, do you?”
“No,” Silence said. “I’m worried she’ll recognize them.” Sebruki might only be eight, but she could be shockingly—disturbingly—observant.
Silence closed the book of bounties. She rested her fingers on the satchel’s leather.
“We’re going to kill them, aren’t we?” William Ann asked.
“Yes.”
“How much are they worth?”
“Sometimes, child, it’s not about what a man is worth.” Silence heard the faint lie in her voice. Times were increasingly tight, with the price of silver from both Bastion Hill and Lastport on the rise.
Sometimes it wasn’t about what a man was worth. But this wasn’t one of those times.
“I’ll get the poison.” William Ann left the peephole and crossed the room.
“Something light, child,” Silence cautioned. “These are dangerous men. They’ll notice if things are out of the ordinary.”