ICanDream

Is it good? Better than previous instalments? Does it have a good ending? I guess what I’d like is just a mini spoiler free review. Right now, the hype is killing me and consuming my life

I find it annoying that OB and the two Star Wars films are so close. After that they’ll be nothing to do but be alone with my thoughts. *shudder*

How do I view the chapter? I can't work it out sorry if I'm being stupid

I've been reading Stormlight again, and one thing struck me - how are heralds in any way superior to the Knights Radiant? I mean they are described (somewhere) as being greater than the Knights Radiant. But if they are simply normal people with Honour Blades then that is not the case at all. Remember that those wielding honour blades use up more Stormlight than a typical Radiant, which further emphasizes the point. To me, it seems ridiculous that they are revered so much, and yet, they are inferior to a Radiant. So what are your thoughts? I look forward to listening to you guys ripping my argument to pieces.

Just read chapters 4-6 (available in the Oathbringer Index at Tor.com) and the prose is fine and dandy. I guess it was due to editing and getting the book under 500k that resulted in the quicker prose. I'm personally very glad as I really enjoy Brandon's prose (a sentiment not shared among the fantasy community). For instance, the description of the everstorm was very powerful and Kaladins chapter - *feels*

What's your favourite event that occurs in the Stormlight archive. For me, it's definitely the Battle of the Tower, the Battle of Narak and the four person shard duel. What's yours?

So here's what I think of these chapters. -They didn't seem very fleshed out, or at least not as I would have wanted. I feel as though the prose was made mainly of around two sentence paragraphs, which doesn't allow for the typical stormlight depth that I have come to appreciate. Also I felt as though things weren't dealt with using a good weight, if you understand what I mean. For instance, Sadeas. His death was just joked about and things, when the death of a highprince should a huge event. I think Dalinar should've gathered the Highprinces after discovering the Sadeas or something as this is a massive event. For me, it just wasn't very satisfying. Other things, like Lopen having two arms weren't expanded on. I feel these are like first draft chapters, not Stormlight ones. -Young Dalinar is a ****ing monster (note: these are good chapters still. I could not write better. I apologise if I came across as overly critical)

In Stormlight, do you dislike anything? By this, I don't mean things that aren't as good as other things. I mean things you hate or don't like, or at least things you want changed. For me, the thing I would change would be the fake deaths of WoR. What about you guys?

So there is no info on the size of the battle of Vedenar? Hmmm. Personally I think it might be the biggest battle with about 50,000 over all. This isn't too ridiculous as it had seven factions and basically destroyed Jah Keved and decided who was the king. It also left Vedenar little more than ash. Tell me if you agree or not

What are the battle sizes in the Stormlight Archive? I'd appreciate if someone had numbers on these battles: Battle of Vedenar Battle where the everstorm is summoned Battle of the tower If there are any other Stormlight battles you have numbers on, you're welcome to share those as well.

Thanx, I missed that

Hmm... What am I looking forward to? Kholinar (I think someone will travel there) Dalinar's past. He just seems like he has the most interesting stuff in his path. Night watcher and his wife, the unification, Gavilar and Sadeas as a decent hloke. Adolin and the Sanderson avalanche!

I'm rereading WoR and something struck me: I have no idea on the army sizes. I'd guess around 20,000 but I have no idea. Anything I missed or any words of Brandon?

Are army sizes getting too big in epic fantasy? This is just something I've been wondering about, and I'd like your opinions. For instance in mistborn I recall someone mentioning that the final empire could raise hundreds of thousands of men. In the powder mage trilogy, there is an army of one million men. (However this occurs in an industrial setting, so I'm willing to overlook this.) In asoiaf, there is an army of one hundred thousand. I personally think that fantasy armies are getting to big. Whats your opinion?

Sorry if I'm stupid, but I just need clarification.

No actually, but I'm planning on reading it, and reviews seem to think it's fantastic. Edit: this was in reply to @Ammanas

As soon as I said no one voted for MB era 2, I knew someone would vote it. I haven't read Dresden files but powder mage is my third favourite series of all time (after asoiaf and Stormlight.) I'm about to read Sins of Empire. Can't believe I forgot about Powder mage!

Thanks for the replies. I find it odd that Asoiaf isn't doing very well. Stormlight is winning (duh) and malazan is doing surprisingly well (personally I thought it would get no votes). Still no votes for Harry Potter and Mistborn era two. (And eragon but that was very flawed and cliched for me, so no surprises for me.)

I want to know what the general consensus on good fantasy series is. I assume Stormlight will win, but beyond that I don't really know. So vote on your favourite fantasy series. (If your favourite series isn't here, vote other and tell me what's missing.)

The fans are coming

Thanks again

Here's chapter two: Chapter II kyr Part of Kyr knew she was going insane. Part of her questioned how long she could remain a slave – lifeless, broken, meaningless. Part of her – the part where she could still force through logical thoughts – questioned why the immortals allowed her to live. And as far as she was concerned, that part of her was dead. She’d long resigned herself to her fate. There was no escape. No point in thinking otherwise anyway; she’d brought this onto herself. Iron bars surrounded her. The bars were mutilated by the dull, unrelenting brown of rust. The twisted iron cage was reminiscent of a skeletal fist. A dark kind of irony. She’d always feared being controlled by someone. And now she was in the palm of their hand. Smells clogged the air – blood, sweat, the acrid stink of sickness – coalescing into the smell that Kyr now found synonymous with slavery. There was a puddle on the floor. She wasn’t sure what the puddle was of. She didn’t care. Outside, the main deck rocked with the waves. The junk she rode on slid over shadowed waters – a behemoth of wood and bronze. The deck itself was blemished with bird leavings and stray driftwood. Grime clung to railings, and red-brown stains on the floor hinted to the ship’s true nature. All in all, it was a grisly sight. It was more than she deserved. Voices plagued her. They knew who she was. They whispered it in the corners of her mind. They made sure Kyr couldn’t escape. Whispered a name she’d be glad to simply forget. Whispered of abilities that would shatter kingdoms. Whispered a title that in the West would have been a blessing. Pureborn. Too bad that blessing wouldn’t help her here. Maluhi was rumoured as their next destination. The slavers had somehow managed to disillusion themselves with dreams of success. Somehow they maintained that the Guilded City of Septaros was the perfect place to unload their latest batch of wretched souls. Kyr was less optimistic. Septaros and its native guilds had built itself a legacy on freedom. Septarosene citizens swore an oath on those twisted immortals of theirs to end slavery. A trade war with the Imperium and a ship full of opportunist slavers wasn’t going to change anything. But the slavers had hope. Hope was a fickle thing. Kyr lowered her head. It was painful, but she remembered times when she had had hope. Before she’d accepted reality. Beyond her bars – beyond the prison she had built for herself – people joked. People boasted, made jokes of ungainly things and made a show of their weapons and strength. Outside, somehow, against all odds, happiness – or at least the slaver equivalent - prevailed. Something Kyr didn’t share. Kyr’s jaw clenched as one slaver, deep in a drunken stupor, staggered to her cage, wiggling his fingers like they were a wonderful new discovery. Drink on this particularly boat was not well regulated. She shook her head. How was it that slavers had such a blatant disregard towards order. It defied reason. Kyr found that most of the world’s litany of problems stemmed from a lack of order. More order and there would be no war. More order and there would be no confusion. More order and they wouldn’t have died… Seren, Tithro, Noras… Mother… Blankness. She felt nothing. Just cold. She could feel that she was on the brink of another burst of insanity. The voices always returned when she was like this. Always. You could have saved her, of course, but you chose not to. Your fault, another voice in her head whispered. All your fault. Your own erratic emotions killed her. Emotions. Pointless and stupid. Could get you killed. It had got people killed. So she’d discarded them. But by then they’d already broken her. I am iron. And iron can be reforged She steadied her breathing. In, out, in, out… She frowned as she noticed something. The Slavemaster, a heavy set man with a thick russet beard, approached her. A look of disgust was a constant accomplice to the man’s limping gait. Dark scars twisted over a tanned face, hinting at a past of abuse. This Slavemaster had been to hell and back. Kyr still couldn’t get herself to pity him. The man strode towards her cage. She was in one of a group of cages clustered at the centre of the ship. Where the slavers could watch them. Constantly. She remembered the Slavemaster’s name. Yurik. Kyr – when she’d first been taken on to this ship - had gone to great lengths to discover the names of all the slavers. Kyr had hoped to infer things from their conversation, clues and riddles that hinted at the possibility of escape. But that was back when she’d had hope. She almost missed that. Not that she’d ever admit it. The Slavemaster towered over her. He looked down at her with reproach. Kyr glanced up. “Good morning, sunshine!” Kyr gave her best fake smile. “And to what do I owe your delightful company.” Yurik frowned, muttering something about an “insufferable woman”. Kyr raised an eyebrow. The way she addressed him was a lie. Once, it had been a truth. Once. “I gather you’ve become bored tormenting other slaves. Come to pick on me. Tell me, when and why do you think you became the literal personification of a demon?” Yurik scowled, and Kyr thought she could see something broken behind his eyes. “Levity? Kyr this is a grim world. I don’t know what your western above-the-law parents taught you, but this world - it’s not a joke. We fail. We fall. We die. We’re forced to do things we find distasteful. Our gods are sadistic bastards. Tell me Kyr, does this sound like an idealist fantasy to you? Does this sound like a place that serves to be made a joke out of?” Kyr grimaced. If only you knew… If only he knew how Kyr really was. She doubted many would describe her as a light-hearted person. At least, not any more. Kyr herself found it hard to describe her. But she guessed that was one of the symptoms of insanity. Sometimes Kyr questioned how she would go on. But failure – failure had never been an option. She would survive. I am iron. And iron can be reforged. She remained quiet. She didn’t want to talk. Triam had been good at talking. Of course, Triam had been a monster. Yurik, sensing he wouldn’t get a straight answer out of her, turned and faced towards the tumult of the grey seas. “We arrive in half a sun cycle. I suggest you make yourself presentable. The Septarosene are a picky bunch.” He turned to Kyr. Whatever Kyr had glimpsed in the man’s eyes was gone. His stone expression gave way to no emotion. She shivered at the coldness in his eyes. “I have been able to persuade the others that it won’t be like last time we attempted to visit a city. You stabbed a man in the chest and made a run for it, I seem to recall.” Kyr gave a barely discernible nod. She’d given up on that. Once she’d tried desperately to wiggle out of the slavers authority. She’d believed she could escape because her cause was justified. If only reality was like that. If only the Immortals cared about a renegade slave. Her only defiance now was her words. Really, they were just air. But she liked to make the slavers think she hadn’t given in. Yurik turned to walk away. He didn’t seem happy – he rarely did - but he was less…crushed. “It won’t work, you know. The Septarosene don’t allow slaves.” The Slavemaster turned to her. There was a smile on his face. Old instincts told her to run. She knew that smile. Kyr suddenly wanted to get as far away from that face as possible. No…it can’t be… “Won’t it, Pureborn?” Kyr felt her blood go cold. . . . Septaros was even bigger than she’d expected. The City of Seven, last of the Gilded Cities, sprawled, bathed in light from a rising sun. Citadels, the seats of the famous and notorious guilds, like slumbering giants, reared elegant heads over the houses below. A long road sliced towards the city centre, where the biggest of citadels loomed. She guessed that was the seat of the Sorrows Guild. The harbour – a mass of rigging, docked ships and charismatic sailors – fringed the shoreline. A magnificent sight. It seemed to emanate justice and tranquillity. An obvious illusion. Kyr leaned back in her cage. The slaver’s words still thundered in her ears. Pureborn Somehow he knew. Somehow he’d discovered what Kyr had been running from for three years. After selling Kyr, and her much sought after abilities, Yurik could buy himself lands and titles. Kyr somehow found herself admiring him. He monopolized on every advantage. Not held back by emotion. Not like Kyr. She glanced to her side. The Slavemaster stood separately from the rest of the slavers. His prominent form looked worn and beaten when framed by the orange-red glow of the horizon. He stood tall, statuesque. Yurik’s clothing was more professional than the other slaver’s. Neater, less ragged. He seemed to resemble in part the soldiers of the stories – the ones Kyr once would’ve dreamed of becoming had she not been a woman. Of course, looks can be deceiving. The ship skirted the shoreline. There were no waves. The sea was flat like a piece of worked iron. No foam. No currents. Just the occasional ripples fanning out beneath the boat to disturb the serenity. So it was true. The Stoic Straits – a mere rumour further West – really were… stoic. Still. Emotionless. There was much to be envied in that. This foreign sea so effortlessly managed to conceal its true nature. So now even the water was mocking her. As the ship slid towards the harbour, Kyr was greeted by a barrage of sounds: blunt voices, the ever-present drumming of thousands of feet and the wavering calls of hungry seabirds. A group of musicians thudded a steady rhythm. Kyr watched a group of men distributing fish to local merchants. They moved casually yet seemed to maintain a rhythm to their movements, integrating the musicians beats into each throw. She’d heard music was a common practice eastwards; Kyr herself had begun regarding music as a pointless waste of time – how would it help you if you were facing an enemy, or were forced to brave a famine? How would it help if the Imperium invaded? Now however, she could understand. Rhythms and patterns were woven into society to enhance efficiency. In the East, it seemed, music wasn’t a mere frivolity. Kyr stepped off the boat. Their escort was small: the Slavemaster himself, and a man who had been recruited into the slaver’s crew barely a moon ago. The crew called this recent arrival Two-Face – for his uncanny ability to disguise himself as someone he wasn’t. It was no surprise that Kyr was suspicious. Yurik jabbed her in the back with a bronze spear. As someone who wasn’t Pureborn, he was denied iron by the Eternal Faith. Judging by the man’s tall stature, he could have some bastardised Pureborn lines in him, though not enough to grant him ascension into the Imperium’s nobility. Kyr began walking up the long straight road that led towards the city centre. Two-Face and the Slavemaster flanked either side of her. Other slaves were also being dragged along behind. However, the slaver’s attention was not on these bedraggled souls; no, the slaver’s arrival here had nothing to do with the lives of simple Impures: their intention was that of selling a Pureborn. Too bad that Pureborn was Kyr. The more she thought about, the more she realised that the slavers had played their game well. The city of Septaros, and the rest of the island nation of Maluhi, was engaged in a period of unrest between them and the newly-formed Imperium. Both sides were raising armies in an effort to check the other’s rising power. Many of Maluhi’s holdings had been sacked – by who it was assumed to be the Imperium. But many of these occurrences had been inflicted by slaver’s. Yurik was among these. They were hoping to spark a war between these two rivals – all in the effort of increasing their success. Even Septaros, a city built on foundations of equality and freedom, would buy slaves if it ensured the safety of its citizens. Desperation was the great assassin of tradition and virtue. Beneath fake ideals, they were all the same. Kyr continued along the road. Two-Face moved with arrogant strides up the road. Kyr narrowed her eyes. The way he moved, his confidence – he seemed too much like a typical slaver. Too normal. Perhaps Kyr just wanted to be suspicious. Kyr had arrived at the end of the road. And the beginning of the citadel. All Kyr could say was that the rumours were true. The citadel was huge. A mass of hewn rock and iron bracings, the Citadel of the Sorrows masterfully balanced form and function. The windows that twisted up the building’s flanks sprayed light into the receding darkness. Spikes and statues adorned the walkway that lead to a gaping maw of a gatehouse. Kyr was reminded of a place just like this. A place of a stark purple flag… A place from before. Then she noticed the Guildmaster. The Guildmaster wore a long black cloak and a hood drawn over a shadowed face. An iron longsword - free from the corruption of rust – complemented the Guildmasters hand, looking, in that black gloved grip, as light as if it were made of smoke. Twin knives were sheathed at her belt. The figure let the hood fall back revealing a youthful female face. She was startlingly young, barely into her twenties and already a Guildmaster. Kyr suspected a story behind that. With sharp features, dark hollow eyes filled with misgiving and pale skin, she would have been at home among the Pureborn. However, scarlet hair betrayed her impure heritage. Her face was stretched into a grimace. The slaves around Kyr shuffled their feet and murmured. Evidently, they disliked being reminded of their previous overlords. Some still thought of themselves as vassals of the Imperium. Kyr had no such problem. “We do not authorise slaves in Septaros. I thought you would’ve known that.” The woman had a high, commanding voice. She even sounded like a Pureborn. “Of course, slavers aren’t known for their intellect.” Two-Face was undeterred by the woman’s jibes. That was something about slavers. They didn’t back down. Killed them most the time. But it was still enviable. “We – as it so happens – are not here to barter. No, no, no, no. We are here to offer you a chance. To save your city. To win this war.” Two-Face smiled. He was good, Kyr could admit that much. Completely different to the man she’d met on the boat. Of course, how could she be sure the man she met on the boat was his real persona? “And perhaps to fill a few empty pockets.” “We do not authorise slaves in Septaros.” “This isn’t a normal slave. What we offer is essentially gift. A tribute if you will. In the form of a Pureborn. All it will cost you is, say, that fine longsword you have there.” Kyr’s heart lurched. She tried to do what she would normally do in these situations. Find a way out. Logic. She could escape with that. But she couldn’t think straight. Her mind felt fuzzed. Emotions. They’d nearly killed her last time. Now they were back. To finish the job. Part of her knew these were the ramblings of a crazy person. But part of her was weaker than the other part. She was becoming more broken by the day. I am iron. Iron doesn’t break. “We do not authorise slaves in Sepataros.” The women’s iron façade seem to split. Desperation could do that to you. But age-old traditions weren’t quite that easy to break. Two-Face smiled. He acted so much like a slaver! “Let’s not draw this out, eh? You know what we want. We know what you want. Not the conundrum one would imagine, from the opposition you’re giving it.” The Guildmaster frowned, and then smiled. “Fine, we’ll take the Pureborn – as well as the other slaves. Though let’s compromise – we’ll take them. But we’ll take them free of charge.” Yurik pushed to the front. Two-Face backed away, smiling, and leaned against the building behind him. Yurik spoke with venom in his voice. “Hang on a minute – you expect me to give away all my slaves to you, free of charge?” The woman nodded. “Glad I made myself clear.” Yurik growled. He no longer looked like he had on the boat: composed, neat, in control. Now he was a beast on a chain. Yurik cursed. Then he rushed the Guildmaster. He was quick – but she was quicker. Knives danced in the Guildmaster’s hands, no longer sharp pieces of forged metal, but an extension of herself. They left her hand with a fatal precision. Yurik died instantly. Kyr just watched. Watched as the light left his eyes, watched as the twin blades pierced his heart. Another death. Kyr fell to the floor. Then the nausea came. She saw a mass of churned earth around her. She saw dead bodies scattered over a bloodied ground. She saw a purple banner claiming sovereignty over all around it. She saw fire – fire everywhere. She saw a single haunted face. She heard his words again, just like every time. If I was a better person I would have stopped this. But I’m not. I never was. I’m sorry. Kyr’s eyes flickered open. Cold stone beneath her. A placid wind. Kyr scrambled into a standing position. Show no weakness; that would kill her. But wasn’t that what she deserved? She felt… cold. Like a candle that had been snuffed out. The Guildmaster gave her a sideways glance. Then she turned to the other remaining slaver. “Wondered where you went, Two-Face.” Two-Face sighed. “What gave me away?” “Slavers don’t use words like conundrum.” Two-Face nodded. “Ah. Never could play slavers. Not much good at playing any kind of lowlife really – so far from it myself.” He winked. “You can play Nobles quite well.” “Well the exception proves the rule, Synta, as I always say.” “You never say that.” “Well… I just did.” “You’re insufferable.” “I do try.” Two-Face gave a wry smile. He gestured towards Kyr. “What do we do with her?” “What we always do.” The Guildmaster turned to her. Her words were soft yet carried on the wind. “Welcome to the Sorrows Guild.”

One more thing: do you think the chapter goes too fast? Like it seems things happen too quickly? Because I'm not sure whether or not this has happened. Any help would be much appreciated

Yeah, the Senda thing was something I put in by accident on an edit. I didn't notice. Thanks for the kind words. This has been helpful

Thanks