The Hero of Ages

"Then how do you explain the strange numbers, my lord?" Demoux asked.



"I'm not sure," Elend said. "I'll admit that the number of people who fell sick does produce an odd statistic, but that doesn't say anything about you specifically, Demoux."



"I don't mean that number, my lord," Demoux said, still looking down. "I mean the number who remained sick while the others recovered."



Elend paused. "Wait. What is this?"



"Haven't you heard, my lord?" Demoux asked in the quiet tent. "The scribes have been talking about it,1 and it's gotten around to the army. I don't think that most of them understand the numbers and such, but they understand that something strange is happening."



"What numbers?" Elend asked.



"Five thousand people got taken by the sickness, my lord," Demoux said.



Exactly sixteen percent of the army, Elend thought.



"Of those, some five hundred died," Demoux said. "Of those remaining, almost everyone recovered in one day."



"But some didn't," Elend said. "Like you."



"Like me," Demoux said softly. "Three hundred and twenty-seven of us remained sick when the others got better."



"So?" Elend asked.



"That's exactly one-sixteenth of those who fell to the sickness, my lord," Demoux said. "And we stayed sick exactly sixteen days. To the hour."



The tent flap rustled quietly in the breeze. Elend fell quiet, and couldn't completely suppress a shiver. "Coincidence," he finally said. "Statisticians looking for connections can always find odd coincidences and statistical anomalies, if they try hard enough."



"This doesn't seem like a simple anomaly, my lord," Demoux said. "It's precise. The same number keeps showing up, over and over. Sixteen."



Elend shook his head. "Even if it does, Demoux, it doesn't mean anything. It's just a number."



"It's the number of months the Survivor spent in the Pits of Hathsin," Demoux said.



"Coincidence."



"It's how old Lady Vin was when she became Mistborn."



"Again, coincidence," Elend said.



"There seem to be an awful lot of coincidences related to this, my lord," Demoux said.



Elend frowned, folding his arms. Demoux was right on that point. My denials are getting us nowhere. I need to know what people are thinking, not just contradict them.



"All right, Demoux," Elend said. "Let's say that none of these things are coincidences. You seem to have a theory of what they mean."



"It's what I said earlier, my lord," Demoux said. "The mists are of the Survivor. They take certain people and kill them, others of us they make sick—leaving the number sixteen as a proof that he really was behind the event. So, therefore, the people who grow the most sick are the ones who have displeased him the most."



"Well, except for the ones who died from the sickness," Elend noted.



"True," Demoux said, looking up. "So . . . maybe there's hope for me."



"That wasn't supposed to be a comforting comment, Demoux. I still don't accept all of this. Perhaps there are oddities, but your interpretation is based on speculation. Why would the Survivor be displeased with you? You're one of his most faithful priests."



"I took the position for myself, my lord," Demoux said. "He didn't choose me. I just . . . started teaching what I'd seen, and people listened to me. That must be what I did to offend him. If he'd wanted that from me, he'd have chosen me when he was alive, don't you think?"



I don't think the Survivor cared much about this when he was alive, Elend thought. He just wa1nted to stir up enough anger in the skaa that they would rebel.



"Demoux," Elend said, "you know that the Survivor didn't organize this religion when he was alive. Only men and women like you—those who looked toward his teachings after he died—have been able to build up a community of the faithful."



"True," Demoux. "But he did appear to some people after his death. I wasn't one of those people."



"He didn't appear to anyone," Elend said. "That was OreSeur the kandra wearing his body. You know that, Demoux."



"Yes," Demoux said. "But, that kandra acted at the Survivor's request. And, I wasn't on the list to get visited."



Elend laid a hand on Demoux's shoulder, looking in the man's eyes. He had seen the general, worn and grizzled beyond his age, determinedly stare down a savage koloss a full five feet taller than he was. Demoux was not a weak man, either in body or in faith.



"Demoux," Elend said, "I mean this in the kindest way, but your self-pity is getting in the way. If these mists took you, then we need to use that as proof that their effects have nothing to do with Kelsier's displeasure. We don't have time for you to question yourself right now—we both know you're twice as devoted as any other man in this army."



Demoux flushed.



"Think about it," Elend said, giving Demoux a little extra Allomantic shove in the emotions, "in you, we have obvious proof that a person's faithfulness has nothing to do with whether or not they're taken by the mists. So, rather than letting you mope, we need to move on and find the real reason the mists are behaving as they are."



Demoux stood for a moment, then finally nodded. "Perhaps you're right, my lord. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions."



Elend smiled. Then, he paused, thinking about his own words. Obvious proof that a person's faithfulness has nothing to do with whether they're taken by the mists. . . .



It wasn't exactly true. Demoux was one of the strongest believers in the camp. What of the others who had been sick as long as he? Had they been, perhaps, men of extreme faith as well? Elend opened his mouth to ask the question of Demoux. That was when the shouting started.



Hemalurgic decay was less obvious in Inquisitors that had been created from Mistborn. Since they already had Allomantic powers, the addition of other abilities made them awesomely strong.



In most cases, however, Inquisitors were created from Mistings. It appears that Seekers, like Marsh, were the favored recruits. For, when a Mistborn wasn't available, an Inquisitor with enhanced bronze abilities was a powerful tool for searching out skaa Mistings.



37



SCREAMS ROSE IN THE DISTANCE. Vin started upright in her cabin. She hadn't been sleeping, though she'd been close. Another night of scouting Fadrex City had left her tired.



All fatigue was forgotten, however, as the sounds of battle clanged from the north. Finally! she thought, throwing off her blankets and dashing from the cabin. She wore her standard trousers and shirt, and—as always—carried several vials of metals. She downed one of these as she scrambled across the deck of the narrow-boat.



"Lady Vin!" one of the bargemen called through the daymist1s. "The camp has been attacked!"



"And about time, too," Vin said as she Pushed herself off the boat's cleats, hurling herself into the air. She shot through the morning mists, curls and wisps of white making her feel as a bird might flying through a cloud.



With tin, she soon found the battle. Several groups of men on horseback had ridden into the north section of camp, and were apparently trying to make their way toward the supply barges, which floated in a well-protected bend in the canal. A group of Elend's Allomancers had set up a perimeter at one side, Thugs in the front, Coinshots picking off the riders from behind. The regular soldiers held the middle, fighting well, since the horsemen were slowed by the camp's barricades and fortifications.



Elend was right, Vin thought with pride, descending through the air. If we hadn't exposed our men to the mists, we'd be in trouble right now.



The king's planning had saved their supplies and baited out one of Yomen's harrying forces. The riders had probably expected to run easily through the camp—catching the soldiers unaware and trapped by mist—then set fire to the supply barges. Instead, Elend's scouts and patrols had provided enough warning, and the enemy cavalry was bogged down in a head-on fight.



Yomen's soldiers were punching through into the camp on the south side. Though Elend's soldiers fought well, their enemies were mounted. Vin plunged down through the sky, flaring pewter and strengthening her body. She tossed a coin, Pushing on it to slow herself, and hit the dark ground, throwing up a huge spray of ash. The southern bank of riders had penetrated as far as the third line of tents. Vin chose to land right in the middle of them.



No horseshoes, Vin thought as soldiers began to turn toward her. And spears—stone-tipped—instead of swords. Yomen certainly is careful.



It almost felt like a challenge. Vin smiled, the adrenaline feeling good after so many days spent waiting. Yomen's captains began to call out, turning their attack toward Vin. In seconds, they had a force of some thirty riders galloping straight at her.



Vin stared them down. Then she jumped. She didn't need steel to get herself high—her pewter-enhanced muscles were enough for that. She crested the lead soldier's spear, feeling it pass through the air beneath her. Ash swirled in the morning mists as Vin's foot took the soldier in the face, throwing him backward from the saddle. She landed beside his rolling body, then dropped a coin and Pushed herself to the side, out of the way of galloping hooves. The unfortunate rider she'd unhorsed cried out as his friends inadvertently trampled him.



Vin's Push carried her through the open flaps of a large canvas sleeping tent. She rolled to her feet, and then—still in motion—Pushed against the tent's metal stakes, ripping them from the ground.



The walls shook, and there was a snap of canvas as the tent shot upward into the air, spread taut as its stakes all went different directions. Ash blew outward from the burst of air, and soldiers on both sides of the conflict turned toward Vin. She allowed the tent to fall down in front of her, then Pushed. The canvas caught the air, puffing out, and the stakes ripped free from the tent, shooting forward to spear horses and riders.



Men and beasts fell. Canvas fluttered to the ground before Vin. She smiled, then jumped over the discarded tangle as the riders tried to organize another assault. She didn't give them time. Elend's soldiers in the area had pulled back, shoring1 up the center of the defensive line, leaving Vin free to attack without fear of harming her own men.



She dashed between the horsemen, their massive mounts hindering them as they tried to keep track of her. Men and horses spun, and Vin Pulled, tearing tents out of the ground and using their metal stakes like arrows. Dozens fell before her.



The sound of galloping came from behind, and Vin spun to see that one of the enemy officers had managed to organize another charge. Ten men came straight at her, some with spears leveled, others drawing bows.



Vin didn't like killing. But she loved Allomancy—loved the challenge of using her skills, the strength and thrill of the Pushes and Pulls, the electric sense of power that came only from a body flared with pewter. When men such as these gave her an excuse to fight, she didn't restrain herself.



The arrows didn't have a chance against her. Pewter gave her speed and balance as she spun out of the way, Pulling on a metal source behind her. She jumped into the air as a rippling tent passed beneath her, carried forward by her Pull a moment before. She landed, then Pushed on several of its stakes—a couple on each of two tent corners. The tent folded upon itself, looking a bit like a napkin with someone pulling tightly on opposite corners.