I am being chased. Your friends of the Seventeenth Shard, I suspect. I believe they’re still lost, following a false trail I left for them. They’ll be happier that way. I doubt they have any inkling what to do with me should they actually catch me.
“I stood in the darkened monastery chamber,’” Litima read, standing at the lectern with the tome open before her, “‘its far reaches painted with pools of black where light did not wander. I sat on the floor, thinking of that dark, that Unseen. I could not know, for certain, what was hidden in that night. I suspected there were walls, sturdy and thick, but could I know without seeing? When all was hidden, what could a man rely upon as True?’”
Litima—one of Dalinar’s scribes—was tall and plump and wore a violet silk gown with yellow trim. She read to Dalinar as he stood, regarding the maps on the wall of his sitting room. That room was fitted with handsome wood furnishings and fine woven rugs imported up from Marat. A crystal carafe of afternoon wine—orange, not intoxicating—sat on a high-legged serving table in the corner, sparkling with the light of the diamond spheres hanging in chandeliers above.
“‘Candle flames,’” Litima continued. The selection was from The Way of Kings, read from the very copy that Gavilar had once owned. “‘A dozen candles burned themselves to death on the shelf before me. Each of my breaths made them tremble. To them, I was a behemoth, to frighten and destroy. And yet, if I strayed too close, they could destroy me. My invisible
breath, the pulses of life that flowed in and out, could end them freely, while my fingers could not do the same without being repaid in pain.’”
Dalinar idly twisted his signet ring in thought; it was sapphire with his Kholin glyphpair on it. Renarin stood next to him, wearing a coat of blue and silver, golden knots on the shoulders marking him as a prince. Adolin wasn’t there. Dalinar and he had been stepping gingerly around one another since their argument in the Gallery.
“‘I understood in a moment of stillness,’” Litima read. “‘Those candle flames were like the lives of men. So fragile. So deadly. Left alone, they lit and warmed. Let run rampant, they would destroy the very things they were meant to illuminate. Embryonic bonfires, each bearing a seed of destruction so potent it could tumble cities and dash kings to their knees. In later years, my mind would return to that calm, silent evening, when I had stared at rows of living lights. And I would understand. To be given loyalty is to be infused like a gemstone, to be granted the frightful license to destroy not only one’s self, but all within one’s care.’”
Litima fell still. It was the end of the sequence.
“Thank you, Brightness Litima,” Dalinar said. “That will do.”
The woman bowed her head respectfully. She gathered her youthful ward from the side of the room and they withdrew, leaving the book on the lectern.
That sequence had become one of Dalinar’s favorites. Listening to it often comforted him. Someone else had known, someone else had understood, how he felt. But today, it didn’t bring the solace it usually did. It only reminded him of Adolin’s arguments. None had been things Dalinar hadn’t considered himself, but being confronted with them by someone he trusted had shaken everything. He found himself staring at his maps, smaller copies of those that hung in the Gallery. They had been recreated for him by the royal cartographer, Isasik Shulin.
What if Dalinar’s visions really were just phantasms? He’d often longed for the glory days of Alethkar’s past. Were the visions his mind’s answer to that, a subconscious way of letting himself be a hero, of giving himself justification for doggedly seeking his goals?
A disturbing thought. Looked at another way, those phantom commands to “unify” sounded a great deal like what the Hierocracy had said when it had tried to conquer the world five centuries before.
Dalinar turned from his maps and walked across the room, his booted
feet falling on a soft rug. Too nice a rug. He’d spent the better part of his life in one warcamp or another; he’d slept in wagons, stone barracks, and tents pulled tight against the leeward side of stone formations. Compared with that, his present dwelling was practically a mansion. He felt as if he should cast out all of this finery. But what would that accomplish?
He stopped at the lectern and ran his fingers along the thick pages filled with lines in violet ink. He couldn’t read the words, but he could almost feel them, emanating from the page like Stormlight from a sphere. Were the words of this book the cause of his problems? The visions had started several months after he’d first listened to readings from it.
He rested his hand on the cold, ink-filled pages. Their homeland was stressed nearly to breaking, the war was stalled, and suddenly he found himself captivated by the very ideals and myths that had led to his brother’s downfall. This was a time the Alethi needed the Blackthorn, not an old, tired soldier who fancied himself a philosopher.
Blast it all, he thought. I thought I’d figured this out! He closed the leather-bound volume, the spine crackling. He carried it to the bookshelf and returned it to its place.
“Father?” Renarin asked. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“I wish there were, son.” Dalinar tapped the spine of the book lightly.
“It’s ironic. This book was once considered one of the great masterpieces of political philosophy. Did you know that? Jasnah told me that kings around the world used to study it daily. Now, it is considered borderline
blasphemous.”
Renarin gave no reply.
“Regardless,” Dalinar said, walking back to the wall map. “Highprince Aladar refused my offer of an alliance, just as Roion did. Do you have a thought on whom should I approach next?”
“Adolin says we should be far more worried about Sadeas’s ploy to destroy us than we are.”
The room fell silent. Renarin had a habit of doing that, felling conversations like an enemy archer hunting officers on the battlefield.
“Your brother is right to worry,” Dalinar said. “But moving against Sadeas would undermine Alethkar as a kingdom. For the same reason, Sadeas won’t risk acting against us. He’ll see.”
I hope.
Horns suddenly sounded outside, their deep, resounding calls echoing.
Dalinar and Renarin froze. Parshendi spotted on the Plains. A second set came. Twenty-third plateau of the second quadrant. Dalinar’s scouts thought the contested plateau close enough for their forces to reach first.
Dalinar dashed across the room, all other thoughts discarded for the moment, his booted feet thumping on the thick rug. He threw open the door and charged down the Stormlight-illuminated hallway.
The war room door was open, and Teleb—highofficer on duty—saluted as Dalinar entered. Teleb was a straight-backed man with light green eyes. He kept his long hair in a braid and had a blue tattoo on his cheek, marking him as an Oldblood. At the side of the room, his wife, Kalami, sat behind a long- legged desk on a high stool. She wore her dark hair with only two small side braids pinned up, the rest hanging down the back of her violet dress to brush the top of the stool. She was a historian of note, and had requested permission to record meetings like this one; she planned to scribe a history of the war.
“Sir,” Teleb said. “A chasmfiend crawled atop the plateau here less than a quarter hour ago.” He pointed to the battle map, which had glyphs marking each plateau. Dalinar stepped up to it, a group of his officers gathering around him.
“How far would you say that is?” Dalinar asked, rubbing his chin.
“Perhaps two hours,” Teleb said, indicating a route one of his men had drawn on the map. “Sir, I think we have a good chance at this one. Brightlord Aladar will have to traverse six unclaimed plateaus to reach the contested area, while we have a nearly direct line. Brightlord Sadeas would have trouble, as he’d have to work his way around several large chasms too wide to cross with bridges. I’ll bet he won’t even try for it.”
Dalinar did, indeed, have the most direct line. He hesitated, though. It had been months since he’d last gone on a plateau run. His attention had been diverted, his troops needed for protecting roadways and patrolling the large markets that had grown up outside the warcamps. And now, Adolin’s questions weighed upon him, pressing him down. It seemed like a terrible time to go out to battle.
No, he thought. No, I need to do this. Winning a plateau skirmish would do much for his troops’ morale, and would help discredit the rumors in camp.
“We march!” Dalinar declared.
A few of the officers whooped in excitement, an extreme show of emotion for the normally reserved Alethi.
“And your son, Brightlord?” Teleb asked. He’d heard of the
confrontation between them. Dalinar doubted there was a person in all ten warcamps who hadn’t heard of it.
“Send for him,” Dalinar said firmly. Adolin probably needed this as much as, or more than, Dalinar did.
The officers scattered. Dalinar’s armor bearers entered a moment later. It had only been a few minutes since the horns had sounded, but after six years of fighting, the machine of war ran smoothly when battle called. From outside, he heard the horns’ third set begin, calling his forces to battle.
The armor bearers inspected his boots—checking to be certain the laces were tight—then brought a long padded vest to throw over his uniform. Next, they set the sabatons—armor for his boots—on the floor before him. They encased his boots entirely and had a rough surface on the bottoms that seemed to cling to rock. The interiors glowed with the light of the sapphires in their indented pockets.
Dalinar was reminded of his most recent vision. The Radiant, his armor glowing with glyphs. Modern Shardplate didn’t glow like that. Could his mind have fabricated that detail? Would it have?
No time to consider that now, he thought. He discarded his uncertainties and worries, something he’d learned to do during his first battles as a youth.
A warrior needed to be focused. Adolin’s questions would still be waiting for him when he got back. For now, he couldn’t afford self-doubt or uncertainty.
It was time to be the Blackthorn.
He stepped into the sabatons, and the straps tightened of their own accord, fitting around his boots. The greaves came next, going over his legs and knees, locking on to the sabatons. Shardplate wasn’t like ordinary armor; there was no mesh of steel mail and no leather straps at the joints. Shardplate seams were made of smaller plates, interlocking, overlapping, incredibly intricate, leaving no vulnerable gaps. There was very little rubbing or chafing; each piece fit together perfectly, as if it had been crafted specifically for Dalinar.
One always put the armor on from the feet upward. Shardplate was extremely heavy; without the enhanced strength it provided, no man would be able to fight in it. Dalinar stood still as the armor bearers affixed the cuisses over his thighs and locked them to the culet and faulds across his waist and lower back. A skirt made of small, interlocking plates came next, reaching down to just above the knees.
“Brightlord,” Teleb said, stepping up to him. “Have you given thought
to my suggestion about the bridges?”
“You know how I feel about man-carried bridges, Teleb,” Dalinar said as the armor bearers locked his breastplate into place, then worked on the rerebraces and vambraces for his arms. Already, he could feel the strength of the Plate surging through him.
“We wouldn’t have to use the smaller bridges for the assault,” Teleb said. “Just for getting to the contested plateau.”
“We’d still have to bring the chull-pulled bridges to get across that last chasm,” Dalinar said. “I’m not convinced that bridge crews would move us any more quickly. Not when we have to wait for those animals.”
Teleb sighed.
Dalinar reconsidered. A good officer was one who accepted orders and fulfilled them, even when he disagreed. But the mark of a great officer was that he also tried to innovate and offer appropriate suggestions.
“You may recruit and train a single bridge crew,” Dalinar said. “We shall see. In these races, even a few minutes can be meaningful.”
Teleb smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
Dalinar waved with his left hand as the armor bearers locked the gauntlet onto his right. He made a fist, tiny plates curving perfectly. The left gauntlet followed. Then the gorget went over his head, covering his neck, the pauldrons on his shoulders, and the helm on his head. Finally, the armor bearers affixed his cape to the pauldrons.
Dalinar took a deep breath, feeling the Thrill build for the approaching battle. He strode from the war room, footfalls firm and solid. Attendants and servants scattered before him, making way. Wearing Shardplate again after a long period without was like waking up after a night of feeling groggy or disoriented. The spring of the step, the impetus the armor seemed to lend him, made him want to race down the hallway and— And why not?
He broke into a sprint. Teleb and the others cried out in surprise, rushing to keep up. Dalinar outpaced them easily, reaching the front gates of the complex and leaping through, throwing himself off the long steps leading down from his enclave. He exulted, grinning as he hung in the air, then slammed to the ground. The force cracked the stone beneath him, and he crouched into the impact.
Before him, neat rows of barracks ran through his warcamp, formed in radials with a meeting ground and mess hall at the center of each battalion.
His officers reached the top of the stairs, looking down with amazement.
Renarin was with them, wearing his uniform that had never seen battle, his hand raised against the sunlight.
Dalinar felt foolish. Was he a youth just given his first taste of Shardplate? Back to work. Stop playing.
Perethom, his infantrylord, saluted as Dalinar strode up. “Second and Third Battalions are on duty today, Brightlord. Forming ranks to march.”
“First Bridge Squad is gathered, Brightlord,” Havarah—the bridgelord —said, striding up. He was a short man, with some Herdazian blood in him as evidenced by his dark, crystalline fingernails, though he didn’t wear a spark-flicker. “I have word from Ashelem that the archery company is ready.”
“Cavalry?” Dalinar asked. “And where is my son?”
“Here, Father,” called a familiar voice. Adolin—his Shardplate painted a deep Kholin blue—made his way through the gathering crowd. His visor was up, and he looked eager, though when he met Dalinar’s eyes, he glanced away immediately.
Dalinar held up a hand, quieting several officers who were trying to give him reports. He strode to Adolin, and the youth looked up, meeting his gaze.
“You said what you felt you must,” Dalinar said.
“And I’m not sorry I did,” Adolin replied. “But I am sorry for how, and where, I said it. That won’t happen again.”
Dalinar nodded, and that was enough. Adolin seemed to relax, a weight coming off his shoulders, and Dalinar turned back to his officers. In moments, he and Adolin were leading a hurried group to the staging area. As they did, Dalinar did note Adolin waving to a young woman who stood beside the way, wearing a red dress, her hair up in a very nice braiding.
“Is that—er—”
“Malasha?” Adolin said. “Yes.”
“She looks nice.”
“Most of the time she is, though she’s somewhat annoyed that I
wouldn’t let her come with me today.”
“She wanted to come into battle?”
Adolin shrugged. “Says she’s curious.”
Dalinar said nothing. Battle was a masculine art. A woman wanting to come to the battlefield was like…well, like a man wanting to read. Unnatural.
Ahead, in the staging area, the battalions were forming ranks, and a
squat lighteyed officer hurried up to Dalinar. He had patches of red hair on his otherwise dark Alethi head and a long, red mustache. Ilamar, the cavalrylord.
“Brightlord,” he said, “my apologies for the delay. Cavalry is mounted and ready.”
“We march, then,” Dalinar said. “All ranks—”
“Brightlord!” a voice said.
Dalinar turned as one of his messengers approached. The darkeyed man wore leathers marked with blue bands on the arms. He saluted, saying, “Highprince Sadeas has demanded admittance to the warcamp!”
Dalinar glanced at Adolin. His son’s expression darkened.
“He claims the king’s writ of investigation grants him the right,” the
messenger said.
“Admit him,” Dalinar said.
“Yes, Brightlord,” the messenger said, turning back. One of the lesser officers, Moratel, went with him so that Sadeas could be welcomed and escorted by a lighteyes as befitted his station. Moratel was least among those in attendance; everyone understood he was the one Dalinar would send.
“What do you think Sadeas wants this time?” Dalinar said quietly to Adolin.
“Our blood. Preferably warm, perhaps sweetened with a shot of tallew brandy.”
Dalinar grimaced, and the two of them hurried past the ranks of soldiers.
The men had an air of anticipation, spears held high, darkeyed citizen officers standing at the sides with axes on their shoulders. At the front of the force, a group of chulls snorted and rummaged at the rocks by their feet; harnessed to them were several enormous mobile bridges.
Gallant and Adolin’s white stallion Sureblood were waiting, their reins held at the ready by grooms. Ryshadium hardly needed handlers. Once, Gallant had kicked open his stall and made his way to the staging grounds on his own when a groom had been too slow. Dalinar patted the midnight destrier on the neck, then swung into the saddle.
He scanned the staging field, then raised his arm to give the command to move. However, he noticed a group of mounted men riding up to the staging field, led by a figure in dark red Shardplate. Sadeas.
Dalinar stifled a sigh and gave the command to move out, though he himself waited for the Highprince of Information. Adolin came over on
Sureblood, and he gave Dalinar a glance that seemed to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll behave.”
As always, Sadeas was a model of fashion, his armor painted, his helm ornamented with a completely different metallic pattern than he had worn last time. This one was shaped like a stylized sunburst. It looked almost like a crown.
“Brightlord Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “This is an inconvenient time for your investigation.”
“Unfortunately,” Sadeas said, reining in. “His Majesty is very eager to have answers, and I cannot stop my investigation, even for a plateau assault. I need to interview some of your soldiers. I’ll do it on the way out.”
“You want to come with us?”
“Why not? I won’t delay you.” He glanced at the chulls, who lurched into motion, pulling the bulky bridges. “I doubt that even were I to decide to crawl, I could slow you any further.”
“Our soldiers need to concentrate on the upcoming battle, Brightlord,”
Adolin said. “They should not be distracted.”
“The king’s will must be done,” Sadeas said, shrugging, not even bothering to look at Adolin. “Need I present the writ? Surely you don’t intend to forbid me.”
Dalinar studied his former friend, looking into those eyes, trying to see into the man’s soul. Sadeas lacked his characteristic smirk; he usually wore one of those when he was pleased with how a plot was going. Did he realize that Dalinar knew how to read his expressions, and so masked his emotions?
“No need to present anything, Sadeas. My men are at your disposal. If you have need of anything, simply ask. Adolin, with me.”
Dalinar turned Gallant and galloped down the line toward the front of the marching army. Adolin followed reluctantly, and Sadeas remained behind with his attendants.
The long ride began. The permanent bridges here were Dalinar’s, maintained and guarded by his soldiers and scouts, connecting plateaus that he controlled. Sadeas spent the trip riding near the middle of the column of two thousand. He periodically sent an attendant to pull certain soldiers out of line.
Dalinar spent the ride mentally preparing himself for the battle ahead.
He spoke with his officers about the layout of the plateau, got a report on where specifically the chasmfiend had chosen to make its chrysalis, and sent
scouts ahead to watch for Parshendi. Those scouts carried their long poles to get them from plateau to plateau without bridges.
Dalinar’s force eventually reached the end of the permanent bridges, and had to start waiting for the chull bridges to be lowered across the chasms. The big machines were built like siege towers, with enormous wheels and armored sections at the side where soldiers could push. At a chasm, they unhooked the chulls, pushed the machine forward by hand, and ratcheted a crank at the back to lower the bridge. Once the bridge was set down, the machinery was unlocked and pulled across. The bridge was built so they could lock the machine onto the other side, pull the bridge up, then turn and hook the chulls up again.
It was a slow process. Dalinar watched from horseback, fingers tapping the side of his hogshide saddle as the first chasm was spanned. Perhaps Teleb was right. Could they use lighter, more portable bridges to get across these early chasms, then resort to the siege bridges only for the final assault?
A clatter of hooves on rock announced someone riding up the side of the column. Dalinar turned, expecting Adolin, and instead found Sadeas.
Why had Sadeas asked to be Highprince of Information, and why was he so dogged in pursuing this matter of the broken girth? If he did decide to create some kind of false implication of Dalinar’s guilt… The visions told me to trust him, Dalinar told himself firmly. But he was growing less certain about them. How much dared he risk on what they’d said?
“Your soldiers are quite loyal to you,” Sadeas noted as he arrived.
“Loyalty is the first lesson of a soldier’s life,” Dalinar said. “I would be worried if these men hadn’t yet mastered it.”
Sadeas sighed. “Really, Dalinar. Must you always be so
sanctimonious?”
Dalinar didn’t reply.
“It’s odd, how a leader’s influence can affect his men,” Sadeas said. “So many of these are like smaller versions of you. Bundles of emotion, wrapped up and tied until they become stiff from the pressure. They’re so sure in some ways, yet so insecure in others.”
Dalinar kept his jaw clenched. What is your game, Sadeas?
Sadeas smiled, leaning in, speaking softly. “You want so badly to snap at me, don’t you? Even in the old days, you hated it when someone implied that you were insecure. Back then, your displeasure often ended with a head
or two rolling across the stones.”
“I killed many who did not deserve death,” Dalinar said. “A man should not fear losing his head because he took one too many sips of wine.”
“Perhaps,” Sadeas said lightly. “But don’t you ever want to let it out, as you used to? Doesn’t it pound on you inside, like someone trapped within a large drum? Beating, banging, trying to claw free?”
“Yes,” Dalinar said.
The admission seemed to surprise Sadeas. “And the Thrill, Dalinar. Do you still feel the Thrill?”
Men didn’t often speak of the Thrill, the joy and lust for battle. It was a private thing. “I feel each of the things you mention, Sadeas,” Dalinar said, eyes forward. “But I don’t always let them out. A man’s emotions are what define him, and control is the hallmark of true strength. To lack feeling is to be dead, but to act on every feeling is to be a child.”
“That has the stink of a quote about it, Dalinar. From Gavilar’s little
book of virtues, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t it bother you at all that the Radiants betrayed us?”
“Legends. The Recreance is an event so old, it might as well be in the shadowdays. What did the Radiants really do? Why did they do it? We don’t know.”
“We know enough. They used elaborate tricks to imitate great powers and pretend a holy calling. When their deceptions were discovered, they fled.”
“Their powers were not lies. They were real.”
“Oh?” Sadeas said, amused. “You know this? Didn’t you just say the event was so old, it might as well have been in the shadowdays? If the Radiants had such marvelous powers, why can nobody reproduce them?
Where did those incredible skills go?”
“I don’t know,” Dalinar said softly. “Perhaps we’re just not worthy of them any longer.”
Sadeas snorted, and Dalinar wished he’d bitten his tongue. His only evidence for what he said was his visions. And yet, if Sadeas belittled something, he instinctively wanted to stand up for it.
I can’t afford this. I need to be focused on the battle ahead.
“Sadeas,” he said, determined to change the topic. “We need to work harder to unify the warcamps. I want your help, now that you’re Highprince
of Information.”
“To do what?”
“To do what needs to be done. For the good of Alethkar.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing, old friend,” Sadeas said. “Killing Parshendi. Winning glory and wealth for our kingdom. Seeking vengeance. It would be best for Alethkar if you’d stop wasting so much time in camp—and stop talking of fleeing like cowards. It would be best for Alethkar if you’d start acting like a man again.”
“Enough, Sadeas!” Dalinar said, more loudly than he’d intended. “I gave you leave to come along for your investigation, not to taunt me!”
Sadeas sniffed. “That book ruined Gavilar. Now it’s doing the same to you. You’ve listened to those stories so much they’ve got your head full of false ideals. Nobody ever really lived the way the Codes claim.”
“Bah!” Dalinar said, waving a hand and turning Gallant. “I don’t have time for your snideness today, Sadeas.” He trotted his horse away, furious at Sadeas, then even more furious at himself for losing his temper.
He crossed the bridge, stewing, thinking of Sadeas’s words. He found himself remembering a day when he stood with his brother beside the Impossible Falls of Kholinar.
Things are different now, Dalinar, Gavilar had said. I see now, in ways I never did before. I wish I could show you what I mean.
It had been three days before his death.
Ten heartbeats.
Dalinar closed his eyes, breathing in and out—slowly, calmingly—as they prepared themselves behind the siege bridge. Forget Sadeas. Forget the visions. Forget his worries and fears. Just focus on the heartbeats.
Nearby, chulls scraped the rock with their hard, carapaced feet. The wind blew across his face, smelling wet. It always smelled wet out here, in these humid stormlands.
Soldiers clanked, leather creaked. Dalinar raised his head toward the sky, his heart thumping deep within him. The brilliant white sun stained his
eyelids red.
Men shifted, called, cursed, loosened swords in their sheaths, tested bowstrings. He could feel their tension, their anxiety mixed with excitement.
Among them, anticipationspren began to spring from the ground, streamers connected by one side to the stone, the others whipping in the air. Some fearspren boiled up among them.
“Are you ready?” Dalinar asked softly. The Thrill was rising within him.
“Yes.” Adolin’s voice was eager.
“You never complain about the way we attack,” Dalinar said, eyes still closed. “You never challenge me on this.”
“This is the best way. They’re my men too. What is the point of being a Shardbearer if we cannot lead the charge?”
The tenth heartbeat sounded in Dalinar’s chest; he could always hear the beats when he was summoning his Blade, no matter how loud the world around him was. The faster they passed, the sooner the blade arrived. So the more urgent you felt, the sooner you were armed. Was that intentional, or just some quirk of the Shardblade’s nature?
Oathbringer’s familiar weight settled into his hand.
“Go,” Dalinar said, snapping his eyes open. He slammed his visor down as Adolin did the same, Stormlight rising from the sides as the helms sealed shut and became translucent. The two of them burst out from behind the massive bridge—one Shardbearer on each side, a figure of blue and another of slate grey.
The energy of the armor pulsed through Dalinar as he dashed across the stone ground, arms pumping in rhythm with his steps. The wave of arrows came immediately, loosed from the Parshendi kneeling on the other side of the chasm. Dalinar flung his arm up in front of his eye slit as arrows sprayed across him, scraping metal, some shafts snapping. It felt like running against a hailstorm.
Adolin bellowed a war cry from the right, voice muffled by his helm. As they approached the chasm lip, Dalinar lowered his arm despite the arrows.
He needed to be able to judge his approach. The gulf was mere feet away. His Plate gave him a surge of strength as he reached the edge of the chasm.
Then leaped.
For a moment, he soared above the inky chasm, cape flapping, arrows filling the air around him. He was reminded of the flying Radiant from his vision. But this was nothing so mystical, just a standard Shardplate-assisted
jump. Dalinar cleared the chasm and crashed back to the ground on the other side, sweeping his Blade down and across to slay three Parshendi with a single blow.
Their eyes burned black and smoke rose as they collapsed. He swung again. Bits of armor and weapons sprayed into the air where arrows had once flown, sheared free by his Blade. As always, it sliced apart anything inanimate, but blurred when it touched flesh, as if turning to mist.
The way it reacted to flesh and cut steel so easily, it sometimes felt to Dalinar like he was swinging a weapon of pure smoke. As long as he kept the Blade in motion, it could not get caught in chinks or stopped by the weight of what it was cutting.
Dalinar spun, sweeping out with his Blade in a line of death. He sheared through souls themselves, leaving Parshendi to drop dead to the ground. Then he kicked, tossing a corpse into the faces of the Parshendi nearby. A few more kicks sent corpses flying—a Plate-driven kick could easily send a body tumbling thirty feet—clearing the ground around him for better footing.
Adolin hit the plateau not far away, spinning and falling into Windstance. Adolin shoved his shoulder into a group of archers, tossing them backward and throwing several into the chasm. Gripping his Shardblade with both hands, he did an initial sweep as Dalinar had, cutting down six enemies.
The Parshendi were singing, many of them wearing beards that glowed with small uncut gemstones. Parshendi always sang as they fought; that song changed as they abandoned their bows—pulling out axes, swords, or maces —and threw themselves at the two Shardbearers.
Dalinar put himself at the optimal distance from Adolin, allowing his son to protect his blind spots, but not getting too close. The two Shardbearers fought, still near the lip of the chasm, cutting down the Parshendi who tried desperately to push them backward by sheer force of numbers. This was their best chance to defeat the Shardbearers. Dalinar and Adolin were alone, without their honor guard. A fall from this height would certainly kill even a man in Plate.
The Thrill rose within him, so sweet. Dalinar kicked away another corpse, though he didn’t need the extra room. They’d noticed that the Parshendi grew enraged when you moved their dead. He kicked another body, taunting them, drawing them toward him to fight in pairs as they often did.
He cut down a group that came, singing in voices angry at what he’d
done to their dead. Nearby, Adolin began to lay about him with punches as the Parshendi got too close; he was fond of the tactic, switching between using his sword in two hands or one. Parshendi corpses flew this way and that, bones and armor shattered by the blows, orange Parshendi blood spraying across the ground. Adolin moved back to his Blade a moment later, kicking away a corpse.
The Thrill consumed Dalinar, giving him strength, focus, and power.
The glory of the battle grew grand. He’d stayed away from this too long. He saw with clarity now. They did need to push harder, assault more plateaus, win the gemhearts.
Dalinar was the Blackthorn. He was a natural force, never to be halted.
He was death itself. He— He felt a sudden stab of powerful revulsion, a sickness so strong that it made him gasp. He slipped, partially on a patch of blood, but partially because his knees grew suddenly weak.
The corpses before him suddenly seemed a horrifying sight. Eyes burned out like spent coals. Bodies limp and broken, bones shattered where Adolin had punched them. Heads cracked open, blood and brains and entrails spilled around them. Such butchery, such death. The Thrill vanished.
How could a man enjoy this?
The Parshendi surged toward him. Adolin was there in a heartbeat, attacking with more skill than any other man Dalinar had known. The lad was a genius with the Blade, an artist with paint of only one shade. He struck expertly, forcing the Parshendi back. Dalinar shook his head, recovering his stance.
He forced himself to resume fighting, and as the Thrill began to rise again, Dalinar hesitantly embraced it. The odd sickness faded, and his battle reflexes took control. He spun into the Parshendi advance, sweeping out with his Blade in broad, aggressive strokes.
He needed this victory. For himself, for Adolin, and for his men. Why had he been so horrified? The Parshendi had murdered Gavilar. It was right to kill them.
He was a soldier. Fighting was what he did. And he did it well.
The Parshendi advance unit broke before his assault, scattering back toward a larger mass of their troops, who were forming ranks in haste.
Dalinar stepped back and found himself looking down at the corpses around him, with their blackened eyes. Smoke still curled from a few.
The sick feeling returned.
Life ended so quickly. The Shardbearer was destruction incarnate, the most powerful force on a battlefield. Once these weapons meant protecting, a voice inside of him whispered.
The three bridges crashed to the ground a few feet away, and the cavalry charged across a moment later, led by compact Ilamar. A few windspren danced past in the air, nearly invisible. Adolin called for his horse, but Dalinar just stood, looking down at the dead. Parshendi blood was orange, and it smelled like mold. Yet their faces—marbled black or white and red— looked so human. A parshman nurse had practically raised Dalinar.
Life before death.
What was that voice?
He glanced back across the chasm, toward where Sadeas—well outside of bow range—sat with his attendants. Dalinar could sense the disapproval in his ex-friend’s posture. Dalinar and Adolin risked themselves, taking a dangerous leap across the chasm. An assault of the type Sadeas had pioneered would cost more lives. But how many lives would Dalinar’s army lose if one of its Shardbearers was pushed into the chasm?
Gallant charged across the bridge alongside a line of soldiers, who cheered for the Ryshadium. He slowed near Dalinar, who grabbed the reins.
Right now, he was needed. His men were fighting and dying, and this was not a time for regret or second-guessing.
A Plate-enhanced jump put him in the saddle. Then, Shardblade raised high, he charged into battle to kill for his men. That was not what the Radiants had fought for. But at least it was something.
They won the battle.
Dalinar stepped back, feeling fatigued as Adolin did the honors of harvesting the gemheart. The chrysalis itself sat like an enormous, oblong rockbud, fifteen feet tall and attached to the uneven stone ground by something that looked like crem. There were bodies all around it, some human, others Parshendi. The Parshendi had tried to get into it quickly and
flee, but they’d only managed to get a few cracks into the shell.
The fighting had been most furious here, around the chrysalis. Dalinar rested back against a shelf of rock and pulled his helm off, exposing a sweaty head to the cool breeze. The sun was high overhead; the battle had lasted two hours or so.
Adolin worked efficiently, using his Shardblade with care to shave off a section of the outside of the chrysalis. Then he expertly plunged it in, killing the pupating creature but avoiding the region with the gemheart.
Just like that, the creature was dead. Now the Shardblade could cut it, and Adolin carved away sections of flesh. Purple ichor spurted out as he reached in, questing for the gemheart. The soldiers cheered as he pulled it free, gloryspren hovering above the entire army like hundreds of spheres of light.
Dalinar found himself walking away, helm held in his left hand. He crossed the battlefield, passing surgeons tending the wounded and teams who were carrying his dead back to the bridges. There were sleds behind the chull carts for them, so they could be burned properly back at camp.
There were a lot of Parshendi corpses. Looking at them now, he was neither disgusted nor excited. Just exhausted.
He’d gone to battle dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. Never before had he felt as he had this day. That revulsion had distracted him, and that could have gotten him killed. Battle was no time for reflection; you had to keep your mind on what you were doing.
The Thrill had seemed subdued the entire battle, and he hadn’t fought nearly as well as he once had. This battle should have brought him clarity.
Instead, his troubles seemed magnified. Blood of my fathers, he thought, stepping up to the top of a small rock hill. What is happening to me?
His weakness today seemed the latest, and most potent, argument to fuel what Adolin—and, indeed, what many others—said about him. He stood atop the hill, looking eastward, toward the Origin. His eyes went that direction so often. Why? What was— He froze, noticing a group of Parshendi on a nearby plateau. His scouts watched them warily; it was the army that Dalinar’s people had driven off.
Though they’d killed a lot of Parshendi today, the vast majority had still escaped, retreating when they realized the battle was lost to them. That was one of the reasons the war was lasting so long. The Parshendi understood strategic retreat.
This army stood in ranks, grouped in warpairs. A commanding figure stood at their head, a large Parshendi in glittering armor. Shardplate. Even at a distance, it was easy to tell the difference between it and something more mundane.
That Shardbearer hadn’t been here during the battle itself. Why come now? Had he arrived too late?
The armored figure and the rest of the Parshendi turned and left, leaping across the chasm behind them and fleeing back toward their unseen haven at the center of the Plains.
