The Way of Kings (116 page)

Kaladin thrust his spear into the air, then began to run. His men bellowed a war cry, falling into formation behind him, charging across the flat rocky ground. Spearmen in uniforms of both colors scrambled out of the way, dropping spears and shields.

Kaladin picked up speed, legs pumping, his squad barely keeping pace. Just ahead—right before the Shardbearer—a pocket of green broke and ran. Amaram’s honor guard. Faced by a Shardbearer, they abandoned their charge. Amaram himself was a solitary man on a rearing horse. He wore silvery plate armor that looked so
commonplace
when compared with the Shardplate.

Kaladin’s squad charged against the flow of the army, a wedge of soldiers going the wrong way. The
only
ones going the wrong way. Some of the fleeing men paused as he charged past, but none joined.

Ahead, the Shardbearer rode past Amaram. With a sweep of the Blade, the Shardbearer slashed through the neck of Amaram’s mount. Its eyes burned into two great pits, and it toppled, jerking fitfully, Amaram still in its saddle.

The Shardbearer wheeled his destrier in a tight circle, then threw himself from horseback at full speed. He hit the ground with a grinding sound, somehow remaining upright and skidding to a halt.

Kaladin redoubled his speed. Was he running to get vengeance, or was he trying to protect his highmarshal? The only lighteyes who had ever shown a modicum of humanity? Did it matter?

Amaram struggled in his bulky plate, the carcass of the horse on his leg.

The Shardbearer raised his Blade in two hands to finish him off.

Coming at the Shardbearer from behind, Kaladin screamed and swung low with the butt of his spear, putting momentum and muscle behind the blow. The spear haft shattered against the Shardbearer’s back leg in a spray of wooden slivers.

The jolt of it knocked Kaladin to the ground, his arms shaking, the broken spear clutched in his hands. The Shardbearer stumbled, lowering his Blade. He turned a helmed face toward Kaladin, posture indicating utter surprise.

The twenty remaining men of Kaladin’s squad arrived a heartbeat later, attacking vigorously. Kaladin scrambled to his feet and ran for the spear from a fallen soldier. He tossed his broken one away after snatching one of his knives from its sheath, snatched the new one off the ground, then turned back to see his men attacking as he had taught. They came at the foe from three directions, ramming spears between joints in the Plate. The Shardbearer glanced around, as a bemused man might regard a pack of puppies yapping around him. Not a single one of the spear thrusts appeared to pierce his armor. He shook a helmed head.

Then he struck.

The Shardblade swept out in a broad sweeping series of deadly strokes, cutting through ten of the spearmen.

Kaladin was paralyzed in horror as Toorim, Acis, Hamel, and seven others fell to the ground, eyes burning, their armor and weapons sheared completely through. The remaining spearmen stumbled back, aghast.

The Shardbearer attacked again, killing Raksha, Navar, and four others. Kaladin gaped. His men—his friends—dead, just like that. The last four scrambled away, Hab stumbling over Toorim’s corpse and falling to the ground, dropping his spear.

The Shardbearer ignored them, stepping up to the pinned Amaram again.

No,
Kaladin thought.
No, no, NO!
Something drove him forward, against all logic, against all sense. Sickened, agonized,
enraged
.

The hollow where they fought was empty save for them. Sensible spearmen had fled. His four remaining men achieved the ridge a short distance away, but didn’t run. They called for him.

“Kaladin!” Reesh yelled. “Kaladin, no!”

Kaladin screamed instead. The Shardbearer saw him, and spun—impossibly quick—swinging. Kaladin ducked under the blow and rammed the butt of his spear against the Shardbearer’s knee.

It bounced off. Kaladin cursed, throwing himself backward just as the Blade sliced the air in front of him. Kaladin rebounded and lunged forward. He made an expert thrust at his enemy’s neck. The neck brace rebuffed the attack. Kaladin’s spear barely scratched the Plate’s paint.

The Shardbearer turned on him, holding his Blade in a two-handed grip. Kaladin dashed past, just out of range of that incredible sword. Amaram had finally pulled himself free, and he was crawling away, one leg dragging behind him—multiple fractures, from the twist of it.

Kaladin skidded to a stop, spinning, regarding the Shardbearer. This creature wasn’t a god. It was everything the most petty of lighteyes represented. The ability to kill people like Kaladin with impunity.

Every suit of armor had a chink. Every man had a flaw. Kaladin thought he saw the man’s eyes through the helm’s slit. That slit was just big enough for a dagger, but the throw would have to be perfect. He’d have to be close. Deadly close.

Kaladin charged forward again. The Shardbearer swung his Blade out in the same wide sweep he’d used to kill so many of Kaladin’s men. Kaladin threw himself downward, skidding on his knees and bending backward. The Shardblade flashed above him, shearing the top of his spear free. The tip flipped up into the air, tumbling end over end.

Kaladin strained, hurling himself back onto his feet. He whipped his hand up, flinging his knife at the eyes watching from behind impervious armor. The dagger hit the faceplate just slightly off from the right angle, bouncing against the sides of the slit and ricocheting out.

The Shardbearer cursed, swinging his huge Blade back at Kaladin.

Kaladin landed on his feet, momentum still propelling him forward. Something flashed in the air beside him, falling toward the ground.

The spearhead.

Kaladin bellowed in defiance, spinning, snatching the spearhead from the air. It had been falling tip-down, and he caught it by the four inches of haft that remained, gripping it with his thumb on the stump, the sharp point extending down beneath his hand. The Shardbearer brought his weapon around as Kaladin skidded to a stop and flung his arm to the side,
slamming
the spearhead right in the Shardbearer’s visor slit.

All fell still.

Kaladin stood with his arm extended, the Shardbearer standing just to his right. Amaram had pulled himself halfway up the side of the shallow hollow. Kaladin’s spearmates stood on the edge of the scene, gawking. Kaladin stood there, gasping, still gripping the haft of the spear, hand before the Shardbearer’s face.

The Shardbearer creaked, then fell backward, crashing to the ground. His Blade dropped from his fingers, hitting the ground at an angle and digging into the stone.

Kaladin stumbled away, feeling drained. Stunned. Numbed. His men rushed up, halting in a group, staring at the fallen man. They were amazed, even a little reverent.

“Is he dead?” Alabet asked softly.

“He is,” a voice said from the side.

Kaladin turned. Amaram still lay on the ground, but he had pulled off his helm, dark hair and beard slicked with sweat. “If he were still alive, his Blade would have vanished. His armor is falling off of him. He is dead. Blood of my ancestors…you killed a Shardbearer!”

Oddly, Kaladin wasn’t surprised. Just exhausted. He looked around at the bodies of men who had been his dearest friends.

“Take it, Kaladin,” Coreb said.

Kaladin turned, looking at the Shardblade, which sprouted at an angle into the stone, hilt toward the sky.

“Take it,” Coreb said again. “It’s yours. Stormfather, Kaladin. You’re a
Shardbearer
!”

Kaladin stepped forward, dazed, raising his hand toward the hilt of the Blade. He hesitated just an inch away from it.

Everything felt
wrong
.

If he took that Blade, he’d become one of them. His eyes would even change, if the stories were right. Though the Blade glistened in the light, clean of the murders it had performed, for a moment it seemed red to him. Stained with Dallet’s blood. Toorim’s blood. The blood of the men who had been alive just moments before.

It was a treasure. Men traded kingdoms for Shardblades. The handful of darkeyed men who had won them lived forever in song and story.

But the thought of touching that Blade sickened him. It represented everything he’d come to hate about the lighteyes, and it had just slaughtered men he loved dearly. He could not become a legend because of something like that. He looked at his reflection in the Blade’s pitiless metal, then lowered his hand and turned away.

“It’s yours, Coreb,” Kaladin said. “I give it to you.”

“
What?
” Coreb said from behind.

Ahead, Amaram’s honor guard had finally returned, apprehensively appearing at the top of the small hollow, looking ashamed.

“What are you doing?” Amaram demanded as Kaladin passed him. “What—Aren’t you going to take the Blade?”

“I don’t want it,” Kaladin said softly. “I’m giving it to my men.”

Kaladin walked away, emotionally exhausted, tears on his cheeks as he climbed out of the hollow and shoved his way through the honor guard.

He walked back to the warcamp alone.

“They take away the light, wherever they lurk. Skin that is burned.”

—Cormshen, page 104.

Shallan sat quietly, propped up in a sterile, white-sheeted bed in one of Kharbranth’s many hospitals. Her arm was wrapped in a neat, crisp bandage, and she held her drawing board in front of her. The nurses had reluctantly allowed her to sketch, so long as she did not “stress herself.”

Her arm ached; she’d sliced herself more deeply than she’d intended. She’d hoped to simulate a wound from breaking the pitcher; she hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize how much like a suicide attempt it might seem. Though she’d protested that she’d simply fallen from bed, she could see that the nurses and ardents didn’t accept it. She couldn’t blame them.

The results were embarrassing, but at least nobody thought she might have Soulcast to make that blood. Embarrassment was worth escaping suspicion.

She continued her sketch. She was in a large, hallwaylike room in a Kharbranthian hospital, the walls lined with many beds. Other than obvious aggravations, her two days in the hospital had gone fairly well. She’d had a lot of time to think about that strangest of afternoons, when she’d seen ghosts, transformed glass to blood, and had an ardent offer to resign the ardentia to be with her.

She’d done several drawings of this hospital room. The creatures lurked in her sketches, staying at the distant edges of the room. Their presence made it difficult for her to sleep, but she was slowly growing accustomed to them.

The air smelled of soap and lister’s oil; she was bathed regularly and her arm washed with antiseptic to frighten away rotspren. About half of the beds held sick women, and there were wheeled fabric dividers with wooden frames that could be rolled around a bed for privacy. Shallan wore a plain white robe that untied at the front and had a long left sleeve that tied shut to protect her safehand.

She’d transferred her safepouch to the robe, buttoning it inside the left sleeve. Nobody had looked in the pouch. When she’d been washed, they’d unbuttoned it and given it to her without a word, despite its unusual weight. One did not look in a woman’s safepouch. Still, she kept hold of it whenever she could.

In the hospital, her every need was seen to, but she could not leave. It reminded her of being at home on her father’s estates. More and more, that frightened her as much as the symbolheads did. She’d tasted independence, and she didn’t want to go back to what she had been. Coddled, pampered, displayed.

Unfortunately, it was unlikely she’d be able to return to studying with Jasnah. Her supposed suicide attempt gave her an excellent reason to return home. She had to go. To remain, sending the Soulcaster away on its own, would be selfish considering this opportunity to leave without arousing suspicion. Besides, she’d used the Soulcaster. She could use the long trip home to figure out how she’d done it, then be ready to help her family when she arrived.

She sighed, and then with a few shadings, she finished her sketch. It was a picture of that strange place she had gone. That distant horizon with its powerful yet cold sun. Clouds running toward it above, endless ocean below, making the sun look as if it were at the end of a long tunnel. Above the ocean hovered hundreds of flames, a sea of lights above the sea of glass beads.

She lifted the picture up, looking at the sketch underneath. It depicted her, huddled on her bed, surrounded by the strange creatures. She didn’t
dare
tell Jasnah what she had seen, lest it reveal that she had Soulcast, and therefore committed the theft.

The next picture was one of her, lying on the ground amid the blood. She looked up from the sketchpad. A white-clothed female ardent sat against the wall nearby, pretending to sew but really keeping watch in case Shallan decided to harm herself again. Shallan made a thin line of her lips.

It’s a good cover,
she told herself.
It works perfectly. Stop being so embarrassed.

She turned to the last of her day’s sketches. It depicted one of the symbolheads. No eyes, no face, just that jagged alien symbol with points like cut crystal. They
had
to have something to do with the Soulcasting. Didn’t they?