Words of Radiance

by Brandon Sanderson

  Syl alighted on Kaladin’s shoulder as he walked.

  “This is going to be like back at the lighteyed practice grounds, isn’t it?” Kaladin asked. “I’m going to end up on my back, staring at the sky, feeling like a fool.”

  “Probably,” Syl said lightly. “So why are you doing this? Because of Adolin?”

  “Nah,” Kaladin said. “The princeling can storm away.”

  “Then why?”

  “Because I’m scared of these things.”

  Syl looked at him, seeming baffled, but it made perfect sense to Kaladin. Ahead, Dreamstorm—huffing out huge breaths from her run—looked at him. She met his eyes.

  “Storms!” Adolin’s voice called from behind. “Bridgeboy, don’t actually do it! Are you mad?”

  Kaladin stepped up to the horse. She danced a few steps back, but let him touch the saddle. So he breathed in a little more Stormlight and threw himself at the saddle.

  “Damnation! What—” Adolin shouted.

  That was all Kaladin heard. His Stormlight-aided leap let him get higher than an ordinary man could probably have managed, but his aim was off. He got hold of the pommel and threw one leg over, but the horse started thrashing.

  The beast was incredibly strong, a distinct and powerful contrast to Spray. Kaladin was quite nearly hurled from the seat on the first buck.

  With a wild swipe of the hand, Kaladin poured Stormlight onto the saddle and stuck himself in place. That only meant that instead of being tossed from horseback like a limp cloth, he got whipped back and forth like a limp cloth. He somehow managed to get hold of the horse’s mane and, with teeth gritted, did his best to keep from being bounced senseless.

  The stable grounds were a blur. The only sounds he could hear were his beating heart and the smashing hooves. The Voidbringer beast moved like a storm itself, but Kaladin was stuck to the saddle as surely as if he’d been nailed there. After what seemed an eternity, the horse—blowing out big, frothy breaths—stilled.

  Kaladin’s swimming vision cleared to show a group of bridgemen—keeping their distance—cheering him on. Adolin and Jenet, both mounted, stared at him with what seemed to be a mixture of horror and awe. Kaladin grinned.

  Then, in one last, powerful motion, Dreamstorm bucked him free.

  He hadn’t realized that the Stormlight in the saddle was exhausted. In a fitting fulfillment of his earlier prediction, Kaladin found himself dazed, lying on his back staring at the sky, having trouble remembering the last few seconds of his life. A number of painspren wiggled out of the ground beside him, little orange hands that grabbed this way and that.

  An equine head with unfathomably dark eyes leaned down over Kaladin. The horse snorted at him. The smell was moist and grassy.

  “You monster,” Kaladin said. “You waited until I was relaxed, then threw me.”

  The horse snorted again, and Kaladin found himself laughing. Storms, but that had felt good! He couldn’t explain why, but the act of clinging for dear life to the thrashing animal had been truly exhilarating.

  As Kaladin stood and dusted himself off, Dalinar himself broke through the crowd, brow furrowed. Kaladin hadn’t realized the highprince had still been nearby. He looked from Dreamstorm to Kaladin, then raised an eyebrow.

  “You don’t chase down assassins on a placid mount, sir,” Kaladin said, saluting.

  “Yes,” Dalinar said, “but it is customary to start training men by using weapons without edges, soldier. Are you all right?”

  “Fine, sir,” Kaladin said.

  “Well, it seems your men are taking to the training,” Dalinar said. “I’m going to put in a requisition release. You and five others you select are to come here and practice every day for the next few weeks.”

  “Yes, sir.” He’d find the time. Somehow.

  “Good,” Dalinar said. “I received your proposal for initial patrols outside of the warcamps, and thought it looked good. Why don’t you start in two weeks, and bring some horses with you to practice out in the field.”

  Jenet made a strangled sound. “Outside the city, Brightlord? But . . . bandits . . .”

  “The horses are here to be used, Jenet,” Dalinar said. “Captain, you’ll be sure to bring enough troops to protect the horses, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said.

  “Good. But do leave that one behind,” Dalinar said, waving toward Dreamstorm.

  “Er, yes, sir.”

  Dalinar nodded, moving off and raising his hand toward someone Kaladin couldn’t see. Kaladin rubbed his elbow, which he’d smacked. The remaining Stormlight in his body had healed his head first, then run out before getting to his arm.

  Bridge Four moved to their horses as Jenet called out for them to remount and start a second phase of training. Kaladin found himself standing near Adolin, who remained mounted.

  “Thanks,” Adolin said, grudgingly.

  “For?” Kaladin asked, walking past him toward Spray, who continued to chew at grass, uncaring of the fuss.

  “Not telling Father I put you up to that.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Adolin,” Kaladin said, swinging into his saddle. “I could see what I was getting myself into.” He turned his horse away from her meal with some difficulty, and got some more pointers from a groom.

  Eventually, Kaladin trotted over toward Natam again. The gait was bouncy, but he mostly got the hang of moving with the horse—they called it posting—to keep from slapping around too much.

  Natam watched him as he moved up. “That’s unfair, sir.”

  “What I did with Dreamstorm?”

  “No. The way you just ride like that. Seems so natural for you.”

  Didn’t feel that way. “I want to talk some more about that night.”

  “Sir?” the long-faced man asked. “I haven’t thought of anything yet. Been a little distracted.”

  “I have another question,” Kaladin said, bringing their horses up beside one another. “I asked you about your shift during the day, but what about right after I left? Did anyone other than the king go out onto the balcony?”

  “Just guards, sir,” Natam said.

  “Tell me which ones,” Kaladin said. “Maybe they saw something.”

  Natam shrugged. “I mainly watched the door. The king remained in the sitting room for a time. I guess Moash went out.”

  “Moash,” Kaladin said, frowning. “Wasn’t his shift supposed to be done soon?”

  “Yeah,” Natam said. “He stayed around a little extra time; said he wanted to see the king settled. While waiting, Moash went out to watch the balcony. You usually want one of us out there.”

  “Thanks,” Kaladin said. “I’ll ask him.”

  Kaladin found Moash diligently listening to Jenet explain something. Moash seemed to have picked up riding quickly—he seemed to pick up everything quickly. Certainly, he’d been the best student among the bridgemen when it came to fighting.

  Kaladin watched him for a few moments, frowning. Then it struck him. What are you thinking? That Moash might have had something to do with the assassination attempt? Don’t be stupid. That was ridiculous. Besides, the man didn’t have a Shardblade.

  Kaladin turned his horse away. As he did, however, he saw the person Dalinar had gone to meet. Brightlord Amaram. The two were too far away for Kaladin to hear them, but he could see the amusement on Dalinar’s face. Adolin and Renarin rode up to them, smiling broadly as Amaram waved to them.

  The anger that surged within Kaladin—sudden, passionate, almost chokingly strong—made him clench his fists. His breath hissed out. That surprised him. He’d thought the hatred buried deeper than that.

  He turned his horse pointedly the other direction, suddenly looking forward to the chance to go on patrol with the new recruits.

  Getting away from the warcamps sounded very good to him.

  They blame our people

  For the loss of that land.

  The city that once covered it

  Did range the eastern st
rand.

  The power made known in the tomes of our clan

  Our gods were not who shattered these plains.

  —From the Listener Song of Wars, 55th stanza

  Adolin crashed into the Parshendi line, ignoring weapons, throwing his shoulder against the enemy at the front. The Parshendi man grunted, his song faltering, as Adolin spun about himself and swept with his Shardblade. Tugs on the weapon marked when it passed through flesh.

  Adolin came out of his spin, ignoring the glow of Stormlight coming from a crack at his shoulder. Around him, bodies dropped, eyes burning in their skulls. Adolin’s breath, hot and humid, filled his helm as he puffed in and out.

  There, he thought, raising his Blade and charging, his men filling in around him. Not those bridgemen, for once, but real soldiers. He’d left the bridgemen back on the assault plateau. He didn’t want men around him who didn’t want to fight Parshendi.

  Adolin and his soldiers pushed through the Parshendi, joining up with a frantic set of soldiers in green uniforms with gold accents, led by a Shardbearer in matching colors. The man fought with a large Shardbearer’s hammer—he had no Blade of his own.

  Adolin pushed through to him. “Jakamav?” he asked. “You all right?”

  “All right?” Jakamav asked, voice muffled by his helm. He slammed the faceplate up, revealing a grin. “I’m wonderful.” He laughed, pale green eyes alight with the Thrill of the fight. Adolin recognized that feeling well.

  “You were almost surrounded!” Adolin said, turning to face a group of Parshendi running up in pairs. Adolin respected them for coming at Shardbearers, rather than fleeing. It meant almost certain death, but if you won, you could turn the tide of a battle.

  Jakamav laughed, sounding as pleased now as when enjoying a winehouse singer, and that laughter was infectious. Adolin found himself grinning as he engaged the Parshendi, sweeping them down with blow after blow. He never enjoyed simple warfare as much as a good duel, but for the moment, despite its crassness, he found challenge and joy in the fight.

  Moments later, the dead lying at his feet, he spun about and searched for another challenge. This plateau was shaped very strangely; it had been a tall hill before the Plains were shattered, but half of it had ended up on the adjacent plateau. He couldn’t imagine what kind of force would have split the hill down the center, as opposed to cracking it at the base.

  Well, it wasn’t an ordinary-shaped hill, so maybe that had something to do with the split. It was shaped more like a wide, flat pyramid with only three steps. A large base, a second plateau atop it that was perhaps a hundred feet across, then a third, smaller peak atop the other two, placed right in the center. Almost like a cake with three tiers that had been cut with a large knife right down the center.

  Adolin and Jakamav fought on the second tier of the battlefield. Technically, Adolin wasn’t required to be on this run. It wasn’t his army’s turn in the rotation. However, the time had come to implement another part of Dalinar’s plan. Adolin had arrived with only a small strike force, but it was a good thing he had. Jakamav had been surrounded up here, on the second tier, and the regular army hadn’t been able to break through.

  Now, the Parshendi had been pushed back to the sides of this tier. They still held the top tier completely; it was where the chrysalis had appeared. That put them in a bad position. Yes, they had the high ground, but they also had to hold the slopes between tiers to secure their withdrawal. They’d obviously hoped to get the harvesting done before the humans arrived.

  Adolin kicked a Parshendi soldier over the edge, toppling him down thirty feet or so onto those fighting on the bottom tier, then looked to his right. The slope upward was there, but the Parshendi had the approach clogged. He’d really like to reach the top. . . .

  He looked at the sheer cliff face between his tier and the one above. “Jakamav,” he called, pointing.

  Jakamav followed Adolin’s gesture, looking upward. Then stepped back from the fighting.

  “That’s crazy!” Jakamav said as Adolin jogged up.

  “Sure is.”

  “Let’s be at it, then!” He handed his hammer to Adolin, who slipped it into the sheath on his friend’s back. Then the two of them ran to the rock wall and started to climb.

  Adolin’s Plated fingers ground against rock as he pulled himself straight up. Soldiers below cheered them on. There were handholds aplenty, though he would never have wanted to do this without Plate to propel his climb and protect him if he fell.

  It was still crazy; they’d end up surrounded. However, two Shardbearers could do amazing things when supporting one another. Besides, if they got overwhelmed, they could always jump off the cliff, assuming their Plate was healthy enough to survive the fall.

  It was the sort of risky move that Adolin would never dare when his father was on the battlefield.

  He paused halfway up the cliff. Parshendi gathered on the edge of the tier above, preparing for them.

  “You have a plan for getting a foothold up there?” Jakamav asked, clinging to the rocks beside Adolin.

  Adolin nodded. “Just be ready to support me.”

  “Sure.” Jakamav scanned the heights, face hidden behind his helm. “What are you doing here, by the way?”

  “I figured no army would turn away some Shardbearers who wanted to help.”

  “Shardbearers? Plural?”

  “Renarin is down below.”

  “Hopefully not fighting.”

  “He’s surrounded by a large squad of soldiers with careful instructions not to let him get into the fighting. Father wanted him to see a few of these, though.”

  “I know what Dalinar is doing,” Jakamav said. “He’s trying to show a spirit of cooperation, trying to get the highprinces to stop being rivals. So he sends his Shardbearers to help, even when the run isn’t his.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  “Nope. Let’s see you make an opening up there. I’ll need a moment to get the hammer out.”

  Adolin grinned inside his helmet, then continued climbing. Jakamav was a landlord and Shardbearer under Highprince Roion, and a fairly good friend. It was important that lighteyes like Jakamav saw Dalinar and Adolin actively working toward a better Alethkar. Perhaps a few episodes like this would show the value of a trustworthy alliance, instead of the backstabbing, temporary coalition Sadeas represented.

  Adolin climbed farther, Jakamav close behind, until he was a dozen feet from the top. The Parshendi clustered there, hammers and maces at the ready—weapons for fighting a man in Shardplate. A few farther down launched arrows, which bounced ineffectively off the Plate.

  All right, Adolin thought, holding his hand to the side—clinging to the rocks with the other—and summoned his Blade. He slammed it directly into the rock wall with the flat of the blade facing upward. He climbed up beside the sword.

  Then he stepped onto the flat of the blade.

  Shardblades couldn’t break—they could barely bend—so it held him. He suddenly had leverage and good footing, and so when he crouched down and leaped, the Plate hurled him upward. As he passed the edge of the top tier, he grabbed the rock there—just beneath the feet of the Parshendi—and pulled on it to throw himself into the waiting foe.

  They broke off their singing as he smashed into them with the force of a boulder. He got his feet underneath him, mentally sending a summons to his Blade, then slammed his shoulder into one group. He began to lay about himself with punches, smashing the chest of one Parshendi, then the head of another. The soldiers’ carapace armor cracked with sickening sounds, and the punches flung them backward, knocking some off the cliff.

  Adolin took a few hits on his forearms before his Blade finally re-formed in his hands. He swung about, so focused on holding his ground that he didn’t notice Jakamav until the Shardbearer in green fell in beside him, crushing Parshendi with his hammer.

  “Thanks for tossing a platoon’s worth of Parshendi down on my head,” Jakamav called as he swung. “That was a won
derful surprise.”

  Adolin grinned, pointing. “Chrysalis.”

  The top tier wasn’t well populated—though more Parshendi were flooding up the incline. He and Jakamav had a direct path to the chrysalis, a hulking, oblong boulder of brown and faint green. It was matted to the rocks with the same stuff that made up its shell.

  Adolin leaped over the twitching form of a Parshendi with dead legs and charged the chrysalis, Jakamav following at a clanking jog. Getting to a gemheart was tough—the chrysalises had skin like rock—but with a Shardblade, it could be easy. They just had to kill the thing, then cut a hole so they could rip out the heart and—

  The chrysalis was already open.

  “No!” Adolin said, scrambling up to it, grabbing the sides of the hole and peering into the slushy violet interior. Chunks of carapace floated within the goop, and a conspicuous gap lay where the gemheart normally connected to veins and sinew.

  Adolin spun, searching across the top of the plateau. Jakamav clanked up and cursed. “How did they get it out so quickly?”

  There. Nearby, Parshendi soldiers scattered, yelling in their impenetrable, rhythmic language. Standing behind them was a tall figure in silvery Shardplate, a red cloak billowing out behind. The armor had peaked joints, ridges rising like the points on a crab’s shell. The figure was easily seven feet tall, the armor making him look massive, perhaps because it covered a Parshendi who had that carapace armor growing from his skin.

  “It’s him!” Adolin said, running forward. This was the one his father had fought on the Tower, the only Shardbearer they’d seen among the Parshendi for weeks, maybe months.

  Perhaps the last one they had.

  The Shardbearer turned toward Adolin, gripping a large uncut gemstone in his hand. It dripped ichor and plasma.

  “Fight me!” Adolin said.

  A group of Parshendi soldiers charged past the Shardbearer, running toward the long drop-off at the back of the formation, where the hill had been split down the center. The Shardbearer handed his gemheart to one of these charging men, then turned and watched them jump.