The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,180

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