The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,328

command became cheap things.

More and more over the last few years, each and every one of these petty lighteyes had come to represent Roshone in Kaladin’s eyes. Only Amaram himself stood apart. Amaram, who had treated Kaladin’s father so well, promising to keep Tien safe. Amaram, who always spoke with respect, even to lowly spearmen. He was like Dalinar and Sadeas. Not this riffraff.

Of course, Amaram had failed to protect Tien. But so had Kaladin.

“Sir?” Dallet said hesitantly.

“Subsquads Two and Three, pincer pattern,” Kaladin said coldly, pointing at the enemy lighteyes. “We’re taking a brightlord off his throne.”

“You sure that’s wise, sir?” Dallet said. “We’ve got wounded.”

Kaladin turned toward Dallet. “That’s one of Hallaw’s officers. He might be the one.”

“You don’t know that, sir.”

“Regardless, he’s a battalionlord. If we kill an officer that high, we’re all but guaranteed to be in the next group sent to the Shattered Plains. We’re taking him. Imagine it, Dallet. Real soldiers. A warcamp with discipline and lighteyes with integrity. A place where our fighting will mean something.”

Dallet sighed, but nodded. At Kaladin’s wave, two subsquads joined him, as eager as he. Did they hate these squabbling lighteyes of their own accord, or had they picked up Kaladin’s loathing?

The brightlord was surprisingly easy to take down. The problem with them—almost to a man—was that they underestimated darkeyes. Perhaps this one had a right. How many had he killed, in his years?

Subsquad three drew off the honor guard. Subsquad two distracted the lighteyes. He didn’t see Kaladin approaching from a third direction. The man dropped with a knife to the eye; his face was unprotected. He screamed as he clattered to the ground, still alive. Kaladin rammed his spear down into the fallen man’s face, striking three times as the horse galloped off.

The man’s honor guard panicked and fled to rejoin their army. Kaladin signaled to the two subsquads by banging his spear against his shield, giving the “hold position” sign. They fanned out, and short Toorim—a man Kaladin had rescued from another squad—made as if to confirm the light-eyes was dead. He was really covertly looking for spheres.

Stealing from the dead was strictly prohibited, but Kaladin figured that if Amaram wanted the spoils, he could storming well kill the enemy himself. Kaladin respected Amaram more than most—well, more than any—lighteyes. But bribes weren’t cheap.

Toorim walked up to him. “Nothing sir. Either he didn’t bring any spheres into battle, or he has them hidden somewhere under that breastplate.”

Kaladin nodded curtly, surveying the battlefield. Amaram’s forces were recovering; they’d win the day before long. In fact, Amaram would probably be leading a direct surge against the enemy by now. He generally entered the battle at the end.

Kaladin wiped his brow. He’d have to send for Norby, their captainlord, to prove their kill. First he needed those healers to—

“Sir!” Toorim said suddenly.

Kaladin glanced back at the enemy lines.

“Stormfather!” Toorim exclaimed. “Sir!”

Toorim wasn’t looking at the enemy lines. Kaladin spun, looking back at friendly ranks. There—bearing down through the soldiers on a horse the color of death itself—was an impossibility.

The man wore shining golden armor. Perfect golden armor, as if this were what every other suit of armor had been designed to imitate. Each piece fit perfectly; there were no holes showing straps or leather. It made the rider look enormous, powerful. Like a god carrying a majestic blade that should have been too big to use. It was engraved and stylized, shaped like flames in motion.

“Stormfather…” Kaladin breathed.

The Shardbearer broke out of Amaram’s lines. He’d been riding through them, cutting down men as he passed. For a brief moment, Kaladin’s mind refused to acknowledge that this creature—this beautiful divinity—could be an enemy. The fact that the Shardbearer had come through their side reinforced that illusion.

Kaladin’s confusion lasted right up until the moment the Shardbearer trampled Cenn, Shardblade dropping and cutting through Dallet’s head in a single, easy stroke.

“No!” Kaladin bellowed. “No!”

Dallet’s body fell back to the ground, eyes seeming to catch alight, smoke rising from them. The Shardbearer cut down Cyn and trampled Lyndel before moving on. It was all done with nonchalance, like a woman pausing to wipe a spot on the counter.

“NO!” Kaladin screamed, charging toward the fallen men of his squad. He hadn’t lost anyone this battle! He was going to protect them all!

He fell to his knees beside Dallet, dropping his spear. But there was no heartbeat, and those burned-out eyes…He was dead. Grief threatened to overwhelm Kaladin.

No! said the part of his mind