The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,330

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