Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive #4) - Brandon Sanderson Page 0,538

Lift’s progress. Where was that surgeon and his—

Lift screamed.

She leaped back as one of the bodies on the floor nearby emerged from beneath the sheet. The figure—dressed all in black—swung a Shardblade at her. She nearly managed to get away, but the Blade caught her in the thighs, cutting with the grace of an eel through the air.

Lift collapsed, her legs ruined by the Blade.

The figure in the black uniform turned from Lift and—blazing with Stormlight—focused on Teft. Sunken cheeks, prominent nose, glowing eyes.

Moash.

* * *

Kaladin didn’t run.

He knew what the Pursuer would do.

Indeed, the creature acted as he had each time before—dropping a husk and streaking toward Kaladin to grapple him. That was one husk spent. The Pursuer had two others before he would be trapped in his form and had to either flee, or face Kaladin and risk dying.

Kaladin stepped directly into the Pursuer’s path and dropped his spear, willingly entering the grapple. Turning at the last moment, he caught the Pursuer’s hands as they reached for him. Thrumming with Stormlight, Kaladin held the Pursuer’s wrists. Storms, the creature was stronger than he was. But Kaladin wouldn’t run or hide. Not this time. This time he only had to give Teft and Lift enough space to work.

And Kaladin had discovered something during their last fight. This creature was not a soldier.

“Give in, little man,” the Pursuer said. “I am as unavoidable as the coming storm. I will chase you forever.”

“Good,” Kaladin said.

“Bravado!” the Pursuer said, laughing. He managed to hook Kaladin’s foot, then used his superior strength to shove Kaladin to the ground. Best Kaladin could do was hang on and pull him down as well. The Pursuer kneed Kaladin in the gut, then twisted to get him in a hold. “So foolish!”

Kaladin writhed, barely able to keep from being immobilized. Syl flitted around them. As the Pursuer tried for a lock, Kaladin twisted around and met the Pursuer’s eyes, then smiled.

The Pursuer growled and repositioned to press Kaladin against the ground by his shoulders.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Kaladin said. “But you’re going to be afraid of me.”

“Madness,” the Pursuer said. “Your inevitable fate has caused madness in your frail mind.”

Kaladin grunted, back to the cold stone, using both hands to push the Pursuer’s right hand away. He kept his eyes locked on to the Pursuer’s.

“I killed you,” Kaladin said. “And I’ll kill you now. Then every time you return for me, I’ll kill you again.”

“I’m immortal,” the Pursuer growled. But his rhythm had changed. Not so confident.

“Doesn’t matter,” Kaladin said. “I’ve heard what people say about you. Your life isn’t the blood in your veins, but the legend you live. Each death kills that legend a little more. Each time I defeat you, it will rip you apart. Until you’re no longer known as the Pursuer. You’ll be known as the Defeated. The creature who, no matter how hard he tries, can’t ever beat ME.”

Kaladin reached down and activated Navani’s device at his belt, then pressed the grip that dropped the weight. It was as if someone had suddenly tied a rope to his waist, and then pulled him out of the Pursuer’s grip, sliding him across the floor of the atrium.

He deactivated the device, then rolled to his feet, looking across the short distance at his enemy. Syl fell in beside him, glaring at the Pursuer in a perfect mimic of his posture. Then, together, they smiled as Kaladin pulled out his scalpel.

* * *

Moash kicked Lift toward the wall, sending her limp and tumbling. She lay still and didn’t move after that. Moash floated forward, blade out, attention affixed solely on Teft.

Teft cursed himself for a fool. He’d focused on taking care of the Regal at the door; he should have known to check for irregularities. Now that he looked, he could see Kal’s parents and brother bound and gagged, visible through a gap in the cloth of the draped-off section at the rear.

The real trap wasn’t outside with the Pursuer. It was in here, with a much deadlier foe: a man who had been trained for war by Kaladin himself.

“Hello, Teft,” Moash said softly, landing in front of the rows of unconscious people on the floor. “How are the men?”

“Safe from you,” Teft said, pushing aside his cloak and unsheathing the long knife he had hidden underneath. Couldn’t move through a crowd unseen with a spear, unfortunately.

“Not all of them, Teft,” Moash said. There was a shadow on his face, despite the room’s