he dared. The Assassin in White stood calmly in the corridor, streaming with his own Light. How could he be a Surgebinder? What spren had chosen this man?
Adolin’s Shardblade formed in his hands.
“Trident,” Dalinar said softly, slowing as the three of them approached the assassin. “I’m the middle. You familiar with that, Kaladin?”
“Yes, sir.” It was a simple, small-squad battlefield formation.
“Let me handle this, Father,” Adolin said. “He has a Shardblade, and I don’t like the look of that glow—”
“No,” Dalinar said, “we hit him together.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded the assassin, still standing calmly above the body of poor Beld. “I’m not asleep at the table this time, you bastard. You’re not taking another one from me!”
The three charged together. Dalinar, as the middle tine of the trident, would try to hold the assassin’s attention while Kaladin and Adolin attacked from either side. He’d wisely taken the spear for reach, rather than using his side sword. They charged in a rush to confuse and overwhelm.
The assassin waited until they were close, then jumped, trailing Light. He twisted in the air as Dalinar bellowed and thrust with his spear.
The assassin did not come down. Instead, he landed on the ceiling of the corridor some twelve feet above.
“It’s true,” Adolin said, sounding haunted. He bent back, raising his Shardblade to attack at the awkward angle. The assassin, however, ran down the wall in a rustle of white cloth, battering aside Adolin’s Shardblade with his own, then slammed his hand into Adolin’s chest.
Adolin flipped upward as if he’d been tossed. His body streamed Stormlight and he crashed into the ceiling above. He groaned, rolling over, but remained on the ceiling.
Stormfather! Kaladin thought, pulse pounding, tempest within raging. He thrust his spear alongside that of the Blackthorn in an attempt to hit the assassin.
The man didn’t dodge.
Both spears struck flesh, Dalinar’s in the shoulder, Kaladin’s in the side. The assassin spun, sweeping his Shardblade through the spears and cutting them in half, as if he didn’t even care about the wounds. He lunged forward, slapping Dalinar across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, then swept his Blade toward Kaladin.
Kaladin barely ducked the blow, then scrambled backward, the top of his spear clattering to the ground beside Dalinar, who rolled with a groan, holding a hand to his cheek where the assassin had struck him. Blood seeped from torn skin. The blow of a Surgebinder bearing Stormlight could not just be shaken off.
The assassin stood poised and confident in the center of the corridor. Stormlight swirled in the slashes in his now-reddened clothing, healing his flesh.
Kaladin backed away, holding a spear missing its head. The things this man did . . . He couldn’t be a Windrunner, could he?
Impossible.
“Father!” Adolin shouted from above. The youth had climbed to his feet, but the Stormlight streaming from him had nearly run out. He tried to attack the assassin, but slipped from the ceiling and crashed to the ground, landing on his shoulder. His Shardblade vanished as it fell from his fingers.
The assassin stepped over Adolin, who stirred but did not rise. “I am sorry,” the assassin said, Stormlight streaming from his mouth. “I don’t want to do this.”
“I won’t give you the chance,” Kaladin growled, dashing forward. Syl spun around him, and he felt the wind stirring. He felt the tempest raging, urging him onward. He came at the assassin with the remnant of his spear wielded like a quarterstaff, and felt the wind guiding him.
Strikes made with precision, a moment of oneness with the weapon. He forgot his worries, forgot his failures, forgot even his rage. Just Kaladin and a spear.
As the world was meant to be.
The assassin took a blow to the shoulder, then the side. He couldn’t ignore them all—his Stormlight would run out as it healed him. The assassin cursed, letting out another mouthful of Light, and backed away, his Shin eyes—slightly too large, colored like pale sapphires—widening at the continued flurry of strikes.
Kaladin sucked in the rest of his Stormlight. So little. He hadn’t picked up new spheres before coming to guard duty. Stupid. Sloppy.
The assassin turned his shoulder, lifting his Shardblade, preparing to thrust. There, Kaladin thought. He could feel what would happen. He would twist around the strike, bringing up the butt of his spear. It would hit the assassin on the side of the head, a powerful blow that even Stormlight would not easily compensate for. He’d be left dazed. An opening.
I have him.
Somehow,