crowd was growing louder. He leaped one attack, then stepped just to the side of another.
You could not kill the wind. You could not stop it. It was beyond the touch of men. It was infinite. . . .
His Stormlight ran out.
Kaladin stumbled to a halt. He tried to suck in more, but all of his spheres were drained.
The helm, he realized, noticing that it was gushing Stormlight from its numerous cracks, yet hadn’t exploded. It had somehow fed upon his Stormlight.
Relis attacked and Kaladin barely scrambled out of the way. His back hit the wall of the arena.
Green Plate saw his opening and raised his Blade.
Someone hopped on him from behind.
Kaladin watched, dumbfounded, as Adolin grappled Green Plate, latching on to him. Adolin’s armor hardly leaked at all anymore; his Stormlight was exhausted. It seemed that he could barely move—the sand nearby displayed a set of lurching tracks that led away from Orange Plate, who lay in the sand defeated.
That was what the judge had said just earlier: the man in orange had yielded. Adolin had beaten his foe, then walked slowly—one laborious step after another—over to where Kaladin fought. It looked like he’d used his final bit of energy to hop up on Green Plate’s back and grab hold.
Green Plate cursed, swatting at Adolin. The prince held on, and his Plate had locked, as they called it—becoming heavy and almost impossible to move.
The two teetered, then toppled over.
Kaladin looked at Relis, who glanced from the fallen Green Plate to the man in orange, then to Kaladin.
Relis turned and dashed across the sands toward Renarin.
Kaladin cursed, scrambling after him and tossing the helm aside. His body felt sluggish without the Stormlight to help.
“Renarin!” Kaladin yelled. “Yield!”
The boy looked up. Storms, he’d been crying. Was he hurt? He didn’t look it.
“Surrender!” Kaladin said, trying to run faster, summoning every drop of energy from muscles that felt drained, exhausted from being inflated by Stormlight.
The lad focused on Relis, who was bearing down on him, but said nothing. Instead, Renarin dismissed his Blade.
Relis skidded to a stop, raising his Blade high over his head toward the defenseless prince. Renarin closed his eyes, looking upward, as if exposing his throat.
Kaladin wasn’t going to arrive in time. He was too slow compared to a man in Plate.
Relis hesitated, fortunately, as if unwilling to strike Renarin.
Kaladin arrived. Relis spun around and swung at him instead.
Kaladin skidded to his knees in the sand, momentum carrying him forward a short distance as the Blade fell. He raised his hands and snapped them together.
Catching the Blade.
Screaming.
Why could he hear screaming? Inside his head? Was that Syl’s voice?
It reverberated through Kaladin. That horrible, awful screech shook him, made his muscles tremble. He released the Shardblade with a gasp, falling backward.
Relis dropped the Blade as if bitten. He backed away, raising his hands to his head. “What is it? What is it! No, I didn’t kill you!” He shrieked as if in great pain, then ran across the sands and pulled open the door to the preparation room, fleeing inside. Kaladin heard his screams echoing inside the hallways there long after the man vanished.
The arena grew still.
“Highlord Relis Ruthar,” the judge finally called, sounding disturbed, “forfeits by cause of leaving the dueling arena.”
Kaladin climbed, trembling, to his feet. He glanced at Renarin—the lad was fine—then slowly crossed the arena. Even the watching darkeyes had grown silent. Kaladin was pretty sure they hadn’t heard that strange scream, though. It had only been audible to him and Relis.
He stepped up to Adolin and Green Plate.
“Stand up and fight me!” Green Plate shouted. He lay faceup on the ground, Adolin buried beneath him and holding on in a wrestling grip.
Kaladin knelt down. Green Plate struggled more as Kaladin retrieved his side knife from the sand, then pressed the tip of it into the opening in Green Plate’s armor.
The man grew perfectly still.
“You going to yield?” Kaladin growled. “Or do I get to kill my second Shardbearer?”
Silence.
“Storms curse you both!” Green Plate finally shouted inside his helm. “This wasn’t a duel, this was a circus! Grappling is the way of the coward!”
Kaladin pressed the knife in farther.
“I yield!” the man yelled, holding up his hand. “Storm you, I yield!”
“Brightlord Jakamav yields,” the judge said. “The day goes to Brightlord Adolin.”
The darkeyes in their seats cheered. The lighteyes seemed stunned. Above, Syl spun with the winds, and Kaladin could feel her joy. Adolin released Green Plate, who rolled off him and stomped away. Underneath, the