men of our generation.”
He released Aladar, letting the highprince stumble back. “Go to your men, Aladar. Go lead them. Be a champion.”
Aladar stared at Dalinar, mouth gaping. Then, he straightened. He slapped his arm to his chest, giving a salute as crisp as any Dalinar had seen. “It will be done, Brightlord,” Aladar said. “Highprince of War.” Aladar barked to his attendants—including Mintez, the highlord that Aladar usually had use his Shardplate in battle—then put his hand to his side-sword and dashed away in the rain.
“Huh,” Sebarial said from beneath his umbrella. “He’s actually buying into it. He thinks he’s going to be a storming hero.”
“He now knows I was right about the need to unify Alethkar. He’s a good soldier. Most of the highprinces are . . . or were, at some point.”
“Pity you ended up with us two instead of them,” Sebarial said, nodding toward Roion, who still stared out at the shifting red eyes. There were thousands now, still increasing as more Parshendi arrived. Scouts reported that they were gathering on all three plateaus bordering the large one that the Alethi occupied.
“I’m useless in a battle,” Sebarial continued, “and Roion’s archers will be wasted in this rain. Besides, he’s a coward.”
“Roion is not a coward,” Dalinar said, laying a hand on the shorter highprince’s arm. “He’s careful. That did not serve him well in the squabbling over gemhearts, where men like Sadeas threw away lives in exchange for prestige. But out here, care is an attribute I’d choose over recklessness.”
Roion turned to Dalinar, blinking away water. “Is this really happening?”
“Yes,” Dalinar said. “I want you with your men, Roion. They need to see you. This is going to terrify them, but not you. You’re careful, in control.”
“Yeah,” Roion said. “Yes. You . . . you’re going to get us out of this, right?”
“No, I’m not,” Dalinar said.
Roion frowned.
“We’re all going to get ourselves out of it together.”
Roion nodded, and didn’t object. He saluted as Aladar had, if less crisply, then headed toward his army on the northern flank, calling for his aides to give him the numbers of his reserves.
“Damnation,” Sebarial said, watching Roion go. “Damnation. What about me? Where’s my impassioned speech?”
“You,” Dalinar said, “are to go back to the command tent and not get in the way.”
Sebarial laughed. “All right. That I can do.”
“I want Teleb in command of your army,” Dalinar said. “And I’m sending both Serugiadis and Rust to join him. Your men will fight better against these things with a few Shardbearers at their head.” All three were men who had been given Shards following Adolin’s dueling spree.
“I’ll give the order that Teleb is to be obeyed.”
“And Sebarial?” Dalinar asked.
“Yes?”
“If you have a mind for it, burn some prayers. I don’t know if anyone up there is listening anymore, but it can’t hurt.” Dalinar turned toward the sea of red eyes. Why were they just standing there watching?
Sebarial hesitated. “Not as confident as you acted to the other two, eh?” He smiled, as if that comforted him, then sauntered off. What a strange man. Dalinar nodded to one of his aides, who went to give the orders to the three Kholin Shardbearers, first picking Serugiadis—a lanky young man whose sister Adolin had once courted—out of his command post along the ranks, then running off to fetch Teleb and explain Dalinar’s orders.
That seen to, Dalinar stepped up to Navani. “I need to know you’re safe in the command tent. As safe as anyone can be.”
“Then pretend I’m there,” she said.
“But—”
“You want my help with fabrials?” Navani said. “I can’t set up that sort of thing remotely, Dalinar.”
He ground his teeth, but what could he say? He was going to need every edge he could get. He looked out at the red eyes again.
“Campfire tales come alive,” said Rock, the massive Horneater bridgeman. Dalinar had never seen that one guarding him or his sons; he was a quartermaster, Dalinar believed. “These things should not be. Why do they not move?”
“I don’t know,” Dalinar said. “Send a few of your men to fetch Rlain. I want to see if he can provide any explanations.” As two bridgemen ran off, Dalinar turned to Navani. “Gather your scribes to write my words. I will speak to the soldiers.”
Within moments, she had a pair of scribes—shivering as they stood under umbrellas with pencils out to write—ready to record his words. They’d send women down the lines and read his message to all the men.
Dalinar climbed into Gallant’s saddle