Dallet's burned-out eyes looked up at Kaladin in blank shock. A thin white line across his face was the only mark left by the shardblade. Shouts of horror and panic surrounded Kaladin as his men drew in toward their squadleader. Kaladin held his breath. He had lost men before, lost friends, but never had he lost them to such a foe. A single, unbeatable symbol of the injustice of war.
"Sir! The army!" Toorim was shouting in his ear. Soldiers peeled off the line in loose mobs, running back towards the town they had camped near the previous night. The weight of Amaram's advance faultered, then reversed. The Shardbearer charged towards the well-armored wedge at the front of the line. That was where Amaram would be, leading his honor guard.
"He's going to decapitate the army," Kaladin said. He started forward, not knowing what he would do but seeing immediately where he was needed. Toorim held his arm, his grip vice-like.
"Stormblessed!" Toorim shouted shakily, as if he had seen a ghost. "I'd follow you, sir. But the battle is falling apart. We can't stand alone out here."
Kaladin knew he was right. The shardbearer on his towering black mount charged alone against the center of the line, and the men there broke before even meeting his blade. Off in the other direction, Kaladin heard the trampling of hooves. Spinning, he saw a group of archers fleeing from a squadron of light cavalry. Kaladin lept into action and issued orders to his sub-squads. He couldn't save Amaram, but maybe he could save a few more lives before the day was over and keep the situation from turning into a full-blown rout.
"Pairwise! Charge!" Kaladin shouted as they neared the enemy. The ten spearmen on his heels immediately split into groups of two. The riders swarmed the archers, who clumped together with short swords or knives held out as their last meager defense.
Kaladin flipped one knife into the air and threw it. The blade buried itself in the back of the nearest horseman. Then he charged two others with his spear raised high. Kaladin let out a roar, and his men followed suit. One horse reared in surprise, tumbling over and crushing its rider's leg. The other rider took Kaladin's spear through the armpit and fell to the ground in a heap. Both horses bolted as Kaladin's men went to work in pairs.
Soon, eight horsemen were cleared away, and the others had taken notice. The other half of Kaladin's squad followed in without pause, grouped more closely to present a wall of raised spears. The miniature phalanx rushed to the aid of the archers and began warding off the startled horsemen.
Kaladin picked up a bundle of javelins from one of the fallen horsemen. Just as the enemy seemed to be regrouping in the face of this new threat, Kaladin began raining missiles down in their general direction. The archers took the hint, and those who still had strung bows loosed arrows on their tormentors. Finally, the cavalry seemed to think better of their attack and bolted off in search of easier prey.
"Thank you, uh, Squadleader," sighed one of the archers as Kaladin approached the impromptu formation. He was lighteyed, and the knots on his shoulder marked him as a captianlord, despite his evident youth. Now that Kaladin was looking at them closely, the entire unit seemed to be lighteyed. The relief on their faces seemed to be tempered by chagrin at the fact that they had been rescued by darkeyes.
"I know you," the Captainlord said. "Stormblessed, right? I suppose you are as fierce as they say."
"Fierce or lucky," Kaladin said absently. His eyes were back on the main line. The shardbearer had scattered Amaram's honor guard, and now the entire left flank seemed to be in retreat. Oddly, the enemy infantry hadn't made a move to pursue them yet. The right wing of Amaram's army must have advanced out of view, and perhaps they weren't even aware of the situation.
"Brightlord, since when has Hallaw had a shardbearer among his forces?" Kaladin said.
"Since never," the boy scoffed. "It's a blatant escalation, against all propriety and-"
"And the entire army's been caught off guard in the middle of the final assault." Kaladin pointed out the fleeing men. "Someone needs to rally them before the enemy realizes what bad shape we're in. I've just killed a battalionlord, so their lines may be confused for a time."
"You've what? Well, alright, but who's going to rally the..." The Captainlord trailed off as he noticed Kaladin's glare.
"My men will join yours, and we can pick up more along the way. Come on."
Kaladin's spearmen fell in alongside their squad leader at a brisk march, and the archers followed even before the Captainlord gave the order. The lighteyed officer held his head for a moment before taking his position at the head of the unit to at least give the impression that he was in charge. Together, they numbered just under four dozen—not much of a unit, but the only significant mass left on this part of the battlefield. Kaladin assessed the wounded. Only a handful, thankfully, and they could still walk.
As the force moved towards the center of the battlefield, Kaladin signaled his men to fan out widely. The archers seemed to recognize the formation and formed a line just behind the spearmen. A group of stragglers who seemed to have faced the worst of the battle wandered towards their formation group, and Kaladin ran out ahead to intercept them.
"Are you the reserves?" gasped one of the men, a large bearded pikeman who still clung to his weapons despite bleeding badly from a wound across his shoulder.
"Amaram already committed the reserves; we're the... rallying point," Kaladin said with as much confidence as he could muster. Normally, fleeing soldiers would be reorganized behind the lines, but with the battle in disarray, soldiers seemed to be wandering aimlessly, looking in vain for a safe place. "Will you join us?"
The pikeman looked at Kaladin's mixed force approaching and sighed. Then, with a swift kick, he snapped his pike in half, leaving a length approximately equal to that of Kaladin's own spear. "Aye," he said and fell in beside the other spearmen.
Kaladin tried to tend the men's wounds as they marched, tried to keep his mind off the gnawing thoughts in the back of his head. They encountered more fleeing men as they marched. Some joined, seeing safety in the only apparently unbroken unit on the field. Others refused to rally, their fear overwhelming any honor they'd once possessed. Kaladin stripped the fleeing men of their weapons and ordered them back to camp. Better those too shaken not join them, or else infect the swelling unit with their nerves.
Kaladin encountered one high-ranking officer, a companylord with a shattered arm clutched to his chest, but didn't insist he take command. The man's haunted expression showed he was no longer fit for duty. Instead, Kaladin relayed an order from a fictitious battalionlord to reassemble the troops at camp and prepare for a defense of the town. There was a brief sign of relief on the lightyeye's face as he received a reasonable excuse to quit the battlefield.
Some of the men that joined whispered Kaladin's name: Stormblessed is here. Stormblessed is leading us. His reputation had gotten around, much to Kaladin's irritation. If he were really Stormblessed, he wouldn't be in this Heralds forsaken army fighting a meaningless war. If he were really Stormblessed, he'd have saved Cenn, the boy who looked so much like—
Kaladin realized as the unit crested a hill that they had come upon a place where the lines had met in combat. Bodies were strewn across the ground, dead or in the process of dying. Kaladin's first instinct was to try and save them, but there were too many, all badly injured, and the sounds of battle were not far off. Red rotspren already crawled among the corpses like so many cremlings.
"Gather arrows, javelins, and shields if you need them!" Kaladin shouted. He scanned the horizon. A counterattack was due by now. Where was it? Kaladin's force had more than doubled, almost a full company, but the enemy on this flank had apparently dispersed or been redirected. The Lighteyed captainlord approached him with his head raised conspicuously, attempting to match Kaladin's stature.
"We broke their infantry here; my men were firing from the flanks but got chased off by their cavalry. What did you see of the Shardbearer?" The young man kept his voice steady, but the strain in his eyes was unmistakable.
"He came from behind our lines after Amaram and his guard had committed themselves in the center," Kaladin said. "It must've been contrived before the battle, but..."
"Did you see his honor guard? Any banners at all?"
"No, he rode alone." Kaladin grimaced at the memory. "And he didn't seem to need a guard; no one stood against him."
"Still, that's unusual. They could've avoided the whole battle if they put the shardbearer at the head of the vanguard and smashed our center to begin with." That was true, Kaladin thought. The sight of the solitary shardbearer had been bothering him since he'd had time to catch his breath.
"It seems he's run off Amaram's honor guard," Kaladin said, pointing towards a company of perhaps fifty men, some mounted, others on foot, staggering towards them. Their fine, burnished armor was spattered with blood and dust. They weren't broken, but they had lost their banner and, evidently, their general.
Kaladin and the Captainlord shared a glance, then simultaneously ordered their ragtag unit to follow them. Kaladin ran ahead as the Captainlord set the pace of the march. Off in the distance, Kaladin could still hear the clanging of steel on steel. Perhaps the forces on the right had failed to notice the rout on the left, or else they were pinned and unable even to flee. But why hadn't the Shardbearer struck them immediately?
As Kaladin approached the honor guard, a squat, darkeyed sergeant barked at him. "Turn back, boy. Battle's over. Save your men while you still can."
"Is Amaram dead?" Kaladin asked.
"Dead. And General Kedele as well," rasped a mounted lieutenant. A bandage covered a laceration on his throat, and he evidently had trouble speaking. "We're to withdraw and regroup at camp."
"We have men down there dying," Kaladin growled. "We should join up and relieve the right flank together while the enemy is still in disarray."
"Look there, squad leader," spit another horseman with green eyes and a red face. "We have no intention of facing that again." The man was a captianlord, probably the highest-ranking officer left in Amaram's honor guard. He pointed his longsword in the direction they had come from. In a low gulley a few hundred paces off, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of corpses lay scattered, their armor and weapons in pieces. At the far end, the Sharbearer stood, his massive black horse beside him. He used the massive blade to delicately slice away the armor on a prostrate body, then dismissed it. He knelt, cradling his burnished gold helmet under one arm, and examined the body casually.
Perfect. Kaldin's face twitched. The gruff sergeant was the only one who seemed to notice, taking a step back and looking up to his superior officers. As Kaladin's force neared, the squadleader began to pace between the two units, his spear held in a ready position.
"Am I to understand that you, the Honor Guard of Absidier Highmarshal Meridas Amaram, have not only failed to defend your charge but have also refused to even attempt to avenge him?" Kaladin shouted, the wind beginning to bluster. "Am I to understand that the best soldiers on the battlefield would rather surrender honor, surrender their fellow soldiers' lives, than join battle again and win the day in the name of their Highprince? What will Sadeas say after we have allowed his sharpest general to die in vain?"
"Shut your mouth, you impudent cremling!" the Captianlord began to curse, but others among his men faltered. Many looked at their boots, and others gritted their teeth at Kaladin's insults.
"Do what you want, Brightlord; I intend to take what men will follow me and kill that Shardbearer, take his shards, and rescue what remains of Amaram's army," Kaladin said, almost believing his own bravado. Kaladin's squad cheered, and some of the archers did as well. As the wind whipped his hair around him, the whispers started up again: Stormblessed is leading. Stormblessed could do it.
With a scowl, the Captainlord kicked his horse into a walk. Most of the cavalry followed after him, but the squat sergeant stood still. His subsquad and about twelve others stood beside him, shifting their glances between the two darkeyed leaders.
"Did you mean what you said about taking the shards and saving the army?" growled the sergeant. The man was too old to be a sergeant, too old to be a soldier. Amaram must have kept him in his honor guard for a reason.
"Yes," Kaladin said to his own surprise. Honestly, he had just been riling up the lighteyes, trying to inflame their honor—what little they had left—but it hadn't worked. Now, in front of this man, he had to mean it. "That's exactly what I intend to do."
On the lip of the gully, Kaladin, the Captainlord, the Sergeant, and Coreb, Kal's best sergeant, laid low, observing the Shardbearer. Kaladin had dispersed scouts in all directions. The hilly terrain made visibility a nightmare, but in this fight, it would be to their advantage.
"How are regular men meant to fight Shardbearers?" Kaladin asked. He knew what he would do, the same as with the battalionlord: get close and find the chink in his armor, but he wanted to know how it was supposed to be done.
"You don't," said the Captainlord. "But if you have to: ropes and hammers. Restrain him and break the shardplate. The extremities will freeze if connecting pieces are broken, and if it runs out of stormlight, the whole thing will freeze."
"Could any of your men make a shot this far?" Kaladin said, hoping against hope.
"Possible, but not likely, aiming for just his head. What is he doing?"
"He's defiling the Highmarshal's body," growled the sergeant. "I have your hammers, Stormblessed, but better kill his horse first. If he suspects an ambush, he'll run."
Suddenly, the Shardbearer looked up. Kaladin thought for a moment that they had been overheard, but he was looking in the opposite direction. Five horsemen had ridden up to the opposite lip of the gully and yelled towards the Shardbearer. He looked up from Amaram's body, almost annoyed at the interruption. He shouted something back, but Kaladin couldn't make it out.
"He's speaking Veden," the Captainlord said. "Where did Hallaw scrape up spheres to hire a Veden mercenary Shardbearer?"
"Doesn't matter," Kaladin said. The Shardbearer's conversation didn't seem to be very productive. As the horsemen withdrew, Kaladin's scouts returned. They reported that the right flank had been backed up to the wall of a cliff on the other side of the battlefield and was holding off the enemy in a tight phalanx. Meanwhile, a battalion of enemy cavalry was regrouping and preparing either to smash the phalanx or to strike directly at the camp where the wounded and routed were regrouping. Either choice would lead them right by the gully.
"No time," Kaladin said as he made his final decisions. "Brightlord, I need you and half our forces to remain on this near lip. The archers need to keep up a steady stream of fire after the first volley while the rest of us get into position. Don't commit the spearmen unless the Shardbearer tries to escape; fight him from high ground. Coreb, I need you to lead the other half of the men to the other side of the gully. Keep him from escaping there, but also keep a watch out for the cavalry; they could be on us at any time. Sergeant, you and yours are with me."
"I'm with you too," a gruff voice said. Kaladin turned. The pikeman, who'd first joined up with Kaladin's ragtag band, had crawled up beside them. The big man, Kaladin's equal in height and more muscular, seemed dead set on joining despite the wounds he'd taken.
"Fine," Kaladin said, "does everyone agree?" To his surprise, they did. Without question, the Captainlord and Sergeant set their men in order. Coreb, with Kaladin's squad and a contingent of light infantry, began to make his way around the gully. Kaladin had never been in charge of this many men and never planned anything on this scale. And all for the sake of one man. One lighteyes who had killed hundreds all for the pleasure of looting Amaram's corpse.
The archers loosed. Kaladin ran. He stumbled down the slope, spear in hand, but as he reached flat ground, he found his stride, the wind at his back. The Shardbearer looked up just as two dozen arrows fell around him. He raised one impenetrable arm, blocking any missile that might have ended things quickly. His horse did not fare as well. Fletched shafts blossomed in its shoulder, and it made as if to bolt. With an impossibly firm grip, the red-haired Veden took hold of the reins.
No hands left for the Shardblade. Kaladin let out a roar, and the remnants of the honor guard followed suit. The Shardbearer turned green eyes on Kaladin, and suddenly there was surprise. He lept into the saddle to flee, attempting at the same time to reseat the helmet onto his armor. Then six more arrows planted themselves in the horse's side. The black beast bucked and tumbled over onto its rider. The Shardbearer was down. Kaladin could see him struggling to right himself. With every last breath, Kaladin launched himself towards the fallen man. The seconds passed like hours. Kaladin's breath burned in his chest. The wind blew in his face as if trying to fill his lungs. Kaladin vaulted the Veden's steed, raised his spear to strike, and saw the shardblade appear out of mist in the man's gauntlet.
One swing nearly took out Kaladin's legs as he somersaulted over the prone Shardbearer. He had gotten his helmet on, and now the only visible chink was the thin slit of his visor.
Kaladin landed roughly. The Sergeant and his men had not kept pace with Kaladin. As they approached to surround the Shardbearer, the hulking golden monster lifted himself with one and kicked the horse's corpse in their direction. Two men were crushed by it, and the others startled back.
One of the Shardbearers' greaves was cracked and leaked stormlight where the horse had crushed it. He pivoted on that foot, surveying his opponents. His curved, golden shardblade shimmered like a rippling flame, reflecting the red stone of the gully. Kaladin rose, spear in hand.
With inhuman speed, the Shardbearer lashed out at the honor guard, a thin wisp replacing his blade as it severed their souls and burned out their eyes. Five more fell before Kaladin could move a muscle. The Sergeant cried out with his hoarse voice and made his best strike with the spiked end of his hammer. It cracked the right vambrace but did not stop the swooping arc of the blade as it passed through the Sergeant's arm. The Shardbearer kicked with his bad leg and sent the old soldier down to the ground with a hollow thud.
Kaladin's senses left him. He launched at the Shardbearer's back and swung his spear without the slightest concern. His spear exploded on contact with the Shardbearer's good leg, cracking it only slightly. The rest of the honor guard rushed in from the front, swinging hammers, maces, axes, and glaives with abandon. A haphazard sweep of the blade killed or crippled half of them, their blows landing without effect. The pikeman struck more deliberately, catching the damaged vambrace with the point of his improvised spear. The cracks deepened, and the pikeman retreated in time to avoid the sweep of the blade.
Kaladin discarded his shattered spear and rolled out of the way of a backward swipe of the blade. The Shardbearer turned on him as Kaladin retreated. The Shardbearer walked slowly now, planting both feet cautiously. A rain of arrows pelted his back, but he paid them no mind. Kaladin drew and threw a knife with a flash, but the blade merely glanced off the helm.
Kaladin became aware of the sound of galloping horses. The cavalry must be harassing Coreb's men at the top of the rise. He cursed himself for leading even more men into this death trap. Only a handful of the Sergeant's men were left, too wary to strike the Shardbearer as he pursued Kaladin.
Kaladin climbed the rise out of the gully, scrambling through gravel and sand. Near the top, he tripped on a large rock. The Shardbearer followed methodically. Disarmed and winded, heart aching, Kaladin did the only thing he could think. He picked up the large rock he'd tripped on and launched it with all his force. The Shardbearer attempted to swipe it away with a casual swing but misjudged its speed. The rock impacted the cracked vambrace and shattered it into a million molten pieces.
The gauntlet froze around the shardblade and the Shardbearer's hand, its weight now adding to the weight of the blade. Kaladin picked up a fist-sized rock and threw it overhand. It struck the Shardbearers exposed forearm with an audible crack. The man let out a gutter scream muffled by his helm and slipped in the gravel, sliding back down the gully. Kaladin slid down too, angling away from the injured Shardbearer. He found himself beside the Sergeant's remaining men. They hadn't run, and neither had the pikeman, who mirrored Kaladin's position on the other side of the honor guard.
Arrows flew overhead, but not towards the Shardbearer. It seemed like the Captainlord's archers were supporting Coreb's men across the gully. Kaladin hoped they were alright, but he had no time to think of them as the Shardbearer rose to his feet.
Kaladin picked up a discarded mace from the ground. The Shardbearer's right arm hung limp at his side now, the blade dragging on the ground. With the left arm raised in a boxing stance, Kaladin sensed panic in his prey like a whitespine on the trail of an injured chull.
Kaladin and the honor guard struck as one. The shardblade rose with much effort, but the Pikeman batted down the arm with a swift swat. The others rained blows on the helm, chest, and legs. The Shardbearer punched wildly, but Kaladin dodged and assaulted him with the mace. Occupied with Kaladin's repeated attacks, the Shardbearer neglected the work of the honor guard. His greaves gave out, first one, then the other, and the Shardbearer collapsed in a heap. He swung his left arm like a mace of his own, but Kaladin struck with ferocious precision. The pauldron shattered under repeated blows. The Shardbearers arm fell limp under the weight of the dead plate.
With evident pain, the Shardbearer raised his right arm in a last, half-hearted slash towards Kaladin. It missed, and Kaladin pinned the broken arm to the ground with his boot. The fight was over, but blood still pounded in Kaladin's skull. He stood over the Shardbearer with a hate unlike any he'd ever felt before, even more visceral and pure than that he felt for Roshone. Bubbling pools of blood appeared around his feat, angerspren feasting. Kaladin had never felt the fabled 'Thrill' before, but he doubted this was it. The battle was over; now he yearned for justice, retribution, revenge. He could hear this man's labored breathing and wished to silence it.
Each strike with the mace reverberated through Kaladin's whole body. The Sharbearer struggled, panted, tried with all his strength to rise but could not. His golden helm bounced off the red stone with a bell-like ring. Violet fearspren wriggled out of the ground around him, mingling with leaking stormlight. They tossed their heads with every blow. The man was saying something in Veden, shouting, but Kaladin didn't care to listen. The final blow smashed the helm with little resistance. The mace landed in the Veden man's face like a brick falling in wet crem. The fearspren ebbed away as their terrible feast suddenly evaporated.
Kaladin stooped to pry open the Shardbearer's frozen gauntlet. He cracked open the tight fist with the flat of a knife, like cracking lanka claws back in Hearthstone. The shardblade came free and did not disappear. Kaladin grazed the hilt with his fingers but pulled away. It gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach, like his body was rejecting it. The ruby in its pommel flashed white at his touch. Kaladin felt the connection form in the back of his mind like a pulled muscle. The thing looked otherworldly—longer than most men were tall, shimmering gold, etched with glyphs along the entire length. The cramped hilt bent forward against the curve of the blade, large enough for a single gauntleted hand.
Kaladin realized he was shaking. He couldn't tell if it was angst, excitement, or exhaustion, but his hand trembled, both drawn towards the sword and repulsed by it. Suddenly, he realized that he was surrounded by men. His men. Coreb, Hab, Alabet, and Reesh. Acis, Hamel, Raksha, and Navar. Toorim stood mouth-agape, awespren bursting around him. The sound of trampling hooves was receding into the distance. The men who had rallied with him watched from the lip of the gully in mute astonishment. The lighteyed archers were filing in behind the honor guard. The young Captainlord's eyes were closed, his head bent as if in prayer. Two of the surviving honor guards hoisted their sergeant to his feet. His right arm was turning gray, bladedead, and he breathed shallowly—several ribs likely cracked. He met Kaladin's lost gaze.
"You've got to take it, boy," he grumbled, face hard and pained.
"I can't," Kaladin said, and he meant it. That blade had killed his men, countless others. That blade had taken the Sergeant's arm. The faint sounds of battle echoed in the distance. Clattering, shouting, crying. Men in all directions looked upon Kaladin in expectant silence.
"You have to, boy," the Sergeant said almost in a whisper. "There are more men left to save."
Kaladin looked at his hands and then at the blade. This moment was what every darkeyed soldier dreamed of—what many died seeking. Kaladin dreaded it. Cursed the day he joined Amaram's army. Mounred his own bruised soul. But he had promised.
Kill to protect. Kaladin clasped the shardblade in his hand and raised it over his head.