Authors: Brandon Sanderson
Dalinar was reminded of his most recent vision. The Radiant, his armor glowing with glyphs. Modern Shardplate didn’t glow like that. Could his mind have fabricated that detail? Would it have?
No time to consider that now,
he thought. He discarded his uncertainties and worries, something he’d learned to do during his first battles as a youth. A warrior needed to be focused. Adolin’s questions would still be waiting for him when he got back. For now, he couldn’t afford self-doubt or uncertainty. It was time to be the Blackthorn.
He stepped into the sabatons, and the straps tightened of their own accord, fitting around his boots. The greaves came next, going over his legs and knees, locking on to the sabatons. Shardplate wasn’t like ordinary armor; there was no mesh of steel mail and no leather straps at the joints. Shardplate seams were made of smaller plates, interlocking, overlapping, incredibly intricate, leaving no vulnerable gaps. There was very little rubbing or chafing; each piece fit together perfectly, as if it had been crafted specifically for Dalinar.
One always put the armor on from the feet upward. Shardplate was extremely heavy; without the enhanced strength it provided, no man would be able to fight in it. Dalinar stood still as the armor bearers affixed the cuisses over his thighs and locked them to the culet and faulds across his waist and lower back. A skirt made of small, interlocking plates came next, reaching down to just above the knees.
“Brightlord,” Teleb said, stepping up to him. “Have you given thought to my suggestion about the bridges?”
“You know how I feel about man-carried bridges, Teleb,” Dalinar said as the armor bearers locked his breastplate into place, then worked on the rerebraces and vambraces for his arms. Already, he could feel the strength of the Plate surging through him.
“We wouldn’t have to use the smaller bridges for the assault,” Teleb said. “Just for getting to the contested plateau.”
“We’d still have to bring the chull-pulled bridges to get across that last chasm,” Dalinar said. “I’m not convinced that bridge crews would move us any more quickly. Not when we have to wait for those animals.”
Teleb sighed.
Dalinar reconsidered. A good officer was one who accepted orders and fulfilled them, even when he disagreed. But the mark of a great officer was that he also tried to innovate and offer appropriate suggestions.
“You may recruit and train a single bridge crew,” Dalinar said. “We shall see. In these races, even a few minutes can be meaningful.”
Teleb smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
Dalinar waved with his left hand as the armor bearers locked the gauntlet onto his right. He made a fist, tiny plates curving perfectly. The left gauntlet followed. Then the gorget went over his head, covering his neck, the pauldrons on his shoulders, and the helm on his head. Finally, the armor bearers affixed his cape to the pauldrons.
Dalinar took a deep breath, feeling the Thrill build for the approaching battle. He strode from the war room, footfalls firm and
solid
. Attendants and servants scattered before him, making way. Wearing Shardplate again after a long period without was like waking up after a night of feeling groggy or disoriented. The spring of the step, the impetus the armor seemed to lend him, made him want to race down the hallway and—
And why not?
He broke into a sprint. Teleb and the others cried out in surprise, rushing to keep up. Dalinar outpaced them easily, reaching the front gates of the complex and leaping through, throwing himself off the long steps leading down from his enclave. He exulted, grinning as he hung in the air, then slammed to the ground. The force cracked the stone beneath him, and he crouched into the impact.
Before him, neat rows of barracks ran through his warcamp, formed in radials with a meeting ground and mess hall at the center of each battalion. His officers reached the top of the stairs, looking down with amazement. Renarin was with them, wearing his uniform that had never seen battle, his hand raised against the sunlight.
Dalinar felt foolish. Was he a youth just given his first taste of Shardplate?
Back to work. Stop playing.
Perethom, his infantrylord, saluted as Dalinar strode up. “Second and Third Battalions are on duty today, Brightlord. Forming ranks to march.”
“First Bridge Squad is gathered, Brightlord,” Havarah—the bridgelord—said, striding up. He was a short man, with some Herdazian blood in him as evidenced by his dark, crystalline fingernails, though he didn’t wear a spark-flicker. “I have word from Ashelem that the archery company is ready.”
“Cavalry?” Dalinar asked. “And where is my son?”
“Here, Father,” called a familiar voice. Adolin—his Shardplate painted a deep Kholin blue—made his way through the gathering crowd. His visor was up, and he looked eager, though when he met Dalinar’s eyes, he glanced away immediately.
Dalinar held up a hand, quieting several officers who were trying to give him reports. He strode to Adolin, and the youth looked up, meeting his gaze.
“You said what you felt you must,” Dalinar said.
“And I’m not sorry I did,” Adolin replied. “But I
am
sorry for how, and where, I said it. That won’t happen again.”
Dalinar nodded, and that was enough. Adolin seemed to relax, a weight coming off his shoulders, and Dalinar turned back to his officers. In moments, he and Adolin were leading a hurried group to the staging area. As they did, Dalinar did note Adolin waving to a young woman who stood beside the way, wearing a red dress, her hair up in a very nice braiding.
“Is that—er—”
“Malasha?” Adolin said. “Yes.”
“She looks nice.”
“Most of the time she is, though she’s somewhat annoyed that I wouldn’t let her come with me today.”
“She wanted to come into
battle
?”
Adolin shrugged. “Says she’s curious.”
Dalinar said nothing. Battle was a masculine art. A woman wanting to come to the battlefield was like…well, like a man wanting to read. Unnatural.
Ahead, in the staging area, the battalions were forming ranks, and a squat lighteyed officer hurried up to Dalinar. He had patches of red hair on his otherwise dark Alethi head and a long, red mustache. Ilamar, the cavalrylord.
“Brightlord,” he said, “my apologies for the delay. Cavalry is mounted and ready.”
“We march, then,” Dalinar said. “All ranks—”
“Brightlord!” a voice said.
Dalinar turned as one of his messengers approached. The darkeyed man wore leathers marked with blue bands on the arms. He saluted, saying, “Highprince Sadeas has demanded admittance to the warcamp!”
Dalinar glanced at Adolin. His son’s expression darkened.
“He claims the king’s writ of investigation grants him the right,” the messenger said.
“Admit him,” Dalinar said.
“Yes, Brightlord,” the messenger said, turning back. One of the lesser officers, Moratel, went with him so that Sadeas could be welcomed and escorted by a lighteyes as befitted his station. Moratel was least among those in attendance; everyone understood he was the one Dalinar would send.
“What do you think Sadeas wants this time?” Dalinar said quietly to Adolin.
“Our blood. Preferably warm, perhaps sweetened with a shot of tallew brandy.”
Dalinar grimaced, and the two of them hurried past the ranks of soldiers. The men had an air of anticipation, spears held high, darkeyed citizen officers standing at the sides with axes on their shoulders. At the front of the force, a group of chulls snorted and rummaged at the rocks by their feet; harnessed to them were several enormous mobile bridges.
Gallant and Adolin’s white stallion Sureblood were waiting, their reins held at the ready by grooms. Ryshadium hardly needed handlers. Once, Gallant had kicked open his stall and made his way to the staging grounds on his own when a groom had been too slow. Dalinar patted the midnight destrier on the neck, then swung into the saddle.
He scanned the staging field, then raised his arm to give the command to move. However, he noticed a group of mounted men riding up to the staging field, led by a figure in dark red Shardplate. Sadeas.
Dalinar stifled a sigh and gave the command to move out, though he himself waited for the Highprince of Information. Adolin came over on Sureblood, and he gave Dalinar a glance that seemed to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll behave.”
As always, Sadeas was a model of fashion, his armor painted, his helm ornamented with a completely different metallic pattern than he had worn last time. This one was shaped like a stylized sunburst. It looked almost like a crown.
“Brightlord Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “This is an inconvenient time for your investigation.”
“Unfortunately,” Sadeas said, reining in. “His Majesty is very eager to have answers, and I cannot stop my investigation, even for a plateau assault. I need to interview some of your soldiers. I’ll do it on the way out.”
“You want to come
with
us?”
“Why not? I won’t delay you.” He glanced at the chulls, who lurched into motion, pulling the bulky bridges. “I doubt that even were I to decide to
crawl
, I could slow you any further.”
“Our soldiers need to concentrate on the upcoming battle, Brightlord,” Adolin said. “They should not be distracted.”
“The king’s will must be done,” Sadeas said, shrugging, not even bothering to look at Adolin. “Need I present the writ? Surely you don’t intend to forbid me.”
Dalinar studied his former friend, looking into those eyes, trying to see into the man’s soul. Sadeas lacked his characteristic smirk; he usually wore one of those when he was pleased with how a plot was going. Did he realize that Dalinar knew how to read his expressions, and so masked his emotions? “No need to present anything, Sadeas. My men are at your disposal. If you have need of anything, simply ask. Adolin, with me.”
Dalinar turned Gallant and galloped down the line toward the front of the marching army. Adolin followed reluctantly, and Sadeas remained behind with his attendants.
The long ride began. The permanent bridges here were Dalinar’s, maintained and guarded by his soldiers and scouts, connecting plateaus that he controlled. Sadeas spent the trip riding near the middle of the column of two thousand. He periodically sent an attendant to pull certain soldiers out of line.
Dalinar spent the ride mentally preparing himself for the battle ahead. He spoke with his officers about the layout of the plateau, got a report on where specifically the chasmfiend had chosen to make its chrysalis, and sent scouts ahead to watch for Parshendi. Those scouts carried their long poles to get them from plateau to plateau without bridges.
Dalinar’s force eventually reached the end of the permanent bridges, and had to start waiting for the chull bridges to be lowered across the chasms. The big machines were built like siege towers, with enormous wheels and armored sections at the side where soldiers could push. At a chasm, they unhooked the chulls, pushed the machine forward by hand, and ratcheted a crank at the back to lower the bridge. Once the bridge was set down, the machinery was unlocked and pulled across. The bridge was built so they could lock the machine onto the other side, pull the bridge up, then turn and hook the chulls up again.
It was a slow process. Dalinar watched from horseback, fingers tapping the side of his hogshide saddle as the first chasm was spanned. Perhaps Teleb was right. Could they use lighter, more portable bridges to get across these early chasms, then resort to the siege bridges only for the final assault?
A clatter of hooves on rock announced someone riding up the side of the column. Dalinar turned, expecting Adolin, and instead found Sadeas.
Why
had
Sadeas asked to be Highprince of Information, and why was he so dogged in pursuing this matter of the broken girth? If he did decide to create some kind of false implication of Dalinar’s guilt…
The visions told me to trust him,
Dalinar told himself firmly. But he was growing less certain about them. How much dared he risk on what they’d said?
“Your soldiers are quite loyal to you,” Sadeas noted as he arrived.
“Loyalty is the first lesson of a soldier’s life,” Dalinar said. “I would be worried if these men
hadn’t
yet mastered it.”
Sadeas sighed. “Really, Dalinar. Must you always be so sanctimonious?”
Dalinar didn’t reply.
“It’s odd, how a leader’s influence can affect his men,” Sadeas said. “So many of these are like smaller versions of you. Bundles of emotion, wrapped up and tied until they become stiff from the pressure. They’re so sure in some ways, yet so insecure in others.”
Dalinar kept his jaw clenched.
What is your game, Sadeas?
Sadeas smiled, leaning in, speaking softly. “You want so badly to snap at me, don’t you? Even in the old days, you hated it when someone implied that you were insecure. Back then, your displeasure often ended with a head or two rolling across the stones.”
“I killed many who did not deserve death,” Dalinar said. “A man should not fear losing his head because he took one too many sips of wine.”
“Perhaps,” Sadeas said lightly. “But don’t you ever want to let it out, as you used to? Doesn’t it pound on you inside, like someone trapped within a large drum? Beating, banging, trying to claw free?”
“Yes,” Dalinar said.
The admission seemed to surprise Sadeas. “And the Thrill, Dalinar. Do you still feel the Thrill?”
Men didn’t often speak of the Thrill, the joy and lust for battle. It was a private thing. “I feel each of the things you mention, Sadeas,” Dalinar said, eyes forward. “But I don’t always let them out. A man’s emotions are what define him, and control is the hallmark of true strength. To lack feeling is to be dead, but to act on every feeling is to be a child.”
“That has the stink of a quote about it, Dalinar. From Gavilar’s little book of virtues, I assume?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t it bother you at all that the Radiants betrayed us?”
“Legends. The Recreance is an event so old, it might as well be in the shadowdays. What did the Radiants really do? Why did they do it? We don’t know.”