Cenn, Kaladin thought. His name is Cenn.
Kaladin caught sight of a flash of green in the middle of the enemy brown. A terrified voice somehow cut through the commotion. It was him.
Kaladin threw himself out of formation, prompting a call of surprise from Larn, who had been fighting at his side. Kaladin ducked past a spear thrust by an enemy, dashing over the stony ground, hopping corpses.
Cenn had been knocked to the ground, spear raised. An enemy soldier slammed his weapon down.
No.
Kaladin blocked the blow, deflecting the enemy spear and skidding to a stop in front of Cenn. There were six spearmen here, all wearing brown. Kaladin spun among them in a wild offensive rush. His spear seemed to flow of its own accord. He swept the feet out from under one man, took down another with a thrown knife.
He was like water running down a hill, flowing, always moving. Spearheads flashed in the air around him, hafts hissing with speed. Not one hit him. He could not be stopped, not when he felt like this. When he had the energy of defending the fallen, the power of standing to protect one of his men.
Kaladin snapped his spear into a resting position, crouching with one foot forward, one behind, spear held under his arm. Sweat trickled from his brow, cooled by the breeze. Odd. There hadn’t been a breeze before. Now it seemed to envelop him.
All six enemy spearmen were dead or incapacitated. Kaladin breathed in and out once, then turned to see to Cenn’s wound. He dropped his spear beside him, kneeling. The cut wasn’t that bad, though it probably pained the lad terribly.
Getting out a bandage, Kaladin gave the battlefield one quick glance. Nearby, an enemy soldier stirred, but he was wounded badly enough that he wouldn’t be trouble. Dallet and the rest of Kaladin’s team were clearing the area of enemy stragglers. In the near distance, an enemy lighteyes of high rank was rallying a small group of soldiers for a counterattack. He wore full plate. Not Shardplate, of course, but silvery steel. A rich man, judging from his horse.
In a heartbeat, Kaladin was back to binding Cenn’s leg – though he kept watch on the wounded enemy soldier from the corner of his eye.
“Kaladin, sir!” Cenn exclaimed, pointing at the soldier who had stirred. Stormfather! Had the boy only just noticed the man? Had Kaladin’s battle senses ever been as dull as this boy’s?
Dallet pushed the wounded enemy away. The rest of the squad made a ring formation around Kaladin, Dallet, and Cenn. Kaladin finished his binding, then stood, picking up his spear.
Dallet handed him back his knives. “Had me worried there, sir. Running off like that.”
“I knew you’d follow,” Kaladin said. “Raise the red banner. Cyn, Korater, you’re going back with the boy. Dallet, hold here. Amaram’s line is bulging this direction. We should be safe soon.”
“And you, sir?” Dallet asked.
In the near distance, the lighteyes had failed to rally enough troops. He was exposed, like a stone left behind by a stream running dry.
“A Shardbearer,” Cenn said.
Dallet snorted. “No, thank the Stormfather. Just a lighteyed officer. Shardbearers are far too valuable to waste on a minor border dispute.”
Kaladin clenched his jaw, watching that lighteyed warrior. How mighty the man thought himself, sitting on his expensive horse, kept safe from the spearmen by his majestic armor and tall mount. He swung his mace, killing those around him.
These skirmishes were caused by ones like him, greedy minor lighteyes who tried to steal land while the better men were away, fighting the Parshendi. His type had far, far fewer casualties than the spearmen, and so the lives under his command became cheap things.
More and more over the last few years, each and every one of these petty lighteyes had come to represent Roshone in Kaladin’s eyes. Only Amaram himself stood apart. Amaram, who had treated Kaladin’s father so well, promising to keep Tien safe. Amaram, who always spoke with respect, even to lowly spearmen. He was like Dalinar and Sadeas. Not this riffraff.
Of course, Amaram had failed to protect Tien. But so had Kaladin.
“Sir?” Dallet said hesitantly.
“Subsquads Two and Three, pincer pattern,” Kaladin said coldly, pointing at the enemy lighteyes. “We’re taking a brightlord off his throne.”
“You sure that’s wise, sir?” Dallet said. “We’ve got wounded.”
Kaladin turned toward Dallet. “That’s one of Hallaw’s officers. He might be the one.”
“You don’t know that, sir.”
“Regardless, he’s a battalionlord. If we kill an officer that high, we’re all but guaranteed to be in the next group sent to the Shattered Plains. We’re taking him. Imagine it, Dallet. Real soldiers. A warcamp with discipline and lighteyes with integrity. A place where our fighting will mean something.”
Dallet sighed, but nodded. At Kaladin’s wave, two subsquads joined him, as eager as he. Did they hate these squabbling lighteyes of their own accord, or had they picked up Kaladin’s loathing?
The brightlord was surprisingly easy to take down. The problem with them – almost to a man – was that they underestimated darkeyes. Perhaps this one had a right. How many had he killed, in his years?
Subsquad three drew off the honor guard. Subsquad two distracted the lighteyes. He didn’t see Kaladin approaching from a third direction. The man dropped with a knife to the eye; his face was unprotected. He screamed as he clattered to the ground, still alive. Kaladin rammed his spear down into the fallen man’s face, striking three times as the horse galloped off.
The man’s honor guard panicked and fled to rejoin their army. Kaladin signaled to the two subsquads by banging his spear against his shield, giving the “hold position” sign. They fanned out, and short Toorim – a man Kaladin had rescued from another squad – made as if to confirm the lighteyes was dead. He was really covertly looking for spheres.
Stealing from the dead was strictly prohibited, but Kaladin figured that if Amaram wanted the spoils, he could storming well kill the enemy himself. Kaladin respected Amaram more than most – well, more than any – lighteyes. But bribes weren’t cheap.
Toorim walked up to him. “Nothing sir. Either he didn’t bring any spheres into battle, or he has them hidden somewhere under that breastplate.”
Kaladin nodded curtly, surveying the battlefield. Amaram’s forces were recovering; they’d win the day before long. In fact, Amaram would probably be leading a direct surge against the enemy by now. He generally entered the battle at the end.
Kaladin wiped his brow. He’d have to send for Norby, their captainlord, to prove their kill. First he needed those healers to–
“Sir!” Toorim said suddenly.
Kaladin glanced back at the enemy lines.
“Stormfather!” Toorim exclaimed. “Sir!”
Toorim wasn’t looking at the enemy lines. Kaladin spun, looking back at friendly ranks. There – bearing down through the soldiers on a horse the color of death itself – was an impossibility.
The man wore shining golden armor. Perfect golden armor, as if this were what every other suit of armor had been designed to imitate. Each piece fit perfectly; there were no holes showing straps or leather. It made the rider look enormous, powerful. Like a god carrying a majestic blade that should have been too big to use. It was engraved and stylized, shaped like flames in motion.
“Stormfather…” Kaladin breathed.
The Shardbearer broke out of Amaram’s lines. He’d been riding through them, cutting down men as he passed. For a brief moment, Kaladin’s mind refused to acknowledge that this creature – this beautiful divinity – could be an enemy. The fact that the Shardbearer had come through their side reinforced that illusion.