Words of Radiance

Kaladin barely ducked the blow, then scrambled backward, the top of his spear clattering to the ground beside Dalinar, who rolled with a groan, holding a hand to his cheek where the assassin had struck him. Blood seeped from torn skin. The blow of a Surgebinder bearing Stormlight could not just be shaken off.

The assassin stood poised and confident in the center of the corridor. Stormlight swirled in the slashes in his now-reddened clothing, healing his flesh.

Kaladin backed away, holding a spear missing its head. The things this man did… He couldn’t be a Windrunner, could he?

Impossible.

“Father!” Adolin shouted from above. The youth had climbed to his feet, but the Stormlight streaming from him had nearly run out. He tried to attack the assassin, but slipped from the ceiling and crashed to the ground, landing on his shoulder. His Shardblade vanished as it fell from his fingers.

The assassin stepped over Adolin, who stirred but did not rise. “I am sorry,” the assassin said, Stormlight streaming from his mouth. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I won’t give you the chance,” Kaladin growled, dashing forward. Syl spun around him, and he felt the wind stirring. He felt the tempest raging, urging him onward. He came at the assassin with the remnant of his spear wielded like a quarterstaff, and felt the wind guiding him.

Strikes made with precision, a moment of oneness with the weapon. He forgot his worries, forgot his failures, forgot even his rage. Just Kaladin and a spear.

As the world was meant to be.

The assassin took a blow to the shoulder, then the side. He couldn’t ignore them all—his Stormlight would run out as it healed him. The assassin cursed, letting out another mouthful of Light, and backed away, his Shin eyes—slightly too large, colored like pale sapphires—widening at the continued flurry of strikes.

Kaladin sucked in the rest of his Stormlight. So little. He hadn’t picked up new spheres before coming to guard duty. Stupid. Sloppy.

The assassin turned his shoulder, lifting his Shardblade, preparing to thrust. There, Kaladin thought. He could feel

what would happen. He would twist around the strike, bringing up the butt of his spear. It would hit the assassin on the side of the head, a powerful blow that even Stormlight would not easily compensate for. He’d be left dazed. An opening.

I have him.

Somehow, the assassin twisted out of the way.

He moved too quickly, faster than Kaladin anticipated. As quickly… as Kaladin himself. Kaladin’s blow found only open air, and he narrowly avoided being run through by the Shardblade.

Kaladin’s next moves came by instinct. Years of training gave his muscles minds of their own. If he’d been fighting an ordinary foe, the way he automatically shifted his weapon to block the next swing would have been perfect. But the assassin had a Shardblade. Kaladin’s instincts—instilled so diligently—betrayed him.

The silvery weapon sheared through the remnant of Kaladin’s spear, then through Kaladin’s right arm, just below the elbow. A shock of incredible pain washed through Kaladin, and he gasped, falling to his knees.

Then… nothing. He couldn’t feel the arm. It turned grey and dull, lifeless, the palm opening, fingers spreading as half of his spear shaft dropped from his fingers and thumped to the ground.

The assassin kicked Kaladin out of the way, slamming him against the wall. Kaladin groaned, slumping there.

The man in the white clothing turned up the corridor in the direction the king had gone. He again stepped over Adolin.

“Kaladin!” Syl said, her form a ribbon of light.

“I can’t beat him,” Kaladin whispered, tears in his eyes. Tears of pain. Tears of frustration. “He’s one of us. A Radiant.”

“No!” Syl said forcefully. “No. He’s something far more terrible. No spren guides him, Kaladin. Please. Get up.”

Dalinar had regained his feet in the corridor between the assassin and the path to the king. The Blackthorn’s cheek was a bloody mess, but his eyes were lucid. “I won’t let you have him!” Dalinar bellowed. “Not Elhokar. You took my brother! You won’t take the only thing I have left of him!”

The assassin stopped in the corridor just in front of Dalinar. “But I’m not here for him, Highprince,” he whispered, Stormlight puffing from his lips. “I’m here for you.” The assassin lunged forward, slapping away Dalinar’s strike, and kicked the Blackthorn in the leg.

Dalinar went down on one knee, his grunt echoing in the hallway as he dropped his spear. A frigid wind blew into the corridor through the opening in the wall just beside him.

Kaladin growled, forcing himself to stand and charge down the corridor, one hand useless and dead. He’d never wield a spear again. He couldn’t think about that. He had to reach Dalinar.

Too slow.

I’m going to fail.

The assassin swung his terrible Blade down in a final overhead sweep. Dalinar did not dodge.

Instead, he caught the Blade.