“To do what?”

“To do what needs to be done. For the good of Alethkar.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, old friend,” Sadeas said. “Killing Parshendi. Winning glory and wealth for our kingdom. Seeking vengeance. It would be best for Alethkar if you’d stop wasting so much time in camp—and stop talking of fleeing like cowards. It would be best for Alethkar if you’d start acting like a man again.”

“Enough, Sadeas!” Dalinar said, more loudly than he’d intended. “I gave you leave to come along for your investigation, not to taunt me!”

Sadeas sniffed. “That book ruined Gavilar. Now it’s doing the same to you. You’ve listened to those stories so much they’ve got your head full of false ideals. Nobody ever really lived the way the Codes claim.”

“Bah!” Dalinar said, waving a hand and turning Gallant. “I don’t have time for your snideness today, Sadeas.” He trotted his horse away, furious at Sadeas, then even more furious at himself for losing his temper.

He crossed the bridge, stewing, thinking of Sadeas’s words. He found himself remembering a day when he stood with his brother beside the Impossible Falls of Kholinar.

Things are different now, Dalinar, Gavilar had said. I see now, in ways I never did before. I wish I could show you what I mean.

It had been three days before his death.

Ten heartbeats.

Dalinar closed his eyes, breathing in and out—slowly, calmingly—as they prepared themselves behind the siege bridge. Forget Sadeas. Forget the visions. Forget his worries and fears. Just focus on the heartbeats.

Nearby, chulls scraped the rock with their hard, carapaced feet. The wind blew across his face, smelling wet. It always smelled wet out here, in these humid stormlands.

Soldiers clanked, leather creaked. Dalinar raised his head toward the sky, his heart thumping deep within him. The brilliant white sun stained his eyelids red.

Men shifted, called, cursed, loosened swords in their sheaths, tested bowstrings. He could feel their tension, their anxiety mixed with excitement. Among them, anticipationspren began to spring from the ground, streamers connected by one side to the stone, the others whipping in the air. Some fearspren boiled up among them.

“Are you ready?” Dalinar asked softly. The Thrill was rising within him.

“Yes.” Adolin’s voice was eager.

“You never complain about the way we attack,” Dalinar said, eyes still closed. “You never challenge me on this.”

“This is the best way. They’re my men too. What is the point of being a Shardbearer if we cannot lead the charge?”

The tenth heartbeat sounded in Dalinar’s chest; he could always hear the beats when he was summoning his Blade, no matter how loud the world around him was. The faster they passed, the sooner the blade arrived. So the more urgent you felt, the sooner you were armed. Was that intentional, or just some quirk of the Shardblade’s nature?

Oathbringer’s familiar weight settled into his hand.

“Go,” Dalinar said, snapping his eyes open. He slammed his visor down as Adolin did the same, Stormlight rising from the sides as the helms sealed shut and became translucent. The two of them burst out from behind the massive bridge—one Shardbearer on each side, a figure of blue and another of slate grey.

The energy of the armor pulsed through Dalinar as he dashed across the stone ground, arms pumping in rhythm with his steps. The wave of arrows came immediately, loosed from the Parshendi kneeling on the other side of the chasm. Dalinar flung his arm up in front of his eye slit as arrows sprayed across him, scraping metal, some shafts snapping. It felt like running against a hailstorm.

Adolin bellowed a war cry from the right, voice muffled by his helm. As they approached the chasm lip, Dalinar lowered his arm despite the arrows. He needed to be able to judge his approach. The gulf was mere feet away. His Plate gave him a surge of strength as he reached the edge of the chasm.

Then leaped.

For a moment, he soared above the inky chasm, cape flapping, arrows filling the air around him. He was reminded of the flying Radiant from his vision. But this was nothing so mystical, just a standard Shardplate-assisted jump. Dalinar cleared the chasm and crashed back to the ground on the other side, sweeping his Blade down and across to slay three Parshendi with a single blow.

Their eyes burned black and smoke rose as they collapsed. He swung again. Bits of armor and weapons sprayed into the air where arrows had once flown, sheared free by his Blade. As always, it sliced apart anything inanimate, but blurred when it touched flesh, as if turning to mist.

The way it reacted to flesh and cut steel so easily, it sometimes felt to Dalinar like he was swinging a weapon of pure smoke. As long as he kept the Blade in motion, it could not get caught in chinks or stopped by the weight of what it was cutting.

Dalinar spun, sweeping out with his Blade in a line of death. He sheared through souls themselves, leaving Parshendi to drop dead to the ground. Then he kicked, tossing a corpse into the faces of the Parshendi nearby. A few more kicks sent corpses flying—a Plate-driven kick could easily send a body tumbling thirty feet—clearing the ground around him for better footing.

Adolin hit the plateau not far away, spinning and falling into Windstance. Adolin shoved his shoulder into a group of archers, tossing them backward and throwing several into the chasm. Gripping his Shardblade with both hands, he did an initial sweep as Dalinar had, cutting down six enemies.

The Parshendi were singing, many of them wearing beards that glowed with small uncut gemstones. Parshendi always sang as they fought; that song changed as they abandoned their bows—pulling out axes, swords, or maces—and threw themselves at the two Shardbearers.

Dalinar put himself at the optimal distance from Adolin, allowing his son to protect his blind spots, but not getting too close. The two Shardbearers fought, still near the lip of the chasm, cutting down the Parshendi who tried desperately to push them backward by sheer force of numbers. This was their best chance to defeat the Shardbearers. Dalinar and Adolin were alone, without their honor guard. A fall from this height would certainly kill even a man in Plate.

The Thrill rose within him, so sweet. Dalinar kicked away another corpse, though he didn’t need the extra room. They’d noticed that the Parshendi grew enraged when you moved their dead. He kicked another body, taunting them, drawing them toward him to fight in pairs as they often did.

He cut down a group that came, singing in voices angry at what he’d done to their dead. Nearby, Adolin began to lay about him with punches as the Parshendi got too close; he was fond of the tactic, switching between using his sword in two hands or one. Parshendi corpses flew this way and that, bones and armor shattered by the blows, orange Parshendi blood spraying across the ground. Adolin moved back to his Blade a moment later, kicking away a corpse.

The Thrill consumed Dalinar, giving him strength, focus, and power. The glory of the battle grew grand. He’d stayed away from this too long. He saw with clarity now. They did need to push harder, assault more plateaus, win the gemhearts.

Dalinar was the Blackthorn. He was a natural force, never to be halted. He was death itself. He—

He felt a sudden stab of powerful revulsion, a sickness so strong that it made him gasp. He slipped, partially on a patch of blood, but partially because his knees grew suddenly weak.