Ahead, the Shardbearer rode past Amaram. With a sweep of the Blade, the Shardbearer slashed through the neck of Amaram’s mount. Its eyes burned into two great pits, and it toppled, jerking fitfully, Amaram still in its saddle.

The Shardbearer wheeled his destrier in a tight circle, then threw himself from horseback at full speed. He hit the ground with a grinding sound, somehow remaining upright and skidding to a halt.

Kaladin redoubled his speed. Was he running to get vengeance, or was he trying to protect his highmarshal? The only lighteyes who had ever shown a modicum of humanity? Did it matter?

Amaram struggled in his bulky plate, the carcass of the horse on his leg.

The Shardbearer raised his Blade in two hands to finish him off.

Coming at the Shardbearer from behind, Kaladin screamed and swung low with the butt of his spear, putting momentum and muscle behind the blow. The spear haft shattered against the Shardbearer’s back leg in a spray of wooden slivers.

The jolt of it knocked Kaladin to the ground, his arms shaking, the broken spear clutched in his hands. The Shardbearer stumbled, lowering his Blade. He turned a helmed face toward Kaladin, posture indicating utter surprise.

The twenty remaining men of Kaladin’s squad arrived a heartbeat later, attacking vigorously. Kaladin scrambled to his feet and ran for the spear from a fallen soldier. He tossed his broken one away after snatching one of his knives from its sheath, snatched the new one off the ground, then turned back to see his men attacking as he had taught. They came at the foe from three directions, ramming spears between joints in the Plate. The Shardbearer glanced around, as a bemused man might regard a pack of puppies yapping around him. Not a single one of the spear thrusts appeared to pierce his armor. He shook a helmed head.

Then he struck.

The Shardblade swept out in a broad sweeping series of deadly strokes, cutting through ten of the spearmen.

Kaladin was paralyzed in horror as Toorim, Acis, Hamel, and seven others fell to the ground, eyes burning, their armor and weapons sheared completely through. The remaining spearmen stumbled back, aghast.

The Shardbearer attacked again, killing Raksha, Navar, and four others. Kaladin gaped. His men—his friends—dead, just like that. The last four scrambled away, Hab stumbling over Toorim’s corpse and falling to the ground, dropping his spear.

The Shardbearer ignored them, stepping up to the pinned Amaram again.

No, Kaladin thought. No, no, NO! Something drove him forward, against all logic, against all sense. Sickened, agonized, enraged.

The hollow where they fought was empty save for them. Sensible spearmen had fled. His four remaining men achieved the ridge a short distance away, but didn’t run. They called for him.

“Kaladin!” Reesh yelled. “Kaladin, no!”

Kaladin screamed instead. The Shardbearer saw him, and spun—impossibly quick—swinging. Kaladin ducked under the blow and rammed the butt of his spear against the Shardbearer’s knee.

It bounced off. Kaladin cursed, throwing himself backward just as the Blade sliced the air in front of him. Kaladin rebounded and lunged forward. He made an expert thrust at his enemy’s neck. The neck brace rebuffed the attack. Kaladin’s spear barely scratched the Plate’s paint.

The Shardbearer turned on him, holding his Blade in a two-handed grip. Kaladin dashed past, just out of range of that incredible sword. Amaram had finally pulled himself free, and he was crawling away, one leg dragging behind him—multiple fractures, from the twist of it.

Kaladin skidded to a stop, spinning, regarding the Shardbearer. This creature wasn’t a god. It was everything the most petty of lighteyes represented. The ability to kill people like Kaladin with impunity.

Every suit of armor had a chink. Every man had a flaw. Kaladin thought he saw the man’s eyes through the helm’s slit. That slit was just big enough for a dagger, but the throw would have to be perfect. He’d have to be close. Deadly close.

Kaladin charged forward again. The Shardbearer swung his Blade out in the same wide sweep he’d used to kill so many of Kaladin’s men. Kaladin threw himself downward, skidding on his knees and bending backward. The Shardblade flashed above him, shearing the top of his spear free. The tip flipped up into the air, tumbling end over end.

Kaladin strained, hurling himself back onto his feet. He whipped his hand up, flinging his knife at the eyes watching from behind impervious armor. The dagger hit the faceplate just slightly off from the right angle, bouncing against the sides of the slit and ricocheting out.

The Shardbearer cursed, swinging his huge Blade back at Kaladin.

Kaladin landed on his feet, momentum still propelling him forward. Something flashed in the air beside him, falling toward the ground.

The spearhead.

Kaladin bellowed in defiance, spinning, snatching the spearhead from the air. It had been falling tip-down, and he caught it by the four inches of haft that remained, gripping it with his thumb on the stump, the sharp point extending down beneath his hand. The Shardbearer brought his weapon around as Kaladin skidded to a stop and flung his arm to the side, slamming the spearhead right in the Shardbearer’s visor slit.

All fell still.

Kaladin stood with his arm extended, the Shardbearer standing just to his right. Amaram had pulled himself halfway up the side of the shallow hollow. Kaladin’s spearmates stood on the edge of the scene, gawking. Kaladin stood there, gasping, still gripping the haft of the spear, hand before the Shardbearer’s face.

The Shardbearer creaked, then fell backward, crashing to the ground. His Blade dropped from his fingers, hitting the ground at an angle and digging into the stone.

Kaladin stumbled away, feeling drained. Stunned. Numbed. His men rushed up, halting in a group, staring at the fallen man. They were amazed, even a little reverent.

“Is he dead?” Alabet asked softly.

“He is,” a voice said from the side.

Kaladin turned. Amaram still lay on the ground, but he had pulled off his helm, dark hair and beard slicked with sweat. “If he were still alive, his Blade would have vanished. His armor is falling off of him. He is dead. Blood of my ancestors…you killed a Shardbearer!”

Oddly, Kaladin wasn’t surprised. Just exhausted. He looked around at the bodies of men who had been his dearest friends.

“Take it, Kaladin,” Coreb said.

Kaladin turned, looking at the Shardblade, which sprouted at an angle into the stone, hilt toward the sky.

“Take it,” Coreb said again. “It’s yours. Stormfather, Kaladin. You’re a Shardbearer!”

Kaladin stepped forward, dazed, raising his hand toward the hilt of the Blade. He hesitated just an inch away from it.

Everything felt wrong.

If he took that Blade, he’d become one of them. His eyes would even change, if the stories were right. Though the Blade glistened in the light, clean of the murders it had performed, for a moment it seemed red to him. Stained with Dallet’s blood. Toorim’s blood. The blood of the men who had been alive just moments before.

It was a treasure. Men traded kingdoms for Shardblades. The handful of darkeyed men who had won them lived forever in song and story.

But the thought of touching that Blade sickened him. It represented everything he’d come to hate about the lighteyes, and it had just slaughtered men he loved dearly. He could not become a legend because of something like that. He looked at his reflection in the Blade’s pitiless metal, then lowered his hand and turned away.