They broke off their singing as he smashed into them with the force of a boulder. He got his feet underneath him, mentally sending a summons to his Blade, then slammed his shoulder into one group. He began to lay about himself with punches, smashing the chest of one Parshendi, then the head of another. The soldiers’ carapace armor cracked with sickening sounds, and the punches flung them backward, knocking some off the cliff.
Adolin took a few hits on his forearms before his Blade finally re-formed in his hands. He swung about, so focused on holding his ground that he didn’t notice Jakamav until the Shardbearer in green fell in beside him, crushing Parshendi with his hammer.
“Thanks for tossing a platoon’s worth of Parshendi down on my head,” Jakamav called as he swung. “That was a wonderful surprise.”
Adolin grinned, pointing. “Chrysalis.”
The top tier wasn’t well populated—though more Parshendi were flooding up the incline. He and Jakamav had a direct path to the chrysalis, a hulking, oblong boulder of brown and faint green. It was matted to the rocks with the same stuff that made up its shell.
Adolin leaped over the twitching form of a Parshendi with dead legs and charged the chrysalis, Jakamav following at a clanking jog. Getting to a gemheart was tough—the chrysalises had skin like rock—but with a Shardblade, it could be easy. They just had to kill the thing, then cut a hole so they could rip out the heart and—
The chrysalis was already open.
“No!” Adolin said, scrambling up to it, grabbing the sides of the hole and peering into the slushy violet interior. Chunks of carapace floated within the goop, and a conspicuous gap lay where the gemheart normally connected to veins and sinew.
Adolin spun, searching across the top of the plateau. Jakamav clanked up and cursed. “How did they get it out so quickly?”
There. Nearby, Parshendi soldiers scattered, yelling in their impenetrable, rhythmic language. Standing behind them was a tall figure in silvery Shardplate, a red cloak billowing out behind. The armor had peaked joints, ridges rising like the points on a crab’s shell. The figure was easily seven feet tall, the armor making him look massive, perhaps because it covered a Parshendi who had that carapace armor growing from his skin.
“It’s him!” Adolin said, running forward. This was the one his father had fought on the Tower, the only Shardbearer they’d seen among the Parshendi for weeks, maybe months.
Perhaps the last one they had.
The Shardbearer turned toward Adolin, gripping a large uncut gemstone in his hand. It dripped ichor and plasma.
“Fight me!” Adolin said.
A group of Parshendi soldiers charged past the Shardbearer, running toward the long drop-off at the back of the formation, where the hill had been split down the center. The Shardbearer handed his gemheart to one of these charging men, then turned and watched them jump.
They soared across the gap to land on the top of the other half of the hill, the one on the adjacent plateau. It still amazed Adolin that these Parshendi soldiers could leap chasms. He felt a fool as he realized that these heights were not a trap for them as they would be for humans. To them, a mountain split in half was just another chasm to leap.
More and more of the Parshendi made the leap, flowing away from the humans below and jumping to safety. Adolin did spot one who stumbled as he leapt. The poor fellow screamed as he plummeted into the chasm. This was dangerous for them, but it was obviously less so than trying to fight off the humans.
The Shardbearer remained. Adolin ignored the fleeing Parshendi—ignored Jakamav, who called for him to fall back—and ran up to that Shardbearer, swinging his Blade full force. The Parshendi raised his own Blade, slapping aside Adolin’s blow.
“You are the son, Adolin Kholin,” the Parshendi said. “Your father? Where is?”
Adolin froze in place. The words were in Alethi—heavily accented, yes, but understandable.
The Shardbearer slammed up his faceplate. And, to Adolin’s shock, there was no beard on that face. Didn’t that make this a woman? Telling the difference with Parshendi was difficult for him. The vocal timbre was rough and low-pitched, though he supposed it could be feminine.
“I must need speak to Dalinar,” the woman said, stepping forward. “I met him one time, much long ago.”
“You refused our every messenger,” Adolin said, backing away, sword out. “Now you wish to speak with us?”
“That was long ago. Time does change.”
Stormfather. Something inside of Adolin urged him to go in swinging, to batter this Shardbearer down and get some answers, win some Shards. Fight! He was here to fight!
His father’s voice, in the back of his mind, held him at bay. Dalinar would want this chance. It could change the course of the entire war.
“He will want to contact you,” Adolin said, taking a deep breath, shoving down the Thrill of battle. “How?”
“Will send messenger,” the Shardbearer said. “Do not kill one who comes.” She raised her Shardblade toward him in salute, then let it drop and dematerialize. She turned to charge toward the chasm and hurled herself across in a prodigious leap.
* * *
Adolin pulled off his helm as he strode across the plateau. Surgeons saw to the wounded while the hale sat around in groups, drinking water and grousing about their failure.
A rare mood hovered over the armies of Roion and Ruthar this day. Usually when the Alethi lost a plateau run it was because the Parshendi pushed them back in a wild scrambling retreat across bridges. It wasn’t often that a run ended with the Alethi controlling the plateau, but with no gemheart to show for it.
He released one gauntlet, the straps undoing themselves automatically at his will, then hooked it at his waist. He used a sweaty hand to push back sweatier hair. Now where had Renarin gotten to?
There, on the staging plateau, sitting on a rock surrounded by guards. Adolin tromped across one of the bridges, raising a hand to Jakamav, who was removing his Plate nearby. He’d want to ride back in comfort.
Adolin jogged up to his brother, who sat on a boulder with his helm off, staring at the ground in front of him.
“Hey,” Adolin said. “Ready to head back?”
Renarin nodded.
“What happened?” Adolin asked.
Renarin continued staring at the ground. Finally, one of the bridgeman guards—a compact man with silvering hair—nodded his head to the side. Adolin walked with him a short distance away.
“A group of shellheads tried to seize one of the bridges, Brightlord,” the bridgeman said softly. “Brightlord Renarin insisted on going to help. Sir, we tried hard to dissuade him. Then, when he got near and summoned his Blade, he just kind of… stood there. We got him away, sir, but he’s been sitting on that rock ever since.”
One of Renarin’s fits. “Thank you, soldier,” Adolin said. He walked back over and laid his ungauntleted hand on Renarin’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Renarin. It happens.”
Renarin shrugged again. Well, if he was in one of his moods, there was nothing to do but let him stew. The younger man would talk about it when he was ready.
Adolin organized his two hundred troops, then paid his respects to the highprinces. Neither seemed very grateful. In fact, Ruthar seemed convinced that Adolin and Jakamav’s stunt had driven the Parshendi off with the gemheart. As if they wouldn’t have withdrawn the moment they had it anyway. Idiot.