Dalinar hadn’t trained with them personally, as he didn’t have time to practice running thirty miles a day. Fortunately, he had Plate to make up the difference. Clad in his armor, he led the charging force over scrub and rock, past reeds that released hairlike inner strands to shiver on the breeze until he drew near. Grass, tree, and weed took fright at his approach.
Two fires burned inside him. First the energy of the Plate, lending power to each step. The second fire was the Thrill. Sadeas, a traitor? Impossible. He had supported Gavilar all along. Dalinar trusted him.
And yet …
I thought myself trustworthy, Dalinar thought, leading the charge down a hillside, a hundred men flooding behind him. Yet I almost turned on Gavilar.
He would see for himself. He would find out whether this “caravan” that had brought supplies to the Rift actually had a Shardbearer in its ranks or not. But the possibility that he had been betrayed—that Sadeas could have been working against them all along—drove Dalinar to a kind of focused madness. A clarity only the Thrill bestowed.
It was the focus of a man, his sword, and the blood he would spill.
The Thrill seemed to transform within him as he ran, soaking into his tiring muscles, saturating him. It became a power unto itself. So, when they crested a hillside some distance south of the Rift, he felt somehow more energetic than when he’d left.
As his company of elites jogged up, Dalinar pulled to a stop, armored feet grinding on stone. Ahead, down the hill and at the mouth of a canyon, a frantic group was scrambling to arms. The caravan. Its scouts must have spotted the approach of Dalinar’s force.
They’d been setting up camp, but left their tents, running for the canyon, where they’d be able to avoid being flanked. Dalinar roared, summoning his Blade, ignoring the fatigue of his men as he dashed down the hillside.
The soldiers wore forest green and white. Sadeas’s colors.
Dalinar reached the bottom of the hill and stormed through the now-abandoned camp. He swept past the stragglers, slicing out with Oathbringer, dropping them, their eyes burning.
Wait.
His momentum wouldn’t let him stop now. Where was the enemy Shardbearer?
Something is wrong.
Dalinar led his men into the canyon after the soldiers, following the enemy along a wide path up the side. He raised Oathbringer high as he ran.
Why would they put on Sadeas’s colors if they’re a secret envoy bringing contraband supplies?
Dalinar stopped in place, his soldiers swarming around him. Their path had taken them about fifty feet up from the bottom of the canyon, on the south side of a steep incline. He saw no sign of a Shardbearer as the enemy gathered above. And … those uniforms …
He blinked. That … that was wrong.
He shouted an order to pull back, but the sound of his voice was overwhelmed by a sudden roar. A sound like thunder, accompanied by a dreadful clatter of rock against rock. The ground quivered, and he turned in horror to find a landslide tumbling down the steep side of the ravine to his right—directly above where he had led his men.
He had a fraction of a moment to take it in before the rocks pounded him in a terrible crash.
Everything spun, then grew black. Still he was pounded, rolled, crushed. An explosion of molten sparks briefly flashed in his eyes, and something hard smacked him on the head.
Finally it ended. He found himself lying in blackness, his head pounding, thick warm blood running down his face and dripping from his chin. He could feel the blood, but not see it. Had he been blinded?
His cheek was pressed against a rock. No. He wasn’t blind; he’d been buried. And his helm had shattered. He shifted with a groan, and something illuminated the stones around his head. Stormlight seeping from his breastplate.
Somehow he’d survived the landslide. He lay facedown, prone, buried. He shifted again, and from the corner of his eye saw a rock sink, threatening to crush sideways into his skull. He lay still, his head thundering with pain. He flexed his left hand and found that gauntlet broken, his forearm plate too. But his right-hand armor still worked.
This … this was a trap.…
Sadeas was not a traitor. This had been designed by the Rift and its highlord to lure Dalinar in, then drop stones to crush him. Cowards. They’d tried something like that in Rathalas long ago too. He relaxed, groaning softly.
No. Can’t lie here.
Maybe he could pretend to be dead. That sounded so appealing he closed his eyes and started to drift.
A fire ignited inside him.
You have been betrayed, Dalinar. Listen. He heard voices—men picking through the wreckage of the rockslide. He could make out their nasal accent. Rifters.
Tanalan sent you here to die!
Dalinar sneered, opening his eyes. Those men wouldn’t let him hide in this tomb of stone, feigning death. He carried Shards. They would find him to recover their prize.
He braced himself, using his Plated shoulder to keep the rock from rolling against his exposed head, but did not otherwise move. Eventually the men above started speaking eagerly; from their words, they’d found his armor’s cape sticking out through the stone, the glyphs of khokh and linil stark on the blue background.
Stones scraped, and the burden upon him lightened. The Thrill built to a crescendo. The stone near his head rolled back.
Go.
Dalinar heaved with his Plated feet and shifted a boulder with his still-armored hand, opening enough space that he could stand up straight. He ripped free of the tomb and stumbled upright into open air, stones clattering.
The Rifters cursed and scrambled backward as he leaped out of the hole, boots grinding against stones. Dalinar growled, summoning his Blade.
His armor was in worse shape than he’d assumed. Sluggish. Broken in four separate places.
All around him, Tanalan’s men’s eyes seemed to glow. They gathered and grinned at him; he could see the Thrill thick in their expressions. His Blade and leaking Plate reflected in their dark eyes.
Blood streaming down the side of his face, Dalinar grinned back at them.
They rushed to attack.
* * *
Dalinar saw only red.
He partially came to himself as he found himself pounding a man’s head repeatedly against the stones. Behind him lay a pile of corpses with burned eyes, piled high around the hole where Dalinar had stood, fighting against them.
He dropped the head of the corpse in his hands and breathed out, feeling … What did he feel? Numb, suddenly. Pain was a distant thing. Even anger was nebulous. He looked down at his hands. Why was he using those, and not his Shardblade?
He turned to the side, where Oathbringer protruded from a rock where he’d stabbed it. The … gemstone on the pommel was cracked. That was right. He couldn’t dismiss it; something about the crack had interfered.
He stumbled to his feet, looking around for more foes, but none came to challenge him. His armor … someone had broken the breastplate while fighting him, and he felt at a stab wound on his chest. He barely remembered that.
The sun was low on the horizon, plunging the canyon into shadows. Around him, discarded bits of clothing flapped in the breeze, and bodies lay still. Not a sound, not even cremling scavengers.
Drained, he bound the worst of his wounds, then grabbed Oathbringer and set it on his shoulder. Never had a Shardblade felt so heavy.
He started walking.
Along the way, he discarded pieces of Shardplate, which grew too heavy. He’d lost blood. Far too much.