Words of Radiance

“He outthought us,” Dalinar said softly to the king. “Again. We’ll need to retreat and consider our next move. Someone tell Adolin to pull out of the contest.”

“Are you certain?” the king said. “Pulling out would require that Adolin forfeit, Uncle. That’s six Shards, I believe. Everything you own.”

Kaladin could read the conflict in Dalinar’s features—the scrunched-up brow, the red fury rising on his cheeks, the indecision in his eyes. Give up? Without a fight? It was probably the right thing to do.

Kaladin doubted he could have done it.

Below, after an extended pause—frozen on the sand—Adolin raised his hand in a sign of agreement. The judge began the duel.

* * *

I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot. I’m a storm-cursed idiot!

Adolin jogged backward across the sand-covered circle of the arena. He’d need to put his back to the wall to avoid being completely surrounded. That meant he’d start the duel with no place to retreat, locked in a box. Cornered.

Why hadn’t he been more specific? He could see the holes in his challenge—he’d agreed to a full disadvantaged duel without realizing it. He should have stated, specifically, that Relis could bring one other. But no, doing so would have been smart. And Adolin was a storming idiot!

He recognized Relis from his Plate and Blade, colored completely a deep black, breakaway cloak bearing his father’s glyphpair. The man in King’s Plate—judging by his height and the way he walked—would indeed be Elit, Relis’s cousin, returned for a rematch. He carried an enormous hammer, rather than a Blade. The two moved across the field carefully, and their two companions took the flanks. One in orange, the other in green.

Adolin recognized the Plate. That would be Abrobadar, a full Shardbearer from Aladar’s camp and . . . and Jakamav, bearing the King’s Blade that Relis had borrowed.

Jakamav. Adolin’s friend.

Adolin cursed. Those two were among the best duelists in the camp. Jakamav would have won his own Blade years ago if he’d been allowed to risk his Plate. That had apparently changed. Had he, and his house, been bought with a promise of a share in the spoils?

Blade forming in his hand, Adolin backed into the cool shade of the wall around the arena grounds. Just above him, darkeyes roared on their benches. Whether they were thrilled or horrified by what he faced, Adolin could not tell. He’d come here intending to give a spectacular show. They’d get the opposite instead. A quick slaughter.

Well, he’d made this pyre himself. If he was going to burn on it, he’d at least put up a fight first.

Relis and Elit prowled closer—one in slate grey, the other in black—as their allies worked around the sides. Those would hang back to try to make Adolin focus on the two in front of him. Then the others could attack him from the sides.

“One at a time, lad!” One shout from the stands seemed to separate from the others. Was that Zahel’s voice? “You’re not cornered!”

Relis stepped forward in a quick motion, testing Adolin. Adolin danced away in Windstance—certainly the best against so many foes—with both hands holding the Blade in front of him, positioned sideways with one foot forward.

You’re not cornered! What did Zahel mean? Of course he was cornered! It was the only way to face four. And how could he possibly face them one at a time? They’d never allow that.

Relis tested forward again, making Adolin shuffle sideways along the wall, focused on him. He had to turn somewhat to face Relis, however, and that put Abrobadar—moving up the other way, wearing orange—in his blind spot. Storms!

“They’re scared of you.” Zahel’s voice, drifting again above the crowd. “Do you see it in them? Show them why.”

Adolin hesitated. Relis stepped forward, making a Stonestance strike. Stonestance, to be immobile. Elit came in next, hammer held wardingly. They backed Adolin along the wall toward Abrobadar.

No. Adolin had demanded this duel. He had wanted it. He would not become a frightened rat.

Show them why.

Adolin attacked. He leaped forward, sweeping with a barrage of strikes at Relis. Elit jumped away with a curse as he did so. They were like men with spears prodding at a whitespine.

And this whitespine was not yet caged.

Adolin shouted, beating against Relis, scoring strikes on his helm and left vambrace, cracking the latter. Stormlight rose from Relis’s forearm. As Elit recovered, Adolin spun on him and struck, leaving Relis dazed from the attack. His assault forced Elit to hold his hammer back and block with his forearm, lest Adolin slice the hammer in two and leave him unarmed.

This was what Zahel meant. Attack with fury. Don’t allow them time to respond or assess. Four men. If he could intimidate them into hesitating . . . Maybe . . .

Adolin stopped thinking. He let the flow of the fight consume him, let the rhythm of his heart guide the beating of his sword. Elit cursed and pulled away, leaking Stormlight from his left shoulder and forearm.

Adolin turned and smashed his shoulder into Relis, who was stepping back into his stance. His shove threw the black-Plated man tumbling to the ground. Then, with a shout, Adolin turned and met Abrobadar head-on as the man came dashing up to help. Adolin fell into Stonestance himself, smashing his Blade down again and again against Abrobadar’s raised sword until he heard grunts, curses. Until he could feel the fear coming off the man in orange like a stench, and could see fearspren on the ground.

Elit approached, wary, as Relis scrambled up to his feet. Adolin fell back into Windstance and swept about himself in a wide, fluid motion. Elit jumped away and Abrobadar stumbled back, gauntleted hand against the wall of the arena.

Adolin turned back toward Relis, who had recovered well, all things considered. Still, Adolin got in a second strike at the champion’s breastplate. If this had been a battlefield and these common foes, Relis would be dead, Elit maimed. Adolin was yet untouched.

But they weren’t common foes. They were Shardbearers, and a second strike against Relis’s breastplate didn’t break the armor. Adolin was forced to turn on Abrobadar before he wanted to, and the man was now braced for the fury of the assault, sword raised defensively. Adolin’s barrage didn’t stun him this time. The man weathered it while Elit and Relis got into position.

Just need to—

Something crashed into Adolin from behind.

Jakamav. Adolin had taken too long, and had allowed the fourth man—his supposed friend—to get into position. Adolin spun about, moving into a puff of Stormlight rising from his back plate. He raised his sword into Jakamav’s next attack, but that opened his left flank. Elit swung, hammer crashing into Adolin’s side. Plate cracked, and the blow shoved Adolin off balance.

He swept around himself, growing desperate. This time, his foes didn’t back away. Instead, Jakamav charged in, head down, not even swinging. Smart man. His green armor was unscored. Even though the move let Adolin slam his sword down and hit the man on the back, it threw Adolin completely out of his stance.

Adolin stumbled backward, barely keeping from being thrown to the ground as Jakamav crashed into him. Adolin shoved the man aside, somehow keeping hold of his Shardblade, but the other three moved in. Blows rained on his shoulders, helm, breastplate. Storms. That hammer hit hard.

Adolin’s head rang from a blow. He’d almost done it. He let himself grin as they beat on him. Four at once. And he’d almost done it.

“I yield,” he said, voice muffled by his helm.

They continued attacking. He said it louder.

Nobody listened.

He raised his hand to signal to the judge to stop the proceedings, but someone slammed his arm downward.

No! Adolin thought, swinging about himself in a panic.

The judge could not end the fight. If he left this duel alive, he would do so as a cripple.

* * *

“That’s it,” Dalinar said, watching the four Shardbearers take turns coming in to swing at Adolin, who was obviously disoriented, barely able to fight them off. “The rules allow Adolin to have help, so long as his side is disadvantaged—one less than Relis’s team. Elhokar, I’ll need your Shardblade.”

“No,” Elhokar said. The king sat with folded arms beneath the shade. Those around them watched the duel . . . no, the beating . . . in silence.

“Elhokar!” Dalinar said, turning. “That is my son.”

“You’re without Plate,” Elhokar said. “If you take the time to put some on, you’ll be too late. If you go down, you won’t save Adolin. You’ll simply lose my Blade as well as all the others.”

Dalinar clenched his teeth. There was a drop of wisdom in that, and he knew it. Adolin was finished. They needed to end the match now and not put more on the line.

“You could help him, you know.” Sadeas’s voice.

Dalinar spun toward the man.

“The dueling conventions don’t forbid it,” Sadeas said, speaking loudly enough for Dalinar to hear. “I checked to make sure. Young Adolin can be helped by up to two people. The Blackthorn I once knew would have been down there already, fighting with a rock if he had to. I guess you’re not that man anymore.”

Dalinar sucked in a breath, then stood. “Elhokar, I’ll pay the fee and borrow your Blade by right of the tradition of the King’s Blade. You won’t risk it that way. I’m going to fight.”