The Way of Kings

No time to consider that now, he thought. He discarded his uncertainties and worries, something he’d learned to do during his first battles as a youth. A warrior needed to be focused. Adolin’s questions would still be waiting for him when he got back. For now, he couldn’t afford self-doubt or uncertainty. It was time to be the Blackthorn.

He stepped into the sabatons, and the straps tightened of their own accord, fitting around his boots. The greaves came next, going over his legs and knees, locking on to the sabatons. Shardplate wasn’t like ordinary armor; there was no mesh of steel mail and no leather straps at the joints. Shardplate seams were made of smaller plates, interlocking, overlapping, incredibly intricate, leaving no vulnerable gaps. There was very little rubbing or chafing; each piece fit together perfectly, as if it had been crafted specifically for Dalinar.

One always put the armor on from the feet upward. Shardplate was extremely heavy; without the enhanced strength it provided, no man would be able to fight in it. Dalinar stood still as the armor bearers affixed the cuisses over his thighs and locked them to the culet and faulds across his waist and lower back. A skirt made of small, interlocking plates came next, reaching down to just above the knees.

“Brightlord,” Teleb said, stepping up to him. “Have you given thought to my suggestion about the bridges?”

“You know how I feel about man-carried bridges, Teleb,” Dalinar said as the armor bearers locked his breastplate into place, then worked on the rerebraces and vambraces for his arms. Already, he could feel the strength of the Plate surging through him.

“We wouldn’t have to use the smaller bridges for the assault,” Teleb said. “Just for getting to the contested plateau.”

“We’d still have to bring the chull-pulled bridges to get across that last chasm,” Dalinar said. “I’m not convinced that bridge crews would move us any more quickly. Not when we have to wait for those animals.”

Teleb sighed.

Dalinar reconsidered. A good officer was one who accepted orders and fulfilled them, even when he disagreed. But the mark of a great officer was that he also tried to innovate and offer appropriate suggestions.

“You may recruit and train a single bridge crew,” Dalinar said. “We shall see. In these races, even a few minutes can be meaningful.”

Teleb smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Dalinar waved with his left hand as the armor bearers locked the gauntlet onto his right. He made a fist, tiny plates curving perfectly. The left gauntlet followed. Then the gorget went over his head, covering his neck, the pauldrons on his shoulders, and the helm on his head. Finally, the armor bearers affixed his cape to the pauldrons.

Dalinar took a deep breath, feeling the Thrill build for the approaching battle. He strode from the war room, footfalls firm and solid. Attendants and servants scattered before him, making way. Wearing Shardplate again after a long period without was like waking up after a night of feeling groggy or disoriented. The spring of the step, the impetus the armor seemed to lend him, made him want to race down the hallway and–

And why not?

He broke into a sprint. Teleb and the others cried out in surprise, rushing to keep up. Dalinar outpaced them easily, reaching the front gates of the complex and leaping through, throwing himself off the long steps leading down from his enclave. He exulted, grinning as he hung in the air, then slammed to the ground. The force cracked the stone beneath him, and he crouched into the impact.

Before him, neat rows of barracks ran through his warcamp, formed in radials with a meeting ground and mess hall at the center of each battalion. His officers reached the top of the stairs, looking down with amazement. Renarin was with them, wearing his uniform that had never seen battle, his hand raised against the sunlight.

Dalinar felt foolish. Was he a youth just given his first taste of Shardplate? Back to work. Stop playing.

Perethom, his infantrylord, saluted as Dalinar strode up. “Second and Third Battalions are on duty today, Brightlord. Forming ranks to march.”

“First Bridge Squad is gathered, Brightlord,” Havarah – the bridgelord – said, striding up. He was a short man, with some Herdazian blood in him as evidenced by his dark, crystalline fingernails, though he didn’t wear a spark-flicker. “I have word from Ashelem that the archery company is ready.”

“Cavalry?” Dalinar asked. “And where is my son?”

“Here, Father,” called a familiar voice. Adolin – his Shardplate painted a deep Kholin blue – made his way through the gathering crowd. His visor was up, and he looked eager, though when he met Dalinar’s eyes, he glanced away immediately.

Dalinar held up a hand, quieting several officers who were trying to give him reports. He strode to Adolin, and the youth looked up, meeting his gaze.

“You said what you felt you must,” Dalinar said.