Rhythm of War (The Stormlight Archive 4)

Storms. How long could a spren last under such treatment?

Adolin checked for help—spotting several figures on horseback approaching in the distance—but it would be precious minutes before they were close enough. Jeopardize the mission, or go save Notum on his own?

Jeopardize it how? he thought. You barely know what you’re doing here. The others can deliver some letters.

You’re nothing but a uniform and sword, Adolin. Use them.

He swung off Gallant. “If this goes poorly, get Maya to the others,” he told the horse. “I’m going to stall those men.”

Gallant blew out again. He was accustomed to riding into combat with Dalinar.

“No,” Adolin said. “You’ll get hurt.”

Maya grabbed his shoulder with a tense hand. She’d spent the ride holding tightly to Gallant’s mane, and he sensed terror from her—perhaps at moving so quickly. He looked to her scratched-out expression, feeling her grip on his uniform shoulder.

“If I draw those men off, Maya,” he said, “can you get to Notum and cut him free? You could use one of the swords in the saddle sheaths.”

Her reply was a low growl, half a whine, and a tightening of her grip on his shoulder.

“It’s all right,” he said, prying her fingers free. “It’s not your fault. Stay here. Stay safe.”

Adolin took a deep breath and heaved his greatsword from its scabbard on Gallant’s shoulder. His swordstaff was back at camp, in the box of weapons—along with his shield and helm. So his best option against this rabble was the weapon with the best reach.

He hefted the massive sword. It was thinner than a Shardblade, but as long as many—and heavier. Many swordsmen he knew looked down on them as inferior to Shardblades, but you could use many of the same sword forms—and there was something solid about a greatsword that Adolin had always liked.

He strode across the black obsidian ground and started shouting. “Hey!” he said, holding the sword out to the side with both hands. “Hey!”

That got their attention. The dark figures moved away from Notum, a huddled form of soft white and blue.

Right, then, Adolin thought. Stall for time. He didn’t have to defeat all twenty men here; he only had to last long enough for his soldiers to arrive and help even the odds.

Unfortunately, even if these Tukari weren’t battle-trained, he was at a severe disadvantage. As a young man—his head full of stories of Shardbearers defeating entire companies on their own—he’d assumed he could easily take on two or three opponents at once in a bout. He’d been sorely disabused of this notion. Yes, one man could stand against many with proper training—but it was never preferable. It was too easy to get surrounded, too easy to take a strike from behind while you were engaging someone else.

Unless your enemy didn’t know what they were doing. Unless they were frightened. Unless you could keep them from pressing their advantage. He wouldn’t win here because he outdueled anyone.

He’d win because his opponents lost.

“Hey, let’s talk!” Adolin said. “You’ve got an honorspren there. How much do you want for him?”

They responded in Tukari, and as before—when he’d approached them in the camp—their postures were immediately hostile. They advanced on him with their weapons out, bearded faces and thick hair accenting their dark expressions. Adolin caught anticipationspren, like enormous lurgs, hovering around the outside of the battlefield. Even heard a painspren howl in the distance.

“Don’t suppose you’d agree to fighting one at a time,” Adolin said. “A set of friendly duels? I’ll go easy on you, I promise.”

They drew closer and closer, just a few feet away now. One spearman was out in front of the others. Spears would be most dangerous; Adolin would have reach against the ones with cutlasses.

“I guess not,” he said with a sigh.

Then he launched himself forward, greatsword in a firm two-handed grip. He batted away the first man’s spear thrust, then came in with a wide powerful swing and took off the man’s head.

That was harder to do than people sometimes thought—even the sharpest blade could get caught in muscle or on the spine. Angle was everything, that and follow-through.

Ignoring the gore of the strike, Adolin moved into Flamestance. Fast. Brutal. The other Tukari came at him, and Adolin rounded them to the side, trying to keep out of the point of their haphazard formation. His quick motions kept them off balance as they scrambled to try to surround him.

Training, fortunately, was on Adolin’s side. He knew how to keep moving, putting as many of them in front of him as possible. Untrained soldiers would move in packs, letting you get around them and keep them from your back. And they shied away as he made great sweeps with his sword, more warding blows than actual attacks.

As he dodged around the side, some of them glanced the other way as a soldier at the rear barked an order. That cost them. Adolin crashed into the pack’s flank, slamming the greatsword into one man’s side, then ripping it free with a heave and slashing across another’s throat with the backswing. He gutted one more with a lunge—another spearman, his primary goal for this offensive.

The men shouted and scattered away in a panic, the man he’d speared through screaming and stumbling. Even those accustomed to battle could be intimidated by the casual brutality of a greatsword at work. Adolin managed to catch one final Tukari, who wasn’t quick enough to get away. Adolin connected with a large sweep into the man’s arm.

The Tukari howled, dropping his weapon, and Adolin kicked him while yanking at the sword—which had gotten caught in the bone. Adolin pulled it free with effort and a spray of blood, then did a full-body spin and swept outward, making the others leap away in fear. This wasn’t the delicate beautiful dance of a duel—this wasn’t what he loved. This was butchery. Fortunately, he had some good role models in that realm.

His best allies were speed and intimidation. As he’d hoped, these men responded poorly to losing several of their number in such a swift, terrible strike. They shied away instead of pressing their numerical advantage. They cried out in shock, anger, and fear as he engaged the next man—isolating this foe in a line between Adolin and the others, so they wouldn’t have a clear rush at him. Adolin struck in rapid succession to batter away the man’s shield, then cut him down with a strike at the collarbone.

Not the cleanest kill, that, but the blood on Adolin’s uniform and face must have made him fearsome—for the Tukari scrambled even farther back, shouting in their language. Now, unfortunately, came the bad part. Adolin tried to keep them frightened by advancing on the nearest man, but they refused to engage him—and kept trying to surround him.

When you were alone in the open, simply keeping from being surrounded was a chore. He had to dedicate all his attention to dancing backward, using sweeps to ward away foes, looking for an opening—but constantly wary of letting anyone get behind him. He could do that, so long as he didn’t get tired—but they’d wear him down eventually, and he’d slow.

He tried another ploy, moving to Stonestance, a warding posture, trying to conserve energy. So long as they were circling him, afraid of him like they might fear a hissing skyeel, it gave more time for the others to arrive.