The claw dug at the hole, and then the head withdrew. Scraping rock and chitin sounded in the chasm, but the thing didn’t go far before stopping.

Silence. A steady drip somewhere fell into a pool. But otherwise, silence.

“It’s waiting,” Shallan whispered, head near his shoulder.

“You sound proud of it!” Kaladin snapped.

“A little.” She paused. “How long, do you suppose, until . . .”

He looked upward, but couldn’t see the sky. The crack didn’t run all the way up the side of the chasm, and was barely ten or fifteen feet tall. He leaned forward to look at the slot high above, not extending all the way out of the crack, just getting a little closer to the lip so he could see the sky. It was getting dark. Not sunset yet, but getting close.

“Two hours, maybe,” he said. “I—”

A crashing tempest of carapace charged down the chasm. Kaladin jumped back, pressing Shallan against the refuse again as the chasmfiend tried—without success—to get one of its legs into the fissure. The leg was still too large, and though the chasmfiend could shove the tip in toward them—getting close enough to brush Kaladin—it wasn’t enough to hurt them.

That eye returned, reflecting the image of Kaladin and Shallan—tattered and dirtied from their time in the chasm. Kaladin looked less frightened than he felt, staring that thing in the eye, spear held up wardingly. Shallan, rather than looking terrified, seemed fascinated.

Crazy woman.

The chasmfiend withdrew again. It stopped just down the chasm. He could hear it settling down to watch.

“So . . .” Shallan said, “we wait?”

Sweat trickled down the sides of Kaladin’s face. Wait. How long? He could imagine staying in here, like a frightened rockbud trapped in its shell, until the waters came crashing through the chasms.

He’d survived a storm once. Barely, and only then with the aid of Stormlight. In here, it would be far different. The waters would whip them in a surge through the chasms, smashing them into walls, boulders, churning them with the dead until they drowned or were ripped limb from limb . . .

It would be a very, very bad way to die.

His grip tightened on his spear. He waited, sweating, worrying. The chasmfiend didn’t leave. Minutes passed.

Finally, Kaladin made his decision. He moved to step forward.

“What are you doing!” Shallan hissed, sounding terrified. She tried to hold him back.

“When I’m out,” he said, “run the other way.”

“Don’t be stupid!”

“I’ll distract it,” he said. “Once you’re free, I’ll lead it away from you, then escape. We can meet back up.”

“Liar,” she whispered.

He twisted about, meeting her eyes. “You can get back to the warcamps on your own,” he said. “I can’t. You have information that needs to get to Dalinar. I don’t. I have combat training. I might be able to get away from the thing after distracting it. You couldn’t. If we wait here, we both die. Do you need more logic than that?”

“I hate logic,” she whispered. “Always have.”

“We don’t have time to talk about it,” Kaladin said, twisting around, his back to her.

“You can’t do this.”

“I can.” He took a deep breath. “Who knows,” he said more softly, “maybe I’ll get in a lucky hit.” He reached up and ripped the spheres off his spearhead, then tossed them out into the chasm. He’d need a steadier light. “Get ready.”

“Please,” she whispered, sounding more frantic. “Don’t leave me down in these chasms alone.”

He smiled wryly. “Is it really this hard for you to let me win one single argument?”

“Yes!” she said. “No, I mean . . . Storms! Kaladin, it will kill you.”

He gripped his spear. The way things had been going with him lately, perhaps that was what he deserved. “Apologize to Adolin for me. I actually kind of like him. He’s a good man. Not just for a lighteyes. Just . . . a good person. I’ve never given him the credit he deserves.”

“Kaladin . . .”

“It has to happen, Shallan.”

“At least,” she said, reaching her hand over his shoulder and past his head, “take this.”

“Take what?”

“This,” Shallan said.

Then she summoned a Shardblade.

I suspect that he is more a force than an individual now, despite your insistence to the contrary. That force is contained, and an equilibrium reached.

Kaladin stared at the glistening length of metal, which dripped with condensation from its summoning. It glowed softly the color of garnet along several faint lines down its length.

Shallan had a Shardblade.

He twisted his head toward her, and in so doing, his cheek brushed the flat of the blade. No screams. He froze, then cautiously raised a finger and touched the cold metal.

Nothing happened. The screech he had heard in his mind when fighting alongside Adolin did not recur. It seemed a very bad sign to him. Though he did not know the meaning of that terrible sound, it was related to his bond with Syl.

“How?” he asked.

“It’s not important.”

“I rather think it is.”

“Not at the moment! Look, are you going to take this thing? Holding it this way is awkward. If I drop it by accident and cut off your foot, it’s going to be your fault.”

He hesitated, regarding his face reflected in its metal. He saw corpses, friends with burning eyes. He’d refused these weapons each time one was offered to him.

But always before, it had been after the fight, or at least on the practice grounds. This was different. Besides, he wasn’t choosing to become a Shardbearer; he would only use this weapon to protect someone’s life.

Making a decision, he reached up and seized the Shardblade by the hilt. At least this told him one thing—Shallan wasn’t likely to be a Surgebinder. Otherwise, he suspected she’d hate this Blade as much as he did.

“You’re not supposed to let people use your Blade,” Kaladin said. “By tradition, only the king and the highprinces do that.”

“Great,” she said. “You can report me to Brightness Navani for being wildly indecent and ignorant of protocol. For now, can we just survive, please?”

“Yeah,” he said, hefting the Blade. “That sounds wonderful.” He barely knew how to use one of these. Training with a practice sword did not make you an expert with the real thing. Unfortunately, a spear was going to be of little use against a creature so large and so well armored.

“Also . . .” Shallan said. “Could you not do that ‘reporting me’ thing I mentioned? That was a joke. I don’t think I’m supposed to have that Blade.”

“Nobody would believe me anyway,” Kaladin said. “You are going to run, right? As I instructed?”

“Yes. But if you could, please lead the monster to the left.”

“That’s toward the warcamps,” Kaladin said, frowning. “I was planning to lead it deeper into the chasms, so that you—”

“I need to get back to my satchel,” Shallan said.

Crazy woman. “We’re fighting for our lives, Shallan. The satchel is unimportant.”

“No, it’s very important,” she said. “I need it to . . . Well, the sketches in there show the pattern of the Shattered Plains. I’ll need that to help Dalinar. Please, just do it.”

“Fine. If I can.”

“Good. And, um, please don’t die, all right?”

He was suddenly aware of her pressed against his back. Holding him, breath warm on his neck. She trembled, and he thought he could hear in her voice both terror and fascination at their situation.

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “Get ready.”

She nodded, letting go of him.

One.

Two.

Three.

He leaped out into the chasm, then turned and dashed left, toward the chasmfiend. Storming woman. The beast lurked in the shadows in that direction. No, it was a shadow. An enormous, looming shadow, long and eel-like, lifted above the floor of the chasm and gripping the walls with its legs.

It trumped and surged forward, carapace scraping on rock. Holding tightly to the Shardblade, Kaladin threw himself to the ground and ducked underneath the monster. The ground heaved as the beast smashed claws toward him, but Kaladin came up unscathed. He swung wildly with the Shardblade, carving a line in the rock wall beside him but missing the chasmfiend.

It curled in the chasm, twisting underneath itself, then turning about. The maneuver went far more smoothly for the monster than Kaladin would have hoped.

How do I even kill something like this? Kaladin wondered, backing up as the chasmfiend settled on the floor of the chasm to inspect him. Hacking at that enormous body was unlikely to kill it quickly enough. Did it have a heart? Not the stone gemheart, but a real one? He’d have to try to get underneath it again.

Kaladin continued to back down the chasm, trying to lead the creature away from Shallan. It moved more carefully than Kaladin would have expected. He was relieved to catch sight of Shallan escaping the crack and scrambling away down the passage.

“Come on, you,” Kaladin said, waving the Shardblade at the chasmfiend. It reared up in the chasm, but did not strike at him. It watched, eyes hidden in its darkened face. The only light came from the distant slit high above and the spheres he’d tossed out into the chasm, which now were behind the monster.

Shallan’s Blade glowed softly too, from a strange pattern along its length. Kaladin had never seen one do that before, but then, he’d never seen a Shardblade in the dark before.

Looking up at the rearing, alien silhouette before him—with its too many legs, its twisted head, its segmented armor—Kaladin thought he must know what a Voidbringer looked like. Surely nothing more terrible than this could exist.

Stepping backward, Kaladin stumbled on an outcropping of shalebark sprouting from the floor.

The chasmfiend struck.

Kaladin regained his balance easily, but had to throw himself into a roll—which required dropping the Shardblade, lest he slice himself. Shadowy claws smashed around him as he came out of his roll and sprang one way, then the other. He ended up pressed against the slimy side of the chasm just in front of the monster, puffing. He was too close for the claws to get him, perhaps, and—

The head snapped down, mandibles gaping. Kaladin cursed, hurling himself to the side again. He grunted, rolling to his feet and scooping up the discarded Shardblade. It hadn’t vanished—he knew enough about them to understand that once Shallan instructed it to remain, it would stay until she summoned it back.

Kaladin turned around as a claw came down where he had just been. He got a swipe at it, cutting through the claw’s tip as it crashed into rock.

His cut didn’t seem to do much. The Blade scored the carapace and killed the flesh inside—prompting a trump of anger—but the claw was enormous. He’d done the equivalent of cutting off the tip of an enemy soldier’s big toe. Storms. He wasn’t fighting the beast; he was just annoying it.