The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  Gadol had a deep wound in the side where an arrow had passed completely through him. His face was covered with blood from a gash on his temple, and he’d managed to crawl a short distance from the bridge. He looked up with frenzied black eyes, orange painspren waving around him. Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and towed him away just before a thundering charge of cavalry trampled the place where he’d been lying.

  Kaladin dragged Gadol over to the cleft, noting two more dead. He did a quick count. That made twenty-nine bridgemen, including the dead he’d seen. Five were missing. Kaladin stumbled back out onto the battlefield.

  Soldiers had bunched up around the back of the bridge, archers forming at the sides and firing into the Parshendi lines as the heavy cavalry charge—led by Highprince Sadeas himself, virtually indestructible in his Shardplate—tried to push the enemy back.

  Kaladin wavered, dizzy, dismayed at the sight of so many men running, shouting, firing arrows and throwing spears. Five bridgemen, probably dead, lost in all of that—

  He spotted a figure huddled just beside the chasm lip with arrows flying back and forth over his head. It was Dabbid, one of the bridgemen. He curled up, arm twisted at an awkward angle.

  Kaladin charged in. He threw himself to the ground and crawled beneath the zipping arrows, hoping that the Parshendi would ignore a couple of unarmed bridgemen. Dabbid didn’t even notice when Kaladin reached him. He was in shock, lips moving soundlessly, eyes dazed. Kaladin grabbed him awkwardly, afraid to stand up too high lest an arrow hit him.

  He dragged Dabbid away from the edge in a clumsy half crawl. He kept slipping on blood, falling, abrading his arms on the rock, hitting his face against the stone. He persisted, towing the younger man out from underneath the flying arrows. Finally, he got far enough away that he risked standing. He tried to pick up Dabbid. But his muscles were so weak. He strained and slipped, exhausted, falling to the stones.

  He lay there, gasping, the pain of his side finally washing over him. So tired….

  He stood up shakily, then tried again to grab Dabbid. He blinked away tears of frustration, too weak to even pull the man.

  “Airsick lowlander,” a voice growled.

  Kaladin turned as Rock arrived. The massive Horneater grabbed Dabbid under the arms, pulling him. “Crazy,” he grumbled to Kaladin, but easily lifted the wounded bridgeman and carried him back to the hollow.

  Kaladin followed. He collapsed in the hollow, his back to the rock. The surviving bridgemen huddled around him, eyes haunted. Rock set Dabbid down.

  “Four more,” Kaladin said between gasps. “We have to find them….”

  “Murk and Leyten,” Teft said. The older bridgeman had been near the back this run, and hadn’t taken any wounds. “And Adis and Corl. They were in the front.”

  That’s right, Kaladin thought, exhausted. How could I forget…. “Murk is dead,” he said. “The others might live.” He tried to stumble to his feet.

  “Idiot,” Rock said. “Stay here. Is all right. I will do this thing.” He hesitated. “Guess I’m an idiot too.” He scowled, but went back out onto the battlefield. Teft hesitated, then chased after him.

  Kaladin breathed in and out, holding his side. He couldn’t decide if the pain of the arrow impact hurt more than the cut.

  Save lives….

  He crawled over to the three wounded. Hobber—with an arrow through the leg—would wait, and Dabbid had only a broken arm. Gadol was the worst off, with that hole in his side. Kaladin stared at the wound. He didn’t have an operating table; he didn’t even have antiseptic. How was he supposed to do anything?

  He shoved despair aside. “One of you go fetch me a knife,” he told the bridgemen. “Take it off the body of a soldier who has fallen. Someone else build a fire!”

  The bridgemen looked at each other.

  “Dunny, you get the knife,” Kaladin said as he held his hand to Gadol’s wound, trying to stanch the blood. “Narm, can you make a fire?”

  “With what?” the man asked.

  Kaladin pulled off his vest and shirt, then handed the shirt to Narm. “Use this as tinder and gather some fallen arrows for wood. Does anyone have flint and steel?”

  Moash did, fortunately. You carried anything valuable you had with you on a bridge run; other bridgemen might steal it if you left it behind.

  “Move quickly!” Kaladin said. “Someone else, go rip open a rockbud and get me the watergourd inside.”

  They stood for a few moments. Then, blessedly, they did as he demanded. Perhaps they were too stunned to object. Kaladin tore open Gadol’s shirt, exposing the wound. It was bad, terribly bad. If it had cut the intestines or some of the other organs…

  He ordered one of the bridgemen to hold a bandage to Gadol’s forehead to stanch the smaller blood flow there—anything would help—and inspected the wounded side with the speed his father had taught him. Dunny returned quickly with a knife. Narm was having trouble with the fire, though. The man cursed, trying his flint and steel again.

  Gadol was spasming. Kaladin pressed bandages to the wound, feeling helpless. There wasn’t a place he could make a tourniquet for a wound like this. There wasn’t anything he could do but—

  Gadol spit up blood, coughing. “They break the land itself!” he hissed, eyes wild. “They want it, but in their rage they will destroy it. Like the jealous man burns his rich things rather than let them be taken by his enemies! They come!”

  He gasped. And then he fell still, his dead eyes staring upward, bloody spittle running in a trail down his cheek. His final, haunting words hung over them. Not far away, soldiers fought and screamed, but the bridgemen were silent.

  Kaladin sat back, stunned—as always—by the pain of losing someone. His father had always said that time would dull his sensitivity.

  In this, Lirin had been wrong.

  He felt so tired. Rock and Teft were hurrying back toward the cleft in the rock, bearing a body between them.

  They wouldn’t have brought anyone unless he was still alive, Kaladin told himself. Think of the ones you can help. “Keep that fire going!” he said, pointing at Narm. “Don’t let it die! Someone heat the blade in it.”

  Narm jumped, noticing as if for the first time that he’d actually managed to get a small flame started. Kaladin turned away from the dead Gadol and made room for Rock and Teft. They deposited a very bloody Leyten on the ground. He was breathing shallowly and had two arrows sticking from him, one from the shoulder, the other from the opposite arm. Another had grazed his stomach, and the cut there had been widened by movement. It looked like his left leg had been trampled by a horse; it was broken, and he had a large gash where the skin had split.

  “The other three are dead,” Teft said. “He nearly is too. Nothing much we can do. But you said to bring him, so—”

  Kaladin knelt down immediately, working with careful, efficient speed. He pressed a bandage against the side, holding it in place with his knee, then tied a quick bandage on the leg, ordering one of the soldiers to hold it firm and elevate the limb. “Where’s that knife!” Kaladin yelled, hurriedly tying a loose tourniquet around the arm. He needed to stop the blood right now; he’d worry about saving the arm later.

  Youthful Dunny rushed over with the heated blade. Kaladin lifted the side bandage and quickly cauterized the wound there. Leyten was unconscious, his breathing growing more shallow.

  “You will not die,” Kaladin muttered. “You will not die!” His mind was numb, but his fingers knew the motions. For a moment, he was back in his father’s surgery room, listening to careful instruction. He cut the arrow from Leyten’s arm, but left the one in his shoulder, then sent the knife back to be reheated.

  Peet finally returned with the watergourd. Kaladin snatched it, using it to clean the leg wound, which was the nastiest, as it had been caused by trampling. When the knife came back, Kaladin pulled the arrow free of the shoulder and cauterized the wound as best he could, then used another of his quickly disappearing bandages to tie the wo
und.

  He splinted the leg with arrow shafts—the only thing they had. With a grimace, he cauterized the wound there too. He hated to cause so many scars, but he couldn’t afford to let any more blood be lost. He was going to need antiseptic. How soon could he get some of that mucus?

  “Don’t you dare die!” Kaladin said, barely conscious that he was speaking. He quickly tied off the leg wound, then used his needle and thread to sew the arm wound. He bandaged it, then untied the tourniquet most of the way.

  Finally, he settled back, looking at the wounded man, completely drained. Leyten was still breathing. How long would that last? The odds were against him.

  The bridgemen stood or sat around Kaladin, looking strangely reverent. Kaladin tiredly moved over to Hobber and saw to the man’s leg wound. It didn’t need to be cauterized. Kaladin washed it out, cut away some splinters, then sewed it. There were painspren all around the man, tiny orange hands stretching up from the ground.

  Kaladin sliced off the cleanest portion of bandage he’d used on Gadol and tied it around Hobber’s wound. He hated the uncleanliness of it, but there was no other choice. Then he set Dabbid’s arm with some arrows he had the other bridgemen fetch, using Dabbid’s shirt to tie them in place. Then, finally, Kaladin sat back against the lip of stone, letting out a long, fatigued breath.

  Bangs of metal on metal and shouts of soldiers rang from behind. He felt so tired. Too tired to even close his eyes. He just wanted to sit and stare at the ground forever.

  Teft settled down beside him. The grizzled man had the watergourd, which still had some liquid in the bottom. “Drink, lad. You need it.”

  “We should clean the wounds of the other men,” Kaladin said numbly. “They took scrapes—I saw some had cuts—and they should—”

  “Drink,” Teft said, his crackly voice insistent.

  Kaladin hesitated, then drank the water. It tasted strongly bitter, like the plant from which it had been taken.

  “Where’d you learn to heal men like that?” Teft asked. Several of the nearby bridgemen turned toward him at the question.

  “I wasn’t always a slave,” Kaladin whispered.

  “These things you did, they won’t make a difference,” Rock said, walking up. The massive Horneater squatted down. “Gaz makes us leave behind wounded who cannot walk. Is standing order from above.”

  “I’ll deal with Gaz,” Kaladin said, resting his head back against the stone. “Go return that knife to the body you took it off. I don’t want to be accused of thievery. Then, when the time comes to leave, I want two men in charge of Leyten and two men in charge of Hobber. We’ll tie them to the top of the bridge and carry them. At the chasms, you’ll have to move quickly and untie them before the army crosses, then retie them at the end. We’ll also need someone to lead Dabbid, if his shock hasn’t passed.”

  “Gaz won’t stand for this thing,” Rock said.

  Kaladin closed his eyes, declining further argument.

  The battle was a long one. As evening approached, the Parshendi finally retreated, jumping away across the chasms with their unnaturally powerful legs. There was a chorus of shouts from the Alethi soldiers, who had won the day. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and went looking for Gaz. It would be a while yet before they could get the chrysalis open—it was like pounding on stone—but he needed to deal with the bridge sergeant.

  He found Gaz watching from well behind the battle lines. He glanced at Kaladin with his one eye. “How much of that blood is yours?”

  Kaladin looked down, realizing for the first time that he was crusted with dark, flaking blood, most belonging to the men he’d worked on. He didn’t answer the question. “We’re taking our wounded with us.”

  Gaz shook his head. “If they can’t walk, they stay behind. Standing orders. Not my choice.”

  “We’re taking them,” Kaladin said, no more firm, no more loud.

  “Brightlord Lamaril won’t stand for it.” Lamaril was Gaz’s immediate superior.

  “You’ll send Bridge Four last, to lead the wounded soldiers back to camp. Lamaril won’t go with that troop; he’ll go on ahead with the main body, as he won’t want to miss Sadeas’s victory feast.”

  Gaz opened his mouth.

  “My men will move quickly and efficiently,” Kaladin said, interrupting him. “They won’t slow anyone.” He took the last sphere from his pocket and handed it over. “You won’t say anything.”

  Gaz took the sphere, snorting. “One clearmark? You think that will make me take a risk this big?”

  “If you don’t,” Kaladin said, voice calm, “I will kill you and let them execute me.”

  Gaz blinked in surprise. “You’d never—”

  Kaladin took a single step forward. He must have looked a dreadful sight, covered in blood. Gaz paled. Then he cursed, holding up the dark sphere. “And a dun sphere at that.”

  Kaladin frowned. He was sure it had still glowed before the bridge run. “That’s your fault. You gave it to me.”

  “Those spheres were newly infused last night,” Gaz said. “They came straight from Brightlord Sadeas’s treasurer. What did you do with them?”

  Kaladin shook his head, too exhausted to think. Syl landed on his shoulder as he turned to walk back to the bridgemen.

  “What are they to you?” Gaz called after him. “Why do you even care?”

  “They’re my men.”

  He left Gaz behind. “I don’t trust him,” Syl said, looking over her shoulder. “He could just say you threatened him and send men to arrest you.”

  “Maybe he will,” Kaladin said. “I guess I just have to count on him wanting more of my bribes.”

  Kaladin continued on, listening to the shouts of the victors and the groans of their wounded. The plateaus were littered with corpses, bunched up along the edges of the chasm, where the bridges had made a focus for the battle. The Parshendi—as always—had left their dead behind. Even when they won, they reportedly left their dead. The humans sent back bridge crews and soldiers to burn their dead and send their spirits to the afterlife, where the best among them would fight in the Heralds’ army.

  “Spheres,” Syl said, still looking at Gaz. “That doesn’t seem like much to count on.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve seen the way he looks at them. He wants the money I give him. Perhaps badly enough to keep him in line.” Kaladin shook his head. “What you said earlier is right; men are unreliable in many things. But if there’s one thing you can count on, it’s their greed.”

  It was a bitter thought. But it had been a bitter day. A hopeful, bright beginning, and a bloody, red sunset.

  Just like every day.

  Map of Alethi warcamps by the painter Vandonas, who visited the warcamps once and painted perhaps an idealized representation of them.

  Ati was once a kind and generous man, and you saw what became of him. Rayse, on the other hand, was among the most loathsome, crafty, and dangerous individuals I had ever met.

  “Yeah, this was cut,” the portly leatherworker said, holding up the straps as Adolin watched. “Wouldn’t you agree, Yis?”

  The other leatherworker nodded. Yis was a yellow-eyed Iriali, with stark golden hair. Not blond, golden. There was even a metallic sheen to it. He kept it short and wore a cap. Obviously, he didn’t want to draw attention to it. Many considered a lock of Iriali hair to be a ward of good luck.

  His companion, Avaran, was an Alethi darkeyes who wore an apron over his vest. If the two men worked in the traditional way, one would labor on the larger, more robust pieces—like saddles—while the other specialized in fine detail. A group of apprentices toiled in the background, cutting or sewing hogshide.

  “Sliced,” Yis agreed, taking the straps from Avaran. “I concur.”

  “Well hie me to Damnation,” Adolin muttered. “You mean Elhokar was actually right?”

  “Adolin,” a feminine voice said from behind. “You said we’d be going on a walk.”

  “That’s what we’re doing,” h
e said, turning to smile. Janala stood with arms folded, wearing a sleek yellow dress of impeccable fashion, buttoning up the sides, cupping around the neck with a stiff collar embroidered with crimson thread.

  “I had imagined,” she said, “that a walk would involve more walking.”

  “Hm,” he said. “Yes. We’ll be getting right to that soon. It’ll be grand. Lots of prancing, sauntering, and, er…”

  “Promenading?” Yis the leatherworker offered.

  “Isn’t that a type of drink?” Adolin asked.

  “Er, no, Brightlord. I’m fairly certain it’s another word for walking.”

  “Well, then,” Adolin said. “We’ll do plenty of it too. Promenading. I always love a good promenading.” He rubbed his chin, taking the strap back. “How certain are you about this strap?”

  “There’s really no room for question, Brightlord,” Avaran said. “That’s not a simple tear. You should be more careful.”

  “Careful?”

  “Yes,” Avaran said. “Make sure that no loose buckles are scraping the leather, cutting into it. This looks like it came from a saddle. Sometimes, people let the girth straps hang down when setting the saddle for the night, and they get pinched underneath something. I’d guess that caused the slice.”

  “Oh,” Adolin said. “You mean it wasn’t cut intentionally?”

  “Well, it could have been that,” Avaran said. “But why would someone cut a girth like this?”

  Why indeed, Adolin thought. He bid farewell to the two leatherworkers, tucked the strap into his pocket, then held out his elbow to Janala. She took it with her freehand, obviously happy to finally be free of the leather-working shop. It had a faint odor about it, though not nearly as bad as a tannery. He’d seen her reaching for her handkerchief a few times, acting as if she wanted to hold it up to her nose.

  They stepped out into the midday sunlight. Tibon and Marks—two lighteyed members of the Cobalt Guard—waited outside with Janala’s handmaiden, Falksi, who was a young Azish darkeyes. The three fell into step behind Adolin and Janala as they walked out onto the street of the warcamp, Falksi muttering under her breath in an accented voice about the lack of a proper palanquin for her mistress.