The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  He was listening to his father tell him with a sneer in his voice that spears were only for killing. You could not kill to protect.

  He was alone in a chasm deep beneath the earth, holding the spear of a fallen man, fingers gripping the wet wood, a faint dripping coming from somewhere distant.

  Strength surged through him as he spun the spear up into an advanced kata. His body moved of its own accord, going through the forms he’d trained in so frequently. The spear danced in his fingers, comfortable, an extension of himself. He spun with it, swinging it around and around, across his neck, over his arm, in and out of jabs and swings. Though it had been months since he’d even held a weapon, his muscles knew what to do. It was as if the spear itself knew what to do.

  Tension melted away, frustration melted away, and his body sighed in contentment even as he worked it furiously. This was familiar. This was welcome. This was what it had been created to do.

  Men had always told Kaladin that he fought like nobody else. He’d felt it on the first day he’d picked up a quarterstaff, though Tukks’s advice had helped him refine and channel what he could do. Kaladin had cared when he fought. He’d never fought empty or cold. He fought to keep his men alive.

  Of all the recruits in his cohort, he had learned the quickest. How to hold the spear, how to stand to spar. He’d done it almost without instruction. That had shocked Tukks. But why should it have? You were not shocked when a child knew how to breathe. You were not shocked when a skyeel took flight for the first time. You should not be shocked when you hand Kaladin Stormblessed a spear and he knows how to use it.

  Kaladin spun through the last motions of the kata, chasm forgotten, bridgemen forgotten, fatigue forgotten. For a moment, it was just him. Him and the wind. He fought with her, and she laughed.

  He snapped the spear back into place, holding the haft at the one-quarter position, spearhead down, bottom of the haft tucked underneath his arm, end rising back behind his head. He breathed in deeply, shivering.

  Oh, how I’ve missed that.

  He opened his eyes. Sputtering torchlight revealed a group of stunned bridgemen standing in a damp corridor of stone, the walls wet and reflecting the light. Moash dropped a handful of spheres in stunned silence, staring at Kaladin with mouth agape. Those spheres plopped into the puddle at his feet, causing it to glow, but none of the bridgemen noticed. They just stared at Kaladin, who was still in a battle stance, half crouched, trails of sweat running down the sides of his face.

  He blinked, realizing what he’d done. If word got back to Gaz that he was playing around with spears…Kaladin stood up straight and dropped the spear into the pile of weapons. “Sorry,” he whispered to it, though he didn’t know why. Then, louder, he said, “Back to work! I don’t want to be caught down here when night falls.”

  The bridgemen jumped into motion. Down the chasm corridor, he saw Rock and Teft. Had they seen the entire kata? Flushing, Kaladin hurried up to them. Syl landed on his shoulder, silent.

  “Kaladin, lad,” Teft said reverently. “That was—”

  “It was meaningless,” Kaladin said. “Just a kata. Meant to work the muscles and make you practice the basic jabs, thrusts, and sweeps. It’s a lot showier than it is useful.”

  “But—”

  “No, really,” Kaladin said. “Can you imagine a man swinging a spear around his neck like that in combat? He’d be gutted in a second.”

  “Lad,” Teft said. “I’ve seen katas before. But never one like that. The way you moved…The speed, the grace…And there was some sort of spren zipping around you, between your sweeps, glowing with a pale light. It was beautiful.”

  Rock started. “You could see that?”

  “Sure,” Teft said. “Never seen a spren like that. Ask the other men—I saw a few of them pointing.”

  Kaladin glanced at his shoulder, frowning at Syl. She sat primly, legs crossed and hands folded atop her knee, pointedly not looking at him.

  “It was nothing,” Kaladin repeated.

  “No,” Rock said. “That it certainly was not. Perhaps you should challenge Shardbearer. You could become brightlord!”

  “I don’t want to be a brightlord,” Kaladin snapped, perhaps more harshly than he should have. The other two jumped. “Besides,” he added, looking away from them. “I tried that once. Where’s Dunny?”

  “Wait,” Teft said, “you—”

  “Where is Dunny?” Kaladin said firmly, punctuating each word. Stormfather. I need to keep my mouth shut.

  Teft and Rock shared a glance, then Teft pointed. “We found some dead Parshendi around the bend. Thought you’d want to know.”

  “Parshendi,” Kaladin said. “Let’s go look. Might have something valuable.” He’d never looted Parshendi bodies before; fewer of them fell into the chasms than Alethi.

  “Is true,” Rock said, leading the way, carrying a lit torch. “Those weapons they have, yes, very nice. And gemstones in their beards.”

  “Not to mention the armor,” Kaladin said.

  Rock shook his head. “No armor.”

  “Rock, I’ve seen their armor. They always wear it.”

  “Well, yes, but we cannot use this thing.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kaladin said.

  “Come,” Rock said, gesturing. “Is easier than explaining.”

  Kaladin shrugged, and they rounded the corner, Rock scratching at his red-bearded chin. “Stupid hairs,” he muttered. “Ah, to have it right again. A man is not proper man without proper beard.”

  Kaladin rubbed his own beard. One of these days, he’d save up and buy a razor and be rid of the blasted thing. Or, well, probably not. His spheres would be needed elsewhere.

  They rounded the corner and found Dunny pulling the Parshendi bodies into a line. There were four of them, and they looked like they’d been swept in from another direction. There were a few more Alethi bodies here too.

  Kaladin strode forward, waving Rock to bring the light, and knelt to inspect one of the Parshendi dead. They were like parshmen, with skin in marbled patterns of black and crimson. Their only clothing was knee-length black skirts. Three wore beards, which was unusual for parshmen, and those were woven with uncut gemstones.

  Just as Kaladin had expected, they wore armor of a pale red color. Breastplates, helms on the heads, guards on the arms and legs. Extensive armor for regular foot soldiers. Some of it was cracked from the fall or the wash. It wasn’t metal, then. Painted wood?

  “I thought you said they weren’t armored,” Kaladin said. “What are you trying to tell me? That you don’t dare take it off the dead?”

  “Don’t dare?” Rock said. “Kaladin, Master Brightlord, brilliant bridgeleader, spinner of spear, perhaps you will get it off them.”

  Kaladin shrugged. His father had instilled in him a familiarity with the dead and dying, and though it felt bad to rob the dead, he was not squeamish. He prodded the first Parshendi, noting the man’s knife. He took it and looked for the strap that held the shoulder guard in place.

  There was no strap. Kaladin frowned and peered underneath the guard, trying to pry it up. The skin lifted with it. “Stormfather!” he said. He inspected the helm. It was grown into the head. Or grown from the head. “What is this?”

  “Do not know,” Rock said, shrugging. “It is looking like they grow their own armor, eh?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Kaladin said. “They’re just people. People—even parshmen—don’t grow armor.”

  “Parshendi do,” Teft said.

  Kaladin and the other two turned to him.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” the older man said with a scowl. “I worked in the camp for a few years before I ended up as a bridgeman—no, I’m not going to tell you how, so storm off. Anyway, the soldiers talk about it. The Parshendi grow carapaces.”

  “I’ve known parshmen,” Kaladin said. “There were a couple of them in my hometown, serving the citylord. None of them grew armor.”

  “Well, these are a diffe
rent kind of parshman,” Teft said with a scowl. “Bigger, stronger. They can jump chasms, for Kelek’s sake. And they grow armor. That’s just how it is.”

  There was no disputing it, so they just moved on to gathering what they could. Many Parshendi used heavy weapons—axes, hammers—and those hadn’t been carried along with the bodies like many of the spears and bows Alethi soldiers had. But they did find several knives and one ornate sword, still in a sheath at the Parshendi’s side.

  The skirts didn’t have pockets, but the corpses did have pouches tied to their waists. These just carried flint and tinder, whetstones, or other basic supplies. So, they knelt to begin pulling the gemstones from the beards. Those gemstones had holes drilled through them to facilitate weaving, and Stormlight infused them, though they didn’t glow as brightly as they would have if they’d been properly cut.

  As Rock pulled the gemstones out of the final Parshendi’s beard, Kaladin held one of the knives up near Dunny’s torch, inspecting the detailed carving. “Those look like glyphs,” he said, showing it to Teft.

  “I can’t read glyphs, boy.”

  Oh, right, Kaladin thought. Well, if they were glyphs, they weren’t ones he was familiar with. Of course, you could draw most glyphs in complex ways that made it hard to read them, unless you knew exactly what to look for. There was a figure at the center of the hilt, nicely carved. It was a man in fine armor. Shardplate, certainly. A symbol was etched behind him, surrounding him, spreading out from his back like wings.

  Kaladin showed it to Rock, who had walked up to see what he found so fascinating. “The Parshendi out here are supposed to be barbarians,” Kaladin said. “Without culture. Where did they get knives like these? I’d swear this is a picture of one of the Heralds. Jezerezeh or Nalan.”

  Rock shrugged. Kaladin sighed and returned the knife to its sheath, then dropped it into his sack. Then they rounded the curve back to the others. The crew had gathered up sacks full of armor, belts, boots, and spheres. Each took up a spear to carry back to the ladder, holding them like walking sticks. They’d left one for Kaladin, but he tossed it to Rock. He didn’t trust himself to hold one of them again, worried he’d be tempted to fall into another kata.

  The walk back was uneventful, though with the darkening sky, the men began jumping at every sound. Kaladin engaged Rock, Teft, and Dunny in conversation again. He was able to get Drehy and Torfin to talk a little as well.

  They safely reached the first chasm, much to the relief of his men. Kaladin sent the others up the ladder first, waiting to go up last. Rock waited with him, and as Dunny finally started up—leaving Rock and Kaladin alone—the tall Horneater put a hand on Kaladin’s shoulder, speaking in a soft voice.

  “You do good work here,” Rock said. “I am thinking that in a few weeks, these men will be yours.”

  Kaladin shook his head. “We’re bridgemen, Rock. We don’t have a few weeks. If I take that long winning them over, half of us will be dead.”

  Rock frowned. “Is not a happy thought.”

  “That’s why we have to win over the other men now.”

  “But how?”

  Kaladin looked up at the dangling ladder, shaking as the men climbed up. Only four could go at a time, lest they overload it. “Meet me after we’re searched. We’re going to the camp market.”

  “Very well,” Rock said, swinging onto the ladder as Earless Jaks reached the top. “What will be our purpose in this thing?”

  “We’re going to try out my secret weapon.”

  Rock laughed as Kaladin held the ladder steady for him. “And what weapon is this?”

  Kaladin smiled. “Actually, it’s you.”

  Two hours later, at Salas’s first violet light, Rock and Kaladin walked back into the lumberyard. It was just past sunset, and many of the bridgemen would soon be going to sleep.

  Not much time, Kaladin thought, gesturing for Rock to carry his burden to a place near the front of Bridge Four’s barrack. The large Horneater set his burden down next to Teft and Dunny, who had done as Kaladin had ordered, building a small ring of stones and setting up some stumps of wood from the lumberyard scrap pile. That wood was free for anyone to take. Even bridgemen were allowed; some liked to take chunks to whittle.

  Kaladin got out a sphere for light. The thing Rock had been carrying was an old iron cauldron. Even though it was secondhand, it had cost Kaladin a fair chunk of the knobweed sap money. The Horneater began to unpack supplies from inside the cauldron as Kaladin arranged some wood scraps inside the ring of stones.

  “Dunny, water, if you please,” Kaladin said, getting out his flint. Dunny ran off to fetch a bucket from one of the rain barrels. Rock finished emptying the cauldron, laying out small packages that had cost another substantial portion of Kaladin’s spheres. He had only a handful of clearchips left.

  As they worked, Hobber limped out of the barrack. He was mending quickly, though the other two wounded that Kaladin had treated were still in bad shape.

  “What are you up to, Kaladin?” Hobber asked just as Kaladin got a flame started.

  Kaladin smiled, standing. “Have a seat.”

  Hobber did just that. He hadn’t lost the near-devotion he’d shown Kaladin for saving his life. If anything, his loyalty had grown stronger.

  Dunny returned with a bucket of water, which he poured into the cauldron. Then he and Teft ran off to get more. Kaladin built up the flames and Rock began to hum to himself as he diced tubers and unwrapped some seasonings. In under a half hour, they had a roaring flame and a simmering pot of stew.

  Teft sat down on one of the stumps, warming his hands. “This is your secret weapon?”

  Kaladin sat down next to the older man. “Have you known many soldiers in your life, Teft?”

  “A few.”

  “You ever known any who could turn down a warm fire and some stew at the end of a hard day?”

  “Well, no. But bridgemen ain’t soldiers.”

  That was true. Kaladin turned to the barrack doorway. Rock and Dunny started up a song together and Teft began to clap along. Some of the men from other bridge crews were up late, and they gave Kaladin and the others nothing more than scowls.

  Figures shifted inside the barrack, shadows moving. The door was open, and the scents of Rock’s stew grew strong. Inviting.

  Come on, Kaladin thought. Remember why we live. Remember warmth, remember good food. Remember friends, and song, and evenings spent around the hearth.

  You aren’t dead yet. Storm you! If you don’t come out…

  It all suddenly seemed so contrived to Kaladin. The singing was forced, the stew an act of desperation. It was all just an attempt to briefly distract from the pathetic life he had been forced into.

  A figure moved in the doorway. Skar—short, square-bearded, and keen-eyed—stepped out into the firelight. Kaladin smiled at him. A forced smile. Sometimes that was all one could offer. Let it be enough, he prayed, standing up, dipping a wooden bowl into Rock’s stew.

  Kaladin held the bowl toward Skar. Steam curled from the surface of the brownish liquid. “Will you join us?” Kaladin asked. “Please.”

  Skar looked at him, then back down at the stew. He laughed, taking the stew. “I’d join the Nightwatcher herself around a fire if there was stew involved!”

  “Be careful,” Teft said. “That’s Horneater stew. Might be snail shells or crab claws floating in it.”

  “There is not!” Rock barked. “Is unfortunate that you have unrefined lowlander tastes, but I prepare the food such as I am ordered by our dear bridgeleader.”

  Kaladin smiled, letting out a deep breath as Skar sat down. Others trailed out after him, taking bowls, sitting. Some stared into the fire, not saying much, but others began to laugh and sing. At one point, Gaz walked past, eyeing them with his single eye, as if trying to decide if they were breaking any camp regulations. They weren’t. Kaladin had checked.

  Kaladin dipped out a bowl of stew and held it toward Gaz. The bridge sergeant snorted in derision
and stalked away.

  Can’t expect too many miracles in one night, Kaladin thought with a sigh, settling back down and trying the stew. It was quite good. He smiled, joining in the next verse of Dunny’s song.

  The next morning, when Kaladin called for the bridgemen to rise, three-quarters of them piled out of the barrack—everyone but the loudest complainers: Moash, Sigzil, Narm, and a couple of others. The ones who came to his call looked surprisingly refreshed, despite the long evening spent singing and eating. When he ordered them to join him in practice carrying the bridge, almost all of those who had risen joined him.

  Not everyone, but enough.

  He had a feeling that Moash and the others would give in before too long. They’d eaten his stew. Nobody had turned that down. And now that he had so many, the others would feel foolish not joining in. Bridge Four was his.

  Now he had to keep them alive long enough for that to mean something.

  For I have never been dedicated to a more important purpose, and the very pillars of the sky will shake with the results of our war here. I ask again. Support me. Do not stand aside and let disaster consume more lives. I’ve never begged you for something before, old friend. I do so now.

  Adolin was frightened.

  He stood beside his father on the staging ground. Dalinar looked…weathered. Creases running back from his eyes, furrows in his skin. Black hair going white like bleached rock along the sides. How could a man standing in full Shardplate—a man who yet retained a warrior’s frame despite his age—look fragile?

  In front of them, two chulls followed their handler, stepping up onto the bridge. The wooden span linked two piles of cut stones, a mock chasm only a few feet deep. The chulls’ whiplike antennae twitched, mandibles clacking, fist-size black eyes glancing about. They pulled a massive siege bridge, rolling on creaking wooden wheels.

  “That’s much wider than the bridges Sadeas uses,” Dalinar said to Teleb, who stood beside them.

  “It’s necessary to accommodate the siege bridge, Brightlord.”