The Shardbearer’s honor guard caught up with him. He turned, armor seeming to glow as he raised his Blade in a salute of respect toward the bridgemen. Then he charged off in another direction.
“That was him,” Drehy said, standing up. “Dalinar Kholin. The king’s uncle!”
“He saved us!” Lopen said.
“Bah.” Moash dusted himself off. “He just saw a group of undefended archers and took the chance to strike. Lighteyes don’t care about us. Right, Kaladin?”
Kaladin stared at the place where the archers had stood. In one moment, he could have lost it all.
“Kaladin?” Moash said.
“You’re right,” Kaladin found himself saying. “Just an opportunity taken.”
Except, why raise the Blade toward Kaladin?
“From now on,” Kaladin said, “we pull back farther after the soldiers cross. They used to ignore us after the battle began, but they won’t any longer. What I did today—what we’re all going to be doing soon—will make them mighty angry. Angry enough to be stupid, but also angry enough to see us dead. For now, Leyten, Narm, find good scouting points and watch the field. I want to know if any Parshendi make moves toward that chasm. I’ll get this man bandaged and we’ll pull back.”
The two scouts ran off, and Kaladin turned back to the man with the wounded shoulder.
Moash knelt beside him. “An assault against a prepared foe without any bridges lost, a Shardbearer coincidentally coming to our rescue, Sadeas himself complimenting us. You almost make me think I should get one of those armbands.”
Kaladin glanced down at the prayer. It was stained with blood from a slice on his arm that the vanishing Stormlight hadn’t quite been able to heal.
“Wait to see if we escape.” Kaladin finished his stitching. “That’s the real test.”
“I wish to sleep. I know now why you do what you do, and I hate you for it. I will not speak of the truths I see.”
—Kakashah 1173, 142 seconds pre-death. A Shin sailor, left behind by his crew, reportedly for bringing them ill luck. Sample largely useless.
“You see?” Leyten turned the piece of carapace over in his hands. “If we carve it up at the edge, it encourages a blade—or in this case an arrow—to deflect away from the face. Wouldn’t want to spoil that pretty grin of yours.”
Kaladin smiled, taking back the piece of armor. Leyten had carved it expertly, putting in holes for leather straps to affix it to the jerkin. The chasm was cold and dark at night. With the sky hidden, it felt like a cavern. Only the occasional sparkle of a star high above revealed otherwise.
“How soon can you have them done?” he asked Leyten.
“All five? By the end of the night, likely. The real trick was discovering how to work it.” He knocked on the carapace with the back of his knuckles. “Amazing stuff. Nearly as hard as steel, but half the weight. Hard to cut or break. But if you drill, it shapes easily.”
“Good,” Kaladin said. “Because I don’t want five sets. I want one for each man in the crew.”
Leyten raised an eyebrow.
“If they’re going to start letting us wear armor,” Kaladin said, “everyone gets a suit. Except Shen, of course.” Matal had agreed to let them leave him behind on the bridge runs; he wouldn’t even look at Kaladin now.
Leyten nodded. “All right, then. Better get me some help, though.”
“You can use the wounded men. We’ll cart out as much carapace as we can find.”
His success had translated to an easier time for Bridge Four. Kaladin had pled that his men needed time to find carapace, and Hashal—not knowing any better—had reduced the scavenging quota. She was already pretending—quite smoothly—that the armor had been her idea the entire time, and was ignoring the question of where it had come from in the first place. When she met Kaladin’s eyes, however, he saw worry. What else would he try? So far, she hadn’t dared remove him. Not while he brought her so much praise from Sadeas.
“How did an apprentice armorer end up as a bridgeman anyway?” Kaladin asked as Leyten settled back down to work. He was a thick-armed man, stout and oval-faced with light hair. “Craftsmen don’t usually get thrown away.”
Leyten shrugged. “When a piece of armor breaks and a lighteyes takes an arrow in the shoulder, someone has to take the blame. I’m convinced my master keeps an extra apprentice especially for those kinds of situation.”
“Well, his loss is our good fortune. You’re going to keep us alive.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” He smiled. “Can’t do much worse on the armor than you did yourself, though. It’s amazing that breastplate didn’t fall off halfway through!”
Kaladin patted the bridgeman on the shoulder, then left him to his work, surrounded by a small ring of topaz chips; Kaladin had gotten permission to bring them, explaining his men needed light to work on the armor. Nearby, Lopen, Rock, and Dabbid were returning with another load of salvage. Syl zipped ahead, leading them.
Kaladin walked down the chasm, a garnet sphere looped in a small leather carrier at his belt for light. The chasm branched here, making a large triangular intersection—a perfect place for spear training. Wide enough to give the men room to practice, yet far enough from any permanent bridges that scouts weren’t likely to hear echoes.
Kaladin gave the initial instructions each day, then let Teft lead the practice. The men worked by sphere light, small piles of diamond chips at the corners of the intersection, barely enough to see by. Never thought I’d envy those days practicing beneath the hot sun back in Amaram’s army, he thought.
He walked up to gap-toothed Hobber and corrected his stance, then showed him how to set his weight behind his spear thrusts. The bridgemen were progressing quickly, and the fundamentals were proving their merit. Some were training with the spear and the shield, practicing stances where they held lighter spears up beside the head with the shield raised.
The most skilled were Skar and Moash. In fact, Moash was surprisingly good. Kaladin walked to the side, watching the hawk-faced man. He was focused, eyes intense, jaw set. He moved in attack after attack, the dozen spheres giving him an equal number of shadows.
Kaladin remembered feeling such dedication. He’d spent a year like that, after Tien’s death, driving himself to exhaustion each day. Determined to get better. Determined never to let another person die because of his lack of skill. He’d become the best in his squad, then the best in his company. Some said he’d been the best spearmen in Amaram’s army.
What would have happened to him, if Tarah hadn’t coaxed him out of his single-minded dedication? Would he have burned himself out, as she’d claimed?
“Moash,” Kaladin called.
Moash paused, turning toward Kaladin. He didn’t fall out of stance.
Kaladin waved him to approach, and Moash reluctantly trotted over. Lopen had left a few waterskins for them, hanging by their cords from a cluster of haspers. Kaladin pulled a skin free, tossing it to Moash. The other man took a drink, then wiped his mouth.
“You’re getting good,” Kaladin said. “You’re probably the best we have.”
“Thanks,” Moash said.
“I’ve noticed you keep training when Teft lets the other men take breaks. Dedication is good, but don’t work yourself ragged. I want you to be one of the decoys.”
Moash smiled broadly. Each of the men had volunteered to be one of the four who would join Kaladin distracting the Parshendi. It was amazing. Months ago, Moash—along with the others—had eagerly placed the new or the weak at the front of the bridge to catch arrows. Now, to a man, they volunteered for the most dangerous jobs.
Do you realize what you could have in these men, Sadeas? Kaladin thought. If you weren’t so busy thinking of how to get them killed?
“So what is it for you?” Kaladin said, nodding toward the dim practice ground. “Why do you work so hard? What is it you hunt?”
“Vengeance,” the other man said, face somber.
Kaladin nodded. “I los
t someone once. Because I wasn’t good enough with the spear. I nearly killed myself practicing.”
“Who was it?”
“My brother.”
Moash nodded. The other bridgemen, Moash included, seemed to regard Kaladin’s “mysterious” past with reverence.
“I’m glad I trained,” Kaladin said. “And I’m glad you’re dedicated. But you have to be careful. If I’d gotten myself killed by working so hard, it wouldn’t have meant anything.”
“Sure. But there’s a difference between us, Kaladin.”
Kaladin raised an eyebrow.
“You wanted to be able to save someone. Me, I want to kill somebody.”
“Who?”
Moash hesitated, then shook his head. “Maybe I’ll say, someday.” He reached out, grabbing Kaladin on the shoulder. “I’d surrendered my plans, but you’ve returned them to me. I’ll guard you with my life, Kaladin. I swear it to you, by the blood of my fathers.”
Kaladin met Moash’s intense eyes and nodded. “All right, then. Go help Hobber and Yake. They’re still off on their thrusts.”
Moash jogged off to do as told. He didn’t call Kaladin “sir,” and didn’t seem to regard him with the same unspoken reverence as the others. That made Kaladin more comfortable with him.
Kaladin spent the next hour helping the men, one by one. Most of them were overeager, throwing themselves into their attacks. Kaladin explained the importance of control and precision, which won more fights than chaotic enthusiasm. They took it in, listening. More and more, they reminded him of his old spear squad.
That set him thinking. He remembered how he had felt when originally proposing the escape plan to the men. He’d been looking for something to do—a way to fight, no matter how risky. A chance. Things had changed. He now had a team he was proud of, friends he had come to love, and a possibility—perhaps—for stability.
If they could get the dodging and armor right, they might be reasonably safe. Maybe even as safe as his old spear squad had been. Was running still the best option?
“That is a worried face,” a rumbling voice noted. Kaladin turned as Rock walked up and leaned against the wall near him, folding powerful forearms. “Is the face of a leader, say I. Always troubled.” Rock raised a bushy red eyebrow.
“Sadeas will never let us go, particularly not now that we’re so prominent.” Alethi lighteyes considered it reprehensible for a man to let slaves escape; it made him seem impotent. Capturing those who ran away was essential to save face.
“You said this thing before,” Rock said. “We will fight the men he sends after us, will seek Kharbranth, where there are no slaves. From there, the Peaks, to my people who will welcome us as heroes!”
“We might beat the first group, if he’s foolish and sends only a few dozen men. But after that he’ll send more. And what of our wounded? Do we leave them here to die? Or do we take them with us and go that much more slowly?”
Rock nodded slowly. “You are saying that we need a plan.”
“Yes,” Kaladin said. “I guess that’s what I’m saying. Either that, or we stay here… as bridgemen.”
“Ha!” Rock seemed to take it as a joke. “Despite new armor, we would die soon. We make ourselves targets!”
Kaladin hesitated. Rock was right. The bridgemen would be used, day in and day out. Even if Kaladin slowed the death toll to two or three men a month—once, he would have considered that impossible, but now it seemed within reach—Bridge Four as it was currently composed would be gone within a year.
“I will talk with Sigzil about this thing,” Rock said, rubbing his chin between the sides of his beard. “We will think. There must be a way to escape this trap, a way to disappear. A false trail? A distraction? Perhaps we can convince Sadeas that we have died during bridge run.”
“How would we do that?”
“Don’t know,” Rock said. “But we will think.” He nodded to Kaladin and sauntered off toward Sigzil. The Azish man was practicing with the others. Kaladin had tried speaking to him about Hoid, but Sigzil—typically closemouthed—hadn’t wanted to discuss it.
“Hey, Kaladin!” Skar called. He was part of an advanced group that was going through Teft’s very carefully supervised sparring. “Come spar with us. Show these rock-brained fools how it’s really done.” The others began calling for him as well.
Kaladin waved them down, shaking his head.
Teft trotted over, a heavy spear on one shoulder. “Lad,” he said quietly, “I think it would be good for their morale if you showed them a thing or two yourself.”
“I’ve already given them instruction.”
“With a spear you knocked the head off of. Going very slowly, with lots of talk. They need to see it, lad. See you.”
“We’ve been through this, Teft.”
“Well, so we have.”
Kaladin smiled. Teft was careful not to look angry or belligerent—he looked as if he were having a normal conversation with Kaladin. “You’ve been a sergeant before, haven’t you?”
“Never mind that. Come on, just show them a few simple routines.”
“No, Teft,” Kaladin said, more seriously.
Teft eyed him. “You going to refuse to fight on the battlefield, just like that Horneater?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Well what is it like?”
Kaladin reached for an explanation. “I’ll fight when the time comes. But if I let myself get back into it now, I’ll be too eager. I’ll push to attack now. I’ll have trouble waiting until the men are ready. Trust me, Teft.”
Teft studied him. “You’re scared of it, lad.”
“What? No. I—”
“I can see it,” Teft said. “And I’ve seen it before. Last time you fought for someone, you failed, eh? So now you hesitate to take it up again.”
Kaladin paused. “Yes,” he admitted. But it was more than that. When he fought again, he would have to become that man from long ago, the man who had been called Stormblessed. The man with confidence and strength. He wasn’t certain he could be that man any longer. That was what scared him.
Once he held that spear again, there would be no turning back.
“Well.” Teft rubbed his chin. “When the time comes, I hope you’re ready. Because this lot will need you.”
Kaladin nodded and Teft hurried back to the others, giving some kind of explanation to mollify them.
Map of the Battle of the Tower, drawn and labeled by Navani Kholin, circa 1173.
“They come from the pit, two dead men, a heart in their hands, and I know that I have seen true glory.”
—Kakashah 1173, 13 seconds pre-death. A rickshaw puller.
“I couldn’t decide if you were interested or not,” Navani said softly to Dalinar as they slowly walked around the grounds of Elhokar’s raised field palace. “Half the time, you seemed like a flirt—offering hints at courtship, then backing away. The other half of the time, I was certain I had misread you. And Gavilar was so forthcoming. He always did prefer to seize what he wished.”
Dalinar nodded thoughtfully. He wore his blue uniform, while Navani was in a subdued maroon dress with a thick hem. Elhokar’s gardeners had begun to cultivate the plant life here. To their right, a twisting length of yellow shalebark rose to waist height, like a railing. The stonelike plant was overgrown by small bunches of haspers with pearly shells slowly opening and closing as they breathed. They looked like tiny mouths, silently speaking in rhythm with one another.
Dalinar and Navani’s pathway took a leisurely course up the hillside. Dalinar strolled with hands clasped behind his back. His honor guard and Navani’s clerks followed behind. A few of them looked perplexed at the amount of time Dalinar and Navani were spending with one another. How many of them suspected the truth? All? Part? None? Did it matter? “I didn’t mean to confuse you, all those years ago,” he said, voice soft to keep it from prying ears. “I had intended to court you, but Gavilar expressed a preference for you. So I eventually felt I
had to step aside.”
“Just like that?” Navani asked. She sounded offended.
“He didn’t realize that I was interested. He thought that by introducing you to him, I was indicating that he should court you. That was often how our relationship worked; I would discover people Gavilar should know, then bring them to him. I didn’t realize until too late what I had done in giving you to him.”
“‘Giving’ me? Is there a slave’s brand on my forehead of which I’ve been unaware?”
“I did not mean—”
“Oh hush,” Navani said, her voice suddenly fond. Dalinar stifled a sigh; though Navani had matured since their youth, her moods always had changed as quickly as the seasons. In truth, that was part of her allure.
“Did you often step aside for him?” Navani asked.
“Always.”
“Didn’t that grow tiresome?”
“I didn’t think about it much,” Dalinar said. “When I did… yes, I was frustrated. But it was Gavilar. You know how he was. That force of will, that air of natural entitlement. It always seemed to surprise him when someone denied him or when the world itself didn’t do as he wished. He didn’t force me to defer—it was simply how life was.”
Navani nodded in understanding.
“Regardless,” Dalinar said, “I apologize for confusing you. I… well, I had difficulty letting go. I fear that—on occasion—I let too much of my true feelings slip out.”
“Well, I suppose I can forgive that,” she said. “Though you did spend the next two decades making certain I thought you hated me.”
“I did nothing of the sort!”
“Oh? And how else was I to interpret your coldness? The way you would often leave the room when I arrived?”
“Containing myself,” Dalinar said. “I had made my decision.”
“Well, it looked a lot like hatred,” Navani said. “Though I did wonder several times what you were hiding behind those stony eyes of yours. Of course, then Shshshsh came along.”
The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The) Page 109