The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The)

by Brandon Sanderson

  They hadn’t practiced that maneuver in weeks, but their training was manifest as they obeyed without question, dropping the bridge to their side just as the archers loosed. The flight of arrows hit the bridge’s deck, bristling across the wood. Kaladin let out a relieved breath, reaching the bridge team, who had slowed to carry the bridge on the side.

  “Kaladin!” Rock said, pointing.

  Kaladin spun. The archers behind, on the Tower, were drawing for a large volley.

  The bridge crew was exposed. The archers loosed.

  He yelled again, screaming out, Stormlight infusing the air around him as he threw every bit of it he had into his shield. The scream echoed in his ears; the Stormlight burst from him, his clothing freezing and cracking.

  Arrows darkened the sky. Something hit him, an extended impact that tossed him backward into the bridgemen. He struck hard, grunting as the force continued to push upon him.

  The bridge ground to a halt, the men stopping.

  All fell still.

  Kaladin blinked, feeling completely drained. His body hurt, his arms tingled, his back ached. There was a sharp pain in his wrist. He groaned, opening his eyes, stumbling as Rock’s hands caught him from behind.

  A muted thump. The bridge being set down. Idiots! Kaladin thought. Don’t set it down…. Retreat….

  The bridgemen crowded around him as he slipped to the ground, overwhelmed by having expended too much Stormlight. He blinked at what he held before him, attached to his bleeding arm.

  His shield was covered in arrows, dozens of them, some splitting the others. The bones crossing the shield’s front had shattered; the wood was in splinters. Some of the arrows had gone through and hit his forearm. That was the pain.

  Over a hundred arrows. An entire volley. Pulled into a single shield.

  “By the Brightcaller’s rays,” Drehy said softly. “What… what was…”

  “It was like a fountain of light,” Moash said, kneeling beside Kaladin. “Like the sun itself burst from you, Kaladin.”

  “The Parshendi…” Kaladin croaked, and let go of the shield. The straps were broken, and as he struggled to stand, the shield all but disintegrated, falling to pieces, scattering dozens of broken arrows at his feet. A few remained stuck in his arm, but he ignored the pain, looking across at the Parshendi.

  The groups of archers on both plateaus froze in stunned postures. The ones in front began to call to one another in a language Kaladin didn’t understand. “Neshua Kadal!” They stood up.

  And then they fled.

  “What?” Kaladin said.

  “I don’t know,” Teft said, cradling his own wounded arm. “But we’re getting you to safety. Blast this arm. Lopen!”

  The shorter man brought Dabbid, and they ushered Kaladin away to a more secure location toward the center of the plateau. He held his arm, numb, his exhaustion so deep that he could barely think.

  “Bridge up!” Moash called. “We’ve still got a job to do!”

  The rest of the bridgemen grimly ran back to their bridge, hoisting it up. On the Tower, Dalinar’s force was fighting its way through the Parshendi toward the possible safety of the bridge crew. They must be taking such heavy losses… Kaladin thought numbly.

  He stumbled and fell to the ground; Teft and Lopen pulled Kaladin into a sheltered hollow, joining Skar and Dabbid. Skar’s foot bandage reddened with seeping blood, the spear he’d been using as a staff resting beside him. Thought I told him… to stay off that foot….

  “We need spheres,” Teft said. “Skar?”

  “He asked for them this morning,” the lean man said. “Gave him everything I had. I think most of the men did the same.”

  Teft cursed softly, pulling the remaining arrows from Kaladin’s arm, then wrapping it with bandages.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Skar asked.

  “I don’t know,” Teft said. “I don’t know anything. Kelek! I’m an idiot. Kaladin. Lad, can you hear me?”

  “It’s… just shock…” Kaladin said.

  “You’re looking strange, gancho,” Lopen said nervously. “White.”

  “Your skin is ashen, lad,” Teft said. “It looks like you did something to yourself back there. I don’t know… I…” He cursed again, smacking his hand against the stone. “I should have listened. Idiot!”

  They’d laid him on his side, and he could barely see the Tower. New groups of Parshendi—ones who hadn’t seen Kaladin’s display—were making for the chasm, bearing weapons. Bridge Four arrived and set down their bridge. They unstrapped their shields and hurriedly retrieved spears from the sacks of salvage tied at the bridge’s side. Then the men went to their positions pushing at the sides, preparing to slide the bridge across the gap.

  The Parshendi teams didn’t have bows. They formed up to wait, weapons out. There were easily three times as many as there were bridgemen, and more were coming.

  “We’ve got to go help,” Skar said to Lopen and Teft.

  The other two nodded, and all three—two wounded and one missing an arm—climbed to their feet. Kaladin tried to do likewise, but he fell back down, legs too weak to hold him.

  “Stay, lad,” Teft said, smiling. “We’ll handle it just fine.” They gathered some spears from a stock Lopen had put in his litter, then hobbled out to join the bridge crew. Even Dabbid joined them. He hadn’t spoken since being wounded on that first bridge run, so long ago.

  Kaladin crawled up to the lip of the depression, watching them. Syl landed on the stone beside him. “Storming fools,” Kaladin muttered. “Shouldn’t have followed me. Proud of them anyway.”

  “Kaladin…” Syl said.

  “Is there anything you can do?” He was so storming tired. “Something to make me stronger?”

  She shook her head.

  A short distance ahead, the bridgemen began to push. The bridge’s wood scraped loudly as it crossed the rocks, moving out over the chasm toward the waiting Parshendi. They began singing that harsh battle song, the one they did whenever they saw Kaladin in his armor.

  The Parshendi looked eager, angry, deadly. They wanted blood. They would cut into the bridgemen and rip them apart, then drop the bridge— and their corpses—into the void beneath.

  It’s happening again, Kaladin thought, dazed and overwhelmed. He found himself curling up, drained and shaken. I can’t get to them. They’ll die. Right before me. Tukks. Dead. Nelda. Dead. Goshel. Dead. Dallet. Cenn. Maps. Dunny. Dead. Dead. Dead…

  Tien.

  Dead.

  Lying huddled in a hollow in the rock. The sounds of battle ringing in the distance. Death surrounding him.

  In a moment, he was there again, on that most horrible of days.

  Kaladin stumbled through the cursing, screaming, fighting chaos of war, clinging to his spear. He’d dropped his shield. He needed to find a shield somewhere. Shouldn’t he have a shield?

  It was his third real battle. He’d been in Amaram’s army only a few months, but already Hearthstone seemed a world away. He reached a hollow of rock and crouched down, pushing his back to it, breathing in and out, fingers slick on the spear’s shaft. He was shaking.

  He’d never realized how idyllic his life had been. Away from war. Away from death. Away from those screams, the cacophony of metal on metal, metal on wood, metal on flesh. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out.

  No, he thought. Open your eyes. Don’t let them find you and kill you that easily.

  He forced his eyes open, then turned and peeked out over the battlefield. It was a complete mess. They fought on a large hillside, thousands of men on either side, intermixing and killing. How could anyone keep track of anything in this insanity?

  Amaram’s army—Kaladin’s army—was trying to hold the hilltop. Another army, also Alethi, was trying to take it from them. That was all Kaladin knew. The enemy seemed more numerous than his own army.

  He’ll be safe, Kaladin thought. He will be!

  But he had trouble convincing himself. Tien’s s
tint as a messenger boy hadn’t lasted long. Recruitment was down, he’d been told, and every hand that could hold a spear was needed. Tien and the other older messenger boys had been organized into several squads of deep reserves.

  Dalar said those wouldn’t ever be used. Probably. Unless the army was in serious danger. Did being surrounded atop a steep hill, their lines in chaos, constitute serious danger?

  Get to the top, he thought, looking up the incline. Amaram’s banner still flew up there. Their soldiers must be holding. All Kaladin could see was a churning mess of men in orange and the occasional bit of forest green.

  Kaladin took off at a run up the side of the hill. He didn’t turn as men shouted at him, didn’t check to see which side they were from. Patches of grass pulled down in front of him. He stumbled over a few corpses, dashed around a couple of scraggly stumpweight trees, and avoided places where men were fighting.

  There, he thought, noting a group of spearmen ahead, standing in a line, watching warily. Green. Amaram’s colors. Kaladin scrambled up to them, and the soldiers let him pass.

  “Which squad are you from, soldier?” said a stocky lighteyed man with the knots of a low captain.

  “Dead, sir,” Kaladin forced out. “All dead. We were in Brightlord Tashlin’s company, and—”

  “Bah,” the man said, turning to a runner. “Third report we’ve had that Tashlin is down. Somebody warn Amaram. East side is weakening by degrees.” He looked to Kaladin. “You, off to the reserves for reassignment.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kaladin said, numb. He glanced down the way he’d come. The incline was littered with corpses, many of them in green. Even as he watched, a group of three stragglers rushing for the top was intercepted and slaughtered.

  None of the men at the top moved to help them. Kaladin could have fallen just as easily, within yards of safety. He knew that it was probably important, strategically, that these soldiers in the line maintain their positions. But it seemed so heartless.

  Find Tien, he thought, trotting off toward the reserves field on the north side of the wide hilltop. Here, however, he found only more chaos. Groups of dazed men, bloodied, getting sorted into new squads and sent back out onto the field. Kaladin moved through them, searching for the squad that had been created out of the messenger boys.

  He found Dalar first. The lanky, three-fingered sergeant of the reserves stood beside a tall post bearing a pair of flapping triangular banners. He was assigning newly made squads to fill out losses in the companies fighting below. Kaladin could still hear the yells.

  “You,” Dalar said, pointing at Kaladin. “Squad reassignment is in that direction. Get moving!”

  “I need to find the squad made from messenger boys,” Kaladin said.

  “Why in Damnation do you want to know that?”

  “How should I know?” Kaladin said, shrugging, trying to remain calm. “I just follow orders.”

  Dalar grunted. “Brightlord Sheler’s company. Southeast side. You can—”

  Kaladin was already running. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Tien was supposed to stay safe. Stormfather. It hadn’t even been four months yet!

  He made his way to the southeast side of the hill and searched out a banner flapping a quarter of the way down the incline. The stark black glyphpair read shesh lerel—Sheler’s company. Surprised at his own determination, Kaladin brushed past the soldiers guarding the hilltop and found himself on the battlefield again.

  Things looked better over here. Sheler’s company was holding its ground, although assaulted by a wave of enemies. Kaladin dashed down the incline, skidding in places, sliding on blood. His fear had vanished. It had been replaced by worry for his brother.

  He arrived at the company line just as enemy squads were assaulting. He tried to scramble farther behind the lines to search for Tien, but he was caught in the wave of attacks. He stumbled to the side, joining a squad of spearmen.

  The enemy was on them in a second. Kaladin held his spear in two hands, standing at the edge of the other spearmen and trying not to get in their way. He didn’t really know what he was doing. He barely knew enough to use his shieldmate for protection. The exchange happened quickly, and Kaladin made only a single thrust. The enemy was rebuffed, and he managed to avoid taking a wound.

  He stood, panting, gripping his spear.

  “You,” an authoritative voice said. A man was pointing at Kaladin, knots at his shoulders. The squadleader. “About time my team got some of those reinforcements. For a time there, I thought Varth was going to get every man. Where’s your shield?”

  Kaladin scrambled to grab one off a fallen soldier nearby. As he was working, the squadleader swore behind him. “Damnation. They’re coming again. Two prongs this time. We can’t hold like this.”

  A man in a green messenger’s vest scrambled over a nearby rock formation. “Hold against the east assault, Mesh!”

  “What about that wave to the south?” the squadleader—Mesh—bellowed.

  “It’s handled for now. Hold east! Those are your orders!” The messenger scrambled on, delivering a similar message to the next squad in line. “Varth. Your squad is to hold east!”

  Kaladin got up with his shield. He needed to go find Tien. He couldn’t—

  He stumbled to a stop. There, in the next squad down the line, stood three figures. Younger boys, looking small in their armor and holding their spears uncertainly. One was Tien. His team of reserves had obviously been split apart to fill holes in other squads.

  “Tien!” Kaladin screamed, falling out of line as the enemy troops came upon them. Why were Tien and the other two positioned in the middle front of the squad formation? They barely knew how to hold a spear!

  Mesh yelled after Kaladin, but Kaladin ignored him. The enemy was upon them in a moment, and Mesh’s squad broke, losing their discipline and turning to a more frenzied, unorganized resistance.

  Kaladin felt something like a thump against his leg. He stumbled, hitting the ground, and realized with shock that he’d been stabbed with a spear. He felt no pain. Odd.

  Tien! he thought, forcing himself up. Someone loomed above him, and Kaladin reacted immediately, rolling as a spear came down for his heart. His own spear was back in his hands before he realized he’d grabbed it, and he whipped it upward.

  Then he froze. He’d just driven his spear through the enemy soldier’s neck. It had happened so quickly. I just killed a man.

  He rolled over, letting the enemy drop to his knees as Kaladin yanked his spear free. Varth’s squad was back a little farther. The enemy hit it a little while after attacking where Kaladin had been. Tien and the other two were still in the front.

  “Tien!” Kaladin yelled.

  The boy looked toward him, eyes opening wide. He actually smiled. Behind him, the rest of the squad pulled back. Leaving the three untrained boys exposed.

  And, sensing weakness, the enemy soldiers descended on Tien and the others. There was an armored lighteyes at their front, in gleaming steel. He swung a sword.

  Kaladin’s brother fell just like that. One eyeblink and he was standing there, looking terrified. The next he was on the ground.

  “No!” Kaladin screamed. He tried to get to his feet, but slipped to his knees. His leg didn’t work right.

  Varth’s squad hurried forward, attacking the enemies—who had been distracted with Tien and the other two. They’d placed the untrained at the front to stop the momentum of the enemy attack.

  “No, no, no!” Kaladin screamed. He used his spear to hoist himself to his feet, then stumbled forward. It couldn’t be what he thought. It couldn’t be over that quickly.

  It was a miracle that nobody struck Kaladin down as he stumbled the rest of the distance. He barely thought about it. He just watched where Tien had fallen. There was thunder. No. Hooves. Amaram had arrived with his cavalry, and they were sweeping through the enemy lines.

  Kaladin didn’t care. He finally reached the spot. There, he found three corpses: young, small, lying in a ho
llow in the stone. Horrified, numb, Kaladin reached out his hand and rolled over the one that was face-down.

  Tien’s dead eyes stared upward.

  Kaladin continued to kneel beside the body. He should have bound his wound, should have moved back to safety, but he was too numb. He just knelt.

  “About time he rode down here,” a voice said.

  Kaladin looked up, noting a group of spearmen gathering nearby, watching the cavalry.

  “He wanted them to bunch up against us,” one the spearmen said. He had knots on the shoulders. Varth, their squadleader. Such keen eyes the man had. Not a brutish lout. Lean, thoughtful.

  I should feel anger, Kaladin thought. I should feel… something.

  Varth looked down at him, then at the bodies of the three dead messenger boys.

  “You bastard,” Kaladin hissed. “You put them in front.”

  “You work with what you have,” Varth said, nodding to his team, then pointing at a fortified position. “If they give me men who can’t fight, I’ll find another use for them.” He hesitated as his team marched away. He seemed regretful. “Gotta do what you can to stay alive, son. Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can. Remember that, if you live.”

  With that, he jogged off.

  Kaladin looked down. Why couldn’t I protect him? he thought, looking at Tien, remembering his brother’s laugh. His innocence, his smile, his excitement at exploring the hills outside Hearthstone.

  Please. Please let me protect him. Make me strong enough.

  He felt so weak. Blood loss. He found himself slumping to the side, and with tired hands, he tied off his wound. And then, feeling terribly vacant inside, he lay down beside Tien and pulled the body close.

  “Don’t worry,” Kaladin whispered. When had he started to cry? “I’ll bring you home. I’ll protect you, Tien. I’ll bring you back….”

  He held the body into the evening, long past the end of the battle, clinging to it as it slowly grew cold.

  Kaladin blinked. He wasn’t in that hollow with Tien. He was on the plateau.

  He could hear men dying in the distance.

  He hated thinking of that day. He almost wished he’d never gone looking for Tien. Then he wouldn’t have had to watch. Wouldn’t have had to kneel there, powerless, as his brother was slaughtered.