The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  These bodies looked like they’d floated in the wash of the highstorm flood, then been deposited as the water slowly receded. There were no Parshendi among them, and they were broken and torn from either their fall or the crush of the flood. Many were missing limbs.

  The stink of blood and viscera hung in the humid air. Kaladin held his torch aloft as his companions fell silent. The dank chill kept the bodies from rotting too quickly, though the dampness counteracted some of that. The cremlings had begun chewing the skin off hands and gnawing out the eyes. Soon the stomachs would bloat with gas. Some rotspren-tiny, red, translucent-scrambled across the corpses.

  Syl floated down and landed on his shoulder, making disgusted noises. As usual, she offered no explanation for her absence.

  The men knew what to do. Even with the rotspren, this was too rich a place to pass up. They went to work, pulling the corpses into a line so they could be inspected. Kaladin waved for Rock and Teft to join him as he picked up some stray bits of salvage that lay on the ground around the corpses. Dunny tagged along.

  “Those bodies wear the highprince’s colors,” Rock noted as Kaladin picked up a dented steel cap.

  “I’ll bet they’re from that run a few days back,” Kaladin said. “It went badly for Sadeas’s forces.”

  “Brightlord Sadeas,” Dunny said. Then he ducked his head in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to correct you. I used to forget to say the title. My master beat me when I did.”

  “Master?” Teft asked, picking up a fallen spear and pulling some moss off its shaft.

  “I was an apprentice. I mean, before…” Dunny trailed off, then looked away.

  Teft had been right; bridgemen didn’t like talking about their pasts. Anyway, Dunny was probably right to correct him. Kaladin would be punished if he were heard omitting a lighteyes’s honorific.

  Kaladin put the cap in his sack, then rammed his torch into a gap between two moss-covered boulders and started helping the others get the bodies into a line. He didn’t prod the men toward conversation. The fallen deserved some reverence-if that was possible while robbing them.

  Next, the bridgemen stripped the fallen of their armor. Leather vests from the archers, steel breastplates from the foot soldiers. This group included a lighteyes in fine clothing beneath even finer armor. Sometimes the bodies of fallen lighteyes would be recovered from the chasms by special teams so the corpse could be Soulcast into a statue. Darkeyes, unless they were very wealthy, were burned. And most soldiers who fell into the chasms were ignored; the men in camp spoke of the chasms being hallowed resting places, but the truth was that the effort to get the bodies out wasn’t worth the cost or the danger.

  Regardless, to find a lighteyes here meant that his family hadn’t been wealthy enough, or concerned enough, to send men out to recover him. His face was crushed beyond recognition, but his rank insignia identified him as seventh dahn. Landless, attached to a more powerful officer’s retinue.

  Once they had his armor, they pulled daggers and boots off everyone in line-boots were always in demand. They left the fallen their clothing, though they took off the belts and cut free many shirt buttons. As they worked, Kaladin sent Teft and Rock around the bend to see if there were any other bodies nearby.

  Once the armor, weapons, and boots had been separated, the most grisly task began: searching pockets and pouches for spheres and jewelry. This pile was the smallest of the lot, but valuable. They didn’t find any broams, which meant no pitiful reward for the bridgemen.

  As the men performed their morbid task, Kaladin noticed the end of a spear poking out of a nearby pool. It had gone unnoticed in their initial sweep.

  Lost in thought, he fetched it, shaking off the water, carrying it over to the weapons pile. He hesitated there, holding the spear over the pile with one hand, cold water dripping from it. He rubbed his finger along the smooth wood. He could tell from the heft, balance, and sanding that it was a good weapon. Sturdy, well made, well kept.

  He closed his eyes, remembering days as a boy holding a quarterstaff.

  Words spoken by Tukks years ago returned to him, words spoken on that bright summer day when he’d first held a weapon in Amaram’s army. The first step is to care, Tukks’s voice seemed to whisper. Some talk about being emotionless in battle. Well, I suppose it’s important to keep your head. But I hate that feeling of killing while calm and cold. I’ve seen that those who care fight harder, longer, and better than those who don’t. It’s the difference between mercenaries and real soldiers. It’s the difference between fighting to defend your homeland and fighting on foreign soil.

  It’s good to care when you fight, so long as you don’t let it consume you. Don’t try to stop yourself from feeling. You’ll hate who you become.

  The spear quivered in Kaladin’s fingers, as if begging him to swing it, spin it, dance with it.

  “What are you planning to do, lordling?” a voice called. “Going to ram that spear into your own gut?”

  Kaladin glanced up at the speaker. Moash-still one of Kaladin’s biggest detractors-stood near the line of corpses. How had he known to call Kaladin “lordling”? Had he been talking to Gaz?

  “He claims he’s a deserter,” Moash said to Narm, the man working next to him. “Says he was some important soldier, a squadleader or the like. But Gaz says that’s all stupid boasting. They wouldn’t send a man to the bridges if he actually knew how to fight.”

  Kaladin lowered the spear.

  Moash smirked, turning back to his work. Others, however, had now noticed Kaladin. “Look at him,” Sigzil said. “Ho, bridgeleader! You think that you’re grand? That you are better than us? You think pretending that we’re your own personal troop of soldiers will change anything?”

  “Leave him alone,” Drehy said. He shoved Sigzil as he passed. “At least he tries.”

  Earless Jacks snorted, pulling a boot free from a dead foot. “He cares about looking important. Even if he was in the army, I’ll bet he spent his days cleaning out latrines.”

  It appeared that there was something that would pull the bridgemen out of their silent stupors: loathing for Kaladin. Others began talking, calling gibes.

  “…his fault we’re down here…”

  “…wants to run us ragged during our only free time, just so he can feel important…”

  “…sent us to carry rocks to show us he could shove us around…”

  “…bet he’s never held a spear in his life.”

  Kaladin closed his eyes, listening to their scorn, rubbing his fingers on the wood.

  Never held a spear in his life. Maybe if he’d never picked up that first spear, none of this would have happened.

  He felt the smooth wood, slick with rainwater, memories jumbling in his head. Training to forget, training to get vengeance, training to learn and make sense of what had happened.

  Without thinking about it, he snapped the spear up under his arm into a guard position, point down. Water droplets from its length sprayed across his back.

  Moash cut off in the middle of another gibe. The bridgemen sputtered to a stop. The chasm became quiet.

  And Kaladin was in another place.

  He was listening to Tukks chide him.

  He was listening to Tien laugh.

  He was hearing his mother tease him in her clever, witty way.

  He was on the battlefield, surrounded by enemies but ringed by friends.

  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, ov
er 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 different 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, whetstone
s, 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.