The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  The large goblet shone with a calm light. Almost a cold light. Kal blinked away tears, his eyes adjusting. He could see the men outside clearly now. Where dangerous shadows had once loomed, cringing men now raised hands. They didn’t seem so intimidating; in fact, the cloths over their faces looked ridiculous.

  Where Kal had been afraid, he now felt strangely confident. For a moment, it wasn’t light his father held, but understanding itself. That’s Luten, Kal thought, noticing a man who limped. It was easy to distinguish him, despite the mask. Kal’s father had operated on that leg; it was because of him that Luten could still walk. He recognized others too. Horl was the one with the wide shoulders, Balsas the man wearing the nice new coat.

  Lirin didn’t say anything to them at first. He stood with that light blazing, illuminating the entire stone square outside. The men seemed to shrink down, as if they knew he recognized them.

  “Well?” Lirin said. “You’ve threatened violence against me. Come. Hit me. Rob me. Do it knowing I’ve lived among you almost my entire life. Do it knowing that I’ve healed your children. Come in. Bleed one of your own!”

  The men faded into the night without a word.

  32

  Side Carry

  “They lived high atop a place no man could reach, but all could visit. The tower city itself, crafted by the hands of no man.”

  — Though The Song of the Last Summer is a fanciful tale of romance from the third century after the Recreance, it is likely a valid reference in this case. See page 27 of Varala’s translation, and note the undertext.

  They got better at carrying the bridge on its side. But not much better. Kaladin watched Bridge Four pass, moving awkwardly, maneuvering the bridge at their sides. Fortunately, there were plenty of handles on the bridge’s underside, and they’d found how to grip them in the right way. They had to carry it at less steep an angle than he’d wanted. That would expose their legs, but may be he could train them to adjust to it as the arrows flew.

  As it was, their carry was slow, and the bridgemen were so bunched up that if the Parshendi managed to drop a man, the others would stumble over him. Lose just a few men, and the balance would be upset so they’d drop it for certain.

  This will have to be handled very carefully, Kaladin thought.

  Syl fluttered along behind the bridge crew as a flurry of nearly translucent leaves. Beyond her, something caught Kaladin’s eye: a uniformed soldier leading a ragged group of men in a despondent clump. Finally, Kaladin thought. He’d been waiting for another group of recruits. He waved curtly to Rock. The Horneater nodded; he’d take over training. It was time for a break anyway.

  Kaladin jogged up the short incline at the rim of the lumberyard, arriving just as Gaz intercepted the newcomers.

  “What a sorry batch,” Gaz said. “I thought we’d been sent the dregs last time, but this lot…”

  Lamaril shrugged. “They’re yours now, Gaz. Split them up how you like.” He and his soldiers departed, leaving the unfortunate conscripts. Some wore decent clothing; they’d be recently caught criminals. The rest had slave brands on their foreheads. Seeing them brought back feelings that Kaladin had to force down. He still stood on the very top of a steep slope; one wrong step could send him tumbling back down into that despair.

  “In a line, you cremlings,” Gaz snapped at the new recruits, pulling free his cudgel and waving it. He eyed Kaladin, but said nothing.

  The group of men hastily lined up.

  Gaz counted down the line, picking out the taller members. “You five men, you’re in Bridge Six. Remember that. Forget it, and I’ll see you get a whipping.” He counted off another group. “You six men, you’re in Bridge Fourteen. You four at the end, Bridge Three. You, you, and you, Bridge One. Bridge Two doesn’t need any…You four, Bridge Seven.”

  That was all of them.

  “Gaz,” Kaladin said, folding his arms. Syl landed on his shoulder, her small tempest of leaves forming into a young woman.

  Gaz turned to him.

  “Bridge Four is down to thirty fighting members.”

  “Bridge Six and Bridge Fourteen have fewer than that.”

  “They each had twenty-nine and you just gave them both a big helping of new members. And Bridge One is at thirty-seven, and you sent them three new men.”

  “You barely lost anyone on the last run, and-”

  Kaladin caught Gaz’s arm as the sergeant tried to walk away. Gaz flinched, lifting his cudgel.

  Try it, Kaladin thought, meeting Gaz’s eyes. He almost wished that the sergeant would.

  Gaz gritted his teeth. “Fine. One man.”

  “I pick him,” Kaladin said.

  “Whatever. They’re all worthless anyway.”

  Kaladin turned to the group of new bridgemen. They’d gathered into clusters by which bridge crew Gaz had put them in. Kaladin immediately turned his attention to the taller men. By slave standards, they appeared well fed. Two of them looked like they’d-

  “Hey, gancho!” a voice said from another group. “Hey! You want me, I think.”

  Kaladin turned. A short, spindly man was waving to him. The man had only one arm. Who would assign him to be a bridgeman?

  He’d stop an arrow, Kaladin thought. That’s all some bridgemen are good for, in the eyes of the uppers.

  The man had brown hair and deep tan skin just a shade too dark to be Alethi. The fingernails on his hand were slate-colored and crystalline-he was a Herdazian, then. Most of the newcomers shared the same defeated look of apathy but this man was smiling, though he wore a slave’s mark on his head.

  That mark is old, Kaladin thought. Either he had a kind master before this, or he has somehow resisted being beaten down. The man obviously didn’t understand what awaited him as a bridgeman. No person would smile if they understood that.

  “You can use me,” the man said. “We Herdazians are great fighters, gon.” He pronounced that last word like “gone” and it appeared to refer to Kaladin. “You see, this one time, I was with, sure, three men and they were drunk and all but I still beat them.” He spoke at a very quick pace, his thick accent slurring the words together.

  He’d make a terrible bridgeman. He might be able to run with the bridge on his shoulders, but not maneuver it. He even looked a little flabby around the waist. Whatever bridge crew got him would put him right in the front and let him take an arrow, then be rid of him.

  Gotta do what you can to stay alive, a voice from his past seemed to whisper. Turn a liability into an advantage….

  Tien.

  “Very well,” Kaladin said, pointing. “I’ll take the Herdazian at the back.”

  “What?” Gaz said.

  The short man sauntered up to Kaladin. “Thanks, gancho! You’ll be glad you picked me.”

  Kaladin turned to walk back, passing Gaz. The bridge sergeant scratched his head. “You pushed me that hard so you could pick the one-armed runt?”

  Kaladin walked on without a word for Gaz. Instead, he turned to the one-armed Herdazian. “Why did you want to come with me? You don’t know anything about the different bridge crews.”

  “You were only picking one,” the man said. “That means one man gets to be special, the others don’t. I’ve got a good feeling about you. It’s in your eyes, gancho.” He paused. “What’s a bridge crew?”

  Kaladin found himself smiling at the man’s nonchalant attitude. “You’ll see. What’s your name?”

  “Lopen,” the man said. “Some of my cousins, they call me the Lopen because they haven’t ever heard anyone else named that. I’ve asked around a lot, maybe one hundred…or two hundred…lots of people, sure. And nobody has heard of that name.”

  Kaladin blinked at the torrent of words. Did the man ever stop to breathe?

  Bridge Four was taking their break, their massive bridge resting on one side and giving shade. The five wounded had joined them and were chatting; even Leyten was up, which was encouraging. He’d been having a lot of trouble walking, what with that crushe
d leg. Kaladin had done what he could, but the man would always have a limp.

  The only one who didn’t talk to the others was Dabbid, the man who had been so profoundly shocked by battle. He followed the others, but he didn’t talk. Kaladin was starting to fear that the man would never recover from his mind fatigue.

  Hobber-the round-faced, gap-toothed man who had taken an arrow to the leg-was walking without a crutch. It wouldn’t be long before he could start running bridges again, and a good thing, too. They needed every pair of hands they could get.

  “Head to the barrack there,” Kaladin said to Lopen. “There’s a blanket, sandals, and vest for you in the pile at the very back.”

  “Sure,” Lopen said, sauntering off. He waved at a few of the men as he passed.

  Rock walked up to Kaladin, folding his arms. “Is new member?”

  “Yes,” Kaladin said.

  “The only kind Gaz would give us, I assume.” Rock sighed. “This thing, we should have expected it. He will give us only the very most useless of bridgemen from now on.”

  Kaladin was tempted to say something in the way of agreement, but hesitated. Syl would probably see it as a lie, and that would annoy her.

  “This new way of carrying the bridge,” Rock said. “Is not very useful, I think. Is-”

  He cut off as a horn call blared over the camp, echoing against stone buildings like the bleat of a distant greatshell. Kaladin grew tense. His men were on duty. He waited, tense, until the third set of horns blew.

  “Line up!” Kaladin yelled. “Let’s move!”

  Unlike the other nineteen crews on duty, Kaladin’s men didn’t scramble about in confusion, but assembled in an orderly fashion. Lopen dashed out, wearing a vest, then hesitated, looking at the four squads, not knowing where to go. He’d be cut to ribbons if Kaladin put him in front, but he’d probably just slow them down anywhere else.

  “Lopen!” Kaladin shouted.

  The one-armed man saluted. Does he think he’s actually in the military?

  “You see that rain barrel? Go get some waterskins from the carpenter’s assistants. They told me we could borrow some. Fill as many as you can, then catch up down below.”

  “Sure, gancho,” Lopen said.

  “Bridge up!” Kaladin shouted, moving into position at the front. “Shoulder carry!”

  Bridge Four moved. While some of the other bridge crews were crowded around their barracks, Kaladin’s team charged across the lumberyard. They were first down the incline, and reached the first permanent bridge before the army even formed up. There, Kaladin ordered them to put their bridge down and wait.

  Shortly thereafter, Lopen trotted down the hillside-and, surprisingly, Dabbid and Hobber were with him. They couldn’t move fast, not with Hobber’s limp, but they had constructed a sort of litter with a tarp and two lengths of wood. Piled into the middle of it were a good twenty waterskins. They trotted up to the bridge team.

  “What’s this?” Kaladin said.

  “You told me to bring whatever I could carry, gon,” Lopen said. “Well, we got this thing from the carpenters. They use it to carry pieces of wood, they said, and they weren’t using it so we took it and now we’re here. Ain’t that right, moolie?” He said that last to Dabbid, who just nodded.

  “Moolie?” Kaladin asked.

  “Means mute,” Lopen said, shrugging. “’Cuz he doesn’t seem to talk much, you see.”

  “I see. Well, good job. Bridge Four, back in position. Here comes the rest of the army.”

  The next few hours were what they had grown to expect from bridge runs. Grueling conditions, carrying the heavy bridge across plateaus. The water proved a huge help. The army occasionally watered the bridgemen during runs, but never as often as the men needed it. Being able to take a drink after crossing each plateau was as good as having a half-dozen more men.

  But the real difference came from the practice. Bridge Four’s men no longer fell exhausted each time they set a bridge down. The work was still difficult, but their bodies were ready for it. Kaladin caught more than a few glances of surprise or envy from the other bridge crews as his men laughed and joked instead of collapsing. Running a bridge once a week or so-as the other men did-just wasn’t enough. An extra meal each night combined with training had built up his men’s muscles and prepared them to work.

  The march was a long one, as long as Kaladin had ever made. They traveled eastward for hours. That was a bad sign. When they aimed for closer plateaus, they often got there before the Parshendi. But this far out they were racing just to prevent the Parshendi from escaping with the gemheart; there was no chance they’d arrive before the enemy.

  That meant it would probably be a difficult approach. We’re not ready for the side carry, Kaladin thought nervously, as they finally drew close to an enormous plateau rising in an unusual shape. He’d heard of it-the Tower, it was called. No Alethi force had ever won a gemheart here.

  They set their bridge down before the penultimate chasm, positioning it, and Kaladin felt a foreboding as the scouts crossed. The Tower was wedge-shaped, uneven, with the southeastern point rising far into the air, creating a steep hillside. Sadeas had brought a large number of soldiers; this plateau was enormous, allowing the deployment of a larger force. Kaladin waited, anxious. Maybe they’d be lucky, and the Parshendi would already be gone with the gemheart. It was possible, this far out.

  The scouts came charging back. “Enemy lines on the opposing rim! They haven’t gotten the chrysalis open yet!”

  Kaladin groaned softly. The army began to cross on his bridge, and Bridge Four regarded him, solemn, expressions grim. They knew what would come next. Some of them, perhaps many of them, would not survive.

  It was going to be very bad this time. On previous runs, they’d had a buff er. When they’d lost four or five men, they’d still been able to keep going. Now they were running with just thirty members. Every man they lost would slow them measurably, and the loss of just four or five more would cause them to wobble, or even topple. When that happened, the Parshendi would focus everything on them. He’d seen it happen before. If a bridge crew started to teeter, the Parshendi pounced.

  Besides, when a bridge crew was visibly low on numbers, it always got targeted by the Parshendi to be taken down. Bridge Four was in trouble. This run could easily end with fifteen or twenty deaths. Something had to be done.

  This was it.

  “Gather close,” Kaladin said.

  The men frowned, stepping up to him.

  “We’re going to carry the bridge in side position,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ll go first. I’m going to steer; be ready to go in the direction I do.”

  “Kaladin,” Teft said, “side position is slow. It was an interesting idea, but-”

  “Do you trust me, Teft?” Kaladin asked.

  “Well, I guess.” The grizzled man glanced at the others. Kaladin could see that many of them did not, at least not fully.

  “This will work,” Kaladin said intently. “We’re going to use the bridge as a shield to block arrows. We need to hurry out in front, faster than the other bridges. It’ll be hard to outrun them with the side carry, but it’s the only thing I can think of. If it doesn’t work, I’ll be in front, so I’ll be the first to drop. If I die, move the bridge to shoulder-carry. We’ve practiced doing that. Then you’ll be rid of me.”

  The bridgemen were silent.

  “What if we don’t want to be rid of you?” long-faced Natam asked.

  Kaladin smiled. “Then run swiftly and follow my lead. I’m going to turn us unexpectedly during the run; be ready to change directions.”

  He went back to the bridge. The common soldiers were across, and the lighteyes-including Sadeas in his ornate Shardplate-were riding over the span. Kaladin and Bridge Four followed, then pulled the bridge behind them. They shoulder-carried it to the front of the army and put it down, waiting for the other bridges to get in place. Lopen and the other two water-carriers hung back with Gaz; it looked like the
y wouldn’t get into trouble for not running. That was a small blessing.

  Kaladin felt sweat bead on his forehead. He could just barely make out the Parshendi ranks ahead, on the other side of the chasm. Men of black and crimson, shortbows held at the ready, arrows nocked. The enormous slope of the Tower rose behind them.

  Kaladin’s heart beat faster. Anticipationspren sprung up around members of the army, but not his team. To their credit, there weren’t any fearspren either-not that they didn’t feel fear, they just weren’t as panicked as the other bridge crews, so the fearspren went there instead.

  Care, Tukks seemed to whisper at him from the past. The key to fighting isn’t lack of passion, it’s controlled passion. Care about winning. Care about those you defend. You have to care about something.

  I care, Kaladin thought. Storm me as a fool, but I do.

  “Bridges up!” Gaz’s voice echoed across the front lines, repeating the order given him by Lamaril.

  Bridge Four moved, quickly turning the bridge on its side and hoisting it up. The shorter men made a line, holding the bridge up to their right, with the taller men forming a bunched-up line behind them, reaching through and lifting or reaching high and steadying the bridge. Lamaril gave them a harsh look, and Kaladin’s breath caught in his throat.

  Gaz stepped up and whispered something to Lamaril. The nobleman nodded slowly, and said nothing. The assault call sounded.

  Bridge Four charged.

  From behind them, arrows flew in a wave over the bridge crews’ heads, arcing down toward the Parshendi. Kaladin ran, jaw clenched. He had trouble keeping himself from stumbling over the rockbuds and shalebark growths. Fortunately, though his team was slower than normal, their practice and endurance meant they were still faster than the other crews. With Kaladin at their lead, Bridge Four managed to get out ahead of the others.

  That was important, because Kaladin angled his team slightly to the right, as if his crew were just a tad off-course with the heavy bridge at the side. The Parshendi knelt down and began to chant together. Alethi arrows fell among them, distracting some, but the others raised bows.