The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  The bridgemen picked up their findings, slinging sacks over their shoulders and each man hefting a spear or two. Within moments, they headed down the dank chasm bottom, following Syl. They passed clefts in the ancient rock walls where old, storm-washed bones had gotten lodged, creating a mound of moss-covered femurs, tibia, skulls, and ribs. There wasn’t much salvage among them.

  After about a quarter-hour, they came to the place Syl had found. A scattered group of Parshendi dead lay in heaps, mixed with the occasional Alethi in blue. Kaladin knelt beside one of the human bodies. He recognized Dalinar Kholin’s stylized glyphpair sewn on the coat. Why had Dalinar’s army joined Sadeas’s in battle? What had changed?

  Kaladin pointed for the men to begin scavenging from the Alethi while he walked over to one of the Parshendi corpses. It was much fresher than Dalinar’s man. They didn’t find nearly as many Parshendi corpses as they did Alethi. Not only were there fewer of them in any given battle, but they were less likely to fall to their deaths into the chasms. Sigzil also guessed that their bodies were more dense than human ones, and didn’t float or wash away as easily.

  Kaladin rolled the body onto its side, and the action elicited a sudden hiss from the back of the group of bridgemen. Kaladin turned to see Shen pushing forward in an uncharacteristic display of passion.

  Teft moved quickly, grabbing Shen from behind, placing him in a choke hold. The other bridgemen stood, aghast, though several fell into their stances by reflex.

  Shen struggled weakly against Teft’s grip. The parshman looked different from his dead cousins; close together, the differences were much more obvious. Shen-like most parshmen-was short and a little plump. Stout, strong, but not threatening. The corpse at Kaladin’s feet, however, was muscled and built like a Horneater, easily as tall as Kaladin and far broader at the shoulders. While both had the marbled skin, the Parshendi had those strange, deep-red growths of armor on the head, chest, arms, and legs.

  “Let him go,” Kaladin said, curious.

  Teft glanced at him, then reluctantly did as commanded. Shen scrambled over the uneven ground and gently, but firmly, pushed Kaladin away from the corpse. Shen stood back, as if protecting it from Kaladin.

  “This thing,” Rock noted, stepping up beside Kaladin, “he has done it before. When Lopen and I take him scavenging.”

  “He’s protective of the Parshendi bodies, gancho,” Lopen added. “Like he’d stab you a hundred times for moving one, sure.”

  “They’re all like that,” Sigzil said from behind.

  Kaladin turned, raising an eyebrow.

  “Parshman workers,” Sigzil explained. “They’re allowed to care for their own dead; it’s one of the few things they seem passionate about. They grow irate if anyone else handles the bodies. They wrap them in linen and carry them out into the wilderness and leave them on slabs of stone.”

  Kaladin regarded Shen. I wonder….

  “Scavenge from the Parshendi,” Kaladin said to his men. “Teft, you’ll probably have to hold Shen the whole time. I can’t have him trying to stop us.”

  Teft shot Kaladin a suffering glance; he still thought they should set Shen at the front of the bridge and let him die. But he did as told, pushing Shen away and getting Moash’s help to hold him.

  “And men,” Kaladin noted. “be respectful of the dead.”

  “They’re Parshendi!” Leyten objected.

  “I know,” Kaladin said. “But it bothers Shen. He’s one of us, so let’s keep his irritation to a minimum.”

  The parshman lowered his arms reluctantly and let Teft and Moash pull him away. He seemed resigned. Parshmen were slow of thought. How much did Shen comprehend?

  “Didn’t you wish to find a bow?” Sigzil asked, kneeling and slipping a horned Parshendi shortbow out from underneath a body. “The bowstring is gone.”

  “There’s another in this fellow’s pouch,” Maps said, pulling something out of another Parshendi corpse’s belt pouch. “Might still be good.”

  Kaladin accepted the weapon and string. “Does anyone know how to use one of these?”

  The bridgemen glanced at one another. Bows were useless for hunting most shellbeasts; slings worked far better. The bow was really only good for killing other men. Kaladin glanced at Teft, who shook his head. He hadn’t been trained on a bow; neither had Kaladin.

  “Is simple,” Rock said, rolling over a Parshendi corpse, “put arrow on string. Point away from self. Pull very hard. Let go.”

  “I doubt it will be that easy,” Kaladin said.

  “We barely have time to train the lads in the spear, Kaladin,” Teft said. “You mean to teach some of them the bow as well? And without a teacher who can use one himself?”

  Kaladin didn’t respond. He tucked the bow and string away in his bag, added a few arrows, then helped the others. An hour later, they marched through the chasms toward the ladder, their torches sputtering, dusk approaching. The darker it grew, the more unpleasant the chasms became. Shadows deepened, and distant sounds-water dripping, rocks falling, wind calling-took on an ominous cast. Kaladin rounded a corner, and a group of many-legged cremlings scuttling along the wall and slipped into a fissure.

  Conversation was subdued, and Kaladin didn’t take part. Occasionally, he glanced over his shoulder toward Shen. The silent parshman walked head down. Robbing the Parshendi corpses had seriously disturbed him.

  I can use that, Kaladin thought. But dare I? It would be a risk. A great one. He had already been sentenced once for upsetting the balance of the chasm battles.

  First the spheres, he thought. Getting the spheres out would mean he might be able to get out other items. Eventually he saw a shadow above, spanning the chasm. They had reached the first of the permanent bridges. Kaladin walked with the others a little further, until they reached a place where the chasm floor was closer to the top of the plateaus above.

  He stopped here. The bridgemen gathered around him.

  “Sigzil,” Kaladin said, pointing. “You know something about bows. How hard do you think it would be to hit that bridge with an arrow?”

  “I’ve occasionally held a bow, Kaladin, but I would not call myself an expert. It shouldn’t be too hard, I’d imagine. The distance is what, fifty feet?”

  “What’s the point?” Moash asked.

  Kaladin pulled out the pouch full of spheres, then raised an eyebrow at them. “We tie the bag to the arrow, then launch it up so that it sticks to the bottom of the bridge. Then when we’re on a bridge run, Lopen and Dabbid can hang back to get a drink near that bridge up there. They reach under the wood and pull the arrow off. We get the spheres.”

  Teft whistled. “Clever.”

  “We could get all of the spheres,” Moash said eagerly. “Even the-”

  “No,” Kaladin said firmly. “The lesser ones will be dangerous enough; people might begin wondering where bridgemen are getting so much money.” He would have to buy his supplies from several different apothecaries to hide his influx of money.

  Moash looked crestfallen, but the other bridgemen were eager. “Who wants to try?” Kaladin asked. “Maybe we should shoot a few practice shots first, then try with the bag. Sigzil?”

  “I don’t know if I want this on me,” Sigzil said. “Maybe you should try, Teft.”

  Teft rubbed his chin. “Sure. I guess. How hard can it be?”

  “How hard?” Rock asked suddenly.

  Kaladin glanced to the side. Rock stood at the back of the group, though his height made him easy to see. He had his arms folded.

  “How hard, Teft?” Rock continued. “Fifty feet is not too far, but is not easy shot. And to do it with bag of heavy spheres tied to it? Ha! You also need to get arrow close to side of bridge, so Lopen can reach. If you miss with this thing, you could lose all spheres. And what if scouts near bridges above see arrow come from chasm? Will think it suspicious, eh?”

  Kaladin eyed the Horneater. Is simple, he’d said. Point away from self…let go…

  “Well,”
Kaladin said, watching Rock from the corner of his eye. “I guess we’ll just have to take that chance. Without these spheres, the wounded die.”

  “We could wait until the next bridge run,” Teft said. “Tie a rope to the bridge and toss it over, then tie the bag to it next time….”

  “Fifty feet of rope?” Kaladin said flatly. “It would draw enough attention to buy something like that.”

  “Nah, gancho,” Lopen said. “I have a cousin who works in a place that sells rope. I could get some for you easy, with money.”

  “Perhaps,” Kaladin said. “But you’d still have to hide it in the litter, then hang it down into the chasm without anyone seeing. And to leave it dangling there for several days? It would be noticed.”

  The others nodded. Rock seemed very uncomfortable. Sighing, Kaladin took out the bow and several arrows. “We’ll just have to chance this. Teft, why don’t you…”

  “Oh, Kali’kalin’s ghost,” Rock muttered. “Here, give me bow.” He shoved his way through the bridgemen, taking the bow from Kaladin. Kaladin hid a smile.

  Rock glanced upward, judging the distance in the waning light. He strung the bowstring, then held out a hand. Kaladin handed him an arrow. He leveled the bow back down the chasm and launched. The arrow flew swiftly, clattering against chasm walls.

  Rock nodded to himself, then pointed at Kaladin’s pouch. “We take only five spheres,” Rock said. “Any more would be too heavy. Is crazy to try with even five. Airsick lowlanders.”

  Kaladin smiled, then counted out five sapphire marks-together about two and a half months’ worth of pay for a bridgeman-and placed them in a spare pouch. He handed that to Rock, who pulled out a knife and dug a notch into an arrow’s wood next to the arrowhead.

  Skar folded his arms and leaned against the mossy wall. “This is stealing, you know.”

  “Yes,” Kaladin said, watching Rock. “And I don’t feel the least bit bad about it. Do you?”

  “Not at all,” Skar said, grinning. “I figure once someone is trying to get you killed, all expectations of your loyalty are tossed to the storm. But if someone were to go to Gaz…”

  The other bridgemen suddenly grew nervous, and more than a few eyes darted toward Shen, though Kaladin could see that Skar wasn’t thinking of the Parshman. If one of the bridgemen were to betray the rest of them, he might earn himself a reward.

  “Maybe we should post a watch,” Drehy said. “You know, make sure nobody sneaks off to talk to Gaz.”

  “We’ll do no such thing,” Kaladin said. “What are we going to do? Lock ourselves in the barrack, so suspicious of each other that we never get anything done?” He shook his head. “No. This is just one more danger. It’s a real one, but we can’t waste energy spying on each other. So we keep on going.”

  Skar didn’t look convinced.

  “We’re Bridge Four,” Kaladin said firmly. “We’ve faced death together. We have to trust each other. You can’t run into battle wondering if your companions are going to switch sides suddenly.” He met the eyes of each man in turn. “I trust you. All of you. We’ll make it through this, and we’ll do it together.”

  There were several nods; Skar seemed placated. Rock finished his work cutting the arrow, then proceeded to tie the pouch tightly around the shaft.

  Syl still sat on Kaladin’s shoulder. “You want me to watch the others? Make sure nobody does what Skar thinks they might?”

  Kaladin hesitated, then nodded. Best to be safe. He just didn’t want the men to have to think that way.

  Rock hefted the arrow, judging the weight. “Near impossible shot,” he complained. Then, in a smooth motion, he nocked the arrow and drew to his cheek, positioning himself directly beneath the bridge. The small pouch hung down, dangling against the wood of the arrow. The bridgemen held their breath.

  Rock loosed. The arrow streaked up the side of the chasm wall, almost too fast to follow. A faint click sounded as arrow met wood, and Kaladin held his breath, but the arrow did not pull free. It remained hanging there, precious spheres tied to its shaft, right next to the side of the bridge where it could be reached.

  Kaladin clapped Rock on the shoulder as the bridgemen cheered him.

  Rock eyed Kaladin. “I will not use bow to fight. You must know this thing.”

  “I promise,” Kaladin said. “I’ll take you if you agree, but I won’t force you.”

  “I will not fight,” Rock said. “Is not my place.” He glanced up at the spheres, then smiled faintly. “But shooting bridge is all right.”

  “How did you learn?” Kaladin asked.

  “Is secret,” Rock said firmly. “Take bow. Bother me no more.”

  “All right,” Kaladin said, accepting the bow. “But I don’t know if I can promise not to bother you. I may need a few more shots in the future.” He eyed Lopen. “You really think you can buy some rope without drawing attention?”

  Lopen lounged back against the wall. “My cousin’s never failed me.”

  “How many cousins do you have, anyway?” Earless Jaks asked.

  “A man can never have enough cousins,” Lopen said.

  “Well, we need that rope,” Kaladin said, the plan beginning to sprout in his mind. “Do it, Lopen. I’ll make change from those spheres above to pay for it.”

  56

  That Storming Book

  “Light grows so distant. The storm never stops. I am broken, and all around me have died. I weep for the end of all things. He has won. Oh, he has beaten us.”

  — Dated Palahakev, 1173, 16 seconds pre-death. Subject: a Thaylen sailor.

  Dalinar fought, the Thrill pulsing within him, swinging his Shardblade from atop Gallant’s back. Around him, Parshendi fell with eyes burning black.

  They came at him in pairs, each team trying to hit him from a different direction, keeping him busy and-they hoped-disoriented. If a pair could rush at him while he was distracted, they might be able to shove him off his mount. Those axes and maces-swung repeatedly-could crack his Plate. It was a very costly tactic; corpses lay scattered around Dalinar. But when fighting against a Shardbearer, every tactic was costly.

  Dalinar kept Gallant moving, dancing from side to side, swinging his Blade in broad sweeps. He stayed just a little ahead of the line of his men. A Shardbearer needed space to fight; the Blades were so long that hurting one’s companions was a very real danger. His honor guard would approach only if he fell or encountered trouble.

  The Thrill excited him, strengthened him. He hadn’t experienced the weakness again, the nausea he had on the battlefield that day weeks ago. Perhaps he’d been worried about nothing.

  He turned Gallant just in time to confront two pairs of Parshendi coming at him from behind, singing softly. He directed Gallant with his knees, performing an expert sweeping side-swing, cutting through the necks of two Parshendi, then the arm of a third. Eyes burned out in the first two, and they collapsed. The third dropped his weapon from a hand that grew suddenly lifeless, flopping down, its nerves all severed.

  The fourth member of that squad scrambled away, glaring at Dalinar. This was one of the Parshendi who didn’t wear a beard, and it seemed that there was something odd about his face. The cheek structure was just a little off….

  Was that a woman? Dalinar thought with amazement. It couldn’t have been. Could it?

  Behind him, his soldiers let out cheers as a large number of Parshendi scattered away to regroup. Dalinar lowered his Shardblade, the metal gleaming, gloryspren winking into the air around him. There was another reason for him to stay out ahead of his men. A Shardbearer wasn’t just a force of destruction; he was a force of morale and inspiration. The men fought more vigorously as they saw their brightlord felling foe after foe. Shardbearers changed battles.

  Since the Parshendi were broken for the moment, Dalinar climbed free of Gallant and dropped to the rocks. Corpses lay unbloodied all around him, though once he approached the place where his men had been fighting, orange-red blood stained the rocks. Cremlings scuttle
d about on the ground, lapping up the liquid, and painspren wriggled between them. Wounded Parshendi lay staring up into the air, faces masks of pain, singing a quiet, haunting song to themselves. Often just as whispers. They never yelled as they died.

  Dalinar felt the Thrill retreat as he joined his honor guard. “They’re getting too close to Gallant,” Dalinar said to Teleb, handing over the reins. The massive Ryshadium’s coat was flecked with frothy sweat. “I don’t want to risk him. Have a man run him to the back lines.”

  Teleb nodded, waving a soldier to obey the order. Dalinar hefted his Shardblade, scanning the battlefield. The Parshendi force was regrouping. As always, the two-person teams were the focus of their strategy. Each pair would have different weapons, and often one was clean-shaven while the other had a beard woven with gemstones. His scholars had suggested this was some kind of primitive apprenticeship.

  Dalinar inspected the clean-shaven ones for signs of any stubble. There was none, and more than a few had a faintly feminine shape to their faces. Could the ones without beards all be women? They didn’t appear to have much in the way of breasts, and their builds were like those of men, but the strange Parshendi armor could be masking things. The beardless ones did seem smaller by a few fingers, and the shapes of the faces…studying them, it seemed possible. Could the pairs be husbands and wives fighting together? That struck him as strangely fascinating. Was it possible that, despite six years of war, nobody had taken the time to investigate the genders of those they fought?

  Yes. The contested plateaus were so far out, nobody ever brought back Parshendi bodies; they just set men to pulling the gemstones out of their beards or gathering their weapons. Since Gavilar’s death, very little effort had been given to studying the Parshendi. Everyone just wanted them dead, and if there was one thing the Alethi were good at, it was killing.

  And you’re supposed to be killing them now, Dalinar told himself, not analyzing their culture. But he did decide to have his soldiers collect a few bodies for the scholars.