The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

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

  But he had trouble convincing himself. Tien’s stint 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 hollow 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.

  It was happening again. Rock, Moash, Teft. They were all going to die. And here he lay, powerless again. He could barely move. He felt so drained.

  “Kaladin,” a voice whispered. He blinked. Syl was hovering in front of him. “Do you know the Words?”

  “All I wanted to do was protect them,” he whispered.

  “That’s why I’ve come. The Words, Kaladin.”

  “They’re going to die. I can’t save them. I-”

  Amaram slaughtered his men in front of him.

  A nameless Shardbearer killed Dallet.

  A lighteyes killed Tien.

  No.

  Kaladin rolled over and forced himself to his feet, wavering on weak legs.

  No!

  Bridge Four hadn’t set its bridge yet. That surprised him. They were still pushing it across the chasm, the Parshendi crowding up on the other side, eager, their song becoming more frantic. His delusions had seemed like hours, but had passed in just a few heartbeats.

  NO!

  Lopen’s litter was in front of Kaladin. A spear rested amid the drained water bottles and ragged bandages, steel head reflecting sunlight. It whispered to him. It terrified him, and he loved it.

  When the time comes, I hope you’re ready. Because this lot will need you.

  He seized the spear, the first real weapon he had held since his display in the chasm so many weeks ago. Then he started to run. Slowly at first. Picking up speed. Reckless, his body exhausted. But he did not stop. He pushed forward, harder, charging toward the bridge. It was only halfway across the chasm.

  Syl shot out in front of him, looking back, worried. “The Words, Kaladin!”

  Rock cried out as Kaladin ran onto the bridge as it was moving. The wood wobbled beneath him. It was out over the chasm, but hadn’t reached the other side.

  “Kaladin!” Teft yelled. “What are you doing?”

  Kaladin screamed, reaching the end of the bridge. Finding a tiny surge of strength somewhere, he raised his spear and threw himself off the end of the wooden platform, launching into the air above the cavernous void.

  Bridgemen cried out in dismay. Syl zipped about him with worry. Parshendi looked up with amazement as a lone bridgeman sailed through the air toward them.

  His drained, worn-out body barely had any strength left. In that moment of crystallized time, he looked down on his enemies. Parshendi with their marbled red and black skin. Soldiers raising finely crafted weapons, as if to cut him from the sky. Strangers, oddities in carapace breastplates and skullcaps. Many of them wearing beards.

  Beards woven with glowing gemstones.

  Kaladin breathed in.

  Like the power of salvation itself-like rays of sunlight from the eyes of the Almighty-Stormlight exploded from those gemstones. It streamed through the air, pulled in visible streams, like glowing columns of luminescent smoke. Twisting and turning and spiraling like tiny funnel clouds until they slammed into him.

  And the storm came to life again.

  Kaladin hit the rocky ledge, legs suddenly strong, mind, body, and blood alive with energy. He fell into a crouch, spear under his arm, a small ring of Stormlight expanding from him in a wave, pushed down to the stones by his fall. Stunned, the Parshendi shied away, eyes widening, song faltering.

  A trickle of Stormlight closed the wounds on his arm. He smiled, spear held before him. It was as familiar as the body of a lover long lost.

  The Words, a voice said, urgent, as if directly into his mind. In that moment, Kaladin was amazed to realize that he knew them, though they’d never been told to him.

  “I will protect those who cannot protect themselves,” he whispered.

  The Second Ideal of the Knights Radiant.

  A crack shook the air, like an enormous clap of thunder, though the sky was completely clear. Teft stumbled back-having just set the bridge in place-and found himself gaping with the rest of Bridge Four. Kaladin exploded with energy.

  A burst of whiteness washed out from him, a wave of white smoke. Stormlight. The force of it slammed into the first rank of Parshendi, tossing them backward, and Teft had to hold his hand up against the vibrancy of the light.

  “Something just changed,” Moash whispered, hand up. “Something important.”

  Kaladin raised his spear. The powerful light began to subside, retreating. A more subdued glow began to steam off his body. Radiant, like smoke from an ethereal fire.

  Nearby, some of the Parshendi fled, though others stepped up, raising weapons in challenge. Kaladin spun into them, a living storm of steel, wood, and determination.

  68

  Eshonai

  “They named it the Final Desolation, but they lied. Our gods lied. Oh, how they lied. The Everstorm comes. I hear its whispers, see its stormwall, know its heart.”

  — Tanatanes 1173, 8 seconds pre-death. An Azish itinerant worker. Sample of particular note.

  Soldiers in blue yelled, screaming war cries to encourage themselves. The sounds were like a roaring avalanche behind Adolin as he swung his Blade in wild swings. There was no room for a proper stance. He had to keep moving, punching through the Parshendi, leading his men toward the western chasm.

  His father’s horse and his own were still safe, carrying some wounded through the back ranks. The Shardbearers didn’t dare mount, though. In these close quarters, the Ryshadium would be chopped down and their riders dropped.

  This was the type of battlefield maneuver that would have been impossible without Shardbearers. A rush against superior numbers? Made by wounded, exhausted men? They should have been stop
ped cold and crushed.

  But Shardbearers could not be stopped so easily. Their armor leaking Stormlight, their six-foot Blades flashing in wide swaths, Adolin and Dalinar shattered the Parshendi defenses, creating an opening, a rift. Their men-the best-trained in the Alethi warcamps-knew how to use it. They formed a wedge behind their Shardbearers, prying the Parshendi armies open, using spearman formations to cut through and keep going forward.

  Adolin moved at almost a jog. The incline of the hill worked in their favor, giving them better footing, letting them rumble down the slope like charging chulls. The chance to survive when all had been thought lost gave the men a surge of energy for one last dash toward freedom.

  They took enormous casualties. Already, Dalinar’s force had lost another thousand of his four, probably more. But it didn’t matter. The Parshendi fought to kill, but the Alethi-this time-fought to live.

  Living Heralds above, Teft thought, watching Kaladin fight. Just moments ago, the lad had looked near death, skin a dull grey, hands shaking. Now he was a shining whirlwind, a storm wielding a spear. Teft had known many a battlefield, but he had never seen anything remotely like this. Kaladin held the ground before the bridge by himself. White Stormlight streamed from him like a blazing fire. His speed was incredible, nearly inhuman, and his precision-each thrust of the spear hit a neck, side, or other unarmored target of Parshendi flesh.

  It was more than the Stormlight. Teft had only a fragmentary recollection of the things his family had tried to teach him, but those memories all agreed. Stormlight did not grant skill. It could not make a man into something he was not. It enhanced, it strengthened, it invigorated.

  It perfected.

  Kaladin ducked low, slamming the butt against the leg of a Parshendi, dropping him to the ground, and came up to block an axe swing by catching the haft with that of his spear. He let go with one hand, sweeping the tip of the spear up under the arm of the Parshendi and ramming it into his armpit. As that Parshendi fell, Kaladin pulled his spear free and slammed the end into a Parshendi head that had gotten too close. The butt of the spear shattered with a spray of wood, and the Parshendi’s carapace helm exploded.