“Isn’t that a sight?” Moash said, stepping up beside Kaladin, looking back.
Kaladin turned. The Tower rose behind them, sloped in their direction. Kholin’s army was a circle of blue, trapped in the middle of the slope after trying to push down and get to Sadeas before he left. The Parshendi were a dark swarm with specks of red from their marbled skins. They pressed at the Alethi ring, compressing it.
“Such a shame,” Drehy said from beside their bridge, sitting on its lip. “Makes me sick.”
Other bridgemen nodded, and Kaladin was surprised to see the concern in their faces. Rock and Teft joined Kaladin and Moash, all wearing their Parshendi-carapace armor. He was glad they’d left Shen back in the camp. He’d have been catatonic at the sight of it all.
Teft cradled his wounded arm. Rock raised a hand to shade his eyes and shook his head, looking eastward. “Is a shame. A shame to Sadeas. A shame to us.”
“Bridge Four,” Matal called. “Come on!”
Matal was waving for them to cross Bridge Six’s bridge and leave the staging plateau. An idea came to Kaladin suddenly. A fantastic idea, like a blooming rockbud in his mind.
“We’ll follow with our own bridge, Matal,” Kaladin called. “We only just got to the chasm. We need to sit for a few minutes.”
“Cross now!” Matal yelled.
“We’ll just fall further behind!” Kaladin retorted. “You want to explain to Sadeas why he has to hold the entire army for one miserable bridge crew? We’ve got our bridge. Let my men rest. We’ll catch up to you later.”
“And if those savages come after you?” Matal demanded.
Kaladin shrugged.
Matal blinked, then seemed to realize how badly he wanted that to happen. “Suit yourself,” he called, rushing across bridge six as the other bridges were pulled up. In seconds, Kaladin’s team was alone beside the chasm, the army retreating westward.
Kaladin smiled broadly. “I can’t believe it, after all that worrying… Men, we’re free!”
The others turned to him, confused.
“We’ll follow in a short while,” Kaladin said eagerly, “and Matal will assume we’re coming. We fall farther and farther behind the army, until we’re out of sight. Then we’ll turn north, use the bridge to cross the Plains. We can escape northward, and everyone will just assume the Parshendi caught us and slaughtered us!”
The other bridgemen regarded him with wide eyes.
“Supplies,” Teft said.
“We have these spheres,” Kaladin said, pulling out his pouch. “A wealth of them, right here. We can take the armor and weapons from the dead over there and use those to defend ourselves from bandits. It will be hard, but we won’t be chased!”
The men were starting to grow excited. However, something gave Kaladin pause. What of the wounded bridgemen back in the camp?
“I’ll have to stay behind,” Kaladin said.
“What?” Moash demanded.
“Someone will need to,” Kaladin said. “For the good of our wounded in camp. We can’t abandon them. And if I stay behind, I can support the story. Wound me and leave me on one of the plateaus. Sadeas is sure to send scavengers back. I’ll tell them my crew was hunted down in retribution for desecrating the Parshendi corpses, our bridge tossed into the chasm. They’ll believe it; they’ve seen how the Parshendi hate us.”
The crew was all standing now, shooting glances at one another. Uncomfortable glances.
“We’re not leaving without you,” Sigzil said. Many of the others nodded.
“I’ll follow,” Kaladin said. “We can’t leave those men behind.”
“Kaladin, lad—” Teft began.
“We can talk about me later,” Kaladin interrupted. “Maybe I’ll go with you, then sneak back into camp later to rescue the wounded. For now, go salvage from those bodies.”
They hesitated.
“It’s an order, men!”
They moved, offering no further complaint, rushing to pilfer from the corpses Sadeas had abandoned. That left Kaladin alone beside the bridge.
He was still unsettled. It wasn’t just the wounded back in camp. What was it, then? This was a fantastic opportunity. The type he’d have practically killed to get during his years as a slave. The chance to vanish, presumed dead? The bridgemen wouldn’t have to fight. They were free. Why, then, was he so anxious?
Kaladin turned to survey his men, and was shocked to see someone standing beside him. A woman of translucent white light.
It was Syl, as he’d never seen her before, the size of a regular person, hands clasped in front of her, hair and dress streaming to the side in the wind. He’d had no idea she could make herself so large. She stared eastward, her expression horrified, eyes wide and sorrowful. It was the face of a child watching a brutal murder that stole her innocence.
Kaladin turned and slowly looked in the direction she was staring. Toward the Tower.
Toward Dalinar Kholin’s desperate army.
The sight of them twisted his heart. They fought so hopelessly. Surrounded. Abandoned. Left alone to die.
We have a bridge, Kaladin realized. If we could get it set… Most of the Parshendi were focused on the Alethi army, with only a token reserve force down at the base near the chasm. It was a small enough group that perhaps the bridgemen could contain them.
But no. That was idiocy. There were thousands of Parshendi soldiers blocking Kholin’s path to the chasm. And how would the bridgemen set their bridge, with no archers to support them?
Several of the bridgemen returned from their quick scavenge. Rock joined Kaladin, staring eastward, expression becoming grim. “This thing is terrible,” he said. “Can we not do something to help?”
Kaladin shook his head. “It would be suicide, Rock. We’d have to run a full assault without an army to support us.”
“Couldn’t we just go back a little of the way?” Skar asked. “Wait to see if Kholin can cut his way down to us? If he does, then we could set our bridge.”
“No,” Kaladin said. “If we stayed out of range, Kholin would assume us to be scouts left by Sadeas. We’ll have to charge the chasm. Otherwise he’d never come down to meet us.”
That made the bridgemen pale.
“Besides,” Kaladin added. “If we did somehow save some of those men, they’d talk, and Sadeas would know we still live. He’d hunt us down and kill us. By going back, we’d throw away our chance at freedom.”
The other bridgemen nodded at that. The rest had gathered, carrying weapons. It was time to go. Kaladin tried to squelch the feeling of despair inside him. This Dalinar Kholin was probably just like the others. Like Roshone, like Sadeas, like any number of other lighteyes. Pretending virtue but corrupted inside.
But he has thousands of darkeyed soldiers with him, a part of him thought. Men who don’t deserve this terrible fate. Men like my old spear crew.
“We owe them nothing,” Kaladin whispered. He thought could see Dalinar Kholin’s banner, flying blue at the front of his army. “You got them into this, Kholin. I won’t let my men die for you.” He turned his back on the Tower.
Syl still stood beside him, facing eastward. It made his very soul twist in knots to see that look of despair on her face. “Are windspren attracted to wind,” she asked softly, “or do they make it?”
“I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “Does it matter?”
“Perhaps not. You see, I’ve remembered what kind of spren I am.”
“Is this the time for it, Syl?”
“I bind things, Kaladin,” she said, turning and meeting his eyes. “I am honorspren. Spirit of oaths. Of promises. And of nobility.”
Kaladin could faintly hear the sounds of the battle. Or was that just his mind, searching for something he knew to be there?
Could he hear the men dying?
Could he see the soldiers running away, scattering, leaving their warlord alone?
Everyone else fleeing. Kaladin kneeling over Dallet’s body.
A green-and-bu
rgundy banner, flying alone on the field.
“I’ve been here before!” Kaladin bellowed, turning back toward that blue banner.
Dalinar always fought at the front.
“What happened last time?” Kaladin yelled. “I’ve learned! I won’t be a fool again!”
It seemed to crush him. Sadeas’s betrayal, his exhaustion, the deaths of so many. He was there again for a moment, kneeling in Amaram’s mobile headquarters, watching the last of his friends being slaughtered, too weak and hurt to save them.
He raised a trembling hand to his head, feeling the brand there, wet with his sweat. “I owe you nothing, Kholin.”
And his father’s voice seemed to whisper a reply. Somebody has to start, son. Somebody has to step forward and do what is right, because it is right. If nobody starts, then others cannot follow.
Dalinar had come to help Kaladin’s men, attacking those archers and saving Bridge Four.
The lighteyes don’t care about life, Lirin had said. So I must. So we must.
So you must….
Life before death.
I’ve failed so often. I’ve been knocked to the ground and trod upon.
Strength before weakness.
This would be death I’d lead my friends to…
Journey before destination.…death, and what is right.
“We have to go back,” Kaladin said softly. “Storm it, we have to go back.”
He turned to the members of Bridge Four. One by one, they nodded. Men who had been the dregs of the army just months before—men who had once cared for nothing but their own skins—took deep breaths, tossed away thoughts for their own safety, and nodded. They would follow him.
Kaladin looked up and sucked in a deep breath. Stormlight rushed into him like a wave, as if he’d put his lips up to a highstorm and drawn it into himself.
“Bridge up!” he commanded.
The members of Bridge Four cheered their agreement, grabbing their bridge and hoisting it high. Kaladin pulled on a shield, grabbing the straps in his hand.
Then he turned, raising it high. With a shout, he led his men in a charge back toward that abandoned blue banner.
Dalinar’s Plate leaked Stormlight from dozens of small breaks; no major piece had escaped. Light rose above him like steam from a cauldron, lingering as Stormlight did, slowly diffusing.
The sun beat down upon him, baking him as he fought. He was so tired. It hadn’t been long since Sadeas’s betrayal, not as time was counted in battles. But Dalinar had pushed himself hard, staying at the very front, fighting side by side with Adolin. His Plate had lost much Stormlight. It was growing heavier, and lent him less power with each swing. Soon it would weigh him down, slowing him so the Parshendi could swarm over him.
He’d killed many of them. So many. A frightening number, and he did it without the Thrill. He was hollow inside. Better that than pleasure.
He hadn’t killed nearly enough of them. They focused on Dalinar and Adolin; with Shardbearers on the front line, any breach would soon be patched by a man in gleaming armor and a deadly Blade. The Parshendi had to bring him and Adolin down first. They knew it. Dalinar knew it. Adolin knew it.
Stories spoke of battlefields where the Shardbearers were the last ones standing, pulled down by their enemies after long, heroic fights. Completely unrealistic. If you killed the Shardbearers first, you could take their Blades and turn them against the enemy.
He swung again, muscles lagging with fatigue. Dying first. It was a good place to be. Ask nothing of them you wouldn’t do yourself…. Dalinar stumbled on the rocks, his Shardplate feeling as heavy as regular armor.
He could be satisfied with the way he’d handled his own life. But his men… he had failed them. Thinking of the way he had stupidly led then into a trap, that sickened him.
And then there was Navani.
Of all the times to finally begin courting her, Dalinar thought. Six years wasted. A lifetime wasted. And now she’ll have to grieve again.
That thought made him raise his arms and steady his feet on the stone. He fought off the Parshendi. Struggling on. For her. He would not let himself fall while he still had strength.
Nearby, Adolin’s armor leaked as well. The youth was extending himself more and more to protect his father. There had been no discussion of trying, perhaps, to leap the chasms and flee. With chasms so wide, the chances were slim—but beyond that, they would not abandon their men to die. He and Adolin had lived by the Codes. They would die by the Codes.
Dalinar swung again, staying at Adolin’s side, fighting in that just-out-of-reach tandem way of two Shardbearers. Sweat streamed down his face inside his helm, and he shot a final glance toward the disappearing army. It was just barely visible on the horizon. Dalinar’s current position gave him a good view down to the west.
Let that man be cursed for…
For…
Blood of my fathers, what is that?
A small force was moving across the western plateau, running toward the Tower. A solitary bridge crew, carrying their bridge.
“It can’t be,” Dalinar said, stepping back from the fighting, letting the Cobalt Guard—what was left of them—rush in to defend him. Distrusting his eyes, he pushed his visor up. The rest of Sadeas’s army was gone, but this single bridge crew remained. Why?
“Adolin!” he bellowed, pointing with his Shardblade, a surge of hope flooding his limbs.
The young man turned, tracing Dalinar’s gesture. Adolin froze. “Impossible!” he yelled. “What kind of trap is that?”
“A foolish one, if it is a trap. We are already dead.”
“But why would he send one back? What purpose?”
“Does it matter?”
They hesitated for a moment amid the battle. Both knew the answer.
“Assault formations!” Dalinar yelled, turning back to his troops. Stormfather, there were so few of them left. Less than half of his original eight thousand.
“Form up,” Adolin called. “Get ready to move! We’re going to punch through them, men. Gather everything you’ve got. We’ve got one chance!”
A slim one, Dalinar thought, pulling his visor down. We’ll have to cut through the rest of the Parshendi army. Even if they reached the bottom, they’d probably find the crew dead, their bridge cast into the chasm. The Parshendi archers were already forming up; there were more than a hundred of them. It would be a slaughter.
But it was a hope. A tiny, precious hope. If his army was going to fall, it would do so while trying to seize that hope.
Raising his Shardblade high, feeling a surge of strength and determination, Dalinar charged forward at the head of his men.
For the second time in one day, Kaladin ran toward an armed Parshendi position, shield before him, wearing armor cut from the corpse of a fallen enemy. Perhaps he should have felt revolted at what he’d done in creating his armor. But it was no worse than what the Parshendi had done in killing Dunny, Maps, and that nameless man who had shown Kaladin kindness on his first day as a bridgemen. Kaladin still wore that man’s sandals.
Us and them, he thought. That was the only way a soldier could think of it. For today, Dalinar Kholin and his men were part of the “us.”
A group of Parshendi had seen the bridgemen approaching and was setting up with bows. Fortunately, it appeared that Dalinar had seen Kaladin’s band as well, for the army in blue was beginning to cut its way toward rescue.
It wasn’t going to work. There were too many Parshendi, and Dalinar’s men would be tired. It was another disaster. But for once, Kaladin charged into it with eyes wide open.
This is my choice, he thought as the Parshendi archers formed up. It’s not some angry god watching me, not some spren playing tricks, not some twist of fate.
It’s me. I chose to follow Tien. I chose to charge the Shardbearer and save Amaram. I chose to escape the slave pits. And now, I choose to try to rescue these men, though I know I will probably fail.
The Parshendi loosed their arr
ows, and Kaladin felt an exaltation. Tiredness evaporated, fatigue fled. He wasn’t fighting for Sadeas. He wasn’t working to line someone’s pockets. He was fighting to protect.
The arrows zipped at him and he swung his shield in an arc, spraying them away. Others came, shooting this way and that, seeking his flesh. He stayed just ahead of them, leaping as they shot for his thighs, turning as they shot for his shoulders, raising his shield when they shot for his face. It wasn’t easy, and more than a few arrows got close to him, scoring his breastplate or shin guards. But none hit. He was doing it. He was—
Something was wrong.
He spun between two arrows, confused.
“Kaladin!” Syl said, hovering nearby, back to her smaller form. “There!”
She pointed toward the other staging plateau, the one nearby that Dalinar had used for his assault. A large contingent of Parshendi had jumped across to that plateau and were kneeling down, raising bows. Pointed not at him, but right at Bridge Four’s unshielded flank.
“No!” Kaladin screamed, Stormlight escaping from his mouth in a cloud. He turned and ran back across the rocky plateau toward the bridge crew. Arrows launched at him from behind. One took his backplate square on, but skidded aside. Another hit his helm. He leaped over a rocky rift, dashing with all the speed his Stormlight could lend him.
The Parshendi at the side were drawing. There were at least fifty of them. He was going to be too late. He was going to—
“Bridge Four!” he bellowed. “Side carry right!”
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.
The Way of Kings Page 113