The Way of Kings

Because it would make me one of you. Because I can’t look at that weapon and not see the faces of the men its wielder slaughtered so offhandedly.

Because… because…

“I can’t really answer that, sir,” Kaladin said, sighing.

The stormwarden walked over to the room’s brazier, shaking his head. He began warming his hands.

“Look,” Kaladin said. “Those Shards are mine. Well, I said to give them to Coreb. He’s the highest ranked of my soldiers, and the best fighter among them.” The other three would understand. Besides, Coreb would take care of them, once he was a lighteyes.

Amaram looked at Coreb, then nodded to his attendants. One closed the window shutters. The others pulled out swords, then began moving toward the four remaining members of Kaladin’s squad.

Kaladin yelled, leaping forward, but two of the officers had positioned themselves close to him. One slammed a punch into Kaladin’s gut as soon as he started moving. He was so surprised that it connected directly, and he gasped.

No.

He fought off the pain, turning to swing at the man. The man’s eyes opened wide as Kaladin’s fist connected, throwing him backward. Several other men piled on him. He had no weapons, and he was so tired from the battle that he could barely stay upright. They knocked him to the ground with punches to his side and back. He collapsed to the floor, pained, but still able to watch as the soldiers came at his men.

Reesh was cut down first. Kaladin gasped, stretching out a hand, struggling to his knees.

This can’t happen. Please, no!

Hab and Alabet had their knives out, but fell quickly, one soldier gutting Hab as two others hacked down Alabet. Alabet’s knife thumped as it hit the ground, followed by his arm, then finally his corpse.

Coreb lasted the longest, backing away, hands held forward. He didn’t scream. He seemed to understand. Kaladin’s eyes were watering, and soldiers grabbed him from behind, stopping him from helping.

Coreb’s fell to his knees and began to beg. One of Amaram’s men took him at the neck, neatly severing his head. It was over in seconds.

“You bastard!” Kaladin said, gasping against his pain. “You storming bastard!” Kaladin found himself weeping, struggling uselessly at the four men holding him. The blood of the fallen spearmen soaked the boards.

They were dead. All of them were dead. Stormfather! All of them!

Amaram stepped forward, expression grim. He went down on one knee before Kaladin. “I’m sorry.”

“Bastard!” Kaladin screamed as loud as he could.

“I couldn’t risk them telling what they saw. This is what must be, soldier. It’s for the good of the army. They’re going to be told that your squad helped the Shardbearer. You see, the men must believe that I killed him.”

“You’re taking the Shards for yourself!”

“I am trained in the sword,” Amaram said, “and am accustomed to plate. It will serve Alethkar best if I bear the Shards.”

“You could have asked me for them! Storm you!”

“And when news got around camp?” Amaram said grimly. “That you’d killed the Shardbearer but I had the Shards? Nobody would believe that you’d given them up of your own free choice. Besides, son. You wouldn’t have let me keep them.” Amaram shook his head. “You’d have changed your mind. In a day or two, you’d have wanted the wealth and prestige – others would convince you of it. You’d have demanded that I return them to you. It took hours to decide, but Restares is right – this is what must be done. For the good of Alethkar.”

“It’s not about Alethkar! It’s about you! Storm it, you’re supposed to be better than the others!” Tears dripped from Kaladin’s chin.

Amaram looked guilty suddenly, as if he knew what Kaladin had said was true. He turned away, waving to the stormwarden. The man turned from the brazier, holding something he’d been heating in the coals. A small branding iron.

“It’s all an act?” Kaladin asked. “The honorable brightlord who cares about his men? Lies? All of it?”

“This is for my men,” Amaram said. He took the Shardblade from the cloth, holding it in his hand. The gemstone at its pommel let out a flash of white light. “You can’t begin to understand the weights I carry, spearman.” Amaram’s voice lost some of its calm tone of reason. He sounded defensive. “I can’t worry about the lives of a few darkeyed spearmen when thousands of people may be saved by my decision.”

The stormwarden stepped up to Kaladin, positioning the branding iron. The glyphs, reversed, read sas nahn. A slave’s brand.

“You came for me,” Amaram said, limping to the door, stepping around Reesh’s body. “For saving my life, I spare yours. Five men telling the same story would have been believed, but a single slave will be ignored. The warcamp will be told that you didn’t try to help your fellows – but you didn’t try to stop them, either. You fled and were captured by my guard.”