The Way of Kings

“I…” Kaladin trailed off. He could imagine Dallet doing something like this. He’d always said that as sergeant, part of his job was to keep Kaladin alive. “All right.”

Teft nodded, rising.

“You were a spearman, Teft,” Kaladin said. “Don’t try to deny it. How did you end up here, in these bridge crews?”

“It’s where I belong.” Teft turned away to supervise the search for wounded.

Kaladin sat down, then lay back, waiting for the shock to wear off. To the south, the other army – flying the blue of Dalinar Kholin – had arrived. They crossed to an adjacent plateau.

Kaladin closed his eyes to recover. Eventually, he heard something and opened his eyes. Syl sat cross-legged on his chest. Behind her, Dalinar Kholin’s army had begun an assault onto the battlefield, and they managed to do so without getting fired on. Sadeas had the Parshendi cut off.

“That was amazing,” Kaladin said to Syl. “What I did with the arrows.”

“Still think you’re cursed?”

“No. I know I’m not.” He looked up at the overcast sky. “But that means the failures were all just me. I let Tien die, I failed my spearmen, the slaves I tried to rescue, Tarah…” He hadn’t thought of her in some time. His failure with her had been different from the others, but a failure it was nonetheless. “If there’s no curse or bad luck, no god above being angry at me – I have to live with knowing that with a little more effort – a little more practice or skill – I could have saved them.”

Syl frowned more deeply. “Kaladin, you need to get over this. Those things aren’t your fault.”

“That’s what my father always used to say.” He smiled faintly. “‘Overcome your guilt, Kaladin. Care, but not too much. Take responsibility, but don’t blame yourself.’ Protect, save, help – but know when to give up. They’re such precarious ledges to walk. How do I do it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know any of this, Kaladin. But you’re ripping yourself apart. Inside and out.”

Kaladin stared at the sky above. “It was wondrous. I was a storm, Syl. The Parshendi couldn’t touch me. The arrows were nothing.”

“You’re too new to this. You pushed yourself too hard.”

“‘Save them,’” Kaladin whispered. “‘Do the impossible, Kaladin. But don’t push yourself too hard. But also don’t feel guilty if you fail.’ Precarious ledges, Syl. So narrow…”

Some of his men returned with a wounded man, a square-faced Thaylen fellow with an arrow in the shoulder. Kaladin went to work. His hands were still shaking slightly, but not nearly as badly as they had been.

The bridgemen clustered around, watching. He’d started training Rock, Drehy, and Skar already, but with all of them watching, Kaladin found himself explaining. “If you put pressure here, you can slow the blood flow. This isn’t too dangerous a wound, though it probably doesn’t feel too good…” – the patient grimaced his agreement – “… and the real problem will come from infection. Wash the wound to make sure there aren’t any slivers of wood or bits of metal left, then sew it. The muscles and skin of the shoulder here are going to get worked, so you need a strong thread to hold the wound together. Now…”

“Kaladin,” Lopen said, sounding worried.

“Wha?” Kaladin said, distracted, still working.

“Kaladin!”

Lopen had called him by his name, rather than saying gancho. Kaladin stood up, turning to see the short Herdazian man standing at the back of the crowd, pointing at the chasm. The battle had moved farther north, but a group of Parshendi had punched through Sadeas’s line. They had bows.

Kaladin watched, stunned, as the group of Parshendi fell into formation and nocked. Fifty arrows, all pointed at Kaladin’s crew. The Parshendi didn’t seem to care that they were exposing themselves to attack from behind. They seemed focused on only one thing.

Destroying Kaladin and his men.

Kaladin screamed the alarm, but he felt so sluggish, so tired. The bridgemen around him turned as the archers drew. Sadeas’s men normally defended the chasm to keep Parshendi from pushing over the bridges and cutting off their escape. But this time, noticing that the archers weren’t trying to drop the bridges, the soldiers didn’t hasten to stop them. They left the bridgemen to die, instead cutting off the Parshendi route to the bridges themselves.

Kaladin’s men were exposed. Perfect targets. No, Kaladin thought. No! It can’t happen like this. Not after–

A force crashed into the Parshendi line. A single figure in slate-grey armor, wielding a sword as long as many men were tall. The Shardbearer swept through the distracted archers with urgency, slicing into their ranks. Arrows flew toward Kaladin’s team, but they were loosed too early, aimed poorly. A few came close as the bridgemen ducked for cover, but nobody was hit.

Parshendi fell before the sweeping Blade of the Shardbearer, some toppling into the chasm, others scrambling back. The rest died with burned-out eyes. In seconds, the squad of fifty archers had been reduced to corpses.