The Way of Kings

They’d laid him on his side, and he could barely see the Tower. New groups of Parshendi – ones who hadn’t seen Kaladin’s display – were making for the chasm, bearing weapons. Bridge Four arrived and set down their bridge. They unstrapped their shields and hurriedly retrieved spears from the sacks of salvage tied at the bridge’s side. Then the men went to their positions pushing at the sides, preparing to slide the bridge across the gap.

The Parshendi teams didn’t have bows. They formed up to wait, weapons out. There were easily three times as many as there were bridgemen, and more were coming.

“We’ve got to go help,” Skar said to Lopen and Teft.

The other two nodded, and all three – two wounded and one missing an arm – climbed to their feet. Kaladin tried to do likewise, but he fell back down, legs too weak to hold him.

“Stay, lad,” Teft said, smiling. “We’ll handle it just fine.” They gathered some spears from a stock Lopen had put in his litter, then hobbled out to join the bridge crew. Even Dabbid joined them. He hadn’t spoken since being wounded on that first bridge run, so long ago.

Kaladin crawled up to the lip of the depression, watching them. Syl landed on the stone beside him. “Storming fools,” Kaladin muttered. “Shouldn’t have followed me. Proud of them anyway.”

“Kaladin…” Syl said.

“Is there anything you can do?” He was so storming tired. “Something to make me stronger?”

She shook her head.

A short distance ahead, the bridgemen began to push. The bridge’s wood scraped loudly as it crossed the rocks, moving out over the chasm toward the waiting Parshendi. They began singing that harsh battle song, the one they did whenever they saw Kaladin in his armor.

The Parshendi looked eager, angry, deadly. They wanted blood. They would cut into the bridgemen and rip them apart, then drop the bridge – and their corpses – into the void beneath.

It’s happening again, Kaladin thought, dazed and overwhelmed. He found himself curling up, drained and shaken. I can’t get to them. They’ll die. Right before me. Tukks. Dead. Nelda. Dead. Goshel. Dead. Dallet. Cenn. Maps. Dunny. Dead. Dead. Dead…

Tien.

Dead.

Lying huddled in a hollow in the rock. The sounds of battle ringing in the distance. Death surrounding him.

In a moment, he was there again, on that most horrible of days.

Kaladin stumbled through the cursing, screaming, fighting chaos of war, clinging to his spear. He’d dropped his shield. He needed to find a shield somewhere. Shouldn’t he have a shield?

It was his third real battle. He’d been in Amaram’s army only a few months, but already Hearthstone seemed a world away. He reached a hollow of rock and crouched down, pushing his back to it, breathing in and out, fingers slick on the spear’s shaft. He was shaking.

He’d never realized how idyllic his life had been. Away from war. Away from death. Away from those screams, the cacophony of metal on metal, metal on wood, metal on flesh. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out.

No, he thought. Open your eyes. Don’t let them find you and kill you that easily.

He forced his eyes open, then turned and peeked out over the battlefield. It was a complete mess. They fought on a large hillside, thousands of men on either side, intermixing and killing. How could anyone keep track of anything in this insanity?

Amaram’s army – Kaladin’s army – was trying to hold the hilltop. Another army, also Alethi, was trying to take it from them. That was all Kaladin knew. The enemy seemed more numerous than his own army.

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.