The Way of Kings

The members of Bridge Four relaxed, though they received more than a few appreciative looks from the other soldiers in line. For once, there was something other than scowls. Hopefully they wouldn’t realize that a squad of bridgemen had quickly and accurately made a battle formation commonly used in spear fighting.

Kaladin waved for his men to stand down, nodding his thanks. They fell back, and Kaladin tossed the recovered waterskin back to Lopen.

The shorter man smirked wryly. “I’ll keep a tighter grip on these things from now on, gancho.” He eyed the soldier who had tried to take the water.

“What?” Kaladin asked.

“Well, I’ve got a cousin in the water crews, you see,” Lopen said. “And I’m thinking that he might owe me a favor on account of this one time I helped his sister’s friend escape a guy looking for her…”

“You do have a lot of cousins.”

“Never enough. You bother one of us, you bother us all. That’s something you strawheads never seem to get. No offense or anything, gancho.”

Kaladin raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make trouble for the soldier. Not today.” I’ll make enough of that myself here soon.

Lopen sighed, but nodded. “All right. For you.” He held up a waterskin. “You sure you don’t want any?”

Kaladin didn’t; his stomach was too unsettled. But he made himself take the waterskin back and drink a few mouthfuls.

Before long, the time came to cross and pull the bridge up for the last run. The assault. Sadeas’s soldiers were forming ranks, lighteyes riding back and forth, calling orders. Matal waved Kaladin’s crew forward. Dalinar Kholin’s army had fallen behind, coming more slowly because of his larger numbers.

Kaladin took his place at the very front of his bridge. Ahead, the Parshendi were lined up with bows on the edge of their plateau, staring down the oncoming assault. Were they singing already? Kaladin thought he could hear their voices.

Moash was on Kaladin’s right, Rock on his left. Only three on the deathline, because of how shorthanded they were. He’d put Shen in the very back, so he wouldn’t see what Kaladin was about to do.

“I’m going to duck out from underneath once we start moving,” Kaladin told them. “Rock, you take over. Keep them running.”

“Very well,” Rock said. “It will be hard to carry without you. We have so few men, and we are very weak.”

“You’ll manage. You’ll have to.”

Kaladin couldn’t see Rock’s face, not positioned under the bridge as they were, but his voice sounded troubled. “This thing you will try, is dangerous?”

“Perhaps.”

“Can I help?”

“I’m afraid not, my friend. But it strengthens me to hear you ask.”

Rock didn’t get a chance to reply. Matal yelled for the bridge crews to go. Arrows shot overhead to distract the Parshendi. Bridge Four broke into a run.

And Kaladin ducked down and dashed out in front of them. Lopen was waiting to the side, and he tossed Kaladin the sack of armor.

Matal screamed at Kaladin in a panic, but the bridge crews were already in motion. Kaladin focused on his goal, protecting Bridge Four, and sucked in sharply. Stormlight flooded him from the pouch at his waist, but he didn’t draw too much. Just enough to give him a jolt of energy.

Syl zipped in front of him, a ripple in the air, nearly invisible. Kaladin whipped the tie off the sack, pulling out the vest and throwing it awkwardly over his head. He ignored the ties at the side, getting on the helm as he leaped over a small rock formation. The shield came last, clattering with red Parshendi bones in a crisscross pattern on the front.

Even while donning the armor, Kaladin easily stayed far ahead of the heavily laden bridge crews. His Stormlight-infused legs were quick and sure.

The Parshendi archers directly ahead of him abruptly stopped singing. Several of them lowered their bows, and though it was too distant to make out their faces, he could sense their outrage. Kaladin had expected this. He’d hoped for it.

The Parshendi left their dead. Not because they were uncaring, but because they found it a terrible offense to move them. Merely touching the dead seemed a sin. If that was the case, a man desecrating corpses and wearing them into battle would be far, far worse.

As Kaladin grew closer, a different song started among the Parshendi archers. A quick, violent song, more chant than melody. Those who had lowered their bows raised them.

And they tried with everything they had to kill him.

Arrows flew at him. Dozens of them. They weren’t fired in careful waves. They flew individually, rapidly, wildly, each archer loosing at Kaladin as quickly as he could. A swarm of death bore down on him.

Pulse racing, Kaladin ducked to the left, leaping off a small outcropping. Arrows sliced the air around him, dangerously close. But while infused with the Stormlight, his muscles reacted quickly. He dodged between arrows, then turned in the other direction, moving erratically.