The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson
Dalinar felt a spike of fear, and he reined in Gallant. Elhokar slammed to the ground, dropping his Shardblade. The weapon reverted to mist, vanishing. It was a protection from keeping a Blade from being taken by your enemies; they vanished unless you willed them to stay when releasing them.
“Elhokar!” Dalinar bellowed. The king rolled, cape wrapping around his body, then came to rest. He lay dazed for a moment; the armor was cracked on one shoulder, leaking Stormlight. The Plate would have cushioned the fall. He’d be all right.
Unless—
A claw loomed above the king.
Dalinar felt a moment of panic, turning Gallant to charge toward the king. He was going to be too slow! The beast would—
An enormous arrow slammed into the chasmfiend’s head, cracking chitin. Purple gore spurted free, causing the beast to trump in agony. Dalinar twisted in the saddle.
Sadeas stood in his red Plate, taking another massive arrow from an attendant. He drew, launching the thick bolt into the chasmfiend’s shoulder with a sharp crack.
Dalinar raised Oathbringer in salute. Sadeas acknowledged, raising his bow. They were not friends, and they did not like one another.
But they would protect the king. That was the bond that united them.
“Get to safety!” Dalinar yelled to the king as he charged past. Elhokar stumbled to his feet and nodded.
Dalinar moved in. He had to distract the beast long enough for Elhokar to get away. More of Sadeas’s arrows flew true, but the monster started to ignore them. Its sluggishness vanished, and its bleats became angry, wild, crazed. It was growing truly enraged.
This was the most dangerous part; there would be no retreating now. It would follow them until it either killed them or was slain.
A claw smashed to the ground just beside Gallant, throwing chips of stone into the air. Dalinar hunkered low, careful to keep his Shardblade out, and he cut free another leg. Adolin had done the same on the other side. Seven legs down, half of them. How long before the beast dropped? Normally, at this stage, they had launched several dozen arrows into the animal. It was difficult to guess what one would do without that prior softening—beside that, he’d never fought one this large before.
He turned Gallant, trying to draw the creature’s attention. Hopefully, Elhokar had—
“Are you a god!” Elhokar bellowed.
Dalinar groaned, looking over his shoulder. The king had not fled. He strode toward the beast, hand to the side.
“I defy you, creature!” Elhokar screamed. “I claim your life! They will see their gods crushed, just as they will see their king dead at my feet! I defy you!”
Damnation’s own fool! Dalinar thought, rounding Gallant.
Elhokar’s Shardblade reformed in his hands, and he charged toward the monster’s chest, his cracked shoulder leaking Stormlight. He got close and swung at the beast’s torso, cutting free a piece of chitin—like a person’s hair or nails, it could be cut by a Blade. Then Elhokar slammed his weapon into the monster’s breast, seeking its heart.
The beast roared and shook, knocking Elhokar free. The king barely kept hold of his Blade. The beast spun. That movement, unfortunately, brought its tail at Dalinar. He cursed, yanking Gallant in a tight turn, but the tail came too quickly. It slammed into Gallant, and in a heartbeat Dalinar found himself rolling, Oathbringer tumbling from his fingers and slicing a gash in the stone ground before puffing to mist.
“Father!” a distant voice yelled.
Dalinar came to rest on the stones, dizzy. He raised his head to see Gallant stumbling to his feet. Blessedly, the horse hadn’t broken a leg, though the animal bled from scrapes and was favoring one leg.
“Away!” Dalinar said. The command word would send the horse to safety. Unlike Elhokar, it would obey.
Dalinar climbed to his feet, unsteady. A scraping sound came from his left, and Dalinar spun just in time for the chasmfiend’s tail to take him in the chest, tossing him backward.
Again the world lurched, and metal hit stone in a cacophony as he slid.
No! he thought, getting a gauntleted hand beneath himself and heaving, using the momentum of his slide to throw himself upright. As the sky spun, something seemed to right, as if the Plate itself knew which way was up. He landed—still moving, feet grinding on stone.
He got his balance, then charged toward the king, beginning the process of summoning his Shardblade again. Ten heartbeats. An eternity.
The archers continued to fire, and more than a few of their shafts bristled form the chasmfiend’s face. It ignored them, though Sadeas’s larger arrows still seemed to distract it. Adolin had sheared through another leg, and the creature lumbered uncertainly, eight of its fourteen legs dragging uselessly.
“Father!”
Dalinar turned to see Renarin—dressed in a stiff blue Kholin uniform, with a long coat buttoning to the neck—riding across the rocky ground. “Father, are you well? Can I help?”
“Fool boy!” Dalinar said, pointing. “Go!”
“But—”
“You’re unarmored and unarmed!” Dalinar bellowed. “Get back before you get yourself killed!”
Renarin pulled his roan horse to a halt.
“GO!”
Renarin galloped away. Dalinar turned and ran toward Elhokar, Oathbringer misting into existence in his waiting hand. Elhokar continued to hack at the beast’s lower torso, and sections of flesh blackened and died when the Shardblade struck. If he rammed the Shardblade in just right, he could stop the heart or lungs, but that would be difficult while the beast was upright.
Adolin—stalwart as always—had dismounted beside the king. He tried to stop the claws, striking at them as they fell. Unfortunately, there were four claws and only one of Adolin. Two swung at him at once, and though Adolin sliced a chunk out of one, he didn’t see the other sweeping at his back.
Dalinar called out too late. Shardplate snapped as the claw tossed Adolin into the air. He arced and hit in a tumble. His Plate didn’t shatter, thank the Heralds, but the breastplate and side cracked widely, leaking trails of white smoke.
Adolin rolled lethargically, hands moving. He was alive.
No time to think about him now. Elhokar was alone.
The beast struck, pounding the ground beside the king, knocking him off his feet. His blade vanished and Elhokar fell face-first on the stones.
Something changed inside of Dalinar. Reservations vanished. Other concerns became meaningless. His brother’s son was in danger.
He had failed Gavilar, had lain drunk in his wine while his brother fought for his life. Dalinar should have been there to defend him. Only two things remained of his beloved brother, two things that Dalinar could protect in a hope to earn some form of redemption: Gavilar’s kingdom and Gavilar’s son.
Elhokar was alone and in danger.
Nothing else mattered.
Adolin shook his head, dazed. He slammed his visor up, taking a gasp of fresh air to clear his mind.
Fighting. They were fighting. He could hear men screaming, rocks shaking, an enormous bleating sound. He smelled something moldy. Greatshell blood.
The chasmfiend! he thought. Before his mind was even clear, Adolin began summoning his Blade again and forced himself to his hands and knees.
The monster loomed a short distance away, a dark shadow upon the sky. Adolin had fallen near its right side. As his vision lost its fuzziness, he saw that the king was down, and his armor was cracked from the blow he’d taken earlier.
The chasmfiend raised a massive claw, preparing to slam it down. Adolin knew—suddenly—that disaster was upon them. The king would be killed on a simple hunt. The kingdom would shatter, the highprinces divided, the one tenuous link that kept them together cut away.
No! Adolin thought, stunned, still dazed, trying to stumble forward.
And then he saw his father.
Dalinar charged toward the king, moving with a speed and grace no man—not even one wearing Shardplate—should be able to man
Dalinar straightened and leaped—still moving forward—cresting by inches a second claw that smashed apart the rocky shelf behind him.
It was all just a moment. A breath. The third claw was falling toward the king, and Dalinar roared, leaping forward. He dropped his Blade—it hit the ground and puffed away—as he skidded beneath the falling claw. He raised his hands and—
And he caught it. He bent beneath the blow, going down on one knee, and the air rang with a resounding clang of carapace against armor.
But he caught it.
Stormfather! Adolin thought, watching his father stand over the king, bowed beneath the enormous weight of a monster many times his size. Shocked archers hesitated. Sadeas lowered his grandbow. Adolin’s breath caught in his chest.
Dalinar held back the claw and matched its strength, a figure in dark, silvery metal that almost seemed to glow. The beast trumpeted above, and Dalinar bellowed back a powerful, defiant yell.
In that moment, Adolin knew he was seeing him. The Blackthorn, the very man he’d been wishing he could fight alongside. The Plate of Dalinar’s gauntlets and shoulders began to crack, webs of light moving down the ancient metal. Adolin finally shook himself into motion. I have to help!
His Shardblade formed in his hand and he scrambled to the side and sheared through the leg nearest to him. There was a crack in the air. With so many legs down, the beast’s other legs couldn’t hold its weight, particularly when it was trying so hard to crush Dalinar. The remaining legs on its right side snapped with a sickening crunch, spraying out violet ichor, and the beast toppled to the side.
The ground shook, nearly knocking Adolin to his knees. Dalinar tossed aside the now-limp claw, Stormlight from the many cracks steaming above him. Nearby, the king picked himself up off the ground—it had been mere seconds since he’d fallen.
Elhokar stumbled to his feet, looking at the fallen beast. Then he turned to his uncle, the Blackthorn.
Dalinar nodded thankfully to Adolin, then gestured sharply toward what passed for the beast’s neck. Elhokar nodded, then summoned his Blade and rammed it deeply into the monster’s flesh. The creature’s uniform green eyes blackened and shriveled, smoke twisting into the air.
Adolin walked up to join his father, watching as Elhokar plunged his Blade into the chasmfiend’s chest. Now that the beast was dead, the Blade could cut its flesh. Violet ichor spurted out, and Elhokar dropped his blade and reached into the wound, questing with Plate-enhanced arms, grabbing something.
He ripped free the beast’s gemheart—the enormous gemstone that grew within all chasmfiends. It was lumpy and uncut, but it was a pure emerald and as big as a man’s head. It was the largest gemheart Adolin had ever seen, and even the small ones were worth a fortune.
Elhokar held aloft the grisly prize, golden gloryspren appearing around him, and the soldiers yelled in triumph.
Let me first assure you that the element is quite safe. I have found a good home for it. I protect its safety like I protect my own skin, you might say.
The morning after his decision in the highstorm, Kaladin made certain to arise before the others. He threw off his blanket and strode through the room full of blanketed lumps. He didn’t feel excited, but he did feel resolute. Determined to fight again.
He began that fight by throwing the door open to the sunlight. Groans and curses sounded behind him as the groggy bridgemen awoke. Kaladin turned toward them, hands on hips. Bridge Four currently had thirty-four members. That number fluctuated, but at least twenty-five were needed to carry the bridge. Anything below that, and the bridge would topple for certain. Sometimes, it did even with more members.
“Up and organize!” Kaladin shouted in his best squadleader’s voice. He shocked himself with the authority in it.
The men blinked bleary eyes.
“That means,” Kaladin bellowed, “out of the barrack and form ranks! You’ll do it now, storm you, or I’ll haul you out one by one myself!”
Syl fluttered down and landed on his shoulder, watching curiously. Some of the bridgemen sat up, staring at him, baffled. Others turned over in their blankets, putting their backs to him.
Kaladin took a deep breath. “So be it.” He strode into the room and chose a lean Alethi named Moash. He was a strong man; Kaladin needed an example, and one of the skinnier men like Dunny or Narm wouldn’t do. Plus, Moash was one of those who’d turned over to go back to sleep.
Kaladin grabbed Moash by one arm and heaved, pulling with all his strength. Moash stumbled to his feet. He was a younger man, perhaps near Kaladin’s age, and had a hawkish face.
“Storm off!” Moash snapped, pulling his arm back.
Kaladin punched Moash right in the gut, where he knew it would wind him. Moash gasped in shock, doubling over, and Kaladin stepped forward to grab him by the legs, slinging Moash over his shoulder.
Kaladin almost toppled from the weight. Luckily, carrying bridges was harsh but effective strength training. Of course, few bridgemen survived long enough to benefit from it. It didn’t help that there were unpredictable lulls between runs. That was part of the problem; the bridge crews spent most of their time staring at their feet or doing menial chores, then were expected to run for miles carrying a bridge.
He carted the shocked Moash outside and set him down on the stone. The rest of the camp was awake, woodworkers arriving at the lumberyard, soldiers jogging to their breakfast or training. The other bridge crews, of course, were still asleep. They were often allowed to sleep late, unless they were on morning bridge duty.
Kaladin left Moash and walked back into the low-ceilinged barrack. “I’ll do the same to each of you, if I have to.”
He didn’t have to. The shocked bridgemen filed out into the light, blinking. Most stood bare-backed to the sunlight, wearing only knee-length trousers. Moash climbed to his feet, rubbing his stomach and glaring at Kaladin.
“Things are going to change in Bridge Four,” Kaladin said. “For one thing, there will be no more sleeping in.”
“And what are we going to do instead?” Sigzil demanded. He had dark brown skin and black hair—that meant he was Makabaki, from southwestern Roshar. He was the only bridgeman without a beard, and judging by his smooth accent, he was probably Azish or Emuli. Foreigners were common in bridge crews—those who didn’t fit in often made their way to the crem of an army.
“Excellent question,” Kaladin said. “We are going to train. Each morning before our daily chores, we will run the bridge in practice to build up our endurance.”
More than one of the men’s expressions grew dark at this.
“I know what you are thinking,” Kaladin said. “Aren’t our lives hard enough? Shouldn’t we be able to relax during the brief times we have for it?”
“Yeah,” said Leyten, a tall, stout man with curly hair. “That’s right.”
“No,” Kaladin snapped. “Bridge runs exhaust us because we spend most of our days lounging. Oh, I know we have chores—foraging in the chasms, cleaning latrines, scrubbing floors. But the soldiers don’t expect us to work hard; they just want us busy. The work helps them ignore us.
“As your bridgeleader, my primary duty is to keep you alive. There’s not much I can do about the Parshendi arrows, so I have to do something about you. I have to make you stronger, so that when you charge that last leg of a bridge run—arrows flying—you can run quickly.” He met the eyes of the men in the line, one at a time. “I intend to see that Bridge Four never loses another man.”
The men stared at him incredulously. Finally, a hefty, thick-limbed man at the back bellowed out a laugh. He had tan skin, deep red hair, and was nearly seven feet tall, with large arms and a powerful torso. The Unkalaki—simply called Horneaters by most—were a group of people from the middle of Roshar, near Jah Keved. He’d given
“Crazy!” said the Horneater. “Is crazy man who now thinks to lead us!” He laughed in a deep-bellied way. The others joined him, shaking their heads at Kaladin’s speech. A few laughterspren—minnowlike silver spirits that darted through the air in circular patterns—began to zip about them.
“Hey Gaz,” Moash called, cupping his hand around his mouth.
The short, one-eyed sergeant was chatting with some soldiers nearby. “What?” Gaz yelled back with a scowl.
“This one wants us to carry bridges about as practice,” Moash called back. “Do we have to do what he says?”
“Bah,” Gaz said, waving a hand. “Bridgeleaders only have authority in the field.”
Moash glanced back at Kaladin. “Looks like you can storm off, friend. Unless you’re going to beat us all into submission.”
They broke apart, some men wandering back into the barrack, some walking toward the mess halls. Kaladin was left standing alone on the stones.
“That didn’t go so well,” Syl said from his shoulder.
“No. It didn’t.”
“You look surprised.”
“No, just frustrated.” He glared at Gaz. The bridge sergeant turned away from him pointedly. “In Amaram’s army, I was given men who were inexperienced, but never ones who were blatantly insubordinate.”
“What’s the difference?” Syl asked. Such an innocent question. The answer should have been obvious, but she cocked her head in confusion.
“The men in Amaram’s army knew they had worse places they could go. You could punish them. These bridgemen know they’ve reached the bottom.” With a sigh, he let some of his tension bleed away. “I’m lucky I got them out of the barrack.”
“So what do you do now?”
“I don’t know.” Kaladin glanced to the side, where Gaz still stood chatting with the soldiers. “Actually, yes I do.”