The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson
The warcamps were enormous. All told, there were over a hundred thousand troops in the various Alethi camps, many times the population of Hearthstone. And that wasn’t counting the civilians. A mobile warcamp attracted a large array of camp followers; stationary warcamps like these on the Shattered Plains brought even more.
Each of the ten warcamps filled its own crater, and was filled with an incongruous mix of Soulcast buildings, shanties, and tents. Some merchants, like the apothecary, had the money to build a wooden structure. Those who lived in tents took them down for storms, then paid for shelter elsewhere. Even within the crater, the stormwinds were strong, particularly where the outer wall was low or broken. Some places—like the lumberyard—were completely exposed.
The street bustled with the usual crowd. Women in skirts and blouses—the wives, sisters, or daughters of the soldiers, merchants, or craftsmen. Workers in trousers or overalls. A large number of soldiers in leathers, carrying spear and shield. All were Sadeas’s men. Soldiers of one camp didn’t mix with those of another, and you stayed away from another brightlord’s crater unless you had business there.
Kaladin shook his head in dismay.
“What?” Syl asked, settling on his shoulder.
“I hadn’t expected there to be so much discord among the camps here. I thought it would all be one king’s army, unified.”
“People are discord,” Syl said.
“What does that mean?”
“You all act differently and think differently. Nothing else is like that—animals act alike, and all spren are, in a sense, virtually the same individual. There’s harmony in that. But not in you—it seems that no two of you can agree on anything. All the world does as it is supposed to, except for humans. Maybe that’s why you so often want to kill each other.”
“But not all windspren act alike,” Kaladin said, opening the box and tucking some of the bandages into the pocket he’d sewn into the inside of his leather vest. “You’re proof of that.”
“I know,” she said softly. “Maybe now you can see why it bothers me so.”
Kaladin didn’t know how to respond to that. Eventually, he reached the lumberyard. A few members of Bridge Four lounged in the shade on the east side of their barrack. It would be interesting to see one of those barracks get made—they were Soulcast directly from air into stone. Unfortunately, Soulcastings happened at night, and under strict guard to keep the holy rite from being witnessed by anyone other than ardents or very high-ranking lighteyes.
The first afternoon bell sounded right as Kaladin reached the barrack, and he caught a glare from Gaz for nearly being late for bridge duty. Most of that “duty” would be spent sitting around, waiting for the horns to blow. Well, Kaladin didn’t intend to waste time. He couldn’t risk tiring himself by carrying the plank, not when a bridge run could be imminent, but perhaps he could do some stretches or—
A horn sounded in the air, crisp and clean. It was like the mythical horn that was said to guide the souls of the brave to heaven’s battlefield. Kaladin froze. As always, he waited for the second blast, an irrational part of him needing to hear confirmation. It came, sounding a pattern indicating the location of the pupating chasmfiend.
Soldiers began to scramble toward the staging area beside the lumberyard; others ran into camp to fetch their gear. “Line up!” Kaladin shouted, dashing up to the bridgemen. “Storm you! Every man in a line!”
They ignored him. Some of the men weren’t wearing their vests, and they clogged the barrack doorway, all trying to get in. Those who had their vests ran for the bridge. Kaladin followed, frustrated. Once there, the men gathered around the bridge in a carefully prearranged manner. Each man got a chance to be in the best position: running in front up to the chasm, then moving to the relative safety of the back for the final approach.
There was a strict rotation, and errors were neither made nor tolerated. Bridge crews had a brutal system of self-management: If a man tried to cheat, the others forced him to run the final approach in front. That sort of thing was supposed to be forbidden, but Gaz turned a blind eye toward cheaters. He also refused bribes to let men change positions. Perhaps he knew that the only stability—the only hope—the bridgemen had was in their rotation. Life wasn’t fair, being a bridgeman wasn’t fair, but at least if you ran the deathline and survived, the next time you got to run at the back.
There was one exception. As bridgeleader, Kaladin got to run in the front most of the way, then move to the back for the assault. His was the safest position in the group, though no bridgeman was truly safe. Kaladin was like a moldy crust on a starving man’s plate; not the first bite, but still doomed.
He got into position. Yake, Dunny, and Malop were the last stragglers. Once they’d taken their places, Kaladin commanded the men to lift. He was half surprised to be obeyed, but there was almost always a bridgeleader to give commands during a run. The voice changed, but the simple orders did not. Lift, run, lower.
Twenty bridges charged down from the lumberyard and toward the Shattered Plains. Kaladin noticed a group of bridgemen from Bridge Seven watching with relief. They’d been on duty until the first afternoon bell; they’d avoided this run by mere moments.
The bridgemen worked hard. It wasn’t just because of threats of beatings—they ran so hard because they wanted to arrive at the target plateau before the Parshendi did. If they did so, there would be no arrows, no death. And so running their bridges was the one thing the bridgemen did without reservation or laziness. Though many hated their lives, they still clung to them with white-knuckled fervor.
They clomped across the first of the permanent bridges. Kaladin’s muscles groaned in protest at being worked again so soon, but he tried not to dwell on his fatigue. The highstorm’s rains from the night before meant that most plants were still open, rockbuds spewing out vines, flowering branzahs reaching clawlike branches out of crevices toward the sky. There were also occasional prickletacs: the needly, stone-limbed little shrubs Kaladin had noticed his first time through the area. Water pooled in the numerous crevices and depressions on the surface of the uneven plateau.
Gaz called out directions, telling them which pathway to take. Many of the nearby plateaus had three or four bridges, creating branching paths across the Plains. The running became rote. It was exhausting, but it was also familiar, and it was nice to be at the front, where he could see where he was going. Kaladin fell into his usual step-counting mantra, as he’d been advised to do by that nameless bridgeman whose sandals he still wore.
Eventually, they reached the last of the permanent bridges. They crossed a short plateau, passing the smoldering ruins of a bridge the Parshendi had destroyed during the night. How had the Parshendi managed that, during a highstorm? Earlier, while listening to the soldiers, he’d learned that the soldiers regarded the Parshendi with hatred, anger, and not a little awe. These Parshendi weren’t like the lazy, nearly mute parshmen who worked throughout Roshar. These Parshendi were warriors of no small skill. That still struck Kaladin as incongruous. Parshmen? Fighting? It was just so strange.
Bridge Four and the other crews got their bridges down, spanning a chasm where it was narrowest. His men collapsed to the ground around their bridge, relaxing while the army crossed. Kaladin nearly joined them—in fact, his knees nearly buckled in anticipation.
No, he thought, steadying himself. No. I stand.
It was a foolish gesture. The other bridgemen barely paid him any heed. One man, Moash, even swore at him. But now that Kaladin had made the decision, he stubbornly stuck to it, clasping his hands behind his back and falling into parade rest while watching the army cross.
“Ho, little bridgeman!” a soldier called from among those waiting their turn. “Curious at what real soldiers look like?”
Kaladin turned toward the man, a solid, brown-eyed fellow with arms the size of many men’s thighs. He was a squadleader, by the knots on the shoulder of his leather jerkin. Kaladin had borne those knots once.
&nbs
The man frowned, but Kaladin knew what he was thinking. A soldier’s gear was his life; you cared for your weapon as you’d care for your children, often seeing to its upkeep before you took food or rest.
Kaladin nodded to the bridge. “This is my bridge,” he said in a loud voice. “It is my weapon, the only one allowed me. Treat her well.”
“Or you’ll do what?” called one of the other soldiers, prompting laughter among the ranks. The squadleader said nothing. He looked troubled.
Kaladin’s words were bravado. In truth, he hated the bridge. Still, he remained standing.
A few moments later, Highprince Sadeas himself crossed on Kaladin’s bridge. Brightlord Amaram had always seemed so heroic, so distinguished. A gentleman general. This Sadeas was a different creature entirely, with that round face, curly hair, and lofty expression. He rode as if he were in a parade, one hand lightly holding the reins before him, the other carrying his helm under his arm. His armor was painted red, and the helm bore frivolous tassels. There was so much pointless pomp that it nearly overshadowed the wonder of the ancient artifact.
Kaladin forgot his fatigue and formed his hands into fists. Here was a lighteyes he could hate even more than most, a man so callous that he threw away the lives of hundreds of bridgemen each month. A man who had expressly forbidden his bridgemen to have shields for reasons Kaladin still didn’t understand.
Sadeas and his honor guard soon passed, and Kaladin realized that he probably should have bowed. Sadeas hadn’t noticed, but it could have made trouble if he had. Shaking his head, Kaladin roused his bridge crew, though it took special prodding to get Rock—the large Horneater—up and moving. Once across the chasm, his men picked up their bridge and jogged toward the next chasm.
The process was repeated enough times that Kaladin lost count. At each crossing, he refused to lie down. He stood with hands behind his back, watching the army pass. More soldiers took note of him, jeering. Kaladin ignored them, and by the fifth or sixth crossing, the jeers faded. The one other time he saw Brightlord Sadeas, Kaladin gave a bow, though it made his stomach twist to do so. He did not serve this man. He did not give this man allegiance. But he did serve his men of Bridge Four. He would save them, and that meant he had to keep himself from being punished for insolence.
“Reverse runners!” Gaz called. “Cross and reverse!”
Kaladin turned sharply. The next crossing would be the assault. He squinted, looking into the distance, and could just barely make out a line of dark figures gathering on another plateau. The Parshendi had arrived and were forming up. Behind them, a group worked on breaking open the chrysalis.
Kaladin felt a spike of frustration. Their speed hadn’t been enough. And—tired though they were—Sadeas would want to attack quickly, before the Parshendi could get the gemheart out of its shell.
The bridgemen rose from their rest, silent, haunted. They knew what was coming. They crossed the chasm and pulled the bridge over, then rearranged themselves in reverse order. The soldiers formed ranks. It was all so silent, like men preparing to carry a casket to the pyre.
The bridgemen left a space for Kaladin at the back, sheltered and protected. Syl alighted on the bridge, looking at the spot. Kaladin walked up to it, so tired, mentally and physically. He’d pushed himself too hard in the morning, then again by standing instead of resting. What had possessed him to do such a thing? He could barely walk.
He looked over the bridgemen. His men were resigned, despondent, terrified. If they refused to run, they’d be executed. If they did run, they’d face the arrows. They didn’t look toward the distant line of Parshendi archers. Instead, they looked down.
They are your men, Kaladin told himself. They need you to lead them, even if they don’t know it.
How can you lead from the rear?
He stepped out of line and rounded the bridge; two of the men—Drehy and Teft—looked up in shock as he passed. The deathpoint—the spot in the very center of the front—was being held by Rock, the beefy, tan-skinned Horneater. Kaladin tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re in my spot, Rock.”
The man glanced at him, surprised. “But—”
“To the back with you.”
Rock frowned. Nobody ever tried to jump ahead in the order. “You’re airsick, lowlander,” he said with his thick accent. “You wish to die? Why do you not just go leap into the chasm? That would be easier.”
“I’m bridgeleader. It’s my privilege to run at the front. Go.”
Rock shrugged, but did as ordered, taking Kaladin’s position at the back. Nobody said a word. If Kaladin wanted to get himself killed, who were they to complain?
Kaladin looked over the bridgemen. “The longer we take to get this bridge down, the more arrows they can loose at us. Stay firm, stay determined, and be quick. Raise bridge!”
The men lifted, inner rows moving underneath and situating themselves in rows of five across. Kaladin stood at the very front with a tall, stout man named Leyten to his left, a spindly man named Murk to his right. Adis and Corl were at the edges. Five men in front. The deathline.
Once all of the crews had their bridges up, Gaz gave the command. “Assault!”
They ran, dashing alongside the standing ranks of the army, passing soldiers holding spears and shields. Some watched with curiosity, perhaps amused at the sight of the lowly bridgemen running so urgently to their deaths. Others looked away, perhaps ashamed of the lives it would cost to get them across that chasm.
Kaladin kept his eyes forward, squelching that incredulous voice in the back of his mind, one that screamed he was doing something very stupid. He barreled toward the final chasm, focused on the Parshendi line. Figures with black and crimson skin holding bows.
Syl flitted close to Kaladin’s head, no longer in the form of a person, streaking like a ribbon of light. She zipped in front of him.
The bows came up. Kaladin hadn’t been at the deathpoint during a charge this bad since his first day on the crew. They always put new men into rotation at the deathpoint. That way, if they died, you didn’t have to worry about training them.
The Parshendi archers drew, aiming at five or six of the bridge crews. Bridge Four was obviously in their sights.
The bows loosed.
“Tien!” Kaladin screamed, nearly mad with fatigue and frustration. He bellowed the name aloud—uncertain why—as a wall of arrows zipped toward him. Kaladin felt a jolt of energy, a surge of sudden strength, unanticipated and unexplained.
The arrows landed.
Murk fell without a sound, four or five arrows striking him, spraying his blood across the stones. Leyten dropped as well, and with him both Adis and Corl. Shafts struck the ground at Kaladin’s feet, shattering, and a good half dozen hit the wood around Kaladin’s head and hands.
Kaladin didn’t know if he’d been hit. He was too flush with energy and alarm. He continued running, screaming, holding the bridge on his shoulders. For some reason, a group of Parshendi archers ahead lowered their bows. He saw their marbled skin, strange reddish or orange helms, and simple brown clothing. They appeared confused.
Whatever the reason, it gained Bridge Four a few precious moments. By the time the Parshendi raised their bows again, Kaladin’s team had reached the chasm. His men fell into line with the other bridge crews—there were only fifteen bridges now. Five had fallen. They closed the gaps as they arrived.
Kaladin screamed for the bridgemen to drop amid another spray of arrows. One sliced open the skin near his ribs, deflecting off the bone. He felt it hit, but didn’t feel any pain. He scrambled around the side of the bridge, helping push. Kaladin’s team slammed the bridge into place as a wave of Alethi arrows distracted the enemy archers.
A troop of cavalry charged across the bridges. The bridgemen were soon forgotten. Kaladin fell to his knees beside the bridge as the others of his crew stumbled away, bloodied and hurt, their part in the battle over.
Kaladin held his side, feeling the blood there. Straight laceration, only about an inch long, not wide enough to be of danger.
It was his father’s voice.
Kaladin panted. He needed to get to safety. Arrows zipped over his head, fired by the Alethi archers.
Some people take lives. Other people save lives.
He wasn’t done yet. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and staggered to where someone lay beside the bridge. It was a bridgeman named Hobber; he had an arrow through the leg. The man moaned, holding his thigh.
Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and pulled him away from the bridge. The man cursed at the pain, dazed, as Kaladin towed him to a cleft behind a small bulge in the rock where Rock and some of the other bridgemen had sought shelter.
After dropping off Hobber—the arrow hadn’t hit any major arteries, and he would be fine for a time yet—Kaladin turned and tried to rush back out onto the battlefield proper. He slipped, however, stumbling in his fatigue. He hit the ground hard, grunting.
Some take lives. Some save lives.
He pushed himself to his feet, sweat dripping from his brow, and scrambled back toward the bridge, his father’s voice in his ears. The next bridgeman he found, a man named Koorm, was dead. Kaladin left the body.
Gadol had a deep wound in the side where an arrow had passed completely through him. His face was covered with blood from a gash on his temple, and he’d managed to crawl a short distance from the bridge. He looked up with frenzied black eyes, orange painspren waving around him. Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and towed him away just before a thundering charge of cavalry trampled the place where he’d been lying.