The Way of Kings sa-1

by Brandon Sanderson

  Hesitantly, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “He refused to pay, claiming his reputation made it a pleasure for me.” She grimaced. “He kicked me the first time after I made a comment about his ‘reputation.’ It apparently wasn’t what he thought he was known for.”

  The brightlord chuckled. “I suggest you insist on being paid first from now on. We’ll escort you to the border. I advise against returning to Sadeas’s warcamp anytime soon.”

  The woman nodded, holding the front of her dress to her chest. Her safehand was still exposed. Sleek, with tan skin, the fingers long and delicate. Kaladin found himself staring at it and blushing. She sidled up to the brightlord while his two comrades watched the sides of the streets, halberds ready. Even with her hair disheveled and her makeup smudged, she was quite pretty. “Thank you, Brightlord. Perhaps I could interest you? There would be no charge.”

  The young brightlord raised an eyebrow. “Tempting,” he said, “but my father would kill me. He has this thing about the old ways.”

  “A pity,” she said, pulling away from him, awkwardly covering her chest as she slipped her arm into its sleeve. She took out a glove for her safehand. “Your father is quite prudish, then?”

  “You might say that.” He turned toward Kaladin. “Ho, bridgeboy.”

  Bridgeboy? This lordling looked to be just a few years older than Kaladin himself.

  “Run and give word to Brightlord Reral Makoram,” the Shardbearer said, flipping something across the street toward Kaladin. A sphere. It sparkled in the sunlight before Kaladin caught it. “He’s in the Sixth Battalion. Tell him that Adolin Kholin won’t make today’s meeting. I’ll send word to reschedule another time.”

  Kaladin looked down at the sphere. An emerald chip. More than he normally earned in two weeks. He looked up; the young brightlord and his two men were already retreating, the whore following.

  “You rushed to help her,” a voice said. He looked up as Syl floated down to rest on his shoulder. “That was very noble of you.”

  “Those others got there first,” Kaladin said. And one of them a lighteyes, no less. What was in it for him?

  “You still tried to help.”

  “Foolishly,” Kaladin said. “What would I have done? Fought down a lighteyes? That would have drawn half the camp’s soldiers down on me, and the whore would just have been beaten more for causing such a fracas. She could have ended up dead for my efforts.” He fell silent. That sounded too much like what he’d been saying before.

  He couldn’t give in to assuming he was cursed, or had bad luck, or whatever it was. Superstition never got a man anywhere. But he had to admit, the pattern was disturbing. If he acted as he always had before, how could he expect different results? He had to try something new. Change, somehow. This was going to take more thought.

  Kaladin began walking back toward the lumberyard.

  “Aren’t you going to do what the brightlord asked?” Syl said. She didn’t show any lingering effects of her sudden fright; it was as if she wanted to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  “After how he treated me?” Kaladin snapped.

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “I’m not going to bow to them,” Kaladin said. “I’m done running at their whims just because they expect me to do so. If he was so worried about this message, then he should have waited to make certain I was willing.”

  “You took his sphere.”

  “Earned by the sweat of the darkeyes he exploits.”

  Syl fell silent for a moment. “This darkness about you when you talk of them frightens me, Kaladin. You stop being yourself when you think about lighteyes.”

  He didn’t respond, just continuing on his way. He owed that brightlord nothing, and besides, he had orders to be back in the lumberyard.

  But the man had stepped up to protect the woman.

  No, Kaladin told himself forcefully. He was just looking for a way to embarrass one of Sadeas’s officers. Everyone knows there’s tension between the camps.

  And that was all he let himself think on the subject.

  47

  Stormblessings

  ONE YEAR AGO

  Kaladin turned the rock over in his fingers, letting the facets of suspended quartz catch the light. He leaned against a large boulder, one foot pressed back against the stone, his spear next to him.

  The rock caught the light, spinning it in different colors, depending on the direction he turned it. Beautiful, miniature crystals shimmered, like the cities made of gemstones mentioned in lore.

  Around him, Highmarshal Amaram’s army prepared for battle. Six thousand men sharpened spears or strapped on leather armor. The battlefield was nearby, and, with no highstorms expected, the army had spent the night in tents.

  It had been nearly four years since he’d joined Amaram’s army on that rainy night. Four years. And an eternity.

  Soldiers hurried this way and that. Some raised hands and called greetings to Kaladin. He nodded to them, pocketing the stone, then folded his arms to wait. In the near distance, Amaram’s standard was already flying, a burgundy field blazoned with a dark green glyphpair shaped like a whitespine with tusks upraised. Merem and khakh, honor and determination. The banner fluttered before a rising sun, the morning’s chill starting to give way to the heat of the day.

  Kaladin turned, looking eastward. Toward a home to which he could never return. He’d decided months ago. His enlistment would be up in a few weeks, but he would sign on again. He couldn’t face his parents after having broken his promise to protect Tien.

  A heavyset darkeyed soldier trotted up to him, an axe strapped to his back, white knots on his shoulders. The nonstandard weapon was a privilege of being a squadleader. Gare had beefy forearms and a thick black beard, though he’d lost a large section of scalp on the right side of his head. He was followed by two of his sergeants-Nalem and Korabet.

  “Kaladin,” Gare said. “Stormfather, man! Why are you pestering me? On a battle day!”

  “I’m well aware of what’s ahead, Gare,” Kaladin said, arms still folded. Several companies were already gathering, forming ranks. Dallet would see Kaladin’s own squad into place. At the front, they’d decided. Their enemy-a lighteyes named Hallaw-was fond of long volleys. They’d fought his men several times before. One time in particular was burned into Kaladin’s memory and soul.

  He had joined Amaram’s army expecting to defend the Alethi borders-and defend them he did. Against other Alethi. Lesser landlords who sought to slice off bits of Highprince Sadeas’s lands. Occasionally, Amaram’s armies would try to seize territory from other highprinces-lands Amaram claimed really belonged to Sadeas and had been stolen years before. Kaladin didn’t know what to make of that. Of all lighteyes, Amaram was the only one he trusted. But it did seem like they were doing the same thing as the armies they fought.

  “Kaladin?” Gare asked impatiently.

  “You have something I want,” Kaladin said. “New recruit, just joined yesterday. Galan says his name is Cenn.”

  Gare scowled. “I’m supposed to play this game with you now? Talk to me after the battle. If the boy survives, maybe I’ll give him to you.” He turned to leave, cronies following.

  Kaladin stood up straight, picking up his spear. The motion stopped Gare in his tracks.

  “It’s not going to be a trouble to you,” Kaladin said quietly. “Just send the boy to my squad. Accept your payment. Stay quiet.” He pulled out a pouch of spheres.

  “Maybe I don’t want to sell him,” Gare said, turning back.

  “You’re not selling him. You’re transferring him to me.”

  Gare eyed the pouch. “Well then, maybe I don’t like how everyone does what you tell them. I don’t care how good you are with a spear. My squad is my own.”

  “I’m not going to give you any more, Gare,” Kaladin said, dropping the pouch to the ground. The spheres clinked. “We both know the boy is useless to you. Untrained, ill-equipped, too small to make a good line
soldier. Send him to me.”

  Kaladin turned and began to walk away. Within seconds, he heard a clink as Gare recovered the pouch. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

  Kaladin kept walking.

  “What do these recruits mean to you, anyway?” Gare called after Kaladin. “Your squad is half made up of men too small to fight properly! Almost makes a man think you want to get killed!”

  Kaladin ignored him. He passed through the camp, waving to those who waved at him. Most everyone kept out of his way, either because they knew and respected him or they’d heard of his reputation. Youngest squadleader in the army, only four years of experience and already in command. A darkeyed man had to travel to the Shattered Plains to go any higher in rank.

  The camp was a bedlam of soldiers hurrying about in last-minute preparations. More and more companies were gathering at the line, and Kaladin could see the enemy lining up on the shallow ridge across the field to the west.

  The enemy. That was what they were called. Yet whenever there was an actual border dispute with the Vedens or the Reshi, those men would line up beside Amaram’s troops and they would fight together. It was as if the Nightwatcher toyed with them, playing some forbidden game of chance, occasionally setting the men on his gameboard as allies, then setting them to kill one another the next day.

  That wasn’t for spearmen to think about. So he’d been told. Repeatedly. He supposed he should listen, as he figured that his duty was to keep his squad alive as best he could. Winning was secondary to that.

  You can’t kill to protect….

  He found the surgeon’s station easily; he could smell the scents of antiseptics and of small fires burning. Those smells reminded him of his youth, which now seemed so far, far away. Had he ever really planned to go become a surgeon? What had happened to his parents? What of Roshone?

  Meaningless, now. He’d sent word to them via Amaram’s scribes, a terse note that had cost him a week’s wages. They knew he’d failed, and they knew he didn’t intend to return. There had been no reply.

  Ven was the chief of the surgeons, a tall man with a bulbous nose and a long face. He stood watching as his apprentices folded bandages. Kaladin had once idly considered getting wounded so he could join them; all of the apprentices had some incapacitation that prevented them from fighting. Kaladin hadn’t been able to do it. Wounding himself seemed cowardly. Besides, surgery was his old life. In a way, he didn’t deserve it anymore.

  Kaladin pulled a pouch of spheres from his belt, meaning to toss it to Ven. The pouch stuck, however, refusing to come free of the belt. Kaladin cursed, stumbling, tugging at the pouch. It came free suddenly, causing him to lose his balance again. A translucent white form zipped away, spinning with a carefree air.

  “Storming windspren,” he said. They were common out on these rocky plains.

  He continued past the surgery pavilion, tossing the pouch of spheres to Ven. The tall man caught it deftly, making it vanish into a pocket of his voluminous white robe. The bribe would ensure that Kaladin’s men were served first on the battlefield, assuming there were no lighteyes who needed the attention.

  It was time to join the line. He sped up, jogging along, spear in hand. Nobody gave him grief for wearing trousers under his leather spearman’s skirt-something he did so his men could recognize him from behind. In fact, nobody gave him grief about much of anything these days. That still felt odd, after so many struggles during his first years in the army.

  He still didn’t feel as if he belonged. His reputation set him apart, but what was he to do? It kept his men from being taunted, and after several years of dealing with disaster after disaster, he could finally pause and think.

  He wasn’t certain he liked that. Thinking had proven dangerous lately. It had been a long while since he’d taken out that rock and thought of Tien and home.

  He made his way to the front ranks, spotting his men right where he’d told them to go. “Dallet,” Kaladin called, as he trotted over to the mountainous spearman who was the squad’s sergeant. “We’re soon going to have a new recruit. I need you to…” He trailed off. A young man, maybe fourteen, stood beside Dallet, looking tiny in his spearman’s armor.

  Kaladin felt a flash of recall. Another lad, one with a familiar face, holding a spear he wasn’t supposed to need. Two promises broken at once.

  “He found his way here just a few minutes ago, sir,” Dallet said. “I’ve been gettin’ him ready.”

  Kaladin shook himself out of the moment. Tien was dead. But Stormfather, this new lad looked a lot like him.

  “Well done,” Kaladin said to Dallet, forcing himself to look away from Cenn. “I paid good money to get that boy away from Gare. That man’s so incompetent he might as well be fighting for the other side.”

  Dallet grunted in agreement. The men would know what to do with Cenn.

  All right, Kaladin thought, scanning the battlefield for a good place for his men to stand their ground, let’s get to it.

  He’d heard stories about the soldiers who fought on the Shattered Plains. The real soldiers. If you showed enough promise fighting in these border disputes, you were sent there. It was supposed to be safer there-far more soldiers, but fewer battles. So Kaladin wanted to get his squad there as soon as possible.

  He conferred with Dallet, picking a place to hold. Eventually, the horns blew.

  Kaladin’s squad charged.

  “Where’s the boy?” Kaladin said, yanking his spear out of the chest of a man in brown. The enemy soldier fell to the ground, groaning. “Dallet!”

  The burly sergeant was fighting. He couldn’t turn to acknowledge the yell.

  Kaladin cursed, scanning the chaotic battlefield. Spears hit shields, flesh, leather; men yelled and screamed. Painspren swarmed the ground, like small orange hands or bits of sinew, reaching up from the ground amid the blood of the fallen.

  Kaladin’s squad was all accounted for, their wounded protected at the center. All except the new boy. Tien.

  Cenn, Kaladin thought. His name is Cenn.

  Kaladin caught sight of a flash of green in the middle of the enemy brown. A terrified voice somehow cut through the commotion. It was him.

  Kaladin threw himself out of formation, prompting a call of surprise from Larn, who had been fighting at his side. Kaladin ducked past a spear thrust by an enemy, dashing over the stony ground, hopping corpses.

  Cenn had been knocked to the ground, spear raised. An enemy soldier slammed his weapon down.

  No.

  Kaladin blocked the blow, deflecting the enemy spear and skidding to a stop in front of Cenn. There were six spearmen here, all wearing brown. Kaladin spun among them in a wild offensive rush. His spear seemed to flow of its own accord. He swept the feet out from under one man, took down another with a thrown knife.

  He was like water running down a hill, flowing, always moving. Spearheads flashed in the air around him, hafts hissing with speed. Not one hit him. He could not be stopped, not when he felt like this. When he had the energy of defending the fallen, the power of standing to protect one of his men.

  Kaladin snapped his spear into a resting position, crouching with one foot forward, one behind, spear held under his arm. Sweat trickled from his brow, cooled by the breeze. Odd. There hadn’t been a breeze before. Now it seemed to envelop him.

  All six enemy spearmen were dead or incapacitated. Kaladin breathed in and out once, then turned to see to Cenn’s wound. He dropped his spear beside him, kneeling. The cut wasn’t that bad, though it probably pained the lad terribly.

  Getting out a bandage, Kaladin gave the battlefield one quick glance. Nearby, an enemy soldier stirred, but he was wounded badly enough that he wouldn’t be trouble. Dallet and the rest of Kaladin’s team were clearing the area of enemy stragglers. In the near distance, an enemy lighteyes of high rank was rallying a small group of soldiers for a counterattack. He wore full plate. Not Shardplate, of course, but silvery steel. A rich man, judging from his horse.

 
In a heartbeat, Kaladin was back to binding Cenn’s leg-though he kept watch on the wounded enemy soldier from the corner of his eye.

  “Kaladin, sir!” Cenn exclaimed, pointing at the soldier who had stirred. Stormfather! Had the boy only just noticed the man? Had Kaladin’s battle senses ever been as dull as this boy’s?

  Dallet pushed the wounded enemy away. The rest of the squad made a ring formation around Kaladin, Dallet, and Cenn. Kaladin finished his binding, then stood, picking up his spear.

  Dallet handed him back his knives. “Had me worried there, sir. Running off like that.”

  “I knew you’d follow,” Kaladin said. “Raise the red banner. Cyn, Korater, you’re going back with the boy. Dallet, hold here. Amaram’s line is bulging this direction. We should be safe soon.”

  “And you, sir?” Dallet asked.

  In the near distance, the lighteyes had failed to rally enough troops. He was exposed, like a stone left behind by a stream running dry.

  “A Shardbearer,” Cenn said.

  Dallet snorted. “No, thank the Stormfather. Just a lighteyed officer. Shardbearers are far too valuable to waste on a minor border dispute.”

  Kaladin clenched his jaw, watching that lighteyed warrior. How mighty the man thought himself, sitting on his expensive horse, kept safe from the spearmen by his majestic armor and tall mount. He swung his mace, killing those around him.

  These skirmishes were caused by ones like him, greedy minor lighteyes who tried to steal land while the better men were away, fighting the Parshendi. His type had far, far fewer casualties than the spearmen, and so the lives under his command became cheap things.

  More and more over the last few years, each and every one of these petty lighteyes had come to represent Roshone in Kaladin’s eyes. Only Amaram himself stood apart. Amaram, who had treated Kaladin’s father so well, promising to keep Tien safe. Amaram, who always spoke with respect, even to lowly spearmen. He was like Dalinar and Sadeas. Not this riffraff.