Dalinar nodded, sighing. Already his Plate was feeling sluggish. He’d probably have to remove it before they returned to the camp, lest it freeze on him.
To the side, several soldiers were pulling Sadeas free of his Plate. It was so far gone that the Light had stopped save for a few tiny wisps. It could be fixed, but it would be expensive-regenerating Shardplate generally shattered the gemstones it drew Light from.
The soldiers pulled Sadeas’s helm off, and Dalinar was relieved to see his former friend blinking, looking disoriented but largely uninjured. He had a cut on his thigh where one of the Parshendi had gotten him with a sword, and a few scrapes on his chest.
Sadeas looked up at Dalinar and Adolin. Dalinar stiffened, expecting recrimination-this had only happened because Dalinar had insisted on fighting with two armies on the same plateau. That had goaded the Parshendi into bringing another army. Dalinar should have set proper scouts to watch for that.
Sadeas, however, smiled a wide grin. “Stormfather, but that was close! How goes the battle?”
“The Parshendi are routed,” Adolin said. “The last force resisting was the one around you. Our men are cutting the gemheart free at this moment. The day is ours.”
“We win again!” Sadeas said triumphantly. “Dalinar, once in a while, it appears that senile old brain of yours can come up with a good idea or two!”
“We’re the same age, Sadeas.” Dalinar noted as messengers approached, bearing reports from the rest of the battlefield.
“Spread the word,” Sadeas proclaimed. “Tonight, all my soldiers will feast as if they were lighteyes!” He smiled as his soldiers helped him to his feet, and Adolin moved over to take the scout reports. Sadeas waved away the help insisting he could stand despite his wound, and began calling for his officers.
Dalinar turned to seek out Gallant and make sure the horse’s wound was cared for. As he did, however, Sadeas caught his arm.
“I should be dead,” Sadeas said softly.
“Perhaps.”
“I didn’t see much. But I thought I saw you alone. Where was your honor guard?”
“I had to leave it behind,” Dalinar said. “It was the only way to get to you in time.”
Sadeas frowned. “That was a terrible risk, Dalinar. Why?”
“You do not abandon your allies on the battlefield. Not unless there’s no recourse. It is one of the Codes.”
Sadeas shook his head. “That honor of yours is going to get you killed, Dalinar.” He seemed bemused. “Not that I feel like offering a complaint about it this day!”
“If I should die,” Dalinar said, “then I would do so having lived my life right. It is not the destination that matters, but how one arrives there.”
“The Codes?”
“No. The Way of Kings.”
“That storming book.”
“That storming book saved your life today, Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “I think I’m starting to understand what Gavilar saw in it.”
Sadeas scowled at that, though he glanced at his armor, lying in pieces nearby. He shook his head. “Perhaps I shall let you tell me what you mean. I’d like to understand you again, old friend. I’m beginning to wonder if I ever really did.” He let go of Dalinar’s arm. “Someone bring me my storming horse! Where are my officers?”
Dalinar left, and quickly found several members of his guard seeing to Gallant. As he joined them, he was struck by the sheer number of corpses on the ground. They ran in a line where he had punched through the Parshendi ranks to get to Sadeas, a trail of death.
He looked back to where he’d made his stand. Dozens dead. Perhaps hundreds.
Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought. Did I do that? He hadn’t killed in such numbers since the early days of helping Gavilar unite Alethkar. And he hadn’t grown sick at the sight of death since his youth.
Yet now he found himself revolted, barely able to keep his stomach under control. He would not retch on the battlefield. His men should not see that.
He stumbled away, one hand to his head, the other carrying his helm. He should be exulting. But he couldn’t. He just…couldn’t.
You will need luck trying to understand me, Sadeas, he thought. Because I’m having Damnation’s own trouble trying to do so myself.
57
Wandersail
“I hold the suckling child in my hands, a knife at his throat, and know that all who live wish me to let the blade slip. Spill its blood upon the ground, over my hands, and with it gain us further breath to draw.”
— Dated Shashanan, 1173, 23 seconds pre-death. Subject: a darkeyed youth of sixteen years. Sample is of particular note.
“And all the world was shattered!” Maps yelled, back arching, eyes wide, flecks of red spittle on his cheeks. “The rocks trembled with their steps, and the stones reached toward the heavens. We die! We die!”
He spasmed one last time, and the light faded from his eyes. Kaladin sat back, crimson blood slick on his hands, the dagger he’d been using as a surgical knife slipping from his fingers and clicking softly against the stone. The affable man lay dead on the stones of a plateau, arrow wound in his left breast open to the air, splitting the birthmark he’d claimed looked like Alethkar.
It’s taking them, Kaladin thought. One by one. Open them up, bleed them out. We’re nothing more than pouches to carry blood. Then we die, rain it down on the stones like a highstorm’s floods.
Until only I remain. I always remain.
A layer of skin, a layer of fat, a layer of muscle, a layer of bone. That was what men were.
The battle raged across the chasm. It might as well have been another kingdom, for all the attention anyone gave the bridgemen. Die die die, then get out of our way.
The members of Bridge Four stood in a solemn ring around Kaladin. “What was that he said at the end?” Skar asked. “The rocks trembled?”
“It was nothing,” said thick-armed Yake. “Just dying delirium. It happens to men, sometimes.”
“More often lately, it seems,” Teft said. He held his hand to his arm, where he’d hastily wrapped a bandage around an arrow wound. He wouldn’t be carrying a bridge anytime soon. Maps’s death and Arik’s death left them with only twenty-six members now. It was barely enough to carry a bridge. The greater heaviness was very noticeable, and they had difficulty keeping up with the other bridge crews. A few more losses, and they’d be in serious trouble.
I should have been faster, Kaladin thought, looking down at Maps splayed open, his insides exposed for the sun to dry. The arrowhead had pierced his lung and lodged in his spine. Could Lirin have saved him? If Kaladin had studied in Kharbranth as his father had wished, would he have learned enough-known enough-to prevent deaths like this?
This happens sometimes, son….
Kaladin raised shaking bloody hands to his face, gripping his head, as memory consumed him. A young girl, a cracked head, a broken leg, an angry father.
Despair, hate, loss, frustration, horror. How could any man live this way? To be a surgeon, to live knowing that you would be too weak to save some? When other men failed, a field of crops got worms in them. When a surgeon failed, someone died.
You have to learn when to care….
As if he could choose. Banish it, like snuffing a lantern. Kaladin bowed beneath the weight. I should have saved him, I should have saved him, I should have saved him.
Maps, Dunny, Amark, Goshel, Dallet, Nalma. Tien.
“Kaladin.” Syl’s voice. “Be strong.”
“If I were strong,” he hissed, “they would live.”
“The other bridgemen still need you. You promised them, Kaladin. You gave your oath.”
Kaladin looked up. The bridgemen seemed anxious and worried. There were only eight of them; Kaladin had sent the others to look for fallen bridgemen from other crews. They’d found three initially, minor wounds that Skar could care for. No runners had come for him. Either the bridge crews had no other wounded, or those wounded were beyond help.
M
aybe he should have gone to look, just in case. But-numb-he could not face yet another dying man he could not save. He stumbled to his feet and walked away from the corpse. He stepped up to the chasm and forced himself to fall into the old stance Tukks had taught him.
Feet apart, hands behind his back, clasping forearms. Straight-backed, staring forward. The familiarity brought him strength.
You were wrong, Father, he thought. You said I’d learn to deal with the deaths. And yet here I am. Years later. Same problem.
The bridgemen fell in around him. Lopen approached with a waterskin. Kaladin hesitated, then accepted the skin, washing off his face and hands. The warm water splashed across his skin, then brought welcome coolness as it evaporated. He let out a deep breath, nodding thanks to the short Herdazian man.
Lopen raised an eyebrow, then gestured to the pouch tied to his waist. He had recovered the newest pouch of spheres they’d stuck to the bridge with an arrow. This was the fourth time they’d done that, and had recovered them each without incident.
“Did you have any trouble?” Kaladin asked.
“No, gancho,” Lopen said, smiling widely. “Easy as tripping a Horneater.”
“I heard that,” Rock said gruffly, standing in parade rest a short distance away.
“And the rope?” Kaladin asked.
“I dropped the whole coil right over the side,” Lopen said. “But I didn’t tie the end to anything. Just like you said.”
“Good,” Kaladin said. A rope dangling from a bridge would have just been too obvious. If Hashal or Gaz caught scent of what Kaladin was planning…
And where is Gaz? Kaladin thought. Why didn’t he come on the bridge run?
Lopen gave Kaladin the pouch of spheres, as if eager to be rid of the responsibility. Kaladin accepted it, stuffing it into his trouser pocket.
Lopen retreated, and Kaladin fell back into parade rest. The plateau on the other side of the chasm was long and thin, with steep slopes on the sides. Just as in the last few battles, Dalinar Kholin helped Sadeas’s force. He always arrived late. Perhaps he blamed his slow, chull-pulled bridges. Very convenient. His men often had the luxury of crossing without archery fire.
Sadeas and Dalinar won more battles this way. Not that it mattered to the bridgemen.
Many people were dying on the other side of the chasm, but Kaladin didn’t feel a thing for them. No itch to heal them, no desire to help. Kaladin could thank Hav for that, for training him to think in terms of “us” and “them.” In a way, Kaladin had learned what his father had talked about. In the wrong way, but it was something. Protect the “us,” destroy the “them.” A soldier had to think like that. So Kaladin hated the Parshendi. They were the enemy. If he hadn’t learned to divide his mind like that, war would have destroyed him.
Perhaps it had done so anyway.
As he watched the battle, he focused on one thing in particular to distract himself. How did the Parshendi treat their dead? Their actions seemed irregular. The Parshendi soldiers rarely disturbed their dead after they fell; they’d take roundabout paths of attack to avoid dead bodies. And when the Alethi marched over the Parshendi dead, they formed points of terrible conflict.
Did the Alethi notice? Probably not. But he could see that the Parshendi revered their dead-revered them to the extent that they would endanger the living to preserve the corpses of the fallen. Kaladin could use that. He would use that. Somehow.
The Alethi eventually won the battle. Before long, Kaladin and his team were slogging back across the plateau, carrying their bridge, three wounded lashed to the top. They had found only those three, and a part of Kaladin felt sick inside as he realized another part of him was glad. He had already rescued some fifteen men from other bridge crews, and it was straining their resources-even with the money from the pouches-to feed them. Their barrack was crowded with the wounded.
Bridge Four reached a chasm, and Kaladin moved to lower his burden. The process was rote to him now. Lower the bridge, quickly untie the wounded, push the bridge across the chasm. Kaladin checked on the three wounded. Every man he rescued this way seemed bemused at what he’d done, even though he’d been doing it for weeks now. Satisfied that they were all right, he moved to stand at parade rest while the soldiers crossed.
Bridge Four fell in around him. Increasingly, they earned scowls from the soldiers-both darkeyed and lighteyed-who crossed. “Why do they do that?” Moash said quietly as a passing soldier tossed an overripe pile-vine fruit at the bridgemen. Moash wiped the stringy, red fruit from his face, then sighed and fell back into his stance. Kaladin had never asked them to join him, but they did it each time.
“When I fought in Amaram’s army,” Kaladin said, “I dreamed about joining the troops at the Shattered Plains. Everyone knew that the soldiers left in Alethkar were the dregs. We imagined the real soldiers, off fighting in the glorious war to bring retribution to those who had killed our king. Those soldiers would treat their fellows with fairness. Their discipline would be firm. Each would be an expert with the spear, and he would not break rank on the battlefield.”
To the side, Teft snorted quietly.
Kaladin turned to Moash. “Why do they treat us so, Moash? Because they know they should be better than they are. Because they see discipline in bridgemen, and it embarrasses them. Rather than bettering themselves, they take the easier road of jeering at us.”
“Dalinar Kholin’s soldiers don’t act like that,” Skar said from just behind Kaladin. “His men march in straight ranks. There is order in their camp. If they’re on duty, they don’t leave their coats unbuttoned or lounge about.”
Will I never stop hearing about Dalinar storming Kholin? Kaladin thought.
Men had spoken that way of Amaram. How easy it was to ignore a blackened heart if you dressed it in a pressed uniform and a reputation for honesty.
Several hours later, the sweaty and exhausted group of bridgemen tramped up the incline to the lumberyard. They dumped their bridge in its resting place. It was getting late; Kaladin would have to purchase food immediately if they were going to have supplies for the evening stew. He wiped his hands on his towel as the members of Bridge Four lined up.
“You’re dismissed for evening activities,” he said. “We have chasm duty early tomorrow. Morning bridge practice will have to be moved to late afternoon.”
The bridgemen nodded, then Moash raised a hand. As one, the bridgemen raised their arms and crossed them, wrists together, hands in fists. It had the look of a practiced effort. After that, they trotted away.
Kaladin raised an eyebrow, tucking his towel into his belt. Teft hung back, smiling.
“What was that?” Kaladin asked.
“The men wanted a salute,” Teft said. “We can’t use a regular military salute-not with the spearmen already thinking we’re too bigheaded. So I taught them my old squad salute.”
“When?”
“This morning. While you were getting our schedule from Hashal.”
Kaladin smiled. Odd, how he could still do that. Nearby, the other nineteen bridge crews on today’s run dropped off their bridges, one by one. Had Bridge Four once looked like them, with those ragged beards and haunted expressions? None of them spoke to one another. Some few glanced at Kaladin as they passed, but they looked down as soon as they saw he was watching. They’d stopped treating Bridge Four with the contempt they’d once shown. Curiously, they now seemed to regard Kaladin’s crew as they did everyone else in camp-as people above them. They hastened to avoid his notice.
Poor sodden fools, Kaladin thought. Could he, maybe, persuade Hashal to let him take a few into Bridge Four? He could the use extra men, and seeing those slumped figures twisted his heart.
“I know that look, lad,” Teft said. “Why is it you always have to help everyone?”
“Bah,” Kaladin said. “I can’t even protect Bridge Four. Here, let me look at that arm of yours.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Kaladin grabbed his arm anyway, p
eeling away the blood-crusted bandage. The cut was long, but shallow.
“We need antiseptic on this,” Kaladin said, noting a few red rotspren crawling around on the wound. “I should probably sew it up.”
“It’s not that bad!”
“Still,” Kaladin said, waving for Teft to follow as he approached one of the rain barrels alongside the lumberyard. The wound was shallow enough that Teft would probably be able to show the others spear thrusts and blocks tomorrow during chasm duty, but that was no excuse for leaving it alone to fester or scar.
At the rain barrel, Kaladin washed out the wound, then called for Lopen-who was standing in the shade beside the barrack-to bring his medical equipment. The Herdazian man gave that salute again, though he did it with one arm, and sauntered away to get the pack.
“So, lad,” Teft said. “How do you feel? Any odd experiences lately?”
Kaladin frowned, looking up from the arm. “Storm it, Teft! That’s the fifth time in two days you’ve asked me that. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, nothing!”
“It is something,” Kaladin said. “What is it you’re digging for, Teft? I-”
“Gancho,” Lopen said, walking up, carrying the medical supply pack over his shoulder. “Here you go.”
Kaladin glanced at him, then reluctantly accepted the pack. He pulled the drawstrings open. “We’ll want to-”
A quick motion came from Teft. Like a punch being thrown.
Kaladin moved by reflex, taking in a sharp breath, moving to a defensive stance, arms up, one hand a fist, the other back to block.
Something blossomed within Kaladin. Like a deep breath drawn in, like a burning liquor injected directly into his blood. A powerful wave pulsed through his body. Energy, strength, awareness. It was like the body’s natural alert response to danger, only it was a hundredfold more intense.
Kaladin caught Teft’s fist, moving blurringly quick. Teft froze.
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