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 spear
men 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.
Of course, Amaram had failed to protect Tien. But so had Kaladin.
“Sir?” Dallet said hesitantly.
“Subsquads Two and Three, pincer pattern,” Kaladin said coldly, pointing at the enemy lighteyes. “We’re taking a brightlord off his throne.”
“You sure that’s wise, sir?” Dallet said. “We’ve got wounded.”
Kaladin turned toward Dallet. “That’s one of Hallaw’s officers. He might be the one.”
“You don’t know that, sir.”
“Regardless, he’s a battalionlord. If we kill an officer that high, we’re all but guaranteed to be in the next group sent to the Shattered Plains. We’re taking him. Imagine it, Dallet. Real soldiers. A warcamp with discipline and lighteyes with integrity. A place where our fighting will mean something.”
Dallet sighed, but nodded. At Kaladin’s wave, two subsquads joined him, as eager as he. Did they hate these squabbling lighteyes of their own accord, or had they picked up Kaladin’s loathing?
The brightlord was surprisingly easy to take down. The problem with them—almost to a man—was that they underestimated darkeyes. Perhaps this one had a right. How many had he killed, in his years?
Subsquad three drew off the honor guard. Subsquad two distracted the lighteyes. He didn’t see Kaladin approaching from a third direction. The man dropped with a knife to the eye; his face was unprotected. He screamed as he clattered to the ground, still alive. Kaladin rammed his spear down into the fallen man’s face, striking three times as the horse galloped off.
The man’s honor guard panicked and fled to rejoin their army. Kaladin signaled to the two subsquads by banging his spear against his shield, giving the “hold position” sign. They fanned out, and short Toorim—a man Kaladin had rescued from another squad—made as if to confirm the light-eyes was dead. He was really covertly looking for spheres.
Stealing from the dead was strictly prohibited, but Kaladin figured that if Amaram wanted the spoils, he could storming well kill the enemy himself. Kaladin respected Amaram more than most—well, more than any—lighteyes. But bribes weren’t cheap.
Toorim walked up to him. “Nothing sir. Either he didn’t bring any spheres into battle, or he has them hidden somewhere under that breastplate.”
Kaladin nodded curtly, surveying the battlefield. Amaram’s forces were recovering; they’d win the day before long. In fact, Amaram would probably be leading a direct surge against the enemy by now. He generally entered the battle at the end.
Kaladin wiped his brow. He’d have to send for Norby, their captainlord, to prove their kill. First he needed those healers to—
“Sir!” Toorim said suddenly.
Kaladin glanced back at the enemy lines.
“Stormfather!” Toorim exclaimed. “Sir!”
Toorim wasn’t looking at the enemy lines. Kaladin spun, looking back at friendly ranks. There—bearing down through the soldiers on a horse the color of death itself—was an impossibility.
The man wore shining golden armor. Perfect golden armor, as if this were what every other suit of armor had been designed to imitate. Each piece fit perfectly; there were no holes showing straps or leather. It made the rider look enormous, powerful. Like a god carrying a majestic blade that should have been too big to use. It was engraved and stylized, shaped like flames in motion.
“Stormfather…” Kaladin breathed.
The Shardbearer broke out of Amaram’s lines. He’d been riding through them, cutting down men as he passed. For a brief moment, Kaladin’s mind refused to acknowledge that this creature—this beautiful divinity—could be an enemy. The fact that the Shardbearer had come through their side reinforced that illusion.
Kaladin’s confusion lasted right up until the moment the Shardbearer trampled Cenn, Shardblade dropping and cutting through Dallet’s head in a single, easy stroke.
“No!” Kaladin bellowed. “No!”
Dallet’s body fell back to the ground, eyes seeming to catch alight, smoke rising from them. The Shardbearer cut down Cyn and trampled Lyndel before moving on. It was all done with nonchalance, like a woman pausing to wipe a spot on the counter.
“NO!” Kaladin screamed, charging toward the fallen men of his squad. He hadn’t lost anyone this battle! He was going to protect them all!
He fell to his knees beside Dallet, dropping his spear. But there was no heartbeat, and those burned-out eyes…He was dead. Grief threatened to overwhelm Kaladin.
No! said the part of his mind trained by his father. Save the ones you can!
He turned to Cenn. The boy had taken a hoof to the chest, cracking his sternum and shattering ribs. The boy gasped, eyes upward, struggling for breath. Kaladin pulled out a bandage. Then he paused, looking at it. A bandage? To mend a smashed chest?
Cenn stopped wheezing. He convulsed once, eyes still open. “He watches!” the boy hissed. “The black piper in the night. He holds us in his palm…playing a tune that no man can hear!”
Cenn’s eyes glazed over. He stopped breathing.
Lyndel’s face had been smashed in. Cyn’s eyes smoldered, and he wasn’t breathing either. Kaladin knelt in Cenn’s blood, horrified, as Toorim and the two subsquads formed around him, looking as stunned as Kaladin felt.
This isn’t possible. I…I…
Screaming.
Kaladin looked up. Amaram’s banner of green and burgundy flew just to the south. The Shardbearer had cut through Kaladin’s squad heading straight for that banner. Spearmen fled in disarray, screaming, scattering before the Shardbearer.
Anger boiled inside of Kaladin.
“Sir?” Toorim asked.
Kaladin picked up his spear and stood. His knees were covered with Cenn’s blood. His men regarded him, confused, worried. They stood firm in the midst of the chaos; as far as Kaladin could tell, they were the only men who weren’t fleeing. The Shardbearer had turned the ranks to mush.
Kaladin thrust his spear into the air, then began to run. His men bellowed a war cry, falling into formation behind him, charging across the flat rocky ground. Spearmen in uniforms of both colors scrambled out of the way, dropping spears and shields.
Kaladin picked up speed, legs pumping, his squad barely keeping pace. Just ahead—right before the Shardbearer—a pocket of green broke and ran. Amaram’s honor guard. Faced by a Shardbearer, they abandoned their charge. Amaram himself was a solitary man on a rearing horse. He wore silvery plate armor that looked so commonplace when compared with the Shardplate.
Kaladin’s squad charged against the flow of the army, a wedge of soldiers going the wrong way. The only ones going the wrong way. Some of the fleeing men paused as he charged past, but none joined.
Ahead, the Shardbearer rode past Amaram. With a sweep of the Blade, the Shardbearer slashed through the neck of Amaram’s mount. Its eyes burned into two great pits, and it toppled, jerking fitfully, Amaram still in its saddle.
The Shardbearer wheeled his destrier in a tight circle, then threw himself from horseback at full speed. He hit the ground with a grinding sound, somehow remaining upright and skidding to a halt.
Kaladin redoubled his speed. Was he running to get vengeance, or was he trying to protect his highmarshal? The only lighteyes who had ever shown a modicum of humanity? Did it matter?
Amaram struggled in his bulky plate, the carcass of th
e horse on his leg.
The Shardbearer raised his Blade in two hands to finish him off.
Coming at the Shardbearer from behind, Kaladin screamed and swung low with the butt of his spear, putting momentum and muscle behind the blow. The spear haft shattered against the Shardbearer’s back leg in a spray of wooden slivers.
The jolt of it knocked Kaladin to the ground, his arms shaking, the broken spear clutched in his hands. The Shardbearer stumbled, lowering his Blade. He turned a helmed face toward Kaladin, posture indicating utter surprise.
The twenty remaining men of Kaladin’s squad arrived a heartbeat later, attacking vigorously. Kaladin scrambled to his feet and ran for the spear from a fallen soldier. He tossed his broken one away after snatching one of his knives from its sheath, snatched the new one off the ground, then turned back to see his men attacking as he had taught. They came at the foe from three directions, ramming spears between joints in the Plate. The Shardbearer glanced around, as a bemused man might regard a pack of puppies yapping around him. Not a single one of the spear thrusts appeared to pierce his armor. He shook a helmed head.
Then he struck.
The Shardblade swept out in a broad sweeping series of deadly strokes, cutting through ten of the spearmen.
Kaladin was paralyzed in horror as Toorim, Acis, Hamel, and seven others fell to the ground, eyes burning, their armor and weapons sheared completely through. The remaining spearmen stumbled back, aghast.
The Shardbearer attacked again, killing Raksha, Navar, and four others. Kaladin gaped. His men—his friends—dead, just like that. The last four scrambled away, Hab stumbling over Toorim’s corpse and falling to the ground, dropping his spear.
The Shardbearer ignored them, stepping up to the pinned Amaram again.
No, Kaladin thought. No, no, NO! Something drove him forward, against all logic, against all sense. Sickened, agonized, enraged.
The hollow where they fought was empty save for them. Sensible spearmen had fled. His four remaining men achieved the ridge a short distance away, but didn’t run. They called for him.
The Way of Kings Page 83
