The Way of Kings

“That’s why I’ve come. The Words, Kaladin.”

  “They’re going to die. I can’t save them. I—”

  Amaram slaughtered his men in front of him.

  A nameless Shardbearer killed Dallet.

  A lighteyes killed Tien.

  No.

  Kaladin rolled over and forced himself to his feet, wavering on weak legs.

  No!

  Bridge Four hadn’t set its bridge yet. That surprised him. They were still pushing it across the chasm, the Parshendi crowding up on the other side, eager, their song becoming more frantic. His delusions had seemed like hours, but had passed in just a few heartbeats.

  NO!

  Lopen’s litter was in front of Kaladin. A spear rested amid the drained water bottles and ragged bandages, steel head reflecting sunlight. It whispered to him. It terrified him, and he loved it.

  When the time comes, I hope you’re ready. Because this lot will need you.

  He seized the spear, the first real weapon he had held since his display in the chasm so many weeks ago. Then he started to run. Slowly at first. Picking up speed. Reckless, his body exhausted. But he did not stop. He pushed forward, harder, charging toward the bridge. It was only halfway across the chasm.

  Syl shot out in front of him, looking back, worried. “The Words, Kaladin!”

  Rock cried out as Kaladin ran onto the bridge as it was moving. The wood wobbled beneath him. It was out over the chasm, but hadn’t reached the other side.

  “Kaladin!” Teft yelled. “What are you doing?”

  Kaladin screamed, reaching the end of the bridge. Finding a tiny surge of strength somewhere, he raised his spear and threw himself off the end of the wooden platform, launching into the air above the cavernous void.

  Bridgemen cried out in dismay. Syl zipped about him with worry. Parshendi looked up with amazement as a lone bridgeman sailed through the air toward them.

  His drained, worn-out body barely had any strength left. In that moment of crystallized time, he looked down on his enemies. Parshendi with their marbled red and black skin. Soldiers raising finely crafted weapons, as if to cut him from the sky. Strangers, oddities in carapace breastplates and skullcaps. Many of them wearing beards.

  Beards woven with glowing gemstones.

  Kaladin breathed in.

  Like the power of salvation itself—like rays of sunlight from the eyes of the Almighty—Stormlight exploded from those gemstones. It streamed through the air, pulled in visible streams, like glowing columns of luminescent smoke. Twisting and turning and spiraling like tiny funnel clouds until they slammed into him.

  And the storm came to life again.

  Kaladin hit the rocky ledge, legs suddenly strong, mind, body, and blood alive with energy. He fell into a crouch, spear under his arm, a small ring of Stormlight expanding from him in a wave, pushed down to the stones by his fall. Stunned, the Parshendi shied away, eyes widening, song faltering.

  A trickle of Stormlight closed the wounds on his arm. He smiled, spear held before him. It was as familiar as the body of a lover long lost.

  The Words, a voice said, urgent, as if directly into his mind. In that moment, Kaladin was amazed to realize that he knew them, though they’d never been told to him.

  “I will protect those who cannot protect themselves,” he whispered.

  The Second Ideal of the Knights Radiant.

  A crack shook the air, like an enormous clap of thunder, though the sky was completely clear. Teft stumbled back—having just set the bridge in place—and found himself gaping with the rest of Bridge Four. Kaladin exploded with energy.

  A burst of whiteness washed out from him, a wave of white smoke. Stormlight. The force of it slammed into the first rank of Parshendi, tossing them backward, and Teft had to hold his hand up against the vibrancy of the light.

  “Something just changed,” Moash whispered, hand up. “Something important.”

  Kaladin raised his spear. The powerful light began to subside, retreating. A more subdued glow began to steam off his body. Radiant, like smoke from an ethereal fire.

  Nearby, some of the Parshendi fled, though others stepped up, raising weapons in challenge. Kaladin spun into them, a living storm of steel, wood, and determination.

  “They named it the Final Desolation, but they lied. Our gods lied. Oh, how they lied. The Everstorm comes. I hear its whispers, see its stormwall, know its heart.”

  —Tanatanes 1173, 8 seconds pre-death. An Azish itinerant worker. Sample of particular note.

  Soldiers in blue yelled, screaming war cries to encourage themselves. The sounds were like a roaring avalanche behind Adolin as he swung his Blade in wild swings. There was no room for a proper stance. He had to keep moving, punching through the Parshendi, leading his men toward the western chasm.

  His father’s horse and his own were still safe, carrying some wounded through the back ranks. The Shardbearers didn’t dare mount, though. In these close quarters, the Ryshadium would be chopped down and their riders dropped.

  This was the type of battlefield maneuver that would have been impossible without Shardbearers. A rush against superior numbers? Made by wounded, exhausted men? They should have been stopped cold and crushed.

  But Shardbearers could not be stopped so easily. Their armor leaking Stormlight, their six-foot Blades flashing in wide swaths, Adolin and Dalinar shattered the Parshendi defenses, creating an opening, a rift. Their men—the best-trained in the Alethi warcamps—knew how to use it. They formed a wedge behind their Shardbearers, prying the Parshendi armies open, using spearman formations to cut through and keep going forward.

  Adolin moved at almost a jog. The incline of the hill worked in their favor, giving them better footing, letting them rumble down the slope like charging chulls. The chance to survive when all had been thought lost gave the men a surge of energy for one last dash toward freedom.

  They took enormous casualties. Already, Dalinar’s force had lost another thousand of his four, probably more. But it didn’t matter. The Parshendi fought to kill, but the Alethi—this time—fought to live.

  Living Heralds above, Teft thought, watching Kaladin fight. Just moments ago, the lad had looked near death, skin a dull grey, hands shaking. Now he was a shining whirlwind, a storm wielding a spear. Teft had known many a battlefield, but he had never seen anything remotely like this. Kaladin held the ground before the bridge by himself. White Stormlight streamed from him like a blazing fire. His speed was incredible, nearly inhuman, and his precision—each thrust of the spear hit a neck, side, or other unarmored target of Parshendi flesh.

  It was more than the Stormlight. Teft had only a fragmentary recollection of the things his family had tried to teach him, but those memories all agreed. Stormlight did not grant skill. It could not make a man into something he was not. It enhanced, it strengthened, it invigorated.

  It perfected.

  Kaladin ducked low, slamming the butt against the leg of a Parshendi, dropping him to the ground, and came up to block an axe swing by catching the haft with that of his spear. He let go with one hand, sweeping the tip of the spear up under the arm of the Parshendi and ramming it into his armpit. As that Parshendi fell, Kaladin pulled his spear free and slammed the end into a Parshendi head that had gotten too close. The butt of the spear shattered with a spray of wood, and the Parshendi’s carapace helm exploded.

  No, this wasn’t just Stormlight. This was a master of the spear with his capacity enhanced to astonishing levels.

  The bridgemen gathered around Teft, amazed. His wounded arm didn’t seem to hurt as much as it should. “He’s like a part of the wind itself,” Drehy said. “Pulled down and given life. Not a man at all. A spren.”

  “Sigzil?” Skar asked, eyes wide. “You ever seen anything like this?”

  The dark-skinned man shook his head.

  “Stormfather,” Peet whispered. “What… what is he?”

  “He’s our bridgeleader,” Teft said, snapping out of his reverie. On the other side
of the chasm, Kaladin barely dodged a blow from a Parshendi mace. “And he needs our help! First and second teams, you take the left side. Don’t let the Parshendi get around him. Third and fourth teams, you’re with me on the right! Rock and Lopen, you be ready to pull back any wounded. The rest of you, wrinkled wall formation. Don’t attack, just stay alive and keep them back. And Lopen, toss him a spear that isn’t broken!”

  Dalinar roared, striking down a group of Parshendi swordsmen. He charged over their bodies, running up a short incline and throwing himself in a leap, dropping several feet into the Parshendi below, sweeping out with his Blade. His armor was an enormous weight upon his back, but the energy of his struggle kept him going. The Cobalt Guard—the straggling members who were left—roared and leaped off the incline behind him.

  They were doomed. Those bridgemen would be dead by now. But Dalinar blessed them for their sacrifice. It might have been meaningless as an end, but it had changed the journey. This was how his soldiers should fall—not cornered and frightened, but fighting with passion.

  He would not slide quietly into the dark. No indeed. He shouted his defiance again as he smashed into a group of Parshendi, whirling and hauling his Shardblade in a circling sweep. He stumbled through the patch of dead Parshendi, their eyes burning as they fell.

  And Dalinar burst out onto open stone.

  He blinked, stunned. We did it, he thought in disbelief. We cut all the way through. Behind him, soldiers roared, their tired voices sounding nearly as amazed as he felt. Just ahead of him, a final group of Parshendi lay between Dalinar and the chasm. But their backs were turned to him. Why were they—

  The bridgemen.

  The bridgemen were fighting. Dalinar gaped, lowering Oathbringer with numb arms. That little force of bridgemen held the bridgehead, fighting desperately against the Parshendi who were trying to force them back.

  It was the most amazing, most glorious thing Dalinar had ever seen.

  Adolin let out a whoop, breaking through the Parshendi to Dalinar’s left. The younger man’s armor was scratched, cracked, and scored, and his helm had shattered, leaving his head dangerously exposed. But his face was exultant.

  “Go, go,” Dalinar bellowed, pointing. “Give them support, storm it! If those bridgemen fall, we’re all dead!”

  Adolin and the Cobalt Guard dashed forward. Gallant and Sureblood, Adolin’s Ryshadium, galloped past, carrying three wounded each. Dalinar hated to have left so many wounded on the slopes, but the Codes were clear. In this case, protecting the men he could save was more important.

  Dalinar turned to strike at the main body of Parshendi to his left, making certain the corridor remained open for his troops. Many of the soldiers scrambled toward safety, though several squads proved their mettle by forming up at the sides to keep fighting, opening the gap wider. Sweat had soaked through the brow rag attached to Dalinar’s helm, and drops of it fell, overwhelming his eyebrows and falling into his left eye. He cursed, reaching to open his visor—then froze.

  The enemy troops were parting. There, standing among them, was a seven-foot-tall giant of a Parshendi in gleaming silver Shardplate. It fit as only Plate could, having molded to his large stature. His Shardblade was wicked and barbed, like flames frozen into metal. He raised it to Dalinar in a salute.

  “Now?” Dalinar bellowed incredulously. “Now you come?”

  The Shardbearer stepped forward, steel boots clanking on stone. The other Parshendi backed away.

  “Why not earlier?” Dalinar demanded, hurriedly setting himself into Windstance, blinking his left eye against the sweat. He stood near the shadow of a large, oblong rock formation shaped like a book on its side. “Why wait out the entire battle only to attack now? When…”

  When Dalinar was about to get away. Apparently the Parshendi Shardbearer had been willing to let his fellows throw themselves at Dalinar when it seemed obvious he would fall. Perhaps they let the regular soldiers try to win Shards, as was done in human armies. Now that Dalinar might escape, the potential loss of a Plate and Blade was too great, and so the Shardbearer had been sent to fight him.

  The Shardbearer stepped up, speaking in the thick Parshendi language. Dalinar didn’t understand a word of it. He raised his Blade and fell into stance. The Parshendi said something further, then grunted and stepped forward, swinging.

  Dalinar cursed to himself, still blinded in his left eye. He dodged back, swinging his Blade and slapping the enemy’s weapon. The parry shook Dalinar inside his armor. His muscles responded sluggishly. Stormlight still leaked from cracks in his armor, but it was abating. It wouldn’t be much longer before the Plate stopped responding.

  The Parshendi Shardbearer attacked again. His stance was unfamiliar to Dalinar, but there was something practiced about it. This wasn’t a savage playing with a powerful weapon. He was a trained Shardbearer. Dalinar was once again forced to parry, something Windstance wasn’t intended do to. His weight-laden muscles were too sluggish to dodge, and his Plate was too cracked to risk letting himself get hit.

  The blow nearly threw him out of stance. He clenched his teeth, throwing weight behind his weapon and intentionally overcorrecting as the Parshendi’s next blow came. The Blades met with a furious clang, throwing off a shower of sparks like a bucket of molten metal dashed into the air.

  Dalinar recovered quickly and threw himself forward, trying to slam his shoulder into his enemy’s chest. The Parshendi was still full of power, however, his Plate uncracked. He got out of the way and quite nearly hit Dalinar on the back.

  Dalinar twisted just in time. Then he turned and leaped onto a small rock formation, then stepped to a higher ledge and managed to reach the top. The Parshendi followed, as Dalinar had hoped. The precarious footing raised the stakes—which was just fine with him. A single blow could ruin Dalinar. That meant taking risks.

  As the Parshendi neared the top of the formation, Dalinar attacked, using the advantage of surer footing and high ground. The Parshendi didn’t bother dodging. He took a hit to the helm, which cracked, but gained a chance to swing at Dalinar’s legs.

  Dalinar leaped backward, feeling painfully sluggish. He barely got out of the way, and wasn’t able to get in a second strike as the Parshendi climbed atop the formation.

  The Parshendi man made an aggressive thrust. Setting his jaw, Dalinar raised his forearm to block and stepped into the attack, praying to the Heralds that his forearm plate would deflect the blow. The Parshendi blade connected, shattering the Plate, sending a shock up Dalinar’s arm. The gauntlet on his fist suddenly felt like a lead weight, but Dalinar kept moving, swinging his blade for his own attack.

  Not at the Parshendi’s armor, but at the stone beneath him.

  Even as the molten shards of Dalinar’s forearm plate sprayed in the air, he sheared through the rock shelf under his opponent’s feet. The entire section broke free, sending the Shardbearer tumbling backward toward the ground. He hit with a crash.

  Dalinar slammed his fist—the one with the broken armguard—into the ground and released the gauntlet. It unlatched and he pulled his hand free into the air, sweat making it feel cold. He left the gauntlet—it wouldn’t work properly now that the forearm piece was gone—and roared as he swung his Blade single-handed. He sliced through another chunk of the rock and sent it falling down toward the Shardbearer.

  The Parshendi stumbled to his feet, but the rock smashed down on top of him, sending out a splash of Stormlight and a deep cracking sound. Dalinar climbed down, trying to get to the Parshendi while he was still. Unfortunately, Dalinar’s right leg was dragging, and when he reached the ground, he walked in a limp. If he took the boot off, he wouldn’t be able to hold up the rest of the Shardplate.

  He gritted his teeth, stopping as the Parshendi stood up. He’d been too slow. The Parshendi’s armor, though cracked in several places, was nowhere near as strained as Dalinar’s. Impressively, he’d managed to retain his Shardblade. He leveled his armored head at Dalinar, eyes hidden behind the slit in
the helm. Around them, the other Parshendi watched silently, forming a ring, but not interfering.

  Dalinar raised his Blade, holding it in one gauntleted hand and one bare one. The breeze was cold on his clammy, exposed hand.

  There was no use running. He fought here.

  For the first time in many, many months, Kaladin felt fully awake and alive.

  The beauty of the spear, whistling in the air. The unity of body and mind, hands and feet reacting instantly, faster than thoughts could be formed. The clarity and familiarity of the old spear forms, learned during the most terrible time in his life.

  His weapon was an extension of himself; he moved it as easily and instinctively as he did his fingers. Spinning, he cut through the Parshendi, bringing retribution to those who had slaughtered so many of his friends. Repayment for each and every arrow loosed at his flesh.

  With Stormlight making an ecstatic pulse within him, he felt a rhythm to the battle. Almost like the beat of the Parshendi song.

  And they did sing. They’d recovered from seeing him drink in the Stormlight and speak the Words of the Second Ideal. They now attacked in waves, fervently trying to get to the bridge and knock it free. Some had leaped to the other side to attack from that direction, but Moash had led bridgemen to respond there. Amazingly, they held.

  Syl twirled around Kaladin in a blur, riding the waves of Stormlight that rose from his skin, moving like a leaf on the winds of a storm. Enraptured. He’d never seen her like this before.

  He didn’t break his attacks—in a way, there was only one attack, as each strike flowed directly into the next. His spear never stopped, and together with his men, he pushed the Parshendi back, accepting each challenge as they stepped forward in pairs.

  Killing. Slaughtering. Blood flew in the air and the dying groaned at his feet. He tried not to pay too much attention to that. They were the enemy. Yet the sheer glory of what he did seemed at odds with the desolation he caused.

  He was protecting. He was saving. Yet he was killing. How could something so terrible be so beautiful at the same time?