The Way of Kings (The Stormlight Archive 1)

Kaladin felt a chill. “And scavenging duty?”

“Oh, there will still be time for that. You need to take torches down anyway, and plateau runs never happen at night. So your men will sleep during the day—always on call—and will work the chasms at night. A much better use of your time.”

“Every bridge run,” Kaladin said. “You’re going to make us go on every one.”

“Yes,” she said idly, tapping for her bearers to raise her. “Your team is just too good. It must be used. You’ll start full-time bridge duty tomorrow. Consider it an… honor.”

Kaladin inhaled sharply to keep himself from saying what he thought of her “honor.” He couldn’t bring himself to bow as she retreated, but she didn’t seem to care. Rock and the men started muttering.

Every bridge run. She’d just doubled the rate at which they’d be killed. Kaladin’s team wouldn’t last another few weeks. They were already so low on members that losing one or two men on an assault would cause them to flounder. The Parshendi would focus on them then, cutting them down.

“Kelek’s breath!” Teft said. “She’ll see us dead!”

“It’s not fair,” Lopen added.

“We’re bridgemen,” Kaladin said, looking at them. “What made you think that any kind of ‘fairness’ applied to us?”

“She hasn’t killed us fast enough for Sadeas,” Moash said. “You know that soldiers have been beaten for coming to look for you, to see the man who survived the highstorm? He hasn’t forgotten about you, Kaladin.”

Teft was still swearing. He pulled Kaladin aside, Lopen following, but the others remained talking among themselves. “Damnation!” Teft said softly. “They like to pretend to be evenhanded with the bridge crews. Makes ’em seem fair. Looks like they gave up on that. Bastards.”

“What do we do, gancho?” Lopen asked.

“We go to the chasms,” Kaladin said. “Just like we’re scheduled to. Then make sure we get some extra sleep tonight, as we’re apparently going to be staying up all night tomorrow.”

“The men will hate going into the chasms at night, lad,” Teft said.

“I know.”

“But we’re not ready for… what we need to do,” Teft said, looking to make sure nobody could hear. It was only him, Kaladin, and Lopen. “It will be another few weeks at least.”

“I know.”

“We won’t last another few weeks!” Teft said. “With Sadeas and Kholin working together, runs happen nearly every day. Just one bad run—one time with the Parshendi drawing bead on us—and it will all be over. We’ll be wiped out.”

“I know!” Kaladin said, frustrated, taking a deep breath and forming fists to keep himself from exploding.

“Gancho!” Lopen said.

“What?” Kaladin snapped.

“It’s happening again.”

Kaladin froze, then looked down at his arms. Sure enough, he caught a hint of luminescent smoke rising from his skin. It was extremely faint—he didn’t have many gemstones near him—but it was there. The wisps faded quickly. Hopefully the other bridgemen hadn’t seen.

“Damnation. What did I do?”

“I don’t know,” Teft said. “Is it because you were angry at Hashal?”

“I was angry before.”

“You breathed it in,” Syl said eagerly, whipping around him in the air, a ribbon of light.

“What?”

“I saw it.” She twisted herself around. “You were mad, you drew in a breath, and the Light… it came too.”

Kaladin glanced at Teft, but of course the older bridgeman hadn’t heard. “Gather the men,” Kaladin said. “We’re going down to our chasm duty.”

“And what about what has happened?” Teft said. “Kaladin, we can’t go on that many bridge runs. We’ll be cut to pieces.”

“I’m doing something about it today. Gather the men. Syl, I need something from you.”

“What?” She landed in front of him and formed into a young woman.

“Go find us a place where some Parshendi corpses have fallen.”

“I thought you were going to do spear practice today.”

“That’s what the men will be doing,” Kaladin said. “I’ll get them organized first. After that, I have a different task.”

Kaladin clapped a quick signal, and the bridgemen made a decent arrowhead formation. They carried the spears they’d stashed in the chasm, secured in a large sack filled with stones and stuck in a crevice. He clapped his hands again, and they rearranged into a double-line wall formation. He clapped again, and they formed into a ring with one man standing behind every two as a quick step-in reserve.

The walls of the chasm dripped with water, and the bridgemen splashed through puddles. They were good. Better than they had any right to be, better—for their level of training—than any team he’d worked with.

But Teft was right. They still wouldn’t last long in a fight. A few more weeks and he’d have them practiced enough with thrusts and shielding one another that they’d begin to be dangerous. Until then, they were just bridgemen who could move in fancy patterns. They needed more time.

Kaladin had to buy them some.

“Teft,” Kaladin said. “Take over.”

The older bridgeman gave one of those cross-armed salutes.

“Syl,” Kaladin said to the spren, “let’s go see these bodies.”

“They’re close. Come on.” She zipped off down the chasm, a glowing ribbon. Kaladin started after her.

“Sir,” Teft called.

Kaladin hesitated. When had Teft started calling him “sir”? Odd, how right that felt. “Yes?”

“You want an escort?” Teft stood at the head of the gathered bridgemen, who were looking more and more like soldiers, with their leather vests and spears held in practiced grips.

Kaladin shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Chasmfiends…”

“The lighteyes have killed any who prowl this close to our side. Besides, if I did run into one, what difference would two or three extra men make?”

Teft grimaced behind his short, greying beard, but offered no further objection. Kaladin continued to follow Syl. In his pouch, he carried the rest of the spheres they’d discovered on bodies while scavenging. They made a habit of keeping some of each discovery and sticking them to bridges, and with Syl helping at scavenging, they now found more than they used to. He had a small fortune in his pouch. That Stormlight—he hoped— would serve him well today.

He got out a sapphire mark for light, avoiding pools of water strewn with bones. A skull protruded from one, wavy green moss growing across the scalp like hair, lifespren bobbing above. Perhaps it should have felt eerie to walk through these darkened slots alone, but they didn’t bother Kaladin. This was a sacred place, the sarcophagus of the lowly, the burial cavern of bridgemen and spearmen who died upon lighteyed edicts, spilling blood down the sides of these ragged walls. This place wasn’t eerie; it was holy.

He was actually glad to be alone with his silence and the remains of those who had died. These men hadn’t cared about the squabbles of those born with lighter eyes than they. These men had cared about their families or—at the very least—their sphere pouches. How many of them were trapped in this foreign land, these endless plateaus, too poor to escape back to Alethkar? Hundreds died each week, winning gems for men who were already rich, winning vengeance for a king long dead.