The Way of Kings (The Stormlight Archive 1)

Tien! he thought, forcing himself up. Someone loomed above him, and Kaladin reacted immediately, rolling as a spear came down for his heart. His own spear was back in his hands before he realized he’d grabbed it, and he whipped it upward.

Then he froze. He’d just driven his spear through the enemy soldier’s neck. It had happened so quickly. I just killed a man.

He rolled over, letting the enemy drop to his knees as Kaladin yanked his spear free. Varth’s squad was back a little farther. The enemy hit it a little while after attacking where Kaladin had been. Tien and the other two were still in the front.

“Tien!” Kaladin yelled.

The boy looked toward him, eyes opening wide. He actually smiled. Behind him, the rest of the squad pulled back. Leaving the three untrained boys exposed.

And, sensing weakness, the enemy soldiers descended on Tien and the others. There was an armored lighteyes at their front, in gleaming steel. He swung a sword.

Kaladin’s brother fell just like that. One eyeblink and he was standing there, looking terrified. The next he was on the ground.

“No!” Kaladin screamed. He tried to get to his feet, but slipped to his knees. His leg didn’t work right.

Varth’s squad hurried forward, attacking the enemies—who had been distracted with Tien and the other two. They’d placed the untrained at the front to stop the momentum of the enemy attack.

“No, no, no!” Kaladin screamed. He used his spear to hoist himself to his feet, then stumbled forward. It couldn’t be what he thought. It couldn’t be over that quickly.

It was a miracle that nobody struck Kaladin down as he stumbled the rest of the distance. He barely thought about it. He just watched where Tien had fallen. There was thunder. No. Hooves. Amaram had arrived with his cavalry, and they were sweeping through the enemy lines.

Kaladin didn’t care. He finally reached the spot. There, he found three corpses: young, small, lying in a hollow in the stone. Horrified, numb, Kaladin reached out his hand and rolled over the one that was face-down.

Tien’s dead eyes stared upward.

Kaladin continued to kneel beside the body. He should have bound his wound, should have moved back to safety, but he was too numb. He just knelt.

“About time he rode down here,” a voice said.

Kaladin looked up, noting a group of spearmen gathering nearby, watching the cavalry.

“He wanted them to bunch up against us,” one the spearmen said. He had knots on the shoulders. Varth, their squadleader. Such keen eyes the man had. Not a brutish lout. Lean, thoughtful.

I should feel anger, Kaladin thought. I should feel… something.

Varth looked down at him, then at the bodies of the three dead messenger boys.

“You bastard,” Kaladin hissed. “You put them in front.”

“You work with what you have,” Varth said, nodding to his team, then pointing at a fortified position. “If they give me men who can’t fight, I’ll find another use for them.” He hesitated as his team marched away. He seemed regretful. “Gotta do what you can to stay alive, son. Turn a liability into an advantage whenever you can. Remember that, if you live.”

With that, he jogged off.

Kaladin looked down. Why couldn’t I protect him? he thought, looking at Tien, remembering his brother’s laugh. His innocence, his smile, his excitement at exploring the hills outside Hearthstone.

Please. Please let me protect him. Make me strong enough.

He felt so weak. Blood loss. He found himself slumping to the side, and with tired hands, he tied off his wound. And then, feeling terribly vacant inside, he lay down beside Tien and pulled the body close.

“Don’t worry,” Kaladin whispered. When had he started to cry? “I’ll bring you home. I’ll protect you, Tien. I’ll bring you back….”

He held the body into the evening, long past the end of the battle, clinging to it as it slowly grew cold.

Kaladin blinked. He wasn’t in that hollow with Tien. He was on the plateau.

He could hear men dying in the distance.

He hated thinking of that day. He almost wished he’d never gone looking for Tien. Then he wouldn’t have had to watch. Wouldn’t have had to kneel there, powerless, as his brother was slaughtered.

It was happening again. Rock, Moash, Teft. They were all going to die. And here he lay, powerless again. He could barely move. He felt so drained.

“Kaladin,” a voice whispered. He blinked. Syl was hovering in front of him. “Do you know the Words?”

“All I wanted to do was protect them,” he whispered.

“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.