“You’re part of Honor. Doesn’t that offend you?”

“Every child eventually realizes that her father isn’t actually God.” She looked at him. “Do you think anybody is watching? Do you really think there isn’t anything out there?”

Strange question to answer, to a little bit of a divinity.

Kaladin lingered in the doorway to the guard tower. Inside, the men of his squad—Platoon Seven, Squad Two, which didn’t have the same ring to it as Bridge Four—laughed and banged about as they gathered equipment.

“I used to take the terrible things that had happened to me,” he said, “as proof that there was no god. Then in some of my darkest moments, I took my life as proof there must be something up there, for only intentional cruelty could offer an explanation.”

He took a deep breath, then looked toward the clouds. He had been delivered up to the sky, and had found magnificence there. He’d been given the power to protect and defend.

“Now,” he said. “Now I don’t know. With all due respect, I think Dalinar’s beliefs sound too convenient. Now that one deity has proven faulty, he insists the Almighty must never have been God? That there must be something else? I don’t like it. So … maybe this simply isn’t a question we can ever answer.”

He stepped into the fortification. It had broad doorways on either side leading in from the wall, while slits along the outward side provided archer positions, as did the roof. To his right stood racks of weapons and shields, and a table for mess. Above that, a large window looked out at the city beyond, where those inside could get specific orders via signal flags from below.

He was sliding his shield onto a rack when the drums sounded, calling the alarm. Syl zipped up behind him like string suddenly pulled taut.

“Assault on the wall!” Kaladin shouted, reading the drumbeats. “Equip up!” He scrambled across the room and seized a pike from the line on the wall. He tossed it to the first man who came, then continued distributing as the men scrambled to obey the signals. Lieutenant Noro and Beard handed out shields—rectangular full shields in contrast to the small round patrolling shields they’d carried below.

“Form up!” Kaladin shouted, right before Noro did it.

Storms. I’m not their commander. Feeling like an idiot, Kaladin took his own pike and balanced the long pole, carrying it out beside Beard, who carried only a shield. On the wall, the four squads formed a bristling formation of pikes and overlapping shields. Some of the men in the center—like Kaladin and Noro—held only a pike, gripping it two-handed.

Sweat trickled down Kaladin’s temples. He’d been trained briefly in pike blocks during his time in Amaram’s army. They were used as a counter to heavy cavalry, which was a newer development in Alethi warfare. He couldn’t imagine that they’d be terribly effective atop a wall. They were great for thrusting outward toward an enemy block of troops, but it was difficult for him to keep the pike pointed upward. It didn’t balance well that way, but how else were they to fight the Fused?

The other platoon that shared a station with them formed up on the tower’s top, holding bows. Hopefully, the arrow cover mixed with the defensive pike formation would be effective. Kaladin finally saw the Fused streaking through the air—approaching another section of the wall.

Men in his platoon waited, nervous, adjusting glyphwards or repositioning shields. The Fused clashed distantly with others of the Wall Guard; Kaladin could barely make out yells. The drumbeats from the drummers’ stations were a holding beat, telling everyone to remain in their own section.

Syl came zipping back, moving agitatedly, sweeping one way, then the other. Several men in the formation leaned out, as if wanting to break away and go charging to where their fellows were fighting.

Steady, Kaladin thought, but cut himself off from saying it. He wasn’t in command here. Captain Deedanor, the platoon leader, hadn’t arrived yet—which meant Noro was the ranking officer, with seniority over the other squad lieutenants. Kaladin gritted his teeth, straining, forcibly keeping himself from giving any kind of order until—blessedly—Noro spoke up.

“Now, don’t you break away, Hid,” the lieutenant called. “Keep your shields together, men. If we rush off now, we’ll be easy pickings.”

The men reluctantly pulled back into formation. Eventually, the Fused streaked away. Their strikes never lasted long; they would hit hard, testing reaction times at various places along the wall—and they often broke into and searched the towers nearby. They were preparing for a true assault, and—Kaladin figured—also trying to find out how the Wall Guard was feeding itself.

The drums signaled for the squads to stand down, and the men of Kaladin’s platoon lethargically trudged back to their tower. A sense of frustration accompanied them. Pent-up aggression. All of that anxiety, the rush of the battle, only to stand around and sweat while other men died.

Kaladin helped rack up the weapons, then got himself a bowl of stew and joined Lieutenant Noro, who was waiting on the wall right outside the tower. A messenger used signal flags to indicate to others down in the city that Noro’s platoon hadn’t engaged.

“You have my apologies, sir,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ll see it doesn’t happen again.”

“Um … it?”

“I preempted you earlier,” Kaladin said. “Gave orders when it was your place.”

“Oh! Well, you’re quite quick off the cuff, Kal! Eager for combat, I’d say.”

“Perhaps, sir.”

“You want to prove yourself to the team,” Noro said, rubbing his wispy beard. “Well, I like a man with enthusiasm. Keep your head, and I suspect you’ll end up as a squadleader before too long.” He said it like a proud parent.

“Permission, sir, to be excused from duty? There might be wounded that need my attention farther along the wall.”

“Wounded? Kal, I know you said you had some field medicine training—but the army’s surgeons will be there already.”

Right, they’d have actual surgeons.

Noro clapped him on the shoulder. “Go in and eat your stew. There will be enough action later. Don’t run too fast toward danger, all right?”

“I’ll … try to remember that, sir.”

Still, there was nothing to do but walk back into the tower, Syl alighting on his shoulder, and sit down to eat his stew.

Today, I leaped from the tower for the last time. I felt the wind dance around me as I fell all the way along the eastern side, past the tower, and to the foothills below. I’m going to miss that.

—From drawer 10-1, sapphire

Veil leaned her head to look in through the window of the old, broken shop in the market. Grund the urchin sat in his usual place, carefully stripping down an old pair of shoes for the hogshide. As he heard Veil, he dropped his tool and reached for a knife with his good hand.

He saw that it was her, then caught the package of food she tossed to him. It was smaller this time, but actually had some fruit. Very rare in the city these days. The urchin pulled the bag of food close, closing his dark green eyes, looking … reserved. What an odd expression.

He’s still suspicious of me, she thought. He’s wondering what I’ll someday demand of him for all this.

Tags: Brandon Sanderson The Stormlight Archive Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net