The Way of Kings, Part 1 (The Stormlight Archive #1.1)

Kaladin turned the rock over in his fingers, letting the facets of suspended quartz catch the light. He leaned against a large boulder, one foot pressed back against the stone, his spear next to him.

The rock caught the light, spinning it in different colors, depending on the direction he turned it. Beautiful, miniature crystals shimmered, like the cities made of gemstones mentioned in lore.

Around him, Highmarshal Amaram’s army prepared for battle. Six thousand men sharpened spears or strapped on leather armor. The battlefield was nearby, and, with no highstorms expected, the army had spent the night in tents.

It had been nearly four years since he’d joined Amaram’s army on that rainy night. Four years. And an eternity.

Soldiers hurried this way and that. Some raised hands and called greetings to Kaladin. He nodded to them, pocketing the stone, then folded his arms to wait. In the near distance, Amaram’s standard was already flying, a burgundy field blazoned with a dark green glyphpair shaped like a white-spine with tusks upraised. Merem and khakh, honor and determination. The banner fluttered before a rising sun, the morning’s chill starting to give way to the heat of the day.

Kaladin turned, looking eastward. Toward a home to which he could never return. He’d decided months ago. His enlistment would be up in a few weeks, but he would sign on again. He couldn’t face his parents after having broken his promise to protect Tien.

A heavyset darkeyed soldier trotted up to him, an axe strapped to his back, white knots on his shoulders. The nonstandard weapon was a privilege of being a squadleader. Gare had beefy forearms and a thick black beard, though he’d lost a large section of scalp on the right side of his head. He was followed by two of his sergeants—Nalem and Korabet.

“Kaladin,” Gare said. “Stormfather, man! Why are you pestering me? On a battle day!”

“I’m well aware of what’s ahead, Gare,” Kaladin said, arms still folded. Several companies were already gathering, forming ranks. Dallet would see Kaladin’s own squad into place. At the front, they’d decided. Their enemy—a lighteyes named Hallaw—was fond of long volleys. They’d fought his men several times before. One time in particular was burned into Kaladin’s memory and soul.

He had joined Amaram’s army expecting to defend the Alethi borders—and defend them he did. Against other Alethi. Lesser landlords who sought to slice off bits of Highprince Sadeas’s lands. Occasionally, Amaram’s armies would try to seize territory from other highprinces—lands Amaram claimed really belonged to Sadeas and had been stolen years before. Kaladin didn’t know what to make of that. Of all lighteyes, Amaram was the only one he trusted. But it did seem like they were doing the same thing as the armies they fought.

“Kaladin?” Gare asked impatiently.

“You have something I want,” Kaladin said. “New recruit, just joined yesterday. Galan says his name is Cenn.”

Gare scowled. “I’m supposed to play this game with you now? Talk to me after the battle. If the boy survives, maybe I’ll give him to you.” He turned to leave, cronies following.

Kaladin stood up straight, picking up his spear. The motion stopped Gare in his tracks.

“It’s not going to be a trouble to you,” Kaladin said quietly. “Just send the boy to my squad. Accept your payment. Stay quiet.” He pulled out a pouch of spheres.

“Maybe I don’t want to sell him,” Gare said, turning back. “You’re not selling him. You’re transferring him to me.”

Gare eyed the pouch. “Well then, maybe I don’t like how everyone does what you tell them. I don’t care how good you are with a spear. My squad is my own.”

“I’m not going to give you any more, Gare,” Kaladin said, dropping the pouch to the ground. The spheres clinked. “We both know the boy is useless to you. Untrained, ill-equipped, too small to make a good line soldier. Send him to me.”

Kaladin turned and began to walk away. Within seconds, he heard a clink as Gare recovered the pouch. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

Kaladin kept walking.

“What do these recruits mean to you, anyway?” Gare called after Kaladin. “Your squad is half made up of men too small to fight properly! Almost makes a man think you want to get killed!”

Kaladin ignored him. He passed through the camp, waving to those who waved at him. Most everyone kept out of his way, either because they knew and respected him or they’d heard of his reputation. youngest squadleader in the army, only four years of experience and already in command. A darkeyed man had to travel to the Shattered Plains to go any higher in rank.

The camp was a bedlam of soldiers hurrying about in last-minute preparations. More and more companies were gathering at the line, and Kaladin could see the enemy lining up on the shallow ridge across the field to the west.

The enemy. That was what they were called. Yet whenever there was an actual border dispute with the Vedens or the Reshi, those men would line up beside Amaram’s troops and they would fight together. It was as if the Nightwatcher toyed with them, playing some forbidden game of chance, occasionally setting the men on his gameboard as allies, then setting them to kill one another the next day.

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.