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

Several of the bridgemen returned from their quick scavenge. Rock joined Kaladin, staring eastward, expression becoming grim. “This thing is terrible,” he said. “Can we not do something to help?”

Kaladin shook his head. “It would be suicide, Rock. We’d have to run a full assault without an army to support us.”

“Couldn’t we just go back a little of the way?” Skar asked. “Wait to see if Kholin can cut his way down to us? If he does, then we could set our bridge.”

“No,” Kaladin said. “If we stayed out of range, Kholin would assume us to be scouts left by Sadeas. We’ll have to charge the chasm. Otherwise he’d never come down to meet us.”

That made the bridgemen pale.

“Besides,” Kaladin added. “If we did somehow save some of those men, they’d talk, and Sadeas would know we still live. He’d hunt us down and kill us. By going back, we’d throw away our chance at freedom.”

The other bridgemen nodded at that. The rest had gathered, carrying weapons. It was time to go. Kaladin tried to squelch the feeling of despair inside him. This Dalinar Kholin was probably just like the others. Like Roshone, like Sadeas, like any number of other lighteyes. Pretending virtue but corrupted inside.

But he has thousands of darkeyed soldiers with him, a part of him thought. Men who don’t deserve this terrible fate. Men like my old spear crew.

“We owe them nothing,” Kaladin whispered. He thought could see Dalinar Kholin’s banner, flying blue at the front of his army. “You got them into this, Kholin. I won’t let my men die for you.” He turned his back on the Tower.

Syl still stood beside him, facing eastward. It made his very soul twist in knots to see that look of despair on her face. “Are windspren attracted to wind,” she asked softly, “or do they make it?”

“I don’t know,” Kaladin said. “Does it matter?”

“Perhaps not. You see, I’ve remembered what kind of spren I am.”

“Is this the time for it, Syl?”

“I bind things, Kaladin,” she said, turning and meeting his eyes. “I am honorspren. Spirit of oaths. Of promises. And of nobility.”

Kaladin could faintly hear the sounds of the battle. Or was that just his mind, searching for something he knew to be there?

Could he hear the men dying?

Could he see the soldiers running away, scattering, leaving their warlord alone?

Everyone else fleeing. Kaladin kneeling over Dallet’s body.

A green-and-burgundy banner, flying alone on the field.

“I’ve been here before!” Kaladin bellowed, turning back toward that blue banner.

Dalinar always fought at the front.

“What happened last time?” Kaladin yelled. “I’ve learned! I won’t be a fool again!”

It seemed to crush him. Sadeas’s betrayal, his exhaustion, the deaths of so many. He was there again for a moment, kneeling in Amaram’s mobile headquarters, watching the last of his friends being slaughtered, too weak and hurt to save them.

He raised a trembling hand to his head, feeling the brand there, wet with his sweat. “I owe you nothing, Kholin.”

And his father’s voice seemed to whisper a reply. Somebody has to start, son. Somebody has to step forward and do what is right, because it is right. If nobody starts, then others cannot follow.

Dalinar had come to help Kaladin’s men, attacking those archers and saving Bridge Four.

The lighteyes don’t care about life, Lirin had said. So I must. So we must.

So you must….

Life before death.

I’ve failed so often. I’ve been knocked to the ground and trod upon.

Strength before weakness.

This would be death I’d lead my friends to …

Journey before destination.

… death, and what is right. “We have to go back,” Kaladin said softly. “Storm it, we have to go back.”

He turned to the members of Bridge Four. One by one, they nodded. Men who had been the dregs of the army just months before—men who had once cared for nothing but their own skins—took deep breaths, tossed away thoughts for their own safety, and nodded. They would follow him.

Kaladin looked up and sucked in a deep breath. Stormlight rushed into him like a wave, as if he’d put his lips up to a highstorm and drawn it into himself.

“Bridge up!” he commanded.

The members of Bridge Four cheered their agreement, grabbing their bridge and hoisting it high. Kaladin pulled on a shield, grabbing the straps in his hand.

Then he turned, raising it high. With a shout, he led his men in a charge back toward that abandoned blue banner.




Dalinar’s Plate leaked Stormlight from dozens of small breaks; no major piece had escaped. Light rose above him like steam from a cauldron, lingering as Stormlight did, slowly diffusing.

The sun beat down upon him, baking him as he fought. He was so tired. It hadn’t been long since Sadeas’s betrayal, not as time was counted in battles. But Dalinar had pushed himself hard, staying at the very front, fighting side by side with Adolin. His Plate had lost much Stormlight. It was growing heavier, and lent him less power with each swing. Soon it would weigh him down, slowing him so the Parshendi could swarm over him.

He’d killed many of them. So many. A frightening number, and he did it without the Thrill. He was hollow inside. Better that than pleasure.

He hadn’t killed nearly enough of them. They focused on Dalinar and Adolin; with Shardbearers on the front line, any breach would soon be patched by a man in gleaming armor and a deadly Blade. The Parshendi had to bring him and Adolin down first. They knew it. Dalinar knew it. Adolin knew it.

Stories spoke of battlefields where the Shardbearers were the last ones standing, pulled down by their enemies after long, heroic fights. Completely unrealistic. If you killed the Shardbearers first, you could take their Blades and turn them against the enemy.

He swung again, muscles lagging with fatigue. Dying first. It was a good place to be. Ask nothing of them you wouldn’t do yourself… . Dalinar stumbled on the rocks, his Shardplate feeling as heavy as regular armor.

He could be satisfied with the way he’d handled his own life. But his men … he had failed them. Thinking of the way he had stupidly led then into a trap, that sickened him.

And then there was Navani.

Of all the times to finally begin courting her, Dalinar thought. Six years wasted. A lifetime wasted. And now she’ll have to grieve again.

That thought made him raise his arms and steady his feet on the stone. He fought off the Parshendi. Struggling on. For her. He would not let himself fall while he still had strength.

Nearby, Adolin’s armor leaked as well. The youth was extending himself more and more to protect his father. There had been no discussion of trying, perhaps, to leap the chasms and flee. With chasms so wide, the chances were slim—but beyond that, they would not abandon their men to die. He and Adolin had lived by the Codes. They would die by the Codes.

Dalinar swung again, staying at Adolin’s side, fighting in that just-out-of-reach tandem way of two Shardbearers. Sweat streamed down his face inside his helm, and he shot a final glance toward the disappearing army. It was just barely visible on the horizon. Dalinar’s current position gave him a good view down to the west.

Let that man be cursed for …