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

Soldiers in blue yelled, screaming war cries to encourage themselves. The sounds were like a roaring avalanche behind Adolin as he swung his Blade in wild swings. There was no room for a proper stance. He had to keep moving, punching through the Parshendi, leading his men toward the western chasm.

His father’s horse and his own were still safe, carrying some wounded through the back ranks. The Shardbearers didn’t dare mount, though. In these close quarters, the Ryshadium would be chopped down and their riders dropped.

This was the type of battlefield maneuver that would have been impossible without Shardbearers. A rush against superior numbers? Made by wounded, exhausted men? They should have been stopped cold and crushed.

But Shardbearers could not be stopped so easily. Their armor leaking Stormlight, their six-foot Blades flashing in wide swaths, Adolin and Dalinar shattered the Parshendi defenses, creating an opening, a rift. Their men—the best-trained in the Alethi warcamps—knew how to use it. They formed a wedge behind their Shardbearers, prying the Parshendi armies open, using spearman formations to cut through and keep going forward.

Adolin moved at almost a jog. The incline of the hill worked in their favor, giving them better footing, letting them rumble down the slope like charging chulls. The chance to survive when all had been thought lost gave the men a surge of energy for one last dash toward freedom.

They took enormous casualties. Already, Dalinar’s force had lost another thousand of his four, probably more. But it didn’t matter. The Parshendi fought to kill, but the Alethi—this time—fought to live.




Living Heralds above, Teft thought, watching Kaladin fight. Just moments ago, the lad had looked near death, skin a dull grey, hands shaking. Now he was a shining whirlwind, a storm wielding a spear. Teft had known many a battlefield, but he had never seen anything remotely like this. Kaladin held the ground before the bridge by himself. White Stormlight streamed from him like a blazing fire. His speed was incredible, nearly inhuman, and his precision—each thrust of the spear hit a neck, side, or other unarmored target of Parshendi flesh.

It was more than the Stormlight. Teft had only a fragmentary recollection of the things his family had tried to teach him, but those memories all agreed. Stormlight did not grant skill. It could not make a man into something he was not. It enhanced, it strengthened, it invigorated.

It perfected.

Kaladin ducked low, slamming the butt against the leg of a Parshendi, dropping him to the ground, and came up to block an axe swing by catching the haft with that of his spear. He let go with one hand, sweeping the tip of the spear up under the arm of the Parshendi and ramming it into his armpit. As that Parshendi fell, Kaladin pulled his spear free and slammed the end into a Parshendi head that had gotten too close. The butt of the spear shattered with a spray of wood, and the Parshendi’s carapace helm exploded.

No, this wasn’t just Stormlight. This was a master of the spear with his capacity enhanced to astonishing levels.

The bridgemen gathered around Teft, amazed. His wounded arm didn’t seem to hurt as much as it should. “He’s like a part of the wind itself,” Drehy said. “Pulled down and given life. Not a man at all. A spren.”

“Sigzil?” Skar asked, eyes wide. “You ever seen anything like this?”

The dark-skinned man shook his head.

“Stormfather,” Peet whispered. “What … what is he?”

“He’s our bridgeleader,” Teft said, snapping out of his reverie. On the other side of the chasm, Kaladin barely dodged a blow from a Parshendi mace. “And he needs our help! First and second teams, you take the left side. Don’t let the Parshendi get around him. Third and fourth teams, you’re with me on the right! Rock and Lopen, you be ready to pull back any wounded. The rest of you, wrinkled wall formation. Don’t attack, just stay alive and keep them back. And Lopen, toss him a spear that isn’t broken!”




Dalinar roared, striking down a group of Parshendi swordsmen. He charged over their bodies, running up a short incline and throwing himself in a leap, dropping several feet into the Parshendi below, sweeping out with his Blade. His armor was an enormous weight upon his back, but the energy of his struggle kept him going. The Cobalt Guard—the straggling members who were left—roared and leaped off the incline behind him.

They were doomed. Those bridgemen would be dead by now. But Dalinar blessed them for their sacrifice. It might have been meaningless as an end, but it had changed the journey. This was how his soldiers should fall—not cornered and frightened, but fighting with passion.

He would not slide quietly into the dark. No indeed. He shouted his defiance again as he smashed into a group of Parshendi, whirling and hauling his Shardblade in a circling sweep. He stumbled through the patch of dead Parshendi, their eyes burning as they fell.

And Dalinar burst out onto open stone.

He blinked, stunned. We did it, he thought in disbelief. We cut all the way through. Behind him, soldiers roared, their tired voices sounding nearly as amazed as he felt. Just ahead of him, a final group of Parshendi lay between Dalinar and the chasm. But their backs were turned to him. Why were they—

The bridgemen.

The bridgemen were fighting. Dalinar gaped, lowering Oathbringer with numb arms. That little force of bridgemen held the bridgehead, fighting desperately against the Parshendi who were trying to force them back.

It was the most amazing, most glorious thing Dalinar had ever seen.

Adolin let out a whoop, breaking through the Parshendi to Dalinar’s left. The younger man’s armor was scratched, cracked, and scored, and his helm had shattered, leaving his head dangerously exposed. But his face was exultant.

“Go, go,” Dalinar bellowed, pointing. “Give them support, storm it! If those bridgemen fall, we’re all dead!”

Adolin and the Cobalt Guard dashed forward. Gallant and Sure-blood, Adolin’s Ryshadium, galloped past, carrying three wounded each. Dalinar hated to have left so many wounded on the slopes, but the Codes were clear. In this case, protecting the men he could save was more important.

Dalinar turned to strike at the main body of Parshendi to his left, making certain the corridor remained open for his troops. Many of the soldiers scrambled toward safety, though several squads proved their mettle by forming up at the sides to keep fighting, opening the gap wider. Sweat had soaked through the brow rag attached to Dalinar’s helm, and drops of it fell, overwhelming his eyebrows and falling into his left eye. He cursed, reaching to open his visor—then froze.

The enemy troops were parting. There, standing among them, was a seven-foot-tall giant of a Parshendi in gleaming silver Shardplate. It fit as only Plate could, having molded to his large stature. His Shardblade was wicked and barbed, like flames frozen into metal. He raised it to Dalinar in a salute.

“Now?” Dalinar bellowed incredulously. “Now you come?”