“Let me no longer hurt! Let me no longer weep! Daigonarthis! The Black Fisher holds my sorrow and consumes it!”

—Tanatesach 1173, 28 seconds pre-death. A darkeyed female street juggler. Note similarity to sample 1172-89.

Bridge Four lagged behind the rest of the army. With two wounded and four men needed to carry them, the bridge weighed them down. Fortunately, Sadeas had brought nearly every bridge crew on this run, including eight to lend to Dalinar. That meant the army didn’t need to wait for Kaladin’s team in order to cross.

Exhaustion saturated Kaladin, and the bridge on his shoulders seemed made of stone. He hadn’t felt so tired since his first days as a bridgeman. Syl hovered in front of him, watching with concern as he marched at the head of his men, sweat drenching the sides of his face, struggling over the uneven ground of the plateau.

Ahead, the last of Sadeas’s army was bunched along the chasm, crossing. The staging plateau was nearly empty. The sheer awful audacity of what Sadeas had done twisted at Kaladin’s insides. He thought what had been done to him had been horrible. But here, Sadeas callously condemned thousands of men, lighteyed and dark. Supposed allies. That betrayal seemed to weigh as heavy on Kaladin as the bridge itself. It pressed on him, made him gasp for breath.

Was there no hope for men? They killed those they should have loved. What good was it to fight, what good was it to win, if there was no difference between ally and enemy? What was victory? Meaningless. What did the deaths of Kaladin’s friends and colleagues mean? Nothing. The entire world was a pustule, sickeningly green and infested with corruption.

Numb, Kaladin and the others reached the chasm, though they were too late to help with the transfer. The men he’d sent ahead were there, Teft looking grim, Skar leaning on a spear to support his wounded leg. A small group of dead spearmen lay nearby. Sadeas’s soldiers retrieved their wounded, when possible, but some died as they were helped along. They’d abandoned some of those here; Sadeas was obviously in a hurry to leave the scene.

The dead had been left with their equipment. Skar had probably gotten his crutch there. Some poor bridge crew would have to cross all the way back here at a later date to salvage from these, and from Dalinar’s fallen.

They set their bridge down, and Kaladin wiped his brow. “Don’t place the bridge across the chasm,” he told the men. “We’ll wait until the last of the soldiers have crossed, then carry it over on one of the other bridges.” Matal eyed Kaladin and his team, but didn’t order them to set their bridge. He realized that by the time they got it into position, they’d have to pull it up again.

“Isn’t that a sight?” Moash said, stepping up beside Kaladin, looking back.

Kaladin turned. The Tower rose behind them, sloped in their direction. Kholin’s army was a circle of blue, trapped in the middle of the slope after trying to push down and get to Sadeas before he left. The Parshendi were a dark swarm with specks of red from their marbled skins. They pressed at the Alethi ring, compressing it.

“Such a shame,” Drehy said from beside their bridge, sitting on its lip. “Makes me sick.”

Other bridgemen nodded, and Kaladin was surprised to see the concern in their faces. Rock and Teft joined Kaladin and Moash, all wearing their Parshendi-carapace armor. He was glad they’d left Shen back in the camp. He’d have been catatonic at the sight of it all.

Teft cradled his wounded arm. Rock raised a hand to shade his eyes and shook his head, looking eastward. “Is a shame. A shame to Sadeas. A shame to us.”

“Bridge Four,” Matal called. “Come on!”

Matal was waving for them to cross Bridge Six’s bridge and leave the staging plateau. An idea came to Kaladin suddenly. A fantastic idea, like a blooming rockbud in his mind.

“We’ll follow with our own bridge, Matal,” Kaladin called. “We only just got to the chasm. We need to sit for a few minutes.”

“Cross now!” Matal yelled.

“We’ll just fall further behind!” Kaladin retorted. “You want to explain to Sadeas why he has to hold the entire army for one miserable bridge crew? We’ve got our bridge. Let my men rest. We’ll catch up to you later.”

“And if those savages come after you?” Matal demanded.

Kaladin shrugged.

Matal blinked, then seemed to realize how badly he wanted that to happen. “Suit yourself,” he called, rushing across bridge six as the other bridges were pulled up. In seconds, Kaladin’s team was alone beside the chasm, the army retreating westward.

Kaladin smiled broadly. “I can’t believe it, after all that worrying… Men, we’re free!”

The others turned to him, confused.

“We’ll follow in a short while,” Kaladin said eagerly, “and Matal will assume we’re coming. We fall farther and farther behind the army, until we’re out of sight. Then we’ll turn north, use the bridge to cross the Plains. We can escape northward, and everyone will just assume the Parshendi caught us and slaughtered us!”

The other bridgemen regarded him with wide eyes.

“Supplies,” Teft said.

“We have these spheres,” Kaladin said, pulling out his pouch. “A wealth of them, right here. We can take the armor and weapons from the dead over there and use those to defend ourselves from bandits. It will be hard, but we won’t be chased!”

The men were starting to grow excited. However, something gave Kaladin pause. What of the wounded bridgemen back in the camp?

“I’ll have to stay behind,” Kaladin said.

“What?” Moash demanded.

“Someone will need to,” Kaladin said. “For the good of our wounded in camp. We can’t abandon them. And if I stay behind, I can support the story. Wound me and leave me on one of the plateaus. Sadeas is sure to send scavengers back. I’ll tell them my crew was hunted down in retribution for desecrating the Parshendi corpses, our bridge tossed into the chasm. They’ll believe it; they’ve seen how the Parshendi hate us.”

The crew was all standing now, shooting glances at one another. Uncomfortable glances.

“We’re not leaving without you,” Sigzil said. Many of the others nodded.

“I’ll follow,” Kaladin said. “We can’t leave those men behind.”

“Kaladin, lad—” Teft began.

“We can talk about me later,” Kaladin interrupted. “Maybe I’ll go with you, then sneak back into camp later to rescue the wounded. For now, go salvage from those bodies.”

They hesitated.

“It’s an order, men!”

They moved, offering no further complaint, rushing to pilfer from the corpses Sadeas had abandoned. That left Kaladin alone beside the bridge.

He was still unsettled. It wasn’t just the wounded back in camp. What was it, then? This was a fantastic opportunity. The type he’d have practically killed to get during his years as a slave. The chance to vanish, presumed dead? The bridgemen wouldn’t have to fight. They were free. Why, then, was he so anxious?

Kaladin turned to survey his men, and was shocked to see someone standing beside him. A woman of translucent white light.

It was Syl, as he’d never seen her before, the size of a regular person, hands clasped in front of her, hair and dress streaming to the side in the wind. He’d had no idea she could make herself so large. She stared eastward, her expression horrified, eyes wide and sorrowful. It was the face of a child watching a brutal murder that stole her innocence.

Kaladin turned and slowly looked in the direction she was staring. Toward the Tower.

Toward Dalinar Kholin’s desperate army.

The sight of them twisted his heart. They fought so hopelessly. Surrounded. Abandoned. Left alone to die.

We have a bridge, Kaladin realized. If we could get it set… Most of the Parshendi were focused on the Alethi army, with only a token reserve force down at the base near the chasm. It was a small enough group that perhaps the bridgemen could contain them.

But no. That was idiocy. There were thousands of Parshendi soldiers blocking Kholin’s path to the chasm. And how would the bridgemen set their bridge, with no archers to support them?

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…

For…

Blood of my fathers, what is that?

A small force was moving across the western plateau, running toward the Tower. A solitary bridge crew, carrying their bridge.

“It can’t be,” Dalinar said, stepping back from the fighting, letting the Cobalt Guard—what was left of them—rush in to defend him. Distrusting his eyes, he pushed his visor up. The rest of Sadeas’s army was gone, but this single bridge crew remained. Why?

“Adolin!” he bellowed, pointing with his Shardblade, a surge of hope flooding his limbs.

The young man turned, tracing Dalinar’s gesture. Adolin froze. “Impossible!” he yelled. “What kind of trap is that?”

“A foolish one, if it is a trap. We are already dead.”

“But why would he send one back? What purpose?”

“Does it matter?”

They hesitated for a moment amid the battle. Both knew the answer.

“Assault formations!” Dalinar yelled, turning back to his troops. Stormfather, there were so few of them left. Less than half of his original eight thousand.

“Form up,” Adolin called. “Get ready to move! We’re going to punch through them, men. Gather everything you’ve got. We’ve got one chance!”

A slim one, Dalinar thought, pulling his visor down. We’ll have to cut through the rest of the Parshendi army. Even if they reached the bottom, they’d probably find the crew dead, their bridge cast into the chasm. The Parshendi archers were already forming up; there were more than a hundred of them. It would be a slaughter.

But it was a hope. A tiny, precious hope. If his army was going to fall, it would do so while trying to seize that hope.

Raising his Shardblade high, feeling a surge of strength and determination, Dalinar charged forward at the head of his men.

For the second time in one day, Kaladin ran toward an armed Parshendi position, shield before him, wearing armor cut from the corpse of a fallen enemy. Perhaps he should have felt revolted at what he’d done in creating his armor. But it was no worse than what the Parshendi had done in killing Dunny, Maps, and that nameless man who had shown Kaladin kindness on his first day as a bridgemen. Kaladin still wore that man’s sandals.

Us and them, he thought. That was the only way a soldier could think of it. For today, Dalinar Kholin and his men were part of the “us.”

A group of Parshendi had seen the bridgemen approaching and was setting up with bows. Fortunately, it appeared that Dalinar had seen Kaladin’s band as well, for the army in blue was beginning to cut its way toward rescue.

It wasn’t going to work. There were too many Parshendi, and Dalinar’s men would be tired. It was another disaster. But for once, Kaladin charged into it with eyes wide open.

This is my choice, he thought as the Parshendi archers formed up. It’s not some angry god watching me, not some spren playing tricks, not some twist of fate.

It’s me. I chose to follow Tien. I chose to charge the Shardbearer and save Amaram. I chose to escape the slave pits. And now, I choose to try to rescue these men, though I know I will probably fail.

The Parshendi loosed their arrows, and Kaladin felt an exaltation. Tiredness evaporated, fatigue fled. He wasn’t fighting for Sadeas. He wasn’t working to line someone’s pockets. He was fighting to protect.

The arrows zipped at him and he swung his shield in an arc, spraying them away. Others came, shooting this way and that, seeking his flesh. He stayed just ahead of them, leaping as they shot for his thighs, turning as they shot for his shoulders, raising his shield when they shot for his face. It wasn’t easy, and more than a few arrows got close to him, scoring his breastplate or shin guards. But none hit. He was doing it. He was—

Something was wrong.

He spun between two arrows, confused.

“Kaladin!” Syl said, hovering nearby, back to her smaller form. “There!”

She pointed toward the other staging plateau, the one nearby that Dalinar had used for his assault. A large contingent of Parshendi had jumped across to that plateau and were kneeling down, raising bows. Pointed not at him, but right at Bridge Four’s unshielded flank.

“No!” Kaladin screamed, Stormlight escaping from his mouth in a cloud. He turned and ran back across the rocky plateau toward the bridge crew. Arrows launched at him from behind. One took his backplate square on, but skidded aside. Another hit his helm. He leaped over a rocky rift, dashing with all the speed his Stormlight could lend him.

The Parshendi at the side were drawing. There were at least fifty of them. He was going to be too late. He was going to—

“Bridge Four!” he bellowed. “Side carry right!”

They hadn’t practiced that maneuver in weeks, but their training was manifest as they obeyed without question, dropping the bridge to their side just as the archers loosed. The flight of arrows hit the bridge’s deck, bristling across the wood. Kaladin let out a relieved breath, reaching the bridge team, who had slowed to carry the bridge on the side.

“Kaladin!” Rock said, pointing.

Kaladin spun. The archers behind, on the Tower, were drawing for a large volley.

The bridge crew was exposed. The archers loosed.

He yelled again, screaming out, Stormlight infusing the air around him as he threw every bit of it he had into his shield. The scream echoed in his ears; the Stormlight burst from him, his clothing freezing and cracking.

Arrows darkened the sky. Something hit him, an extended impact that tossed him backward into the bridgemen. He struck hard, grunting as the force continued to push upon him.

The bridge ground to a halt, the men stopping.

All fell still.

Kaladin blinked, feeling completely drained. His body hurt, his arms tingled, his back ached. There was a sharp pain in his wrist. He groaned, opening his eyes, stumbling as Rock’s hands caught him from behind.

A muted thump. The bridge being set down. Idiots! Kaladin thought. Don’t set it down…. Retreat….

The bridgemen crowded around him as he slipped to the ground, overwhelmed by having expended too much Stormlight. He blinked at what he held before him, attached to his bleeding arm.

His shield was covered in arrows, dozens of them, some splitting the others. The bones crossing the shield’s front had shattered; the wood was in splinters. Some of the arrows had gone through and hit his forearm. That was the pain.

Over a hundred arrows. An entire volley. Pulled into a single shield.

“By the Brightcaller’s rays,” Drehy said softly. “What… what was…”

“It was like a fountain of light,” Moash said, kneeling beside Kaladin. “Like the sun itself burst from you, Kaladin.”

“The Parshendi…” Kaladin croaked, and let go of the shield. The straps were broken, and as he struggled to stand, the shield all but disintegrated, falling to pieces, scattering dozens of broken arrows at his feet. A few remained stuck in his arm, but he ignored the pain, looking across at the Parshendi.

The groups of archers on both plateaus froze in stunned postures. The ones in front began to call to one another in a language Kaladin didn’t understand. “Neshua Kadal!” They stood up.

And then they fled.

“What?” Kaladin said.

“I don’t know,” Teft said, cradling his own wounded arm. “But we’re getting you to safety. Blast this arm. Lopen!”

The shorter man brought Dabbid, and they ushered Kaladin away to a more secure location toward the center of the plateau. He held his arm, numb, his exhaustion so deep that he could barely think.

“Bridge up!” Moash called. “We’ve still got a job to do!”

The rest of the bridgemen grimly ran back to their bridge, hoisting it up. On the Tower, Dalinar’s force was fighting its way through the Parshendi toward the possible safety of the bridge crew. They must be taking such heavy losses… Kaladin thought numbly.

He stumbled and fell to the ground; Teft and Lopen pulled Kaladin into a sheltered hollow, joining Skar and Dabbid. Skar’s foot bandage reddened with seeping blood, the spear he’d been using as a staff resting beside him. Thought I told him… to stay off that foot….

“We need spheres,” Teft said. “Skar?”

“He asked for them this morning,” the lean man said. “Gave him everything I had. I think most of the men did the same.”

Teft cursed softly, pulling the remaining arrows from Kaladin’s arm, then wrapping it with bandages.

“Is he going to be all right?” Skar asked.

“I don’t know,” Teft said. “I don’t know anything. Kelek! I’m an idiot. Kaladin. Lad, can you hear me?”

“It’s… just shock…” Kaladin said.

“You’re looking strange, gancho,” Lopen said nervously. “White.”

“Your skin is ashen, lad,” Teft said. “It looks like you did something to yourself back there. I don’t know… I…” He cursed again, smacking his hand against the stone. “I should have listened. Idiot!”

They’d laid him on his side, and he could barely see the Tower. New groups of Parshendi—ones who hadn’t seen Kaladin’s display—were making for the chasm, bearing weapons. Bridge Four arrived and set down their bridge. They unstrapped their shields and hurriedly retrieved spears from the sacks of salvage tied at the bridge’s side. Then the men went to their positions pushing at the sides, preparing to slide the bridge across the gap.

The Parshendi teams didn’t have bows. They formed up to wait, weapons out. There were easily three times as many as there were bridgemen, and more were coming.

“We’ve got to go help,” Skar said to Lopen and Teft.

The other two nodded, and all three—two wounded and one missing an arm—climbed to their feet. Kaladin tried to do likewise, but he fell back down, legs too weak to hold him.

“Stay, lad,” Teft said, smiling. “We’ll handle it just fine.” They gathered some spears from a stock Lopen had put in his litter, then hobbled out to join the bridge crew. Even Dabbid joined them. He hadn’t spoken since being wounded on that first bridge run, so long ago.

Kaladin crawled up to the lip of the depression, watching them. Syl landed on the stone beside him. “Storming fools,” Kaladin muttered. “Shouldn’t have followed me. Proud of them anyway.”

“Kaladin…” Syl said.

“Is there anything you can do?” He was so storming tired. “Something to make me stronger?”

She shook her head.

A short distance ahead, the bridgemen began to push. The bridge’s wood scraped loudly as it crossed the rocks, moving out over the chasm toward the waiting Parshendi. They began singing that harsh battle song, the one they did whenever they saw Kaladin in his armor.

The Parshendi looked eager, angry, deadly. They wanted blood. They would cut into the bridgemen and rip them apart, then drop the bridge— and their corpses—into the void beneath.

It’s happening again, Kaladin thought, dazed and overwhelmed. He found himself curling up, drained and shaken. I can’t get to them. They’ll die. Right before me. Tukks. Dead. Nelda. Dead. Goshel. Dead. Dallet. Cenn. Maps. Dunny. Dead. Dead. Dead…

Tien.

Dead.

Lying huddled in a hollow in the rock. The sounds of battle ringing in the distance. Death surrounding him.

In a moment, he was there again, on that most horrible of days.

Kaladin stumbled through the cursing, screaming, fighting chaos of war, clinging to his spear. He’d dropped his shield. He needed to find a shield somewhere. Shouldn’t he have a shield?

It was his third real battle. He’d been in Amaram’s army only a few months, but already Hearthstone seemed a world away. He reached a hollow of rock and crouched down, pushing his back to it, breathing in and out, fingers slick on the spear’s shaft. He was shaking.

He’d never realized how idyllic his life had been. Away from war. Away from death. Away from those screams, the cacophony of metal on metal, metal on wood, metal on flesh. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out.

No, he thought. Open your eyes. Don’t let them find you and kill you that easily.

He forced his eyes open, then turned and peeked out over the battlefield. It was a complete mess. They fought on a large hillside, thousands of men on either side, intermixing and killing. How could anyone keep track of anything in this insanity?

Amaram’s army—Kaladin’s army—was trying to hold the hilltop. Another army, also Alethi, was trying to take it from them. That was all Kaladin knew. The enemy seemed more numerous than his own army.

He’ll be safe, Kaladin thought. He will be!

But he had trouble convincing himself. Tien’s stint as a messenger boy hadn’t lasted long. Recruitment was down, he’d been told, and every hand that could hold a spear was needed. Tien and the other older messenger boys had been organized into several squads of deep reserves.

Dalar said those wouldn’t ever be used. Probably. Unless the army was in serious danger. Did being surrounded atop a steep hill, their lines in chaos, constitute serious danger?

Get to the top, he thought, looking up the incline. Amaram’s banner still flew up there. Their soldiers must be holding. All Kaladin could see was a churning mess of men in orange and the occasional bit of forest green.

Kaladin took off at a run up the side of the hill. He didn’t turn as men shouted at him, didn’t check to see which side they were from. Patches of grass pulled down in front of him. He stumbled over a few corpses, dashed around a couple of scraggly stumpweight trees, and avoided places where men were fighting.

There, he thought, noting a group of spearmen ahead, standing in a line, watching warily. Green. Amaram’s colors. Kaladin scrambled up to them, and the soldiers let him pass.

“Which squad are you from, soldier?” said a stocky lighteyed man with the knots of a low captain.

“Dead, sir,” Kaladin forced out. “All dead. We were in Brightlord Tashlin’s company, and—”

“Bah,” the man said, turning to a runner. “Third report we’ve had that Tashlin is down. Somebody warn Amaram. East side is weakening by degrees.” He looked to Kaladin. “You, off to the reserves for reassignment.”

“Yes, sir,” Kaladin said, numb. He glanced down the way he’d come. The incline was littered with corpses, many of them in green. Even as he watched, a group of three stragglers rushing for the top was intercepted and slaughtered.

None of the men at the top moved to help them. Kaladin could have fallen just as easily, within yards of safety. He knew that it was probably important, strategically, that these soldiers in the line maintain their positions. But it seemed so heartless.

Find Tien, he thought, trotting off toward the reserves field on the north side of the wide hilltop. Here, however, he found only more chaos. Groups of dazed men, bloodied, getting sorted into new squads and sent back out onto the field. Kaladin moved through them, searching for the squad that had been created out of the messenger boys.

He found Dalar first. The lanky, three-fingered sergeant of the reserves stood beside a tall post bearing a pair of flapping triangular banners. He was assigning newly made squads to fill out losses in the companies fighting below. Kaladin could still hear the yells.

“You,” Dalar said, pointing at Kaladin. “Squad reassignment is in that direction. Get moving!”

“I need to find the squad made from messenger boys,” Kaladin said.

“Why in Damnation do you want to know that?”

“How should I know?” Kaladin said, shrugging, trying to remain calm. “I just follow orders.”

Dalar grunted. “Brightlord Sheler’s company. Southeast side. You can—”

Kaladin was already running. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Tien was supposed to stay safe. Stormfather. It hadn’t even been four months yet!

He made his way to the southeast side of the hill and searched out a banner flapping a quarter of the way down the incline. The stark black glyphpair read shesh lerel—Sheler’s company. Surprised at his own determination, Kaladin brushed past the soldiers guarding the hilltop and found himself on the battlefield again.

Things looked better over here. Sheler’s company was holding its ground, although assaulted by a wave of enemies. Kaladin dashed down the incline, skidding in places, sliding on blood. His fear had vanished. It had been replaced by worry for his brother.

He arrived at the company line just as enemy squads were assaulting. He tried to scramble farther behind the lines to search for Tien, but he was caught in the wave of attacks. He stumbled to the side, joining a squad of spearmen.

The enemy was on them in a second. Kaladin held his spear in two hands, standing at the edge of the other spearmen and trying not to get in their way. He didn’t really know what he was doing. He barely knew enough to use his shieldmate for protection. The exchange happened quickly, and Kaladin made only a single thrust. The enemy was rebuffed, and he managed to avoid taking a wound.

He stood, panting, gripping his spear.

“You,” an authoritative voice said. A man was pointing at Kaladin, knots at his shoulders. The squadleader. “About time my team got some of those reinforcements. For a time there, I thought Varth was going to get every man. Where’s your shield?”

Kaladin scrambled to grab one off a fallen soldier nearby. As he was working, the squadleader swore behind him. “Damnation. They’re coming again. Two prongs this time. We can’t hold like this.”

A man in a green messenger’s vest scrambled over a nearby rock formation. “Hold against the east assault, Mesh!”

“What about that wave to the south?” the squadleader—Mesh—bellowed.

“It’s handled for now. Hold east! Those are your orders!” The messenger scrambled on, delivering a similar message to the next squad in line. “Varth. Your squad is to hold east!”

Kaladin got up with his shield. He needed to go find Tien. He couldn’t—

He stumbled to a stop. There, in the next squad down the line, stood three figures. Younger boys, looking small in their armor and holding their spears uncertainly. One was Tien. His team of reserves had obviously been split apart to fill holes in other squads.

“Tien!” Kaladin screamed, falling out of line as the enemy troops came upon them. Why were Tien and the other two positioned in the middle front of the squad formation? They barely knew how to hold a spear!

Mesh yelled after Kaladin, but Kaladin ignored him. The enemy was upon them in a moment, and Mesh’s squad broke, losing their discipline and turning to a more frenzied, unorganized resistance.

Kaladin felt something like a thump against his leg. He stumbled, hitting the ground, and realized with shock that he’d been stabbed with a spear. He felt no pain. Odd.

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.

A trickle of Stormlight closed the wounds on his arm. He smiled, spear held before him. It was as familiar as the body of a lover long lost.

The Words, a voice said, urgent, as if directly into his mind. In that moment, Kaladin was amazed to realize that he knew them, though they’d never been told to him.

“I will protect those who cannot protect themselves,” he whispered.

The Second Ideal of the Knights Radiant.

A crack shook the air, like an enormous clap of thunder, though the sky was completely clear. Teft stumbled back—having just set the bridge in place—and found himself gaping with the rest of Bridge Four. Kaladin exploded with energy.

A burst of whiteness washed out from him, a wave of white smoke. Stormlight. The force of it slammed into the first rank of Parshendi, tossing them backward, and Teft had to hold his hand up against the vibrancy of the light.

“Something just changed,” Moash whispered, hand up. “Something important.”

Kaladin raised his spear. The powerful light began to subside, retreating. A more subdued glow began to steam off his body. Radiant, like smoke from an ethereal fire.

Nearby, some of the Parshendi fled, though others stepped up, raising weapons in challenge. Kaladin spun into them, a living storm of steel, wood, and determination.