The Way of Kings (143 page)

Teft was still swearing. He pulled Kaladin aside, Lopen following, but the others remained talking among themselves. “Damnation!” Teft said softly. “They like to pretend to be evenhanded with the bridge crews. Makes ’em seem fair. Looks like they gave up on that. Bastards.”

“What do we do, gancho?” Lopen asked.

“We go to the chasms,” Kaladin said. “Just like we’re scheduled to. Then make sure we get some extra sleep tonight, as we’re apparently going to be staying up all night tomorrow.”

“The men will hate going into the chasms at night, lad,” Teft said.

“I know.”

“But we’re not ready for… what we need to do,” Teft said, looking to make sure nobody could hear. It was only him, Kaladin, and Lopen. “It will be another few weeks at least.”

“I know.”

“We won’t last another few weeks!” Teft said. “With Sadeas and Kholin working together, runs happen nearly every day. Just one bad run—one time with the Parshendi drawing bead on us—and it will all be over. We’ll be wiped out.”

“I know!” Kaladin said, frustrated, taking a deep breath and forming fists to keep himself from exploding.

“Gancho!” Lopen said.

“What?” Kaladin snapped.

“It’s happening again.”

Kaladin froze, then looked down at his arms. Sure enough, he caught a hint of luminescent smoke rising from his skin. It was extremely faint—he didn’t have many gemstones near him—but it was there. The wisps faded quickly. Hopefully the other bridgemen hadn’t seen.

“Damnation. What did I do?”

“I don’t know,” Teft said. “Is it because you were angry at Hashal?”

“I was angry before.”

“You breathed it in,” Syl said eagerly, whipping around him in the air, a ribbon of light.

“What?”

“I saw it.” She twisted herself around. “You were mad, you drew in a breath, and the Light… it came too.”

Kaladin glanced at Teft, but of course the older bridgeman hadn’t heard. “Gather the men,” Kaladin said. “We’re going down to our chasm duty.”

“And what about what has happened?” Teft said. “Kaladin, we can’t go on that many bridge runs. We’ll be cut to pieces.”

“I’m doing something about it today. Gather the men. Syl, I need something from you.”

“What?” She landed in front of him and formed into a young woman.

“Go find us a place where some Parshendi corpses have fallen.”

“I thought you were going to do spear practice today.”

“That’s what the men will be doing,” Kaladin said. “I’ll get them organized first. After that, I have a different task.”

Kaladin clapped a quick signal, and the bridgemen made a decent arrowhead formation. They carried the spears they’d stashed in the chasm, secured in a large sack filled with stones and stuck in a crevice. He clapped his hands again, and they rearranged into a double-line wall formation. He clapped again, and they formed into a ring with one man standing behind every two as a quick step-in reserve.

The walls of the chasm dripped with water, and the bridgemen splashed through puddles. They were good. Better than they had any right to be, better—for their level of training—than any team he’d worked with.

But Teft was right. They still wouldn’t last long in a fight. A few more weeks and he’d have them practiced enough with thrusts and shielding one another that they’d begin to be dangerous. Until then, they were just bridgemen who could move in fancy patterns. They needed more time.

Kaladin had to buy them some.

“Teft,” Kaladin said. “Take over.”

The older bridgeman gave one of those cross-armed salutes.

“Syl,” Kaladin said to the spren, “let’s go see these bodies.”

“They’re close. Come on.” She zipped off down the chasm, a glowing ribbon. Kaladin started after her.

“Sir,” Teft called.

Kaladin hesitated. When had Teft started calling him “sir”? Odd, how right that felt. “Yes?”

“You want an escort?” Teft stood at the head of the gathered bridgemen, who were looking more and more like soldiers, with their leather vests and spears held in practiced grips.

Kaladin shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Chasmfiends…”

“The lighteyes have killed any who prowl this close to our side. Besides, if I did run into one, what difference would two or three extra men make?”

Teft grimaced behind his short, greying beard, but offered no further objection. Kaladin continued to follow Syl. In his pouch, he carried the rest of the spheres they’d discovered on bodies while scavenging. They made a habit of keeping some of each discovery and sticking them to bridges, and with Syl helping at scavenging, they now found more than they used to. He had a small fortune in his pouch. That Stormlight—he hoped— would serve him well today.

He got out a sapphire mark for light, avoiding pools of water strewn with bones. A skull protruded from one, wavy green moss growing across the scalp like hair, lifespren bobbing above. Perhaps it should have felt eerie to walk through these darkened slots alone, but they didn’t bother Kaladin. This was a sacred place, the sarcophagus of the lowly, the burial cavern of bridgemen and spearmen who died upon lighteyed edicts, spilling blood down the sides of these ragged walls. This place wasn’t eerie; it was holy.

He was actually glad to be alone with his silence and the remains of those who had died. These men hadn’t cared about the squabbles of those born with lighter eyes than they. These men had cared about their families or—at the very least—their sphere pouches. How many of them were trapped in this foreign land, these endless plateaus, too poor to escape back to Alethkar? Hundreds died each week, winning gems for men who were already rich, winning vengeance for a king long dead.

Kaladin passed another skull, missing its lower jaw, the crown split by an axe’s blow. The bones seemed to watch him, curious, the blue Stormlight in his hand giving a haunted cast to the uneven ground and walls.

The devotaries taught that when men died, the most valiant among them—the ones who fulfilled their Callings best—would rise to help reclaim heaven. Each man would do as he had done in life. Spearmen to fight, farmers to work spiritual farms, lighteyes to lead. The ardents were careful to point out that excellence in any Calling would bring power. A farmer would be able to wave his hand and create great fields of spiritual crops. A spearman would be a great warrior, able to cause thunder with his shield and lightning with his spear.

But what of the bridgemen? Would the Almighty demand that all of these fallen rise and continue their drudgery? Would Dunny and the others run bridges in the afterlife? No ardents came to them to test their abilities or grant them Elevations. Perhaps the bridgemen wouldn’t be needed in the War for Heaven. Only the very most skilled went there anyway. Others would simply slumber until the Tranquiline Halls were reclaimed.

So do I believe again now?
He climbed over a boulder wedged in the chasm.
Just like that?
He wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. He would do the best he could for his bridgemen. If there was a Calling in that, so be it.

Of course, if he did escape with his team, Sadeas would replace them with others who would die in their stead.

I have to worry about what I can do,
he told himself.
Those other bridgemen aren’t my responsibility.

Teft talked about the Radiants, about ideals and stories. Why couldn’t men actually be like that? Why did they have to rely on dreams and fabrications for inspiration?

If you flee… you leave all the other bridgemen to be slaughtered,
a voice whispered within him.
There has to be something you can do for them.

No!
he fought back.
If I worry about that, I won’t be able to save Bridge Four. If I find a way out, we’re going.

If you leave,
the voice seemed to say,
then who will fight for them? Nobody cares. Nobody….

What was it his father had said all those years ago? He did what he felt was right because someone had to start. Someone had to take the first step.

Kaladin’s hand felt warm. He stopped in the chasm, closing his eyes. You couldn’t feel any heat from a sphere, usually, but the one in his hand seemed warm. And then—feeling completely natural about it—Kaladin breathed in deeply. The sphere grew cold and a wave of heat shot up his arm.

He opened his eyes. The sphere in his hand was dun and his fingers were crispy with frost. Light rose from him like smoke from a fire, white, pure.

He raised a hand and felt alive with energy. He had no need to breathe— in fact, he held the breath in, trapping the Stormlight. Syl zipped back down the corridor toward him. She twisted around him, then came to rest in the air, taking the form of a woman. “You did it. What happened?”

Kaladin shook his head, holding his breath. Something was surging within him, like…

Like a storm. Raging inside his veins, a tempest sweeping about inside his chest cavity. It made him want to run, jump, yell. It almost made him want to burst. He felt as if he could walk on air. Or walls.

Yes!
he thought. He broke into a run, leaping at the side of the chasm. He hit feetfirst.

Then bounced off and slammed back into the ground. He was so stunned that he cried out, and he felt the storm within dampen as breath escaped.

He lay on his back as Stormlight rose from him more quickly now that he was breathing. He lay there as the last of it burned away.

Syl landed on his chest. “Kaladin? What was that?”

“Me being an idiot,” he replied, sitting up and feeling an ache in his back and a sharp pain in his elbow where he’d hit the ground. “Teft said that the Radiants were able to walk on walls, and I felt so alive….”

Syl walked on air, stepping as if down a set of stairs. “I don’t think you’re ready for that yet. Don’t be so risky. If you die, I go stupid again, you know.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Kaladin said, climbing to his feet. “Maybe I’ll remove dying from my list of tasks to do this week.”

She snorted, zipping into the air, becoming a ribbon again. “Come on, hurry up.” She shot off down the chasm. Kaladin collected the dun sphere, then dug into the pouch for another one to provide light. Had he drained them all? No. The others still glowed strongly. He selected a ruby mark, then hurried after Syl.

She led him to a narrow chasm that contained a small group of fresh Parshendi corpses. “This is morbid, Kaladin,” Syl noted, standing above the bodies.

“I know. Do you know where Lopen went?”

“I sent him scavenging nearby, fetching the things you asked him for.”

“Bring him, please.”

Syl sighed, but zipped away. She always got testy when he made her appear to someone other than him. Kaladin knelt down. Parshendi all looked so similar. That same square face, those blocky—almost rocklike—features. Some had the beards with bits of gemstone tied in them. Those glowed, but not brightly. Cut gemstones held Stormlight better. Why was that?

Rumors in camp claimed that the Parshendi took the wounded humans away and ate them. Rumors also said they left their dead, not caring for the fallen, never building them proper pyres. But that last part was false. They did care about their dead. They all seemed to have the same sensibility that Shen did; he threw a fit every time one of the bridgemen so much as touched a Parshendi corpse.

I’d better be right about this,
Kaladin thought grimly, slipping a knife off one of the Parshendi bodies. It was beautifully ornamented and forged, the steel lined with glyphs Kaladin didn’t recognize. He began to cut at the strange breastplate armor that grew from the corpse’s chest.

Kaladin quickly determined that Parshendi physiology was very different from human physiology. Small blue ligaments held the breastplate to the skin underneath. It was attached all the way across. He continued working. There wasn’t much blood; it had pooled at the corpse’s back or leaked away. His knife wasn’t a surgeon’s tool, but it did the job just fine. By the time Syl returned with Lopen, Kaladin had gotten the breastplate free and had moved on to the carapace helm. It was harder to remove; it had grown into the skull in places, and he had to saw with the serrated section of the blade.

“Ho, gancho,” Lopen said, a sack slung over his shoulder. “You don’t like them at all, do you?”

Kaladin stood, wiping his hands on the Parshendi man’s skirt. “Did you find what I asked for?”

“Sure did,” Lopen said, letting down the sack and digging into it. He pulled out an armored leather vest and cap, the type that spearmen used. Then he took out some thin leather straps and a medium-sized wooden spearman’s shield. Finally came a series of deep red bones. Parshendi bones. At the very bottom of the sack was the rope, the one Lopen had bought and tossed into the chasm, then stashed down below.

“You haven’t lost your wits, have you?” Lopen asked, eyeing the bones. “Because if you have, I’ve got a cousin who makes this drink for people who’ve lost their wits, and it might make you better, sure.”

“If I’d lost my wits,” Kaladin said, walking over to a pool of still water to wash off the carapace helm, “would I say that I had?”