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!”