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Chapter no 20 – A BLOODY, RED SUNSET

The Way of Kings

โ€ŒMight I be quite frank? Before, you asked why I was so concerned. It is for the following reason:โ€Œ

 

โ€œHeโ€™s old,โ€ Syl said with awe, flitting around the apothecary. โ€œReally old. I didnโ€™t know men got this old. You sure heโ€™s not decayspren wearing a manโ€™s skin?โ€

Kaladin smiled as the apothecary shuffled forward with his cane, oblivious of the invisible windspren. His face was as full of chasms as the Shattered Plains themselves, weaving out in a pattern from his deeply recessed eyes. He wore a pair of thick spectacles on the tip of his nose, and was dressed in dark robes.

Kaladinโ€™s father had told him of apothecariesโ€”men who walked the line between herbalists and surgeons. Common people regarded the healing arts with enough superstition that it was easy for an apothecary to cultivate an arcane air. The wooden walls were draped with cloth glyphwards styled in cryptic patterns, and behind the counter were shelves with rows of jars. A full human skeleton hung in the far corner, held together by wires. The windowless room was lit with bundles of garnet spheres hanging from the corners.

Despite all that, the place was clean and tidy. It had the familiar scent of antiseptic Kaladin associated with his fatherโ€™s surgery.

โ€œAh, young bridgeman.โ€ The short apothecary adjusted his spectacles. He stooped forward, running his fingers through his wispy white beard. โ€œCome for a ward against danger, perhaps? Or maybe a young washwoman in the camp has caught your eye? I have a potion which, if slipped into her drink, will make her regard you with favor.โ€

Kaladin raised an eyebrow.

Syl, however, opened her mouth in an amazed expression. โ€œYou should give that to Gaz, Kaladin. It would be nice if he liked you more.โ€

I doubt thatโ€™s what itโ€™s intended for, Kaladin thought with a smile.

โ€œYoung bridgeman?โ€ the apothecary asked. โ€œIs it a charm against evil you desire?โ€

Kaladinโ€™s father had spoken of these things. Many apothecaries purveyed supposed love charms or potions to cure all manner of ailments. Theyโ€™d contain nothing more than some sugar and a few pinches of common herbs to give a spike of alertness or drowsiness, depending on the purported effect. It was all nonsense, though Kaladinโ€™s mother had put great stock in glyphwards. Kaladinโ€™s father had always expressed disappointment in her stubborn way of clinging to โ€œsuperstitions.โ€

โ€œI need some bandages,โ€ Kaladin said. โ€œAnd a flask of listerโ€™s oil or knobweed sap. Also, a needle and gut, if you have any.โ€

The apothecaryโ€™s eyes opened wide in surprise.

โ€œIโ€™m the son of a surgeon,โ€ Kaladin admitted. โ€œTrained by his hand. He was trained by a man who had studied in the Great Concourse of Kharbranth.โ€

โ€œAh,โ€ the apothecary said. โ€œWell.โ€ He stood up straighter, setting aside his cane and brushing his robes. โ€œBandages, you said? And some antiseptic? Let me seeโ€ฆ.โ€ He moved back behind the counter.

Kaladin blinked. The manโ€™s age hadnโ€™t changed, but he didnโ€™t seem nearly as frail. His step was firmer, and his voice had lost its whispering raspiness. He searched through his bottles, mumbling to himself as he read off his labels. โ€œYou could just go to the surgeonโ€™s hall. They would charge you far less.โ€

โ€œNot for a bridgeman,โ€ Kaladin said, grimacing. Heโ€™d been turned away. The supplies there were for real soldiers.

โ€œI see,โ€ the apothecary said, setting a jar on the counter, then bending down to poke in some drawers.

Syl flitted over to Kaladin. โ€œEvery time he bends I think heโ€™ll snap like a twig.โ€ She was growing able to understand abstract thought, and at a surprisingly rapid pace.

I know what death isโ€ฆ. He still wasnโ€™t certain whether to feel sorry for her or not.

Kaladin picked up the small bottle and undid the cork, smelling what was inside. โ€œLarmic mucus?โ€ He grimaced at the foul smell. โ€œThatโ€™s not nearly as effective as the two I asked for.โ€

โ€œBut itโ€™s far cheaper,โ€ the old man said, coming up with a large box. He opened the lid, revealing sterile white bandages. โ€œAnd you, as has been noted, are a bridgeman.โ€

โ€œHow much for the mucus, then?โ€ Heโ€™d been worried about this; his father had never mentioned how much his supplies cost.

โ€œTwo bloodmarks for the bottle.โ€ โ€œThatโ€™s what you consider cheap?โ€ โ€œListerโ€™s oil costs two sapphire marks.โ€

โ€œAnd knobweed sap?โ€ Kaladin said. โ€œI saw some of reeds of it growing just outside of camp! It canโ€™t be that rare.โ€

โ€œAnd do you know how much sap comes from a single plant?โ€ the apothecary asked, pointing.

Kaladin hesitated. It wasnโ€™t true sap, but a milky substance that you could squeeze from the stalks. Or so his father had said. โ€œNo,โ€ Kaladin admitted.

โ€œA single drop,โ€ the man said. โ€œIf youโ€™re lucky. Itโ€™s cheaper than listerโ€™s oil, sure, but more expensive than the mucus. Even if the mucus does stink like the Nightwatcherโ€™s own backside.โ€

โ€œI donโ€™t have that much,โ€ Kaladin said. It was five diamond marks to a garnet. Ten daysโ€™ pay to buy one small jar of antiseptic. Stormfather!

The apothecary sniffed. โ€œThe needle and gut will cost two clearmarks.

Can you afford that, at least?โ€

โ€œBarely. How much for the bandages? Two full emeralds?โ€

โ€œTheyโ€™re just old scraps that I bleached and boiled. Two clearchips an arm length.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ll give a mark for the box.โ€

โ€œVery well.โ€ Kaladin reached into his pocket to get the spheres as the old apothecary continued, โ€œYou surgeons, all the same. Never give a blink

to consider where your supplies come from. You just use them like there will be no end.โ€

โ€œYou canโ€™t put a price on a personโ€™s life,โ€ Kaladin said. One of his fatherโ€™s sayings. It was the main reason that Lirin had never charged for his services.

Kaladin brought out his four marks. He hesitated when he saw them, however. Only one was still glowing with its soft crystal light. The other three were dull, the bits of diamond barely visible at the center of the drops of glass.

โ€œHere now,โ€ the apothecary said, squinting. โ€œYou trying to pass dun spheres off on me?โ€ He snatched one before Kaladin could complain, then fished around under his counter. He brought up a jewelerโ€™s loupe, removing his spectacles and holding the sphere up toward the light. โ€œAh. No, thatโ€™s a real gemstone. You should get your spheres infused, bridgeman. Not everyone is as trusting as I am.โ€

โ€œThey were glowing this morning,โ€ Kaladin protested. โ€œGaz must have paid me with run-down spheres.โ€

The apothecary removed his loupe and replaced the spectacles. He selected three marks, including the glowing one.

โ€œCould I have that one?โ€ Kaladin asked. The apothecary frowned.

โ€œAlways keep a glowing sphere in your pocket,โ€ Kaladin said. โ€œItโ€™s good luck.โ€

โ€œYou certain you donโ€™t want a love potion?โ€

โ€œIf you get caught in the dark, youโ€™ll have light,โ€ Kaladin said tersely. โ€œBesides, as you said, most people arenโ€™t as trusting as you.โ€

Reluctantly, the apothecary traded the infused sphere for the dead one

โ€”though he did check it with the loupe to be certain. A dun sphere was worth just as much as an infused one; all you had to do was leave it out in a highstorm, and it would recharge and give off light for a week or so.

Kaladin pocketed the infused sphere and picked up his purchase. He nodded farewell to the apothecary, and Syl joined him as he stepped out into the campโ€™s street.

Heโ€™d spent some of the afternoon listening to soldiers at the mess hall, and heโ€™d learned some things about the warcamps. Things he should have learned weeks ago, but had been too despondent to care about. He now knew about the chrysalises on the plateaus, the gemhearts they contained,

and the competition between the highprinces. He understood why Sadeas pushed his men so hard, and he was beginning to see why Sadeas turned around if they got to the plateau later than another army. That wasnโ€™t very common. More often, Sadeas arrived first, and the other Alethi armies that came up behind them had to turn back.

The warcamps were enormous. All told, there were over a hundred thousand troops in the various Alethi camps, many times the population of Hearthstone. And that wasnโ€™t counting the civilians. A mobile warcamp attracted a large array of camp followers; stationary warcamps like these on the Shattered Plains brought even more.

Each of the ten warcamps filled its own crater, and was filled with an incongruous mix of Soulcast buildings, shanties, and tents. Some merchants, like the apothecary, had the money to build a wooden structure. Those who lived in tents took them down for storms, then paid for shelter elsewhere. Even within the crater, the stormwinds were strong, particularly where the outer wall was low or broken. Some placesโ€”like the lumberyard

โ€”were completely exposed.

The street bustled with the usual crowd. Women in skirts and blouses

โ€”the wives, sisters, or daughters of the soldiers, merchants, or craftsmen. Workers in trousers or overalls. A large number of soldiers in leathers, carrying spear and shield. All were Sadeasโ€™s men. Soldiers of one camp didnโ€™t mix with those of another, and you stayed away from another brightlordโ€™s crater unless you had business there.

Kaladin shook his head in dismay.

โ€œWhat?โ€ Syl asked, settling on his shoulder.

โ€œI hadnโ€™t expected there to be so much discord among the camps here.

I thought it would all be one kingโ€™s army, unified.โ€ โ€œPeople are discord,โ€ Syl said.

โ€œWhat does that mean?โ€

โ€œYou all act differently and think differently. Nothing else is like that

โ€”animals act alike, and all spren are, in a sense, virtually the same individual. Thereโ€™s harmony in that. But not in youโ€”it seems that no two of you can agree on anything. All the world does as it is supposed to, except for humans. Maybe thatโ€™s why you so often want to kill each other.โ€

โ€œBut not all windspren act alike,โ€ Kaladin said, opening the box and tucking some of the bandages into the pocket heโ€™d sewn into the inside of his leather vest. โ€œYouโ€™re proof of that.โ€

 

so.โ€

โ€œI know,โ€ she said softly. โ€œMaybe now you can see why it bothers me

Kaladin didnโ€™t know how to respond to that. Eventually, he reached the

lumberyard. A few members of Bridge Four lounged in the shade on the east side of their barrack. It would be interesting to see one of those barracks get madeโ€”they were Soulcast directly from air into stone. Unfortunately, Soulcastings happened at night, and under strict guard to keep the holy rite from being witnessed by anyone other than ardents or very high-ranking lighteyes.

The first afternoon bell sounded right as Kaladin reached the barrack, and he caught a glare from Gaz for nearly being late for bridge duty. Most of that โ€œdutyโ€ would be spent sitting around, waiting for the horns to blow. Well, Kaladin didnโ€™t intend to waste time. He couldnโ€™t risk tiring himself by carrying the plank, not when a bridge run could be imminent, but perhaps he could do some stretches orโ€”

A horn sounded in the air, crisp and clean. It was like the mythical horn that was said to guide the souls of the brave to heavenโ€™s battlefield. Kaladin froze. As always, he waited for the second blast, an irrational part of him needing to hear confirmation. It came, sounding a pattern indicating the location of the pupating chasmfiend.

Soldiers began to scramble toward the staging area beside the lumberyard; others ran into camp to fetch their gear. โ€œLine up!โ€ Kaladin shouted, dashing up to the bridgemen. โ€œStorm you! Every man in a line!โ€

They ignored him. Some of the men werenโ€™t wearing their vests, and they clogged the barrack doorway, all trying to get in. Those who had their vests ran for the bridge. Kaladin followed, frustrated. Once there, the men gathered around the bridge in a carefully prearranged manner. Each man got a chance to be in the best position: running in front up to the chasm, then moving to the relative safety of the back for the final approach.

There was a strict rotation, and errors were neither made nor tolerated. Bridge crews had a brutal system of self-management: If a man tried to cheat, the others forced him to run the final approach in front. That sort of thing was supposed to be forbidden, but Gaz turned a blind eye toward cheaters. He also refused bribes to let men change positions. Perhaps he knew that the only stabilityโ€”the only hopeโ€”the bridgemen had was in their rotation. Life wasnโ€™t fair, being a bridgeman wasnโ€™t fair, but at least if you ran the deathline and survived, the next time you got to run at the back.

There was one exception. As bridgeleader, Kaladin got to run in the front most of the way, then move to the back for the assault. His was the safest position in the group, though no bridgeman was truly safe. Kaladin was like a moldy crust on a starving manโ€™s plate; not the first bite, but still doomed.

He got into position. Yake, Dunny, and Malop were the last stragglers. Once theyโ€™d taken their places, Kaladin commanded the men to lift. He was half surprised to be obeyed, but there was almost always a bridgeleader to give commands during a run. The voice changed, but the simple orders did not. Lift, run, lower.

Twenty bridges charged down from the lumberyard and toward the Shattered Plains. Kaladin noticed a group of bridgemen from Bridge Seven watching with relief. Theyโ€™d been on duty until the first afternoon bell; theyโ€™d avoided this run by mere moments.

The bridgemen worked hard. It wasnโ€™t just because of threats of beatingsโ€”they ran so hard because they wanted to arrive at the target plateau before the Parshendi did. If they did so, there would be no arrows, no death. And so running their bridges was the one thing the bridgemen did without reservation or laziness. Though many hated their lives, they still clung to them with white-knuckled fervor.

They clomped across the first of the permanent bridges. Kaladinโ€™s muscles groaned in protest at being worked again so soon, but he tried not to dwell on his fatigue. The highstormโ€™s rains from the night before meant that most plants were still open, rockbuds spewing out vines, flowering branzahs reaching clawlike branches out of crevices toward the sky. There were also occasional prickletacs: the needly, stone-limbed little shrubs Kaladin had noticed his first time through the area. Water pooled in the numerous crevices and depressions on the surface of the uneven plateau.

Gaz called out directions, telling them which pathway to take. Many of the nearby plateaus had three or four bridges, creating branching paths across the Plains. The running became rote. It was exhausting, but it was also familiar, and it was nice to be at the front, where he could see where he was going. Kaladin fell into his usual step-counting mantra, as heโ€™d been advised to do by that nameless bridgeman whose sandals he still wore.

Eventually, they reached the last of the permanent bridges. They crossed a short plateau, passing the smoldering ruins of a bridge the Parshendi had destroyed during the night. How had the Parshendi managed

that, during a highstorm? Earlier, while listening to the soldiers, heโ€™d learned that the soldiers regarded the Parshendi with hatred, anger, and not a little awe. These Parshendi werenโ€™t like the lazy, nearly mute parshmen who worked throughout Roshar. These Parshendi were warriors of no small skill. That still struck Kaladin as incongruous. Parshmen? Fighting? It was just so strange.

Bridge Four and the other crews got their bridges down, spanning a chasm where it was narrowest. His men collapsed to the ground around their bridge, relaxing while the army crossed. Kaladin nearly joined themโ€” in fact, his knees nearly buckled in anticipation.

No, he thought, steadying himself. No. I stand.

It was a foolish gesture. The other bridgemen barely paid him any heed. One man, Moash, even swore at him. But now that Kaladin had made the decision, he stubbornly stuck to it, clasping his hands behind his back and falling into parade rest while watching the army cross.

โ€œHo, little bridgeman!โ€ a soldier called from among those waiting their turn. โ€œCurious at what real soldiers look like?โ€

Kaladin turned toward the man, a solid, brown-eyed fellow with arms the size of many menโ€™s thighs. He was a squadleader, by the knots on the shoulder of his leather jerkin. Kaladin had borne those knots once.

โ€œHow do you treat your spear and shield, squadleader?โ€ Kaladin called back.

The man frowned, but Kaladin knew what he was thinking. A soldierโ€™s gear was his life; you cared for your weapon as youโ€™d care for your children, often seeing to its upkeep before you took food or rest.

Kaladin nodded to the bridge. โ€œThis is my bridge,โ€ he said in a loud voice. โ€œIt is my weapon, the only one allowed me. Treat her well.โ€

โ€œOr youโ€™ll do what?โ€ called one of the other soldiers, prompting laughter among the ranks. The squadleader said nothing. He looked troubled.

Kaladinโ€™s words were bravado. In truth, he hated the bridge. Still, he remained standing.

A few moments later, Highprince Sadeas himself crossed on Kaladinโ€™s bridge. Brightlord Amaram had always seemed so heroic, so distinguished. A gentleman general. This Sadeas was a different creature entirely, with that round face, curly hair, and lofty expression. He rode as if he were in a parade, one hand lightly holding the reins before him, the other carrying his

helm under his arm. His armor was painted red, and the helm bore frivolous tassels. There was so much pointless pomp that it nearly overshadowed the wonder of the ancient artifact.

Kaladin forgot his fatigue and formed his hands into fists. Here was a lighteyes he could hate even more than most, a man so callous that he threw away the lives of hundreds of bridgemen each month. A man who had expressly forbidden his bridgemen to have shields for reasons Kaladin still didnโ€™t understand.

Sadeas and his honor guard soon passed, and Kaladin realized that he probably should have bowed. Sadeas hadnโ€™t noticed, but it could have made trouble if he had. Shaking his head, Kaladin roused his bridge crew, though it took special prodding to get Rockโ€”the large Horneaterโ€”up and moving. Once across the chasm, his men picked up their bridge and jogged toward the next chasm.

The process was repeated enough times that Kaladin lost count. At each crossing, he refused to lie down. He stood with hands behind his back, watching the army pass. More soldiers took note of him, jeering. Kaladin ignored them, and by the fifth or sixth crossing, the jeers faded. The one other time he saw Brightlord Sadeas, Kaladin gave a bow, though it made his stomach twist to do so. He did not serve this man. He did not give this man allegiance. But he did serve his men of Bridge Four. He would save them, and that meant he had to keep himself from being punished for insolence.

โ€œReverse runners!โ€ Gaz called. โ€œCross and reverse!โ€

Kaladin turned sharply. The next crossing would be the assault. He squinted, looking into the distance, and could just barely make out a line of dark figures gathering on another plateau. The Parshendi had arrived and were forming up. Behind them, a group worked on breaking open the chrysalis.

Kaladin felt a spike of frustration. Their speed hadnโ€™t been enough. Andโ€”tired though they wereโ€”Sadeas would want to attack quickly, before the Parshendi could get the gemheart out of its shell.

The bridgemen rose from their rest, silent, haunted. They knew what was coming. They crossed the chasm and pulled the bridge over, then rearranged themselves in reverse order. The soldiers formed ranks. It was all so silent, like men preparing to carry a casket to the pyre.

The bridgemen left a space for Kaladin at the back, sheltered and protected. Syl alighted on the bridge, looking at the spot. Kaladin walked up to it, so tired, mentally and physically. Heโ€™d pushed himself too hard in the morning, then again by standing instead of resting. What had possessed him to do such a thing? He could barely walk.

He looked over the bridgemen. His men were resigned, despondent, terrified. If they refused to run, theyโ€™d be executed. If they did run, theyโ€™d face the arrows. They didnโ€™t look toward the distant line of Parshendi archers. Instead, they looked down.

They are your men, Kaladin told himself. They need you to lead them, even if they donโ€™t know it.

How can you lead from the rear?

He stepped out of line and rounded the bridge; two of the menโ€”Drehy and Teftโ€”looked up in shock as he passed. The deathpointโ€”the spot in the very center of the frontโ€”was being held by Rock, the beefy, tan-skinned Horneater. Kaladin tapped him on the shoulder. โ€œYouโ€™re in my spot, Rock.โ€

The man glanced at him, surprised. โ€œButโ€”โ€ โ€œTo the back with you.โ€

Rock frowned. Nobody ever tried to jump ahead in the order. โ€œYouโ€™re airsick, lowlander,โ€ he said with his thick accent. โ€œYou wish to die? Why do you not just go leap into the chasm? That would be easier.โ€

โ€œIโ€™m bridgeleader. Itโ€™s my privilege to run at the front. Go.โ€

Rock shrugged, but did as ordered, taking Kaladinโ€™s position at the back. Nobody said a word. If Kaladin wanted to get himself killed, who were they to complain?

Kaladin looked over the bridgemen. โ€œThe longer we take to get this bridge down, the more arrows they can loose at us. Stay firm, stay determined, and be quick. Raise bridge!โ€

The men lifted, inner rows moving underneath and situating themselves in rows of five across. Kaladin stood at the very front with a tall, stout man named Leyten to his left, a spindly man named Murk to his right. Adis and Corl were at the edges. Five men in front. The deathline.

Once all of the crews had their bridges up, Gaz gave the command. โ€œAssault!โ€

They ran, dashing alongside the standing ranks of the army, passing soldiers holding spears and shields. Some watched with curiosity, perhaps amused at the sight of the lowly bridgemen running so urgently to their

deaths. Others looked away, perhaps ashamed of the lives it would cost to get them across that chasm.

Kaladin kept his eyes forward, squelching that incredulous voice in the back of his mind, one that screamed he was doing something very stupid. He barreled toward the final chasm, focused on the Parshendi line. Figures with black and crimson skin holding bows.

Syl flitted close to Kaladinโ€™s head, no longer in the form of a person, streaking like a ribbon of light. She zipped in front of him.

The bows came up. Kaladin hadnโ€™t been at the deathpoint during a charge this bad since his first day on the crew. They always put new men into rotation at the deathpoint. That way, if they died, you didnโ€™t have to worry about training them.

The Parshendi archers drew, aiming at five or six of the bridge crews.

Bridge Four was obviously in their sights.

The bows loosed.

โ€œTien!โ€ Kaladin screamed, nearly mad with fatigue and frustration. He bellowed the name aloudโ€”uncertain whyโ€”as a wall of arrows zipped toward him. Kaladin felt a jolt of energy, a surge of sudden strength, unanticipated and unexplained.

The arrows landed.

Murk fell without a sound, four or five arrows striking him, spraying his blood across the stones. Leyten dropped as well, and with him both Adis and Corl. Shafts struck the ground at Kaladinโ€™s feet, shattering, and a good half dozen hit the wood around Kaladinโ€™s head and hands.

Kaladin didnโ€™t know if heโ€™d been hit. He was too flush with energy and alarm. He continued running, screaming, holding the bridge on his shoulders. For some reason, a group of Parshendi archers ahead lowered their bows. He saw their marbled skin, strange reddish or orange helms, and simple brown clothing. They appeared confused.

Whatever the reason, it gained Bridge Four a few precious moments. By the time the Parshendi raised their bows again, Kaladinโ€™s team had reached the chasm. His men fell into line with the other bridge crewsโ€” there were only fifteen bridges now. Five had fallen. They closed the gaps as they arrived.

Kaladin screamed for the bridgemen to drop amid another spray of arrows. One sliced open the skin near his ribs, deflecting off the bone. He felt it hit, but didnโ€™t feel any pain. He scrambled around the side of the

bridge, helping push. Kaladinโ€™s team slammed the bridge into place as a wave of Alethi arrows distracted the enemy archers.

A troop of cavalry charged across the bridges. The bridgemen were soon forgotten. Kaladin fell to his knees beside the bridge as the others of his crew stumbled away, bloodied and hurt, their part in the battle over.

Kaladin held his side, feeling the blood there. Straight laceration, only about an inch long, not wide enough to be of danger.

It was his fatherโ€™s voice.

Kaladin panted. He needed to get to safety. Arrows zipped over his head, fired by the Alethi archers.

Some people take lives. Other people save lives.

He wasnโ€™t done yet. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and staggered to where someone lay beside the bridge. It was a bridgeman named Hobber; he had an arrow through the leg. The man moaned, holding his thigh.

Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and pulled him away from the bridge. The man cursed at the pain, dazed, as Kaladin towed him to a cleft behind a small bulge in the rock where Rock and some of the other bridgemen had sought shelter.

After dropping off Hobberโ€”the arrow hadnโ€™t hit any major arteries, and he would be fine for a time yetโ€”Kaladin turned and tried to rush back out onto the battlefield proper. He slipped, however, stumbling in his fatigue. He hit the ground hard, grunting.

Some take lives. Some save lives.

He pushed himself to his feet, sweat dripping from his brow, and scrambled back toward the bridge, his fatherโ€™s voice in his ears. The next bridgeman he found, a man named Koorm, was dead. Kaladin left the body. Gadol had a deep wound in the side where an arrow had passed completely through him. His face was covered with blood from a gash on his temple, and heโ€™d managed to crawl a short distance from the bridge. He looked up with frenzied black eyes, orange painspren waving around him.

Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and towed him away just before a thundering charge of cavalry trampled the place where heโ€™d been lying.

Kaladin dragged Gadol over to the cleft, noting two more dead. He did a quick count. That made twenty-nine bridgemen, including the dead heโ€™d seen. Five were missing. Kaladin stumbled back out onto the battlefield.

Soldiers had bunched up around the back of the bridge, archers forming at the sides and firing into the Parshendi lines as the heavy cavalry

chargeโ€”led by Highprince Sadeas himself, virtually indestructible in his Shardplateโ€”tried to push the enemy back.

Kaladin wavered, dizzy, dismayed at the sight of so many men running, shouting, firing arrows and throwing spears. Five bridgemen, probably dead, lost in all of thatโ€”

He spotted a figure huddled just beside the chasm lip with arrows flying back and forth over his head. It was Dabbid, one of the bridgemen. He curled up, arm twisted at an awkward angle.

Kaladin charged in. He threw himself to the ground and crawled beneath the zipping arrows, hoping that the Parshendi would ignore a couple of unarmed bridgemen. Dabbid didnโ€™t even notice when Kaladin reached him. He was in shock, lips moving soundlessly, eyes dazed. Kaladin grabbed him awkwardly, afraid to stand up too high lest an arrow hit him.

He dragged Dabbid away from the edge in a clumsy half crawl. He kept slipping on blood, falling, abrading his arms on the rock, hitting his face against the stone. He persisted, towing the younger man out from underneath the flying arrows. Finally, he got far enough away that he risked standing. He tried to pick up Dabbid. But his muscles were so weak. He strained and slipped, exhausted, falling to the stones.

He lay there, gasping, the pain of his side finally washing over him. So tiredโ€ฆ.

He stood up shakily, then tried again to grab Dabbid. He blinked away tears of frustration, too weak to even pull the man.

โ€œAirsick lowlander,โ€ a voice growled.

Kaladin turned as Rock arrived. The massive Horneater grabbed Dabbid under the arms, pulling him. โ€œCrazy,โ€ he grumbled to Kaladin, but easily lifted the wounded bridgeman and carried him back to the hollow.

Kaladin followed. He collapsed in the hollow, his back to the rock. The surviving bridgemen huddled around him, eyes haunted. Rock set Dabbid down.

โ€œFour more,โ€ Kaladin said between gasps. โ€œWe have to find themโ€ฆ.โ€ โ€œMurk and Leyten,โ€ Teft said. The older bridgeman had been near the

back this run, and hadnโ€™t taken any wounds. โ€œAnd Adis and Corl. They were in the front.โ€

Thatโ€™s right, Kaladin thought, exhausted. How could I forgetโ€ฆ. โ€œMurk is dead,โ€ he said. โ€œThe others might live.โ€ He tried to stumble to his feet.

โ€œIdiot,โ€ Rock said. โ€œStay here. Is all right. I will do this thing.โ€ He hesitated. โ€œGuess Iโ€™m an idiot too.โ€ He scowled, but went back out onto the battlefield. Teft hesitated, then chased after him.

Kaladin breathed in and out, holding his side. He couldnโ€™t decide if the pain of the arrow impact hurt more than the cut.

Save livesโ€ฆ.

He crawled over to the three wounded. Hobberโ€”with an arrow through the legโ€”would wait, and Dabbid had only a broken arm. Gadol was the worst off, with that hole in his side. Kaladin stared at the wound. He didnโ€™t have an operating table; he didnโ€™t even have antiseptic. How was he supposed to do anything?

He shoved despair aside. โ€œOne of you go fetch me a knife,โ€ he told the bridgemen. โ€œTake it off the body of a soldier who has fallen. Someone else build a fire!โ€

The bridgemen looked at each other.

โ€œDunny, you get the knife,โ€ Kaladin said as he held his hand to Gadolโ€™s wound, trying to stanch the blood. โ€œNarm, can you make a fire?โ€

โ€œWith what?โ€ the man asked.

Kaladin pulled off his vest and shirt, then handed the shirt to Narm. โ€œUse this as tinder and gather some fallen arrows for wood. Does anyone have flint and steel?โ€

Moash did, fortunately. You carried anything valuable you had with you on a bridge run; other bridgemen might steal it if you left it behind.

โ€œMove quickly!โ€ Kaladin said. โ€œSomeone else, go rip open a rockbud and get me the watergourd inside.โ€

They stood for a few moments. Then, blessedly, they did as he demanded. Perhaps they were too stunned to object. Kaladin tore open Gadolโ€™s shirt, exposing the wound. It was bad, terribly bad. If it had cut the intestines or some of the other organsโ€ฆ

He ordered one of the bridgemen to hold a bandage to Gadolโ€™s forehead to stanch the smaller blood flow thereโ€”anything would helpโ€”and inspected the wounded side with the speed his father had taught him. Dunny returned quickly with a knife. Narm was having trouble with the fire, though. The man cursed, trying his flint and steel again.

Gadol was spasming. Kaladin pressed bandages to the wound, feeling helpless. There wasnโ€™t a place he could make a tourniquet for a wound like this. There wasnโ€™t anything he could do butโ€”

Gadol spit up blood, coughing. โ€œThey break the land itself!โ€ he hissed, eyes wild. โ€œThey want it, but in their rage they will destroy it. Like the jealous man burns his rich things rather than let them be taken by his enemies! They come!โ€

He gasped. And then he fell still, his dead eyes staring upward, bloody spittle running in a trail down his cheek. His final, haunting words hung over them. Not far away, soldiers fought and screamed, but the bridgemen were silent.

Kaladin sat back, stunnedโ€”as alwaysโ€”by the pain of losing someone.

His father had always said that time would dull his sensitivity.

In this, Lirin had been wrong.

He felt so tired. Rock and Teft were hurrying back toward the cleft in the rock, bearing a body between them.

They wouldnโ€™t have brought anyone unless he was still alive, Kaladin told himself. Think of the ones you can help. โ€œKeep that fire going!โ€ he said, pointing at Narm. โ€œDonโ€™t let it die! Someone heat the blade in it.โ€

Narm jumped, noticing as if for the first time that heโ€™d actually managed to get a small flame started. Kaladin turned away from the dead Gadol and made room for Rock and Teft. They deposited a very bloody Leyten on the ground. He was breathing shallowly and had two arrows sticking from him, one from the shoulder, the other from the opposite arm. Another had grazed his stomach, and the cut there had been widened by movement. It looked like his left leg had been trampled by a horse; it was broken, and he had a large gash where the skin had split.

โ€œThe other three are dead,โ€ Teft said. โ€œHe nearly is too. Nothing much we can do. But you said to bring him, soโ€”โ€

Kaladin knelt down immediately, working with careful, efficient speed. He pressed a bandage against the side, holding it in place with his knee, then tied a quick bandage on the leg, ordering one of the soldiers to hold it firm and elevate the limb. โ€œWhereโ€™s that knife!โ€ Kaladin yelled, hurriedly tying a loose tourniquet around the arm. He needed to stop the blood right now; heโ€™d worry about saving the arm later.

Youthful Dunny rushed over with the heated blade. Kaladin lifted the side bandage and quickly cauterized the wound there. Leyten was unconscious, his breathing growing more shallow.

โ€œYou will not die,โ€ Kaladin muttered. โ€œYou will not die!โ€ His mind was numb, but his fingers knew the motions. For a moment, he was back in

his fatherโ€™s surgery room, listening to careful instruction. He cut the arrow from Leytenโ€™s arm, but left the one in his shoulder, then sent the knife back to be reheated.

Peet finally returned with the watergourd. Kaladin snatched it, using it to clean the leg wound, which was the nastiest, as it had been caused by trampling. When the knife came back, Kaladin pulled the arrow free of the shoulder and cauterized the wound as best he could, then used another of his quickly disappearing bandages to tie the wound.

He splinted the leg with arrow shaftsโ€”the only thing they had. With a grimace, he cauterized the wound there too. He hated to cause so many scars, but he couldnโ€™t afford to let any more blood be lost. He was going to need antiseptic. How soon could he get some of that mucus?

โ€œDonโ€™t you dare die!โ€ Kaladin said, barely conscious that he was speaking. He quickly tied off the leg wound, then used his needle and thread to sew the arm wound. He bandaged it, then untied the tourniquet most of the way.

Finally, he settled back, looking at the wounded man, completely drained. Leyten was still breathing. How long would that last? The odds were against him.

The bridgemen stood or sat around Kaladin, looking strangely reverent. Kaladin tiredly moved over to Hobber and saw to the manโ€™s leg wound. It didnโ€™t need to be cauterized. Kaladin washed it out, cut away some splinters, then sewed it. There were painspren all around the man, tiny orange hands stretching up from the ground.

Kaladin sliced off the cleanest portion of bandage heโ€™d used on Gadol and tied it around Hobberโ€™s wound. He hated the uncleanliness of it, but there was no other choice. Then he set Dabbidโ€™s arm with some arrows he had the other bridgemen fetch, using Dabbidโ€™s shirt to tie them in place. Then, finally, Kaladin sat back against the lip of stone, letting out a long, fatigued breath.

Bangs of metal on metal and shouts of soldiers rang from behind. He felt so tired. Too tired to even close his eyes. He just wanted to sit and stare at the ground forever.

Teft settled down beside him. The grizzled man had the watergourd, which still had some liquid in the bottom. โ€œDrink, lad. You need it.โ€

โ€œWe should clean the wounds of the other men,โ€ Kaladin said numbly. โ€œThey took scrapesโ€”I saw some had cutsโ€”and they shouldโ€”โ€

โ€œDrink,โ€ Teft said, his crackly voice insistent.

Kaladin hesitated, then drank the water. It tasted strongly bitter, like the plant from which it had been taken.

โ€œWhereโ€™d you learn to heal men like that?โ€ Teft asked. Several of the nearby bridgemen turned toward him at the question.

โ€œI wasnโ€™t always a slave,โ€ Kaladin whispered.

โ€œThese things you did, they wonโ€™t make a difference,โ€ Rock said, walking up. The massive Horneater squatted down. โ€œGaz makes us leave behind wounded who cannot walk. Is standing order from above.โ€

โ€œIโ€™ll deal with Gaz,โ€ Kaladin said, resting his head back against the stone. โ€œGo return that knife to the body you took it off. I donโ€™t want to be accused of thievery. Then, when the time comes to leave, I want two men in charge of Leyten and two men in charge of Hobber. Weโ€™ll tie them to the top of the bridge and carry them. At the chasms, youโ€™ll have to move quickly and untie them before the army crosses, then retie them at the end. Weโ€™ll also need someone to lead Dabbid, if his shock hasnโ€™t passed.โ€

โ€œGaz wonโ€™t stand for this thing,โ€ Rock said. Kaladin closed his eyes, declining further argument.

The battle was a long one. As evening approached, the Parshendi finally retreated, jumping away across the chasms with their unnaturally powerful legs. There was a chorus of shouts from the Alethi soldiers, who had won the day. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and went looking for Gaz. It would be a while yet before they could get the chrysalis openโ€”it was like pounding on stoneโ€”but he needed to deal with the bridge sergeant.

He found Gaz watching from well behind the battle lines. He glanced at Kaladin with his one eye. โ€œHow much of that blood is yours?โ€

Kaladin looked down, realizing for the first time that he was crusted with dark, flaking blood, most belonging to the men heโ€™d worked on. He didnโ€™t answer the question. โ€œWeโ€™re taking our wounded with us.โ€

Gaz shook his head. โ€œIf they canโ€™t walk, they stay behind. Standing orders. Not my choice.โ€

โ€œWeโ€™re taking them,โ€ Kaladin said, no more firm, no more loud. โ€œBrightlord Lamaril wonโ€™t stand for it.โ€ Lamaril was Gazโ€™s immediate

superior.

โ€œYouโ€™ll send Bridge Four last, to lead the wounded soldiers back to camp. Lamaril wonโ€™t go with that troop; heโ€™ll go on ahead with the main

body, as he wonโ€™t want to miss Sadeasโ€™s victory feast.โ€ Gaz opened his mouth.

โ€œMy men will move quickly and efficiently,โ€ Kaladin said, interrupting him. โ€œThey wonโ€™t slow anyone.โ€ He took the last sphere from his pocket and handed it over. โ€œYou wonโ€™t say anything.โ€

Gaz took the sphere, snorting. โ€œOne clearmark? You think that will make me take a risk this big?โ€

โ€œIf you donโ€™t,โ€ Kaladin said, voice calm, โ€œI will kill you and let them execute me.โ€

Gaz blinked in surprise. โ€œYouโ€™d neverโ€”โ€

Kaladin took a single step forward. He must have looked a dreadful sight, covered in blood. Gaz paled. Then he cursed, holding up the dark sphere. โ€œAnd a dun sphere at that.โ€

Kaladin frowned. He was sure it had still glowed before the bridge run. โ€œThatโ€™s your fault. You gave it to me.โ€

โ€œThose spheres were newly infused last night,โ€ Gaz said. โ€œThey came straight from Brightlord Sadeasโ€™s treasurer. What did you do with them?โ€

Kaladin shook his head, too exhausted to think. Syl landed on his shoulder as he turned to walk back to the bridgemen.

โ€œWhat are they to you?โ€ Gaz called after him. โ€œWhy do you even care?โ€

โ€œTheyโ€™re my men.โ€

He left Gaz behind. โ€œI donโ€™t trust him,โ€ Syl said, looking over her shoulder. โ€œHe could just say you threatened him and send men to arrest you.โ€

โ€œMaybe he will,โ€ Kaladin said. โ€œI guess I just have to count on him wanting more of my bribes.โ€

Kaladin continued on, listening to the shouts of the victors and the groans of their wounded. The plateaus were littered with corpses, bunched up along the edges of the chasm, where the bridges had made a focus for the battle. The Parshendiโ€”as alwaysโ€”had left their dead behind. Even when they won, they reportedly left their dead. The humans sent back bridge crews and soldiers to burn their dead and send their spirits to the afterlife, where the best among them would fight in the Heraldsโ€™ army.

โ€œSpheres,โ€ Syl said, still looking at Gaz. โ€œThat doesnโ€™t seem like much to count on.โ€

โ€œMaybe. Maybe not. Iโ€™ve seen the way he looks at them. He wants the money I give him. Perhaps badly enough to keep him in line.โ€ Kaladin shook his head. โ€œWhat you said earlier is right; men are unreliable in many things. But if thereโ€™s one thing you can count on, itโ€™s their greed.โ€

It was a bitter thought. But it had been a bitter day. A hopeful, bright beginning, and a bloody, red sunset.

Just like every day.

โ€ŒMap of Alethi warcamps by the painter Vandonas, who visited the warcamps once and painted perhaps an idealized representation of them.โ€Œ

 

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