The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,193

floated in the wash of the highstorm flood, then been deposited as the water slowly receded. There were no Parshendi among them, and they were broken and torn from either their fall or the crush of the flood. Many were missing limbs.

The stink of blood and viscera hung in the humid air. Kaladin held his torch aloft as his companions fell silent. The dank chill kept the bodies from rotting too quickly, though the dampness counteracted some of that. The cremlings had begun chewing the skin off hands and gnawing out the eyes. Soon the stomachs would bloat with gas. Some rotspren—tiny, red, translucent—scrambled across the corpses.

Syl floated down and landed on his shoulder, making disgusted noises. As usual, she offered no explanation for her absence.

The men knew what to do. Even with the rotspren, this was too rich a place to pass up. They went to work, pulling the corpses into a line so they could be inspected. Kaladin waved for Rock and Teft to join him as he picked up some stray bits of salvage that lay on the ground around the corpses. Dunny tagged along.

“Those bodies wear the highprince’s colors,” Rock noted as Kaladin picked up a dented steel cap.

“I’ll bet they’re from that run a few days back,” Kaladin said. “It went badly for Sadeas’s forces.”

“Brightlord Sadeas,” Dunny said. Then he ducked his head in embarrassment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to correct you. I used to forget to say the title. My master beat me when I did.”

“Master?” Teft asked, picking up a fallen spear and pulling some moss off its shaft.

“I was an apprentice. I mean, before…” Dunny trailed off, then looked away.

Teft had been right; bridgemen didn’t like talking about their pasts. Anyway, Dunny was probably right to correct him. Kaladin would be punished if he were heard omitting a lighteyes’s honorific.

Kaladin put the cap in his sack, then rammed his torch into a gap between two moss-covered boulders and started helping the others get the bodies into a line. He didn’t prod the men toward conversation. The fallen deserved some reverence—if that was possible while robbing them.

Next, the bridgemen stripped the fallen of their armor. Leather vests from the archers, steel breastplates from the foot soldiers. This group included a lighteyes in fine clothing beneath even finer armor. Sometimes the bodies of fallen lighteyes would be recovered from the chasms by special teams so the corpse could be Soulcast into a statue. Darkeyes, unless they were very wealthy, were burned. And most soldiers who fell into the chasms were ignored; the men in camp spoke of the chasms being hallowed resting places, but the truth was that the effort to get the bodies out wasn’t worth the cost or the danger.

Regardless, to find a lighteyes here meant that his family hadn’t been wealthy enough, or concerned enough, to send men out to recover him. His face was crushed beyond recognition, but his rank insignia identified him as seventh dahn. Landless, attached to a more powerful officer’s retinue.

Once they had his armor, they pulled daggers and boots off everyone in line—boots were always in demand. They left the fallen their clothing, though they took off the belts and cut free many shirt buttons. As they worked, Kaladin sent Teft and Rock around the bend to see if there were any other bodies nearby.

Once the armor, weapons, and boots had been separated, the most grisly task began: searching pockets and pouches for spheres and jewelry. This pile was the smallest of the lot, but valuable. They didn’t find any broams, which meant no pitiful reward for the bridgemen.

As the men performed their morbid task, Kaladin noticed the end of a spear poking out of a nearby pool. It had gone unnoticed in their initial sweep.

Lost in thought, he fetched it, shaking off the water, carrying it over to the weapons pile. He hesitated there, holding the spear over the pile with one hand, cold water dripping from it. He rubbed his finger along the smooth wood. He could tell from the heft, balance, and sanding that it was a good weapon. Sturdy, well made, well kept.

He closed his eyes, remembering days as a boy holding a quarterstaff.

Words spoken by Tukks years ago returned to him, words spoken on that bright summer day when he’d first held a weapon in Amaram’s army. The first step is to care, Tukks’s voice seemed to whisper. Some talk about being emotionless in battle. Well, I suppose it’s important to