The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,427

and shirt where he’d narrowly avoided being hit. Three arrows stuck from the leather.

“Stormblessed,” Skar said. “That’s all there is too it.”

Kaladin shrugged off their praise, his heart still pounding. He was numb. Amazed that he’d survived, cold from the Stormlight he’d consumed, exhausted as if he’d run a rigorous obstacle course. He looked to Teft, raising an eyebrow, nodding toward the pouch at his waist.

Teft shook his head. He’d watched; the Stormlight rising from Kaladin hadn’t been visible to those observing, not in the light of day. Still, the way Kaladin had dodged would have looked incredible, even without the obvious light. If there had been stories about him before, they would grow greatly following this.

He turned to look at the passing troops. As he did, he realized something. He still had to deal with Matal. “Fall into line, men,” he said.

They obeyed reluctantly, falling into place around him in a double rank. Ahead, Matal stood beside their bridge. He looked concerned, as well he should. Sadeas was riding up. Kaladin steeled himself, remembering how his previous victory—when they’d run with the bridge on its side—had been turned on its head. He hesitated, then hurried over toward the bridge where Sadeas was going to ride past Matal. Kaladin’s men followed.

Kaladin arrived as Matal bowed to Sadeas, who wore his glorious red Shardplate. Kaladin and the bridgemen bowed as well.

“Avarak Matal,” Sadeas said. He nodded toward Kaladin. “This man looks familiar.”

“He is the one from before, Brightlord,” Matal said, nervous. “The one who…”

“Ah yes,” Sadeas said. “The ‘miracle.’ And you sent him forward as a decoy like that? One would think that you would be hesitant to dare such measures.”

“I take full responsibility, Brightlord,” Matal said, putting the best face on it.

Sadeas regarded the battlefield. “Well, luckily for you, it worked. I suppose I’ll have to promote you now.” He shook his head. “Those savages practically ignored the assault force. All twenty bridges set, most with nary a casualty. It seems like a waste, somehow. Consider yourself commended. Most remarkable, the way that boy dodged…” He kicked his horse into motion, leaving Matal and the bridgemen behind.

It was the most backhanded promotion Kaladin had ever heard, but that would do. Kaladin smiled broadly as Matal turned to him, eyes enraged.

“You—” Matal sputtered. “You could have gotten me executed!”

“Instead I got you promoted,” Kaladin said, Bridge Four forming around him.

“I should see you strung up anyway.”

“It’s been tried,” Kaladin said. “Didn’t work. Besides, you know that from now on Sadeas is going to expect me to be out there distracting the archers. Good luck getting any other bridgeman to try that.”

Matal’s face grew red. He turned and stalked away to check on the other bridge crews. The two nearest—Bridge Seven and Bridge Eighteen—stood looking toward Kaladin and his team. All twenty bridges had been set? Hardly any casualties?

Stormfather, Kaladin thought. How many archers were firing at me?

“You did it, Kaladin!” Moash exclaimed. “You found the secret. We need to make this work. Expand it.”

“I’ll bet I could dodge those arrows, if that were all I was doing,” Skar said. “With enough armor…”

“We should have more than one,” Moash agreed. “Five or so, running around drawing the Parshendi attacks.”

“The bones,” Rock said, folding his arms. “This is what made it work. The Parshendi were so mad that they ignored bridge crew. If all five wear the bones of Parshendi…”

That made Kaladin consider something. He looked back, searching through the bridgemen. Where was Shen?

There. He was sitting on the rocks, distant, staring forward. Kaladin approached with the others. The parshman looked up at him, face a mask of pain, tears streaking his cheeks. He looked at Kaladin and shuddered visibly, turning away, closing his eyes.

“He sat down like that the moment he saw what you’d done, lad,” Teft said, rubbing his chin. “Might not be good for bridge runs anymore.”

Kaladin pulled the carapacetied helm off his head, then ran his fingers through his hair. The carapace stuck to his clothing stank faintly, even though he’d washed it off down below. “We’ll see,” Kaladin said, feeling a twist of guilt. Not nearly enough to overshadow the victory of protecting his men, but enough to dampen it, at least. “For now, there are still many bridge crews that got fired upon. You know what to do.”

The men nodded, trotting off to search for the wounded. Kaladin set one man to watch over Shen—he wasn’t sure what else to do with the parshman—and tried not to