The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,448

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