Brandon SANDERSON - The Way of Kings

Steady, loyal Gallant sprang into a gallop down the corridor of escape his men had bought for him with their blood. The nameless spearman dashed behind him, and the Cobalt Guard fell in around them. A larger force of his troops was ahead, on the escape plateau. The bridge still stood, Adolin waiting anxiously at its head, holding it for Dalinar’s retreat.

With a rush of relief, Dalinar galloped across the wooden deck, reaching the adjoining plateau. Adolin and last of his troops filed along behind him.

He turned Gallant, looking eastward. The Parshendi crowded up to the chasm, but did not give chase. A group of them worked on the chrysalis atop the plateau. It had been forgotten by all sides in the fervor. They had never followed before, but if they changed their mind now, they could harry Dalinar’s force all the way back to the permanent bridges.

But they didn’t. They formed ranks and began to chant another of their songs, the same one they sang every time the Alethi forces retreated. As Dalinar watched, a figure in cracked, silvery Shardplate and a red cape stumbled to their forefront. The helm had been removed, but it was too distant to make out any features on the black and red marbled skin. Dalinar’s erstwhile foe raised his Shardblade in a motion that was unmistakable. A salute, a gesture of respect. Instinctively, Dalinar summoned his Blade, and ten heartbeats later raised it to salute in return.

The bridgemen pulled the bridge across the chasm, separating the armies.

“Set up triage,” Dalinar bellowed. “We don’t leave anyone behind who has a chance at living. The Parshendi will not attack us here!”

His men let out a shout. Somehow, escaping felt like more of a victory than any gemheart they’d won. The tired Alethi troops divided into battalions. Eight had marched to battle, and they became eight again – though several had only a few hundred members remaining. Those men trained for field surgery looked through the ranks while the remaining officers got survivor counts. The men began to sit down among the painspren and exhaustionspren, bloodied, some weaponless, many with torn uniforms.

On the other plateau, the Parshendi continued their odd song.

Dalinar found himself focusing on the bridge crew. The youth who had saved him was apparently their leader. Had he fought down a Shardbearer ? Dalinar hazily remembered a quick, sharp encounter, a spear to the leg. Clearly the young man was both skilled and lucky.

The bridgeman’s team acted with far more coordination and discipline than Dalinar would have expected of such lowly men. He could wait no longer. Dalinar nudged Gallant forward, crossing the stones and passing wounded, exhausted soldiers. That reminded him of his own fatigue, but now that he had a chance to sit, he was recovering, his head no longer ringing.

The leader of the bridge crew was seeing to a man’s wound, and his fingers worked with expertise. A man trained in field medicine, among bridgemen ?

Well, why not? Dalinar thought. It’s no odder than their being able to fight so well. Sadeas had been holding out on him.

The young man looked up. And, for the first time, Dalinar noticed the slave brands on the youth’s forehead, hidden by the long hair. The youth stood, posture hostile, folding his arms.

“You are to be commended,” Dalinar said. “All of you. Why did your highprince retreat, only to send you back for us?”

Several of the bridgemen chuckled.

“He didn’t send us back,” their leader said. “We came on our own. Against his wishes.”

Dalinar found himself nodding, and he realized that this was the only answer that made sense. “Why?” Dalinar asked. “Why come for us?”

The youth shrugged. “You allowed yourself to get trapped in there quite spectacularly.”

Dalinar nodded tiredly. Perhaps he should have been annoyed at the young man’s tone, but it was only the truth. “Yes, but why did you come? And how did you learn to fight so well?”

“By accident,” the young man said. He turned back to his wounded.

“What can I do to repay you?” Dalinar asked.

The bridgeman looked back at him. “I don’t know. We were going to flee from Sadeas, disappear in the confusion. We might still, but he’ll certainly hunt us down and kill us.”

“I could take your men to my camp, make Sadeas free you from your bondage.”

“I worry that he wouldn’t let us go,” the bridgeman said, eyes haunted. “And I worry that your camp would offer no safety at all. This move today by Sadeas. It will mean war between you two, will it not?”

Would it? Dalinar had avoided thinking of Sadeas – survival had taken his focus – but his anger at the man was a seething pit deep within. He would exact revenge on Sadeas for this. But could he allow war between the princedoms? It would shatter Alethkar. More than that, it would destroy the Kholin house. Dalinar didn’t have the troops or the allies to stand against Sadeas, not after this disaster.

How would Sadeas respond when Dalinar returned? Would he try to finish the job, attacking? No, Dalinar thought. No, he did it this way for a purpose. Sadeas had not engaged him personally. He had abandoned Dalinar, but by Alethi standards, that was another thing entirely. He didn’t want to risk the kingdom either.

Sadeas wouldn’t want outright war, and Dalinar couldn’t afford outright war, despite his seething anger. He formed a fist, turning to look at the spearman. “It will not turn to war,” Dalinar said. “Not yet, at least.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” the spearman said, “then by taking us into your camp, you commit robbery. The king’s law, the Codes my men always claim you uphold, would demand that you return us to Sadeas. He won’t let us go easily.”

“I will take care of Sadeas,” Dalinar said. “Return with me. I vow that you will be safe. I promise it with every shred of honor I have.”

The young bridgeman met his eyes, searching for something. Such a hard man he was for one so young.

“All right,” the spearman said. “We’ll return. I can’t leave my men back at camp and – with so many men now wounded – we don’t have the proper supplies to run.”

The young man turned back to his work, and Dalinar rode Gallant in search of a casualty report. He forced himself to contain his rage at Sadeas. It was difficult. No, Dalinar could not let this turn to war – but neither could he let things go back to the way they had been.

Sadeas had upset the balance, and it could never be regained. Not in the same way.

Navani pushed her way past the guards, ignoring their protests and the calls of her attending ladies. She forced herself to remain calm. She would remain calm! What she had heard was just rumor. It had to be.

Unfortunately, the older she grew, the worse she became at maintaining a brightlady’s proper tranquility. She hastened her step through Sadeas’s warcamp. Soldiers raised hands toward her as she passed, either to offer her aid or to demand she halt. She ignored both; they’d never dare lay a finger on her. Being the king’s mother gained one a few privileges.

The camp was messy and poorly laid out. Pockets of merchants, whores, and workers made their homes in shanties built on the leeward sides of barracks. Drippings of hardened crem hung from most leeward eaves, like trails of wax left to pour over the side of a table. It was a distinct contrast to the neat lines and scrubbed buildings of Dalinar’s warcamp.