He had joined Amaram’s army expecting to defend the Alethi borders – and defend them he did. Against other Alethi. Lesser landlords who sought to slice off bits of Highprince Sadeas’s lands. Occasionally, Amaram’s armies would try to seize territory from other highprinces – lands Amaram claimed really belonged to Sadeas and had been stolen years before. Kaladin didn’t know what to make of that. Of all lighteyes, Amaram was the only one he trusted. But it did seem like they were doing the same thing as the armies they fought.
“Kaladin?” Gare asked impatiently.
“You have something I want,” Kaladin said. “New recruit, just joined yesterday. Galan says his name is Cenn.”
Gare scowled. “I’m supposed to play this game with you now? Talk to me after the battle. If the boy survives, maybe I’ll give him to you.” He turned to leave, cronies following.
Kaladin stood up straight, picking up his spear. The motion stopped Gare in his tracks.
“It’s not going to be a trouble to you,” Kaladin said quietly. “Just send the boy to my squad. Accept your payment. Stay quiet.” He pulled out a pouch of spheres.
“Maybe I don’t want to sell him,” Gare said, turning back.
“You’re not selling him. You’re transferring him to me.”
Gare eyed the pouch. “Well then, maybe I don’t like how everyone does what you tell them. I don’t care how good you are with a spear. My squad is my own.”
“I’m not going to give you any more, Gare,” Kaladin said, dropping the pouch to the ground. The spheres clinked. “We both know the boy is useless to you. Untrained, ill-equipped, too small to make a good line soldier. Send him to me.”
Kaladin turned and began to walk away. Within seconds, he heard a clink as Gare recovered the pouch. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”
Kaladin kept walking.
“What do these recruits mean to you, anyway?” Gare called after Kaladin. “Your squad is half made up of men too small to fight properly! Almost makes a man think you want to get killed!”
Kaladin ignored him. He passed through the camp, waving to those who waved at him. Most everyone kept out of his way, either because they knew and respected him or they’d heard of his reputation. Youngest squadleader in the army, only four years of experience and already in command. A darkeyed man had to travel to the Shattered Plains to go any higher in rank.
The camp was a bedlam of soldiers hurrying about in last-minute preparations. More and more companies were gathering at the line, and Kaladin could see the enemy lining up on the shallow ridge across the field to the west.
The enemy. That was what they were called. Yet whenever there was an actual border dispute with the Vedens or the Reshi, those men would line up beside Amaram’s troops and they would fight together. It was as if the Nightwatcher toyed with them, playing some forbidden game of chance, occasionally setting the men on his gameboard as allies, then setting them to kill one another the next day.
That wasn’t for spearmen to think about. So he’d been told. Repeatedly. He supposed he should listen, as he figured that his duty was to keep his squad alive as best he could. Winning was secondary to that.
You can’t kill to protect…
He found the surgeon’s station easily; he could smell the scents of antiseptics and of small fires burning. Those smells reminded him of his youth, which now seemed so far, far away. Had he ever really planned to go become a surgeon? What had happened to his parents? What of Roshone?
Meaningless, now. He’d sent word to them via Amaram’s scribes, a terse note that had cost him a week’s wages. They knew he’d failed, and they knew he didn’t intend to return. There had been no reply.
Ven was the chief of the surgeons, a tall man with a bulbous nose and a long face. He stood watching as his apprentices folded bandages. Kaladin had once idly considered getting wounded so he could join them; all of the apprentices had some incapacitation that prevented them from fighting. Kaladin hadn’t been able to do it. Wounding himself seemed cowardly. Besides, surgery was his old life. In a way, he didn’t deserve it anymore.
Kaladin pulled a pouch of spheres from his belt, meaning to toss it to Ven. The pouch stuck, however, refusing to come free of the belt. Kaladin cursed, stumbling, tugging at the pouch. It came free suddenly, causing him to lose his balance again. A translucent white form zipped away, spinning with a carefree air.
“Storming windspren,” he said. They were common out on these rocky plains.
He continued past the surgery pavilion, tossing the pouch of spheres to Ven. The tall man caught it deftly, making it vanish into a pocket of his voluminous white robe. The bribe would ensure that Kaladin’s men were served first on the battlefield, assuming there were no lighteyes who needed the attention.
It was time to join the line. He sped up, jogging along, spear in hand. Nobody gave him grief for wearing trousers under his leather spearman’s skirt – something he did so his men could recognize him from behind. In fact, nobody gave him grief about much of anything these days. That still felt odd, after so many struggles during his first years in the army.
He still didn’t feel as if he belonged. His reputation set him apart, but what was he to do? It kept his men from being taunted, and after several years of dealing with disaster after disaster, he could finally pause and think.
He wasn’t certain he liked that. Thinking had proven dangerous lately. It had been a long while since he’d taken out that rock and thought of Tien and home.
He made his way to the front ranks, spotting his men right where he’d told them to go. “Dallet,” Kaladin called, as he trotted over to the mountainous spearman who was the squad’s sergeant. “We’re soon going to have a new recruit. I need you to…” He trailed off. A young man, maybe fourteen, stood beside Dallet, looking tiny in his spearman’s armor.
Kaladin felt a flash of recall. Another lad, one with a familiar face, holding a spear he wasn’t supposed to need. Two promises broken at once.
“He found his way here just a few minutes ago, sir,” Dallet said. “I’ve been gettin’ him ready.”
Kaladin shook himself out of the moment. Tien was dead. But Stormfather, this new lad looked a lot like him.
“Well done,” Kaladin said to Dallet, forcing himself to look away from Cenn. “I paid good money to get that boy away from Gare. That man’s so incompetent he might as well be fighting for the other side.”
Dallet grunted in agreement. The men would know what to do with Cenn.
All right, Kaladin thought, scanning the battlefield for a good place for his men to stand their ground, let’s get to it.
He’d heard stories about the soldiers who fought on the Shattered Plains. The real soldiers. If you showed enough promise fighting in these border disputes, you were sent there. It was supposed to be safer there – far more soldiers, but fewer battles. So Kaladin wanted to get his squad there as soon as possible.
He conferred with Dallet, picking a place to hold. Eventually, the horns blew.
Kaladin’s squad charged.
“Where’s the boy?” Kaladin said, yanking his spear out of the chest of a man in brown. The enemy soldier fell to the ground, groaning. “Dallet!”
The burly sergeant was fighting. He couldn’t turn to acknowledge the yell.
Kaladin cursed, scanning the chaotic battlefield. Spears hit shields, flesh, leather; men yelled and screamed. Painspren swarmed the ground, like small orange hands or bits of sinew, reaching up from the ground amid the blood of the fallen.
Kaladin’s squad was all accounted for, their wounded protected at the center. All except the new boy. Tien.