Brandon Sanderson's Blog, page 29

Dragonsteel Prime Chapter 31: Bridge Four 4

This chapter comes from the 2000 draft of a book called Dragonsteel. Some of the settings, situations, and characters were repurposed into The Way of Kings (2010).

They were an unsightly group. Their beards were unkempt and often filthy, their clothing even more ragged and stained, and their expressions dull. They moved slowly, with little energy—except, of course, when there was food to be had. Their muscles were large, but their eyes were fatigued. They were slovenly, degraded, and unassertive. In short, they were bridgemen.

Only a couple of them appeared to be new recruits. Gaz was belligerent and demeaning, but he knew better than to construct a crew completely from the untried. Such would buckle the first time an arrow flew their way. No, most of these men had been gathered from other crews. They had been hauling bridges for months; they had been taught their place and they knew what they were. Jerick had to change that knowledge.

Presumed reality, he thought to himself as the group slowly gathered before him, shuffling toward the tent—they knew what a crew transfer meant. They would have less than an hour to stow what little belongings they had before the day’s work began.

“Did I say you men could move?” Jerick asked pointedly as the group moved past him.

En mass, the bridgemen paused, turning dull eyes his direction. He had spoken commandingly, like a nobleman—a tone of voice they didn’t expect from a bridgeman, even the leader of the crew.

“I am your bridgeleader,” Jerick announced, standing straight-backed as he looked across the group. “My name is Jerick, though many just call me Hook, because of this little ornament on my face.”

A couple of men smiled at the comment.

“Welcome to the Fourth Bridge,” Jerick announced. “We are going to be the best crew this war has ever seen.”

The bridgemen regarded one another for a moment then, as if by common consensus, they turned back toward the tent, leaving Jerick standing awkwardly alone, his carefully-prepared speech dying on his lips.

Jerick lay aside his adz, looking at the smooth board before him. It had been part of a mighty trek, starting back in Melerand, near one of the lumbering camps—perhaps even Jerick’s own village. It had been felled by the hands of some unknown lumberman, then floated down the Trerod to be stripped and cut into boards in Lakdon. After that, an extended voyage via ship down the eastern coast of Yolen had followed, ending in a Fallin dock. The still-rough wood was then brought to the Shattered Plains, where bridgemen would sand it and pound it together, forming bridges. Bridges that would ultimately find themselves plummeting into one of the chasms to crack and rot below, part of one, massive, eternal grave.

Hands grabbed the board, pulling it away from Jerick and fitting it into place on the side of the nearly-finished bridge. The bridgemen worked rotely, with laboriously slow movements. Jerick watched as they tried to fit his board into its notches, pushing against the unyielding wood.

“No,” Jerick, shaking his head. “It goes the other way around. The small notches should be on the outside.”

The men continued to push, ignoring Jerick’s words. They only flipped the board around when one of the bridge engineers came over and yelled at them, pointing out the proper way.

Jerick sighed, leaning back against a stack of boards. He had been trying for three days now to instill some sort of independence in the minds of his crew, and so far he had been woefully unsuccessful. The men were so accustomed to their old ways that new suggestions didn’t even register with them. New recruits were no better—most of them were not like Keeg had been. Used to a peasant’s life, the newcomers simply melded with the aggregate of dullness, falling into line and doing as the others did.

If anything, all Jerick’s efforts had done was ostracize him from the rest of the men. They didn’t look at him as one of them. He wasn’t sure what they thought of him, but they didn’t accept him. They most certainly didn’t accept his authority. To them, a bridgeleader was just a bridgeman who had survived longer than the rest.

He had tried everything. He had urged them with inspirational talks, he had tried explaining to them logically why following him would help them survive, he had proven that he understood their way of life, that he had been a peasant himself. Nothing worked. They would not see what they did not accept.

Such thoughts were his companion until the alarm sounded a few hours later.

Jerick rushed forward with his men, forcing himself to hold back, lest he outpace them. During these last few days one thing had become certain to him—the life of a bridgeman was fatiguing, but by no means debilitating. They received enough food. True, it was flavorless, but it was food. They worked hard, but only a short period of that work—the actual carrying of the bridges—was taxing. The bridgemen’s lethargy was as much a function of their mindset as their conditions.

“All right, form up,” Jerick commanded as they reached their bridge. Gaz stood at the center of the crews, directing them with powerful—and not a little pudgy—arms.

The bridge crew followed Jerick’s instructions, falling into place along the sides of the bridge with surprising nimbleness. Dragonsteel runs were the time when they were accustomed to taking orders from their bridgeleader, and in this they worked as routinely as ever, the same habits that had caused them to ignore him before now causing them to obey.

Though this would be the first run the new crew had gone on together, they each found their places along the edges of the bridge without discussion. Bridge placing—meaning who would go in the front—was very important to bridgemen, and they had drawn lots to determine it during the first hour they were together.

They left a hole on the right side near the back, the bridgeleader’s place, most protected slot on the bridge. Jerick paused, then shook his head, walking to the front of the bridge.

“Move it, Dente,” Jerick said, motioning for the bridgeman in the front center slot—the most dangerous place—to move out of the way.

“But . . .” the man said with confused eyes.

“I said move,” Jerick said authoritatively. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Dente looked back at the bridgemen with perplexment, then shrugged, walking to the back of the bridge and taking the place saved for Jerick.

“Every time this crew goes on a run,” Jerick announced, “I get the privilege of being in the front. It is my right, and my duty, as your leader. Understood?”

All his efforts of the last few days, all his objections and explainings, hadn’t earned him such a look of utter dumbfoundment. Before he had confused them. Now they thought he was insane.

“Lift!” Jerick ordered, leaning down and reaching behind him to grab the edge of the bridge. The men followed, hoisting the construction onto their shoulders.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it wasn’t promising either. Jerick had stood at the front of the bridge many times during his career in the war, and he knew it wasn’t a good sign when the Sho Del were already on the plateau. They appeared to have just arrived, and their archers were rushing across the plateau to fall into position.

“Run!” Gaz ordered, letting himself fall behind like he always did when it looked like it was going to be a difficult attack.

The bridge crews broke into a trot just as the first arrows began to fly. Jerick felt terror begin to shake his frame. He could have stayed in the back, been protected. Why had he come forward? It didn’t do him any good; the men would never follow him. What was he doing?

However, even as the fear and the questioning began, Jerick beat it back. He would not allow his mind to become placid. They could force him to be a bridgeman, but they couldn’t stop him from thinking like a nobleman. Better yet, like a lumberman. Like his father. He would rather face death with pride than live without purpose.

“Let’s move, men!” he bellowed, breaking into a jog, feeling the enormous bridge move behind him, as if he were towing it all on his own. “For our families!”

Arrows bore down on them, but Jerick kept running. He didn’t flinch as a shaft took the man next to him in the chest, and he continued to yell as he saw a Sho Del take him in its sights. The arrow was loosed, and Jerick felt more than saw it zip through the air. He knew it would fly truly.

This is the reality I choose, Jerick decided, screaming wordlessly, running at the arrow as if he were the weapon and it the target.

The world lost its focus. Then, suddenly, it snapped back into place—back into place in a way that Jerick only vaguely remembered from his former life. The world became [REDACTED]. The arrow hovered in the air, moving slowly toward his breast. Its shaft no longer wood, but [REDACTED]. Its tip was the cold dun gray of iron. [REDACTED] hummed in his mind, [REDACTED].

Go, Jerick felt himself urge.

[REDACTED]

Then, the world was back. Gaz was yelling for them to drop the bridges, and Jerick complied—more out of habit than conscious desire. He jumped back and grabbed a steadying rope, and the bridge slid into place. Then, his job finished, he sat stupefied, trying to determine what had just happened.

Jerick sat beside the evening fire. The sun had long since fallen, leaving darkness and a cloudy sky, but his thoughts continued to burn brightly.

Part of him was incredibly disturbed by what had just happened. He had only barely discovered [REDACTED], still uncertain of whether to accept it as good or evil, when the events at the palace forced him to leave. The part of him that had grown up listening to the Legends, the part trained by the superstitions of the villagers, told him that he didn’t want such power. Magic was of the Sho Del, the monsters he was fighting. Even Horwatchers could only use it if they had access to Sho Del bones.

Yet, another part of him—strangely, the part trained by Vendavius—was curious about [REDACTED] what he had done. Experiment, it urged. Find out what you can do. Use it.

Jerick couldn’t decide between the two halves. He was frightened by both options, and more than a little bitter about the fact that he should have to make such a decision when normal men were left to much simpler lives.

“Sir?” a quiet voice asked.

Jerick looked up from the small fire—used only to warm food and give light, for even in the winter the nights were hot enough without fires to help. Beside him in the quiet darkness stood Dente. He was a tall, thin Fallin man with hair almost blond enough one would have thought him a nobleman. Of course, more people had lighter hair down here in the south.

“Yes, Dente?” Jerick asked.

The man stood uncomfortably for a moment, then he took a seat on the ground next to the fire. A few other men sat on the other side of the pit, staring into the flames with uninterested looks.

“Sir, I want to thank you,” Dente mumbled. “I . . . you took my place, sir. I would have died today.”

“Nonsense,” Jerick chided. “I didn’t die, did I?”

Dente twitched nervously, holding a small leather cap in his hands. “I don’t know, sir. Old Kerl, he was next to you. He said the Lords themselves protected us today. Why, we only lost one man, and the other crews lost at least four or five each. Old Kerl, he says he saw Oren himself standing over you protecting us.”

Jerick sat quietly for a moment. “Why would he do that, Dente?”

“Because you’re special, sir,” Dente mumbled. “We all know it. You don’t belong here. The Lords protected you, that’s certain as the heat. Kerl saw an arrow disappear, vanish right before it hit you. He swears he did.”

Dente fell silent then, resting back against the ground. A group of men were returning from the tavern; Jerick could smell the saprye on the wind. They shuffled quietly—not drunk, of course. Bridgemen didn’t earn enough to get themselves properly intoxicated. Some of them sat next to the fire.

They’re so sad, Jerick thought with a shake of his head. No hope in their eyes at all. After today, which should have been a victory to them, they still have no hope. No matter how much they drink, no matter how much they numb their thoughts, they know that a victory only means they’ll live to see another day of nothingness. If only there were a way to cheer them up a little.

“Now, we all know that Fentalloni is the most cunning of the Nine Lords,” Jerick heard himself say as he looked into the fire. “Fentalloni—we call him Leri in Melerand—is Oreon’s son, and before he was even born he was known to slip out of his mother’s womb at night and commit mischief. As he grew, he only got more cunning, though he never reached a height of more than a few dozen feet tall—making him something of a dwarf amongst the gods.”

Jerick spoke the words in his best imitation of Topaz’s storyteller’s voice. He spoke as much for himself as for the men, a means of pushing away their overwhelming despair and trying to remember the lighthearted ways of his friend the jesk.

“One day, when the earth was still rather new, Fentalloni was passing through the woods when he heard familiar voices in the distance. He crept forward, sneaking through the bushes until he found a small clearing. Inside, he could see Venteere the Wise—we call him Aldvin in the north—and Sivonn, the Healer, standing together. Before them on the ground was a creature unlike any Fentalloni had ever seen before. It had a head like a horse, but wings like a bird, and a tail that was a hundred different-colored strands of hair. The two gods were arguing back and forth.

“‘It is certainly an animal of a practical nature,’ Venteere claimed, pointing at the strange creature. ‘Why, look at its strong back and powerful legs. It was meant to carry burdens and do work.’

“Sivonn shook his head. ‘No, brother, I must disagree. Look at the beautiful colors of its wings, and the graceful style of its tail. This is a creature of beauty. It is meant to be kept as a pet, to be admired and to be painted by artists. It would be a travesty to reduce it to simple labor.’

“The two gods continued their discussion for some time, neither one willing to give credit to the other’s words. As everyone knows, Venteere is a practical god, and all things must be put to good use in his eyes. Sivonn, however, is an artist, and seeks decoration in all that he does. The argument grew quite fierce until finally, Fentalloni stepped out from his hiding place and confronted his siblings.

“‘Brothers, brothers,’ he chastised. ‘You should listen to yourselves. You sound like simple-minded mortals, unable to make a decision.’

“‘But we cannot agree,’ Venteere explained. ‘He will not listen to my words.’

“‘Nor he mine,’ Sivonn complained.

“‘Brothers, what you need is a mediator,’ Fentalloni declared. ‘Someone to listen to your two sides and make a decision for you.’

“‘Why, that is an excellent idea,’ Venteere said. ‘Would you do such a thing for us, brother?’

“‘Well,’ Fentalloni said thoughtfully, ‘I have heard much of what you’ve been saying. Perhaps I could spare the time to give judgment on this most odd of beasts. Where did it come from?’

“‘Our father just now created it,’ Sivonn explained. ‘It is the only of its kind, and we were trying to decide what its use should be.’

“Fentalloni sat back and listened while the two brothers continued to explain their case. However, he soon grew bored of their arguments. ‘This is no good,’ he declared. ‘Your words are of little use, and look, the light is getting dim. I can barely see the creature any more. How can I give judgement?”

“‘Here,’ Sivonn said, ‘let me make you a fire.’ And he did so.

“‘Ah, very nice,’ Fentalloni said with a smile. ‘However, it is still difficult to judge with the creature sitting down on the ground as it is. Do you expect me, a god, to stoop down to examine it?’

“‘Of course not,’ Venteere exclaimed. ‘Here, let me build you a table on which to place the beast.’ And he did so.

“Fentalloni examined the strange creature before him, shaking his head. ‘I still cannot decide,’ he said.

“‘What can we do?’ Sivonn complained. ‘Can we never resolve this question?’

“‘I know,” the cunning Fentalloni suddenly said. ‘What I need are some examples. Brothers, why don’t you each go gather several beasts from the forest. Venteere, you bring the most functional animals you can think of, and Sivonn, you bring the most beautiful and colorful. Then I will compare this new creature with the two groups and see which one it belongs in.’

“‘Ah, now I see why you are known as the must cunning of the gods,’ Venteere said.

“‘Yes,’ Sivonn agreed. ‘We will go quickly and gather as you have said.’

“And they did. They rushed forth, carefully selecting those animals they thought would best make their case. Then, they met together at the small clearing. However, when they arrived they found it empty. The table was still there, however, and on it was a neat pile of bones. Beside the charred bones was a note.

“‘Dear brothers,’ it said. ‘I don’t know whether it would have been better for work or for beauty. I only know one thing: it certainly tasted good. Thank you for the fire to cook and the nice table on which to eat.’”

Jerick spoke the final line with a smile. It was one of his favorite stories, and he had asked Topaz to repeat it on several of occasions. He had expected a few chuckles at the ending. He was surprised to no end when he got a roar.

Jerick looked around with surprise. While he had been focusing on the story, men had been gathering around the fire. He had seen a few forms moving in the darkness, but he hadn’t realized the extent of the gathering. Every man in his crew stood circling the flames, and they all laughed heartily together at the final lines.

Jerick looked through the crowd of faces, the twenty men standing, smiling, firelight glittering in their eyes. Eyes that seemed alive for the first time since he had become bridgeleader. All they had needed was a little bit of laughter.

And, also for the first time since he had become bridgeleader, he seemed to have their attention. The all watched him eagerly, obviously hoping he would tell them another story.

Instead, he asked them a question. “Men, why are you here?”

There was a silent pause. “For the pay?” one finally answered.

“Because I was told I had to come,” another mumbled.

“Where else would I go?” a third—Dente—added.

“Wrong,” Jerick said simply. “That may be how you ended up here, but that’s not why you are here.”

“Then why?” Dente asked quietly.

“Look out there,” Jerick said, nodding toward the dark Shattered Plains. “Beyond those plateaus, beyond the chasms and the wells, is an enemy. Now, some say that the armies are only here for Dragonsteel, that the generals only care about money. I don’t know about that. All I know is that this is the only place where Yolen connects to Fain lands. We have to keep them away, lest they slaughter our families.”

“They say the Sho Del don’t want our families,” a voice in the darkness muttered. “That they only want the Dragonsteel too.”

“They’re wrong,” Jerick said flatly, his voice growing quiet. “Trust me, they’re wrong. I’ve . . . seen Sho Del murder families. One tried to kill my King.” Something was itching at the back of his mind, something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Fortunately, another comment drew him back to the conversation.

“But,” Dente said, “we’re only bridgemen.”

“Only bridgemen . . .” Jerick said, turning to look at his crew. “Let me tell you another story, men. You’re probably familiar with this one—it’s about King Agaron of Rodaius.”

Several heads bobbed at this. Agaron was a famous character throughout the legends of all Yolen. However, it was not of his many glorious adventures that Jerick wished to speak. It was of his beginnings.

“According to the legends,” Jerick began quoting from memory, “Agaron was not born a king. In fact, he was not born a noble at all. His father was a simple craftsman, and his family very poor. Had things gone differently, Agaron would have probably been a table-maker like his father.

“Now, in those days there was a regent on the throne of Rodaius. The true king had died while very young, and his chief general had decided to take the throne. However, it is said that Oren the White appeared to him in a dream, commanding him not to claim the crown for himself. ‘I will choose the next ruler of Rodaius,’ Oren informed. The general, being a pious man, only declared himself regent, informing the people that some day a new glorious king would take his place.

“When Agaron was still yet a boy, his father was commissioned by the regent to create a new banquet table for the palace. It was a massive job and, unfortunately, Agaron’s father came down with the fevers before he could finish it. Determined that the regent would get his table, Agaron went to work on his own. He carved the table with designs so intricate that it would leave no doubt that this was a king’s table. He made the legs into the shape of the Nine Lords, each one representing one of the gods, with a tenth leg bearing a crown to represent the monarch of Rodaius.

“The regent was amazed at the marvelous table. He had the boy’s father brought to the palace to reward him, but the man humbly admitted that it was not he who had done the carving, but his son. The regent immediately sent for the son, and when Agaron arrived, it was said that heavenly voices could be heard in the air above the palace, praising the new king of Rodaius. The regent immediately recognized his replacement, for Oren had shown him the boy’s face in a vision. Agaron was set on the throne, and that night feasted at the very table he had carved.”

Jerick paused. He didn’t go on with the story, though he knew the men were thinking of it in their minds. They were remembering the many tales of valor associated with Agaron, how he united nearly the entire continent, how he slew monsters, battled armies, and even braved the depths of Xeth’s underworld, battling the Lord of Death himself. All this done by the son of a craftsman.

“Before Agaron was a great king,” Jerick said to the crowd of bridgemen, “he was a great table-maker. If he had not worked so hard on his carvings, the regent would have never called him to the palace.

“You say you are only bridgemen, but what is a bridgeman’s job? Could the army function without us? Could it cross the chasms? Could it even reach the Dragonsteel? You have all seen runs where the warriors weren’t necessary—sometimes the Sho Del don’t even arrive. But, have you ever seen a run where the bridgemen weren’t necessary?”

He looked across the faces, faces that were growing less dull with every word he spoke. They were beginning to see something in themselves, a little bit of Agaron.

Jerick spoke vigorously. “We are the first ones into any battle. We wear the least armor, and we carry the smallest weapons. In my mind, that takes more courage than is required of any nobleman in a chariot. Dente, please do something for me.”

Dente nodded, and Jerick explained what he wanted him to do. The man ran off and returned shortly with a dirt stained bundle. The cloth-wrapped object had been buried shallowly beneath Jerick’s bedroll.

Jerick pulled off the cloth, revealing the silver-sheathed Sho Del sword. Jerick pulled the blade free from its sheath. The sword sparkled in the firelight, its silvery steel inscribed with the alien writing of the Sho Del. It was long and straight, but only edged on one side, and the pommel was tipped by a carved reptilian head.

“I slew the Sho Del that this belonged to,” Jerick said quietly. “I killed him with his own sword. Me, a bridgeman. This is his blood you see staining the sleeves of my shirt.

“We have been chosen to be bridgemen. So be it. But, men, we get to decide what it means to be a bridgeman. You all know boys who came into the war looking for glory—perhaps you were one. Well, who is to say there is no glory in being a bridgeman?”

He rammed the sword back in its sheath, it snapped into place with a click. “I say again what I told you on that first day, men. Let’s not just be bridgemen, let’s be the best cursed bridgemen those demons have ever seen.”

He had hoped for nods of agreement. He got shouts.

Dragonsteel Prime Chapter 30: Bridge Four 3

This chapter comes from the 2000 draft of a book called Dragonsteel. Some of the settings, situations, and characters were repurposed into The Way of Kings (2010).

The bones glowed softly in the torchlight. They lay in heaps, blanketing one another, some held together limply by the remnants of decayed sinews and muscle, others scattered and disjointed. The torches seemed to shine mutely here, in the dark home of the dead—almost as if the light itself were afraid to look too closely at the corpses. Eyeholes remained black, their secrets held in the whispering winds that could be heard from far above.

The first time Jerick had been forced to come here, to the dark valleys between the plateaus, he had been terrified. The valleys were more like caves, dank and poorly lit—cracks that led deep into the earth. The walls were perfectly smooth, worn away by thousands of years of rainfall, and in some places they were so close together that Jerick could touch both sides at the same time.

The torchlight didn’t seem to help very much. In fact, it added to the gloom. The weak light was just strong enough to give detail to the bones closest, to reveal laughing skulls and shattered bones without banishing the darkness. Beyond the torches’ reach, the silhouettes of piled bones were visible, lining the makeshift pathway.

The bridgemen walked in a line, their feet squishing in the ever-present mud. It was always wet in the caverns. Every third man carried a torch. Jerick shuffled along with them, looking around with uninterested eyes. He had been terrified his first time, but now the piled corpses didn’t bother him at all. He had seen much, much worse. He had met men for the first time in the morning and held their dying bodies in his arms by noon, watching life gush crimson from their wounds, their ragged voices begging for him to do something. Even the camp was not safe. Disease was common; he had seen entire squads wiped out by it. In fact, he had been sick a dozen times himself.

Tenne called for them to stop, and the bridgemen slowly fanned out. The crack had widened here, and the path ended. Slowly, with tired arms, the men began to sift through the bodies, searching for weapons and armor that were still usable.

Jerick made his way to one of the cliff walls, kneeling beside a corpse. The skull was cracked badly, most of the bones were—a drop of several hundred feet had that effect on bodies. Jerick pushed the bones aside, feeling the man’s clothing come apart in his hands. He had been human, Jerick guessed—not from the bones themselves, for the two races had surprisingly similar skeletons, but from the armor. It had been bronze. The fall, time, and damp humidity had not been kind. His sword appeared to have some salvageable metal left in it, so Jerick pulled it from the mud, shoved it in his sack, and moved on.

The salvaging was a relatively new idea in the Eternal War. As the demand for metals grew, new ways had to be found to get materials, no matter how gruesome the methods. Actually, most bridgemen looked forward to scavenging duty. While they were down at the bottom of the pits, they couldn’t be summoned to go on Dragonsteel runs. It said something about a man’s life when he felt lucky on the days he was allowed to pick through the half-rotting corpses of his fallen comrades.

Jerick’s next victim was part of a group. A half-dozen corpses lay piled together, bones sticking in strange directions as if they were part of some odd carnival act. There was still a little flesh on them, and a rotting chunk of wood nearby told Jerick who these men had been. A bridge crew. Jerick moved on—the metals used in bridgemen short swords was of a poor quality. What hadn’t rusted away wouldn’t be worth smelting down for reforgeing anyway.

As Jerick turned, his eyes fell on a set of bones slightly paler than those around it, the remnants of its foreign armor hanging limply. Jerick approached slowly. Sho Del corpses were extremely rare, though Jerick didn’t know why. From watching up above, it appeared that just as many Sho Del were thrown into the chasms as men. Perhaps the demons came searching for their fallen dead, though Jerick’s mind rebelled at the thought. He couldn’t associate such an apparently noble act with the monsters he had watched kill his companions for the last four months.

The skull was alarmingly similar to that of a man. The creature’s bones were fractured, but not to the extent of the human skeletons around it. And, Jerick was drawn to them. There was a power to the skeleton, and he felt his skin grow cold despite the heat. He wanted to reach out. He did reach out. To touch the bones, to feel the power.

Jerick snapped his hand back, jumping up so quickly he kicked a nearby skull, sending it skipping across the mud floor to smack into the far wall. Several heads looked up at the sound, then turned back to their work. Skittishness was common during scavenging hunts.

Jerick forced himself to reach out and retrieve the Sho Del’s rusting steel blade. After that, he turned away from the bones, ignoring their demands. He would not give in. Magic was evil; it was of the Sho Del. He would not be associated with them. It was because of the Sho Del that he had lost Courteth. It was the Sho Del that had slaughtered his friends. It was the Sho Del that had killed his. . . .

The dark cavern flashed suddenly as pain exploded in Jerick’s head.

“Loafing again, fick?” Gaz demanded, his voice echoing though the twisting cracks.

Jerick looked up with surprise. His torch lay sputtering next to the wall, and the other bridgemen had moved forward in the darkness, expanding the path as they went. What had happened? How long had Jerick just been standing there? Another blow from Gaz nearly dropped him to the ground. Jerick scrambled forward, moving to catch up to the rest of the group.

“Never mind, fick,” Gaz mumbled. “I’ve come to bring you all back up—Rai company just got called on a run, which means we have to be ready. Tell the rest of them to get moving.”

Jerick struggled back into camp, dropping his bag of rusted swords into the pile. Gaz had made him carry two other men’s findings as punishment for laziness, and the trek up from the bottom of the Plains was a long one—they had to hike far enough away from the Plains that they reached a place where there was no Dragonsteel in the earth, and erosion had formed the land into an incline. Jerick still wasn’t accustomed to the Fallin heat, and only the thought of the food awaiting them back at their tents kept him from collapsing. As it was, the sudden release of his burden made him light-headed, and he would have fallen to the ground had Tenne not steadied him. None of the other bridgemen even looked at him. They didn’t want to be a part of his punishment—to them, Jerick’s extra burden had only meant less for them to carry.

Gaz laughed loudly, nudging one of his friends and pointing as he noticed Jerick wobbling. Jerick shook his head, clearing his vision, then began to stumble after the other bridgemen as they made their way back to their tents.

“He didn’t think you’d be able to do it,” Tenne noted quietly, walking beside him.

Jerick looked up. “What?”

“Gaz,” the older man replied, whistling slightly as he spoke the word—a result of his missing teeth. “Didn’t you notice how forced his laugh was?”

“I was too busy keeping myself from falling over to notice much,” Jerick confessed.

“You could probably take him, you know,” the older man confided.

Jerick looked up in surprise. “Me?” he asked incredulously. “Gaz would mash me worse than those ficks at the bottom of the gorges. He’s twice my size!”

“Lords, Jerick,” Tenne said with a snort. “Have you looked at yourself lately? You’re taller than Gaz, and you might not be as wide, but you’re certainly stronger.”

Jerick just shook his head, dismissing the argument, and Tenne let the matter drop. As they arrived at the tents, however, Jerick let himself ponder the question. Could he beat Gaz in a fight? Perhaps. The thing was, he didn’t want to try.

He stood back, waiting as the others rushed greedily forward, accepting bowls of the white mushy substance considered fit food for the bridgemen. Jerick turned away from the scene, looking out across the camp. The longer he stayed, the more he realized the Eternal War was not what he had envisioned. At first he had only been forced to admit that his own duties would not be as glorious as he had dreamed, but he had retained his view of the war as a whole. Bridgemen were grunts, he told himself, but the rest of the warriors were noble.

He had been wrong again.

At first, he had been too enthralled with his own miseries to notice it. Now, however, the truth was becoming increasingly stark. The camp was not stocked with heroes, or even career soldiers. It was filled with bullies and miscreants.

True, they wore uniforms, some of them even kept clean. However, fights were common, and the officers were slow to stop them. Theft was so commonplace that most men had simply given up on saving their earnings, and immediately spent them on whores or saprye. Even as Jerick scanned the semi-permanent city, he saw some soldiers taunting a group of working bridgemen. The bridgemen, mostly peasants, rarely fought back—and when they did they were quickly overwhelmed by the superiorly-trained soldiers.

That was why he couldn’t let his anger drive him to attack Gaz. He didn’t want to be part of it—the entire camp, its ideals and its activities, sickened him. Every time he thought of punching the Kaz’ch sergeant, his mind’s eye remembered the fighting that went on constantly around him, and his anger evaporated.

A sudden wail of dismay caused him to turn in alarm. Keeg, his youthful face dismayed, stumbled from his tent, tears openly running down his face. Several of the bridgemen looked up, but they immediately turned back to their meals.

“Its’in gone!” Keeg groaned, sliding to the ground.

“What’s gone, Keeg?” Jerick asked, approaching.

The boy simply groaned in sorrow.

Jerick closed his eyes, shaking his head in frustration. “Keeg, I told you to send your earnings some place safe.”

“Couriors’in costin’ long too much,” Keeg replied mutedly. “They’in want half t’earnings!”

“It’s expensive,” Jerick agreed. “But now you have nothing. You should have at least carried it with you.”

“Its’in not fair,” Keeg groaned. “T’Lords, they’in hate me, sureingly.”

“They don’t hate you, Keeg,” Jerick said with a sigh. “They just. . . .”

Jerick trailed off, looking up. Then he looked back at Keeg. The young man’s eyes were closed, and he was shaking his head in denial. He heard it too—a scout’s horse approaching from the Plateaus. The horn sounded a moment later.

“Lords, it’s going to be a bad one!”

The voice belonged to Gevvane, a man who had been moved into their crew a month earlier after his own group was slaughtered.

“What do you see?” Tenne asked from his place at the middle of the bridge. Only those in front had any sort of view of what was approaching.

“The Sho Del!” Gevvane screamed back, horror in his voice. “They’ve already set in, surrounding the well. Lords, they’re raising their bows!”

“Run!” Gaz’s voice shouted to the bridge crews.

Jerick felt the men around him break into a jog. He was situated near the middle of the bridge this time, on the same side as Tenne. He felt himself grow sick as they moved, hearing men begin to scream from the bridge crews on either side of him. These kind of approaches only happened one time in ten, but when they did, it was a slaughter.

“Now is our chance, Tenne!” Jerick screamed against the terror rising in his chest.

He could feel the older man’s hesitance in front of him.

Gevvane yelled in pain at the front, and the bridge rocked.

“Tenne!” Jerick pled.

“All right, men!” Tenne yelled, his voice ragged. “Do as the boy told you!”

Spurred by what they were facing, the bridgemen acted. They paused for a moment on the field, turning to the right. The motion brought Jerick’s edge of the bridge closest to the plateau. He turned his head to look, then wished he hadn’t. Two dozen Sho Del archers stood in ranks beyond the chasm, their expressionless white faces taking aim at floundering bridges, dropping bodies to the ground in heaps. Several archers were watching Jerick’s group, pulling back their bows and finding Jerick in their sites.

The edge of the bridge dropped, tipping on its side. The motion was awkward—they hadn’t had an opportunity to practice—and they nearly dropped the bridge in the process. However, it worked. Arrows smacked against the wood frame like angry hornets, trying to break through to the soft flesh beyond

“All right, let’s move!” Jerick ordered. The men began to shuffle forward as best they could. Holding the bridge at such an angle was difficult, and he had to lean over to move, but the structure provided a wall between them and the Sho Del. Tenne walked at the far end, watching carefully as they moved forward to keep them from falling into the chasm.

“Now!” Tenne said. Together, the bridgemen dropped the structure and took their familiar places, some pushing it across the chasm, others holding the far end up with the support ropes. A few seconds later, they were done.

Men collapsed around him as the warriors rushed across the bridge. Jerick remained standing, searching through the faces of his companions. “How many did we lose?”

The men looked around at one another. Several bore wounds from arrows that had passed too close, and one man was groaning with a shaft in his arm, but no one was missing. Even Gevvane sat near the back of the group. The fallen man had stumbled after the rest of the crew, joining them when the bridge was in place. There was a bloodied bandage around his leg, but other than that he was fine.

“We didn’t lose any,” Tenne said with amazement looking over the group. Bodies of bridgemen lay slumped across the plateau, but none of them from Jerick’s crew.

Jerick smiled in satisfaction—then Gaz’s punch took him in the face, spinning him around with enough force that he lost his footing and tumbled to the hard, iron-like plateau surface.

“What in the name of Keth’s bloody fist was that!” the sergeant bellowed.

Blood poured from Jerick’s nose and the world shook around him. He tried to speak, choking on the blood pouring down the back of his throat.

“Wait, Gaz!” Tenne intervened. Jerick could vaguely see the older man’s form moving to stop Gaz. He could also see the rest of the bridgemen backing away, turning their faces from Jerick. The very ones he had saved refused to stand beside him.

“I know who’s responsible for this,” the Kaz’ch mumbled as he pushed Tenne out of his way, reaching down to grab Jerick by the front of his leather vest. Jerick flailed, trying to get back on his feet as he felt the large Kaz’ch drag him across the ground. Toward the chasm.

“He’in saved us, there!” Keeg’s voice objected in the background. Two of them, at least, would try to help him. Two out of twenty.

Jerick coughed, trying to reorient himself. His feet couldn’t find purchase. “Gaz,” he said, choking. “Gaz, it worked. No one in our crew died!”

They reached the edge of the chasm, and Jerick pulled at the large man’s arm. He tensed his body. When the Kaz’ch tried throw him over, Jerick would shift his weight and drive his fist in the back of the man’s head. He would not let him. . . .

Gaz didn’t toss him over the side. Instead, he pulled Jerick up and turned him to face the battle on the other plateau. “Look, boy,” he ordered.

Jerick looked, feeling blood drip from his chin. The men had attacked their enemies on two sides in an attempt to push the Sho Del back from the well. The maneuver hadn’t worked. The Sho Del had turned, flanking both groups of warriors and pushing them back toward the edges of the plateau. Only then did Jerick notice a third group of men, their ranks decimated, completely surrounded by white-faced warriors. It was the crew that had crossed Jerick’s bridge. The human attack hadn’t been meant to come at the Sho Del from two different sides, it had been intended to be one coordinated strike.

“There’s a reason the bridge crews move like they do, boy,” Gaz growled, dropping him next to the chasm’s edge. “They have to arrive at the chasm in unison. When the other crews saw what you were doing, they paused, and were slaughtered, and the warriors all arrived on the plateau at different times. You may have saved a half dozen bridgemen, but you’ve lost us the battle.”

Jerick slumped down, watching Sho Del cut through their warriors, as many men as possible moving to retreat back across the bridges. “I. . . .” Jerick trailed off, but Gaz had left.

As a result of their decision to listen to Jerick, Tenne’s crew was given latrine duty for the next month. News of what had happened moved quickly through the camp, and the team became a constant butt of jokes, pranks, and abuses. The crew, of course, blamed Jerick for the treatment.

Until that month, Jerick had never in his life wished he were dead. Whenever there was a grisly chore to be done, it was given to Jerick. Whenever a foot could be placed to bring him to the ground, it was done. He was dragged from his tent on four separate occasions and beaten by warriors who had lost friends in the failed Dragonsteel run, and none of the bridge crew voiced a word of objection—or even come looking for him. Each time, he somehow found a way to crawl back to his tent, and each morning afterwards he had received no sympathy from the others—just an increase in his workload.

Young, idealistic Keeg lost the lively glimmer in his eye as he watched Jerick being beaten down. Finally, it seemed to register to the young man that his dreams had been wrong, that he would never have any part in the war beside cleaning refuse and carrying bridges. The boy stopped laughing, and pulled away from Jerick, never meeting his eyes.

Even Tenne deserted him. The bridgeleader stopped confiding in Jerick, and he shook his head with sadness and turned away every time Jerick tried to talk to him.

But, slowly, things returned to normal. The months passed, and the crew changed, men either dying or being moved to other crews. When it was over, Jerick was more than willing to return to his life as a normal bridgeman. He shuffled along with the rest of them, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the ground, and to do as he was told. He stopped sending his money back to his village, instead joining the rest of the men at the tavern.

As he did so, he found the work more bearable. When the men were satisfied that he wasn’t going to cause any more trouble, they let him back into their group. They stopped calling him Jerick, simply referring to him as ‘Hook’, a name he had earned from the strange slant at the end of his nose. It had never been set properly after Gaz broke it.

The most frustrating part of the entire experience, however, was the quiet knowledge in Jerick’s heart that his plan could have worked. It had only failed because his had been the only crew to protect itself—if all of them had used their bridges as shields, moving at the same slow speed, then they all would have arrived at the same time. And they all would have survived. But, there was nothing he could do. Instead, he simply tried to tell himself he was a regular bridgeman. When further plans and ideas for protecting his crew tickled at his mind, as they invariably did, he paid them no heed.

“Have a seat, Hook.”

Jerick nodded, slumping to the ground as he listened to men fighting on the other side of the plateau. The man who had spoken was Ham, a short, burly runaway slave from Aldbin. He had been in the crew for less than a month, and hadn’t been part of the ordeal following Jerick’s failure. He simply considered Jerick a fellow Northerner, and a fine drinking buddy.

“It’s lookin’ t’be an easy day,” Jerick noted. During the last few months he had intentionally begun reverting back to his lumberman’s dialect when he spoke Meleran. It put people such as Ham at ease.

Ham nodded. Ske Company had arrived at the battle before the Sho Del and dug into place. More importantly, however, the plateau in question stood a fair distance from the plateaus around it, and only plateaus close enough to use bridges were on the human side. A small group of Sho Del had gathered on a plateau in the distance—Jerick could barely see their forms—but it didn’t look as if they were going to attack. The distance was too far even for a Sho Del to jump, and the only other option open to the demons—a method by which they dropped long poles across the chasm and climbed across one at a time—wouldn’t work when the humans were so well-prepared. Amazingly, it looked like the humans would escape with their Dragonsteel without a fight.

“Look there,” Ham noted, gesturing to the left. In the distance Jerick could see a group of warriors who weren’t having quite as easy a time winning their Dragonsteel. Once in a while, when they were near the borders of their camp’s territory, they could see warriors from another camp fighting.

“Ki Tzern,” Jerick noted, nodding to a group of tan-clothed men waiting on a nearby plateau, separated from the battle by a wide chasm. Ki Tzern’s special troops.

Ham spat. “Devil warriors,” he mumbled. The tan-suited warriors were growing increasingly infamous.

Jerick nodded, mumbling a condemnation of Sho Del magic. Tzern’s regular soldiers seemed to be having a hard time of the battle, and they were slowly being pushed back from the well. Then, however, the group of tan-suited men burst into motion. They ran toward the gap between their plateaus, jumping and sailing through across the thirty-foot chasm to land behind the surprised Sho Del line. The strange warriors moved in, slicing through the Sho Del ranks. They ran straight through the forms of monstrous Sho Del illusions—something that Jerick had never seen even the bravest man do. Sho Del horrors affected one’s mind, somehow able to terrify you even though you knew they couldn’t be real.

“By t’Lords,” Ham whispered beside him. “Did you see that?”

Jerick nodded.

“Devil warriors for certain,” Ham mumbled. “They jumped just like t’Sho Del. No regular man should be able t’do such a thing. That’s why Tzern’s been winnin’ so many battles; he’s given his soul up t’devils.”

“Cursed magics,” Jerick agreed quietly.

Presumed reality. The phrase formed in his mind even as he spoke, Topaz’s words surfacing from the back of his memory. Jerick paused. He hadn’t thought of the jesk, or home, for a long time now. He hadn’t thought of much anything for a long time.

That’s your presumed reality speaking, lumberling. Jerick smiled slightly, remembering the playful lilt that always seemed present in Topaz’s voice. Slowly, he turned his eyes around and looked at the faces of the bridgemen. Most of them sat with dull eyes, staring at nothing, their bodies and minds fatigued. Not a few were sleeping, as they did whenever they had the opportunity. Some bridgemen rarely spoke, and only then to order another mug of saprye.

You’re becoming one of them, Jerick, his mind warned. No, you have become one of them.

But that’s what I want, isn’t it? he argued back silently. They don’t have pain like I do. They don’t think of the death, the misery. They don’t dream. They’re numb. That’s how I want to be. That’s the only way to survive as a bridgeman.

Presumed reality, his mind repeated.

It isn’t presumed, it is reality! Jerick thought.

Presumed reality.

I tried! Jerick said, holding his head, feeling himself begin to tremble. I tried, and look what happened!

Try again.

Jerick shook his head. He couldn’t. Not after how much work it had taken for him to regain the other men’s trust. He couldn’t go through that again, he couldn’t. His eyes sought out Keeg, who sat, his flat eyes staring thoughtlessly into the sky. Tenne sat slumped next to the bridge. They would probably be dead before another few months passed. Jerick would probably be dead before another few months passed. He didn’t care, he couldn’t care.

Suddenly there was a sound. Metal against metal. Jerick looked up with alarm to see a battle had somehow begun on the plateau beyond their bridges. Enormous beasts Jerick had never seen before were jumping through the air, traveling the vast distance between the Sho Del and human plateaus. They were large and reptilian, with four small legs in the front and two enormous ones at the back, legs powerful enough to jump even the fifty-foot chasm. Each beast bore a Sho Del on its back.

“Lords!” Ham whispered to the side of him. “Illusions?”

Jerick shook his head. “Probably not. They’re steeds of some sort.”

“Dragons!” another man hissed.

Jerick frowned, comparing the beast’s size with the shadow he had seen in the sky months ago. Then he shook his head—they were too small.

“No,” he said to himself. “Not dragons, but similar.”

“There’s hundreds of them!”

Jerick nodded in amazement. Where had they all come from? The Sho Del had never used them before—at least, not in the half-year he had been at the Eternal War. Their sudden arrival had surprised the human troops, who were responding poorly to the attack. The Sho Del had obviously decided to make a major offensive. Human warriors scrambled into ranks, trying to fight the strange horse-sized monsters with Sho Del on their backs.

Then the screaming began. Not from the plateau, but from around him. Jerick spun with shock. A group of six Sho Del warriors, armed with swords, had appeared from behind. They were attacking the bridge crews.

Men scattered, some trying to hide behind the white boulders that were the plateau’s only cover. The small group of Sho Del attacked mercilessly, slaughtering man after man. Another group of them appeared, jumping across a chasm to Jerick’s right, falling on his own crew. The men began to scatter in all directions, completely forgetting the swords they had never been trained to use. Some simply fell to the ground whimpering as the Sho Del murdered them.

One Sho Del, white-faced and wearing a steel breastplate, turned to take an off-handed swing at Jerick. Jerick ducked, feeling the blade whoosh over his head. Then, moving with reflexes he had almost forgotten he had, Jerick rose, putting himself directly in front of the Sho Del. The demon’s face turned with shock—he had expected Jerick to duck away, not confront him. However, the look of shock was nothing compared to the surprise in its eyes when Jerick’s fist pounded into its face. The Sho Del stumbled and Jerick tore the sword from its hand, turning the weapon on its master and jamming it into the monster’s side.

White blood gushed down the blade and over Jerick’s hand, and the Sho Del fell backward, astonished expression still on its face. The last thing it had expected was for a bridgeman to fight back. Jerick stared at what he had done, nearly as surprised as the Sho Del. Then he looked up at his companions, still being slaughtered.

“Organize, you fools!” Jerick yelled, pulling a whimpering Ham to his feet, and pointing to the man’s short sword. The former slave pulled the weapon from its sheath, holding it in uncertain, trembling hands. The Sho Del warriors had already massacred half of the bridge crews, and were working on the rest. Keeg stood off to the side, huddled next to the bridge, his short sword held like a long dagger in his hand. He looked to Jerick with frightened eyes just before a Sho Del noticed him and, batting the short sword away with an off-handed movement, ran the boy through.

Jerick screamed in denial, dashing forward to attack the Sho Del from behind. The demon turned just in time to block his blow, and then moved to respond with an attack of its own. Jerick backed away, allowing Doram’s training to guide his movements as he searched desperately for help. Where were the warriors?

Then he saw. Two of the eight bridge crews had escaped across to the other side of the chasm, and they were moving to pull their bridges across to their side. From there they would be able to push the bridges across to a third plateau, providing an escape route for the warriors. The other bridges had been taken by the Sho Del, and even as Jerick watched they were toppled one by one into the chasm.

“No!” Jerick screamed, realizing his men were about to be abandoned. With the bridges gone, they would be left alone with the Sho Del.

One form turned at his scream. A large, tan-skinned form. Gaz. He watched Jerick fighting for just a moment, then he trotted across the last bridge just before it was pulled away, leaving Jerick and another two dozen bridgemen to their fates.

Ham screamed behind him, and Jerick turned briefly to see the squat man get pushed over the side of the plateau, tumbling into the chasm. Jerick turned back just in time to see his opponent launch a furious attack. Jerick parried maladroitly, his muscles out of practice. One blow turned his wrist at an awkward angle and he yelped, dropping the blade in agony.

The Sho Del smiled—a strangely human gesture to see on the face of a demon—then stepped forward to finish him.

Just then Jerick heard an odd thump beside him, and a wave of tan attacked the Sho Del. Jerick looked up in amazement. The tall form was followed by a dozen others, warriors that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, each bearing a thin steel sword. Ki Tzern’s special troops.

The tan-clothed men fought meticulously, somehow managing to engage the scattered Sho Del one-on-one while at the same time maintaining a controlled formation. They were good, better swordsmen than Jerick had ever seen, and their attack quickly pushed the Sho Del back. Just a few seconds later, the Sho Del decided that a couple of bridgemen weren’t worth the effort of fighting Tzern’s elite, and they retreated across the chasm. One Sho Del, one not wearing armor, suddenly yelled something in an odd, accented language, holding aloft a small object. A Dragonsteel container. Soon the Sho Del were gone, riding their strange jumping beasts, leaving the plateau empty save for scattered human bodies and white boulders.

Jerick’s legs betrayed him, and he slumped to the ground. Around him the bridgemen bled, not a single one was still standing, though a few from other crews were moving feebly. Of Jerick’s own crew only corpses remained.

The dozen tan-clothed warriors gathered in a small group, surveying the results of their attempted rescue. Then, talking quietly amongst themselves, they moved toward the chasm to the right, jumping across with their unnatural skill to join their own camp which had finished its battle in the distance.

A pair of warriors waited, watching the retreating Sho Del as the rest of the warriors jumped plateaus. Satisfied that their enemy wouldn’t return, one of the warriors nodded to the other. Then, pausing, he turned to look at Jerick with sad eyes. He was a tall Tzendish man with dark black hair and straight features. “I’m sorry,” was all he said. Then he turned back to the other. “Let us go.”

“Yes, Lord Tzern,” the other man agreed.

The two of them backed up a little bit, then ran forward and jumped, sailing into the air and crossing to the other plateau, leaving Jerick alone.

Jerick sat waiting, strangely lucid, as the hours passed. He had searched through the bodies, finding a dozen men alive, though none from his crew. He had dressed their wounds as well as possible, and they lay in a pitiful heap moaning and complaining that they had been forgotten. Jerick doubted that was true. There were dead warriors on the plateau; their weaponry was too valuable to let sit. Perhaps if it had just been the bridgemen, no one would have returned. The steel, however, was a different story.

As Jerick waited, the sun slowly toppling from its noonday perch, he thought. He thought of the look on the Sho Del’s face when he had fought back, and the actions of the other bridgemen. He saw their faces over and over again, their desperation and their fear. He saw Keeg get killed a dozen times. He saw Ham drop into the abyss. He remembered that first, friendly bridgeman he had seen die—Jerick had never known his name—then get trampled by his own crew.

It was presumed reality, and Jerick was caught in the middle of it. Eight bridge crews with twenty men each, over a hundred and sixty men, and we couldn’t defeat a dozen Sho Del. No matter how poorly trained, no matter how pathetic our weapons, we should have been able to stand against twelve opponents.

The bridgemen hadn’t fought back because they had assumed they couldn’t. They mentally separated themselves from the warriors, believing all they were capable of was carrying bridges and cleaning latrines. Just like peasants worked because they assumed they weren’t worthy of anything better. It was a lesson Jerick had learned long ago. Why then did he keep falling into the same traps?

Two bridge crews, one without their bridge, arrived just before dusk to search the bodies. They reacted with alarm when Jerick stood, and then surprise when they realized he wasn’t a Sho Del. They hadn’t seen Tzern and his men arrive, and had given the abandoned bridgemen for dead. Jerick waited as they pushed their bridge across, then appropriated their litters—brought for carrying back the bodies of officers—to carry the wounded instead. He spoke commandingly, like a noble, and they followed him without argument. One person, however, was not so quick to obey.

“Gaz,” Jerick said flatly. The large Kaz’ch had come to supervise. The sergeant walked across the bridge, joining Jerick on the other side as he surveyed the damage.

“You’re the only one?” he demanded.

Jerick nodded.

Gaz ground his teeth for a moment. “I’ll send you a new crew in the morning,” he said.

Jerick blinked in surprise. “New crew?” he asked hesitantly.

“You’re bridgeleader now.”

“Me?”

“I don’t have much choice,” Gaz mumbled, kicking at a body. Tenne’s body. The leader had been one of the first to die. “Everyone else is too young. They don’t know what to do.”

“But, I haven’t been here a year yet,” Jerick objected. “Barely half a year.”

Gaz looked him straight in the eye. “If anyone asks, you’ve been here eighteen months. Understand?”

Jerick nodded slowly. He did. Looking into Gaz’s thin Kaz’ch eyes, he understood much more than he was probably supposed to. It was all a lie. They told the bridge crews they would be made real warriors in two years, but no one lasted that long. It was a false hope intended to keep them going. Going until they died.

“I assume you learned your lesson from that little stunt a few months back,” Gaz said warningly.

Jerick nodded. He had indeed. The problem with the bridgemen was as much a part of their thoughts as their methods. If he wanted to help them, he had to change both.

“Yes, Gaz, I’ve learned much since then,” he replied. He bent down, retrieving the long Sho Del sword he had taken, and buckled it to his waist. Then he turned to help carry one of the litters of wounded men.

Annotation The Way of Kings Chapter 1

This was a controversial chapter for my writing group and my editor, and was wrapped up in the whole learning curve argument. It was suggested several times that if this chapter were from Kaladin’s viewpoint, the book wouldn’t feel quite so overwhelming at the start. After all, Chapters One and Two would then be from the same viewpoint and would give a stronger clue to readers.

I resisted. I had already accepted that this was going to be a challenging book for readers. That’s not an excuse to ignore advice, but at the same time, I decided I was committed to the long-term with this book. That meant doing things at the start that might seem unusual for the purpose of later payoff.

This is an excellent example of that. If I’d done this scene through Kaladin’s eyes, I don’t think it would have been as powerful. Kaladin is on top of things here, in control. I didn’t want the first chapter to feel that in control. I wanted the sense of chaos worry and uncertainty.

Beyond that, I wanted to introduce Kaladin as a contrast to all of that. A solid force for order, a natural leader, and an all-around awesome guy. Doing that from within someone’s viewpoint is tough unless they’re on the arrogant side, like Kelsier. It can work in that kind of viewpoint, but not in Kaladin’s.

Finally, I am always looking to play with the tropes of fantasy where I can. I feel that if I’d been writing this as a youth, I’d have made someone like Cenn the hero. (Indeed, in the original draft of The Way of Kings from 2002, Kaladin was much more like Cenn is now.) Opening with a young man thrust into war, then having him get killed seemed like a good way to sweep the pieces off the table and say, “No, what you expect to happen isn’t going to happen in this book.”

This also let me set up for a future chapter, where I could flashback to Kaladin’s view of these events. As narrative structure was something I wanted to play with in this book, that appealed to me.

Dragonsteel Prime Chapter 28: Bridge Four 2

This chapter comes from the 2000 draft of a book called Dragonsteel. Some of the settings, situations, and characters were repurposed into The Way of Kings (2010).

Death. It surrounded him, reached for him, and took his friends. He could hear himself screaming as the arrows fell, killing the defenseless men around him. Their blood fell like rain, pooling and streaming until it poured off the sides of the massive plateau, disappearing into the chasm like scarlet waterfalls.

But the deaths were only the beginning. Horrors much more vibrant than simple corpses surrounded him. Nightmarish monsters that tore men to pieces, devouring them with greedy lust. At times, the dead rose up, staring with sightless eyes. Other times, men seemed to explode, sending out waves of bone and gore. Gaz screamed that they were only Sho Del mind tricks, but Jerick knew otherwise. They were real. It was all real. The death, the blood, and the Sho Del.

They rose up in front of him, their bone-white skin shining in the sunlight. He could see them closely now, and his eyes ran across their sharp features, features that could almost have belonged to a man. A nose that was too pointed, a face that was too triangular, and eyes dark as a cavern far beneath the earth. As the demons approached, however, Jerick could see that he was wrong. The eyes weren’t completely black—near the center, where a human iris would have been, was a ring of pure white. Eyes that better would have suited a reptile, rather than something bipedal.

The Sho Del fell on him, hacking at him with bright steel swords. Jerick yelled in terror, turning to the left, looking for help. He could see Frost there, being torn to pieces by four large serpentine monsters. Jerick shook his head in horror, turning to the other side. Ryalla stood screaming, struggling as a Sho Del tossed her into the chasm. The sharp blades cut into Jerick’s skin, attacking him over and over again. He caught sight of Topaz, his head being cut from its body by a Sho Del sword.

“You killed him,” a voice informed. Jerick looked up. Standing between two Sho Del, their swords bright with Jerick’s blood, stood his father. The lumberman shook his head in disappointment. “You killed us all. You killed me.”

“No!” Jerick denied.

Rin continued to shake his head, a look of disappointment on his face even as a Sho Del blade cut into his chest.

Jerick awoke. A man stood over him, shaking him lightly. The weak light of dawn poured through the tent flap, and forms were rising around him, shaking their lethargic bodies.

“Keeg?” Jerick asked, blinking.

The man, really no more than a boy, smiled weakly. He claimed to be seventeen, but his face made him look as if he were years younger.

“Time t’be geffin’, there,” the boy said with his characteristic Jargish accent.

Jerick smiled briefly at the sound—he still hadn’t quite gotten used to the dialect, even if most of the words were Meleran. The language had been twisted horribly by the Jargish. The syntax was odd, and there was so much inflection to the words that they were often hard to understand.

“I’m geffing,” Jerick mumbled, using the Jargish word for ‘move.’ He pulled himself out of bed—a simple blanket set on the hard ground—stretching his muscles. He had slept poorly. Of course, he hadn’t slept very well since he had entered the Rothanden valley. Nights in Fallamore were almost as hot and damp as the days, and Jerick found it almost impossible to sleep in such conditions. Since arriving at the war, however, things had gone a little better; pure exhaustion often overcame discomfort. Now if he could just find a way to get rid of the nightmares.

Except he knew that wouldn’t be possible. Jerick slowly pulled on his clothing—a smelly shirt and trousers he knew he would never have even thought about wearing just a few months before, followed by his leather vest and short sword. The nightmares were only an extension of the horrors he faced every day. The death, fear, and suffering haunted him while he was awake—it only made sense that they would continue through the night.

Falling into line with the rest of the bridgemen, Jerick shuffled out of the tent into the morning light. Bridge crews were too expendable, and too numerous, to deserve a permanent structure. Outside, Gaz waited, prepared to punish those who didn’t move quickly enough.

The large man was not Ke’Chan, Jerick had discovered, though he was related to them. Gaz was from a land called Kaz’ch Tor, a remnant of the old Ke’Chan empire where some Ke’Chan warriors had settled down and intermarried with the Yolish people. The Kaz’ch considered themselves separate from the homeless Ke’Chan nation, a fact which, from what Jerick had been able to gather, suited the Ke’Chan just fine. The large merchants considered their cousins impure, both racially and doctrinally.

Jerick noticed Gaz’s fist just before it hit the side of his head. Pain washed through his body like a sudden spark, and Jerick wavered slightly. He probably would have tumbled to the ground if Keeg hadn’t steadied him.

“You thinking again, fick?” Gaz grumbled, using Fallin slang for peasant. The large Kaz’ch stuck his face directly against Jerick’s. “You’re paid to work, not think.”

Jerick nodded humbly as his vision cleared. For some reason, out of all the hundreds of bridgemen, Gaz had singled out Jerick for punishment. It didn’t seem rational that he would spend effort on one man when he was over so many, but Gaz nonetheless found time to keep an eye on Jerick. The large Kaz’ch claimed he didn’t trust Jerick—didn’t like the look in his eyes.

During his first few days in the War, Jerick had tried to stand up to the man, an attitude that had led him to numerous beatings. Even worse, Gaz had insisted Jerick stand at the front of the bridge crew, rather than rotating with every skirmish. Jerick had learned quickly that where Gaz was concerned, one kept one’s opinions to oneself.

The bridgemen fell into line, a few late-risers earning whacks from Gaz. The Kaz’ch was like nothing Jerick had ever experienced before. He wasn’t a bully—or, at least, not like any bully Jerick had known. Bullies used their size to gain dominance over others. Gaz already had dominance over the bridgemen—total and complete dominance.

The man made it clear that his punishments were for the good of the army, for any man who wasn’t willing to follow orders could cause the entire group to fail. The longer Jerick spent in the war, the more difficult it became for him to decide if Gaz was correct or not. On one side, he saw a powerful warrior picking on men who couldn’t stand up to him. On the other side, he had seen entire bridge crews slaughtered by the Sho Del because they lacked coordination.

“Teams one, two and three,” Gaz barked, speaking from memory, like he always did. Few soldiers, even the officers, were able to read written orders. “You are on latrine duty. Four, five, and six, you will work on bridges. Seven and eight will go gathering.”

Gaz didn’t ask if there were any questions. He simply stood expectantly as each crew leader led his men to the appropriate activity.

“All right, boys,” Tenne, their team leader, announced. “You heard him. Let’s go.”

Bridge Four began to move, following Tenne to the bridgeyards. Jerick shuffled along in line, Keeg to his side. The boy had arrived only a few days before, and he still had the energy of a newcomer. It wouldn’t last long.

For the most part, the camp was quiet—bridge crews rose earlier than anyone else. There were a few men visible outside of the large troop cabins that housed the warriors, men who were either on patrol or rising early. As they neared the bridgeyards, Keeg’s eyes fell longingly on a pair of soldiers sparring with wooden swords and shields in the morning light.

“You thought they’d teach us that, didn’t you?” Jerick asked quietly. Talking was allowed, as long as they didn’t make a nuisance of themselves.

Startled, Keeg looked over at Jerick, then nodded guiltily. “Aye,” he admitted. “I’in long wantin’ t’learn t’sword.”

Jerick smiled knowingly. “I thought that too, before I came.”

“Not for us,” Keeg said with disappointment.

“No,” Jerick agreed. It had taken Jerick weeks to abandon his dreams of obtaining quick glory on the battlefield. Even still, as they walked past the fighting men, he felt a stab of jealousy. That should have been him.

Except, now he knew the truth. Peasants could never be more than bridgemen, and bridgemen would never be trained to fight. The Eternal War wasn’t like the battles he had read of in books, where thousands upon thousands of men had met to determine the fate of nations. The Eternal War was more delicate, an extended campaign that involved hundreds of small skirmishes but few extended battles. Most of the plateaus were small, fitting only a few hundred soldiers at a time. Therefore, those soldiers needed to be very highly-trained and very well-equipped.

Bridgemen, however, never crossed onto the battlefield—the soldiers protected the bridges from their side. Bridgemen didn’t need to be well-trained or well-equipped, there just needed to be a lot of them, which there were. Training them was futile; not only did they rarely need the skills, their casualty rate was so high that teaching them would be about as wasteful as throwing money into the chasms. The only sort of training they received was running—every day, whether they went on a run or not, they were forced to jog around the camp perimeter three times carrying a bridge.

And this was the situation in which Jerick found himself. He had considered running away, but where would he go? Pretend to be a scholar or a scribe? Surely someone would eventually discover his ruse. Even assuming he were able to find one of the fine-worked gold or silver scholar’s castemarks, scribes were a very closed group. Eventually they would ask who trained him, and there discover proof that he had never been to Trexandos.

He could return to Melerand, but that would not only require him to face Martis and Courteth, he would also have to admit how wrong he had been. He couldn’t bring himself to do such a thing—not in front of the princess.

So, he struggled on, hoping for the same thing every bridgeman wanted, the one dream that kept them going in the face of such horrors. Any bridgeman who lasted a year would be made leader of his own crew, a rank that not only earned him more pay, but allowed him the privilege of always walking at the middle of the bridge—the most protected spot. Survive another year as crew leader, and he would be moved from the bridge crews entirely and be made a runner or a watchman.

It wasn’t much to hope for, especially to a boy who had once lived in the palace of a King. For most peasants, however, it was an absolute dream. Runners and watchmen were allowed to bring their families to the camp, and the pay they earned was a fortune when compared to a farmer’s wages—or, rather, lack thereof.

“Jerick, you take the second squad and Gent, you take the third.” Tenne’s voice brought him out of his contemplations. They had arrived at the bridgeyards.

“Right,” Jerick said with a nod, gesturing for Keeg and six other men to follow him. After just a couple of months in the field, Jerick was already one of the most experienced members of the bridge crew. He felt little pride at the distinction—it only meant he had lived longer than the others.

Ske company, named after the third letter of the Fallin alphabet, was reputed to be the unluckiest company in General Demetris’ camp, and Jerick’s bridge crew the least lucky in the company. It had certainly lived up to its reputation. During Jerick’s time in the war, the crew had been decimated on four separate occasions. Rarely a battle went by that they didn’t lose at least two or three men to Sho Del arrows. In fact, the only man Jerick remembered from his first day was Tenne, the crew leader.

“All right, men,” Jerick said, nodding to the scattering of planks. “You know what to do.”

The men nodded, moving with dull eyes to begin working. Dragonsteel battles occurred infrequently, only about one a day. During their off time, however, the bridgemen were never allowed to relax. They were used to keeping the camp running, doing menial labor such as cleaning, constructing buildings, and building replacement bridges. Whenever possible, the Sho Del knocked their opponents’ bridges into the chasms—at times, it seemed to Jerick almost as if they lost more bridges than they did bridgemen.

Jerick knelt down beside Keeg, pounding nails into the wood. The camp engineers kept careful watch on the bridgemen, setting them to work at tasks that required little skill or training. The bridge work didn’t go as quickly as it could have had all the participants known exactly what they were doing, but it all came back to the training factor. Why teach a man to build bridges when he would likely be dead tomorrow?

“Thinkin’ there’in last til a year?” Keeg asked, pounding nails with a smirk that was almost contented.

Jerick shrugged. “Either that or I’ll be killed,” he mumbled. Then he paused—that wasn’t what the boy needed to hear. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’ll last, Keeg. Of course I will.”

Keeg smiled. “I’in too, there. I’in wantin’ t’be long best warrior in camp.”

Jerick felt himself smile back, but as he did so the memories surfaced. Memories of men dying, one after another. Why did he bother to learn their names? No one lived; the Sho Del killed them all.

With that thought in his mind, he heard the distinctive blare of the warning horn blast through the camp. Two short blasts, followed by a long one: the signal for Ske company. All three companies in the camp took turns going on runs, placing only one company on the Shattered Plains at any one time. Occasionally Dragonsteel would be discovered on two plateaus at nearly the same time, requiring two companies to move out.

“Come on!” Jerick called to his sub-crew as he saw Tenne’s brown and gray-haired form motioning for them to gather. The nightmares from his sleep were pale competitors for what was about to occur.

“Down!” Gaz ordered.

Eight thunks could be heard as the bridge crews dropped their loads. Jerick jumped to the side, grabbing one of the steadying ropes as other bridgemen began to push. He leaned back with all his weight, adding his strength to the other steadiers as they struggled to keep the far end of the bridge from sinking too low and toppling the entire construction into the chasm. Jerick had seen such a thing happen before, though never to his crew.

The edge of the bridge plunked into place, and the bridgemen quickly dodged out of the way. A few seconds later the warriors were across, forming a protective wall around the small rock basin at the center of the plateau. Jerick sat down with a sigh, looking around at the rest of the crew. Most of them had looks of exhausted relief on their faces—this time the humans had arrived at the plateau first. There had been no hail of arrows to meet them, no slaughter of bridgemen. Their part in the battle had been completed without casualty.

Keeg groaned next to him, sweat pouring down his face. Jerick smiled to himself, remembering his first week as a bridgeman. Even the Fallin Emperor wouldn’t have been able to pay him enough to go back and do it over again. Though he had never really grown used to carrying the horrible weight of the bridge, over the months his muscles had grown strong and his body firm. He was still tired after a Dragonsteel run, but not so exhausted he couldn’t move.

Oddly, after just a moment of sitting, Jerick heard a sound from Keeg that wasn’t a groan of exhaustion. It sounded more like . . . awe.

“Jerick, be lookin’ at that, there,” the boy said, his fatigue forgotten, replaced by excitement.

Jerick followed the boy’s gesture, looking high in the sky. There, flying just below the clouds, was a dark winged silhouette.

“By the Lords!” Jerick mumbled, rising to his feet to stare into the sky. “What is it?”

“So the rumors are true,” a third voice mumbled. Jerick turned to the side, his eyes falling on Tenne, Bridge Four’s grizzled leader. Tenne was old for a warrior, perhaps in his late thirties, and he had skin almost as tan as his brown hair. He was missing several teeth, and his face was littered with scars. He was a harsh man, but not unkind.

“Rumors, Tenne?” Jerick asked.

“About him,” Tenne said, nodding toward the form high in the sky. “Drephrast, king of the dragons and lord of the Sho Del. The stories say he used to watch over the Shattered Plains, but stopped appearing decades ago. It appears that he’s returned.”

“A dragon?” Jerick asked, turning back to watch the form. Vendavius had said that there was no such thing as dragons. But, it appeared that the scholar could be wrong. The form circled above them for a moment, too far away to appear as more than a shadow, then disappeared, rising into the clouds. When Jerick looked down, the entire army—bridgemen and soldiers, had stopped their movements to stare up at the sky.

“Why did he return now?”

“You’re asking me?” Tenne said, laughing gruffly to himself. “I’m just a soldier, Jerick.”

The men stood for a moment watching, then, realizing they were about to have a battle, continued with a hurried gait. Fortunately, the Sho Del had yet to arrive, and the humans were able to take and surround the well unopposed. Now it would be the Sho Del who had to take up the offence.

“It’s a bad sign,” Tenne mumbled.

Jerick shrugged, taking a seat on the plateau. “I don’t know. It looks like the battle today will be an easy one.”

“True,” Tenne agreed, sitting beside Jerick. “We might even get a bonus.”

Jerick nodded. “Probably,” he agreed. Every time a company made a successful run, it meant a copper flep—the Fallin equivalent of a Meleran penning—for every bridgeman.

Tenne studied the soldiers, handing Jerick a waterskin. “Look there, Jerick,” he said, nodding to the side.

Jerick followed the older man’s gaze, barely making out a small group of warriors on the plateau next to their own. They weren’t Sho Del—their armor was human, and they bore the blue standard of Demetris’s Camp. Squinting, Jerick could make out a tall form standing at the front of the group.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“The general, I’d guess,” Tenne replied.

“Demetris?” Jerick asked with surprise. Then, looking more closely, he realized he had made a mistake. The figure at the front wasn’t a tall man, it was a short man standing on several boxes. “So it is,” he agreed.

“Wonder what he’s up to,” Tenne mumbled, accepting the waterskin back and squirting himself a mouthful.

“Watching us, I’d guess,” Jerick said. “That plateau is far enough away that he’ll be safe from the battle.”

“Probably,” Tenne agreed.

Jerick snorted quietly to himself. “It almost makes me wish we hadn’t had such an easy time of it,” he mumbled, studying the diminutive form. “Perhaps if the general actually saw what his bridge crews go through, he’d find a better way to protect us.”

Tenne grunted in disagreement. “I doubt it,” he grumbled. “He sees the numbers, Jerick. He knows what we go through. The only thing that man cares about is the Dragonsteel we bring in.”

“What about the Sho Del?” Jerick objected.

“That’s all they care about too,” Tenne informed. “They could get through if they wanted. The camps are too disjointed to repel a determined offence. The Sho Del don’t want our land, they just want the Dragonsteel. They may be demons, but they share one trait with the rest of us. Greed.”

Jerick rubbed his chin, feeling the whiskers there. He couldn’t even remember when he had started growing a proper beard—back in the palace he hadn’t been able to grow anything but fuzz. Tenne’s words had an uncomfortable truth to them. One of the reasons he had convinced himself to stay in the war was because he believed it was necessary, that he could protect his father and the rest of Yolen by keeping the Sho Del out. However, Tenne was right—the Sho Del could probably break through the camps if they wanted to.

“I don’t know, Tenne,” Jerick mused, turning his head from Demetris to the Ske company warriors on the plateau just beyond the bridges. They were fidgeting uncomfortably, waiting in anticipation of the Sho Del’s arrival. Perhaps the demons wouldn’t arrive. Such an event was unlikely; in all Jerick’s months at the war, never once had he seen a well harvested without a battle.

Unconsciously, Jerick’s eyes sought out the well itself, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to see it through the warriors. He had seen plenty of them, however—there was one at the center of every plateau. Turning, he caught sight of the one on his own plateau. It looked somewhat like a tub, a large round cup that rose a few feet out of the ground. The one on his plateau was brown, just like the rest of the ground, but he knew the one the warriors were protecting would be dark black, an indication that liquid Dragonsteel would soon seep up into its basin.

Other than the raised wells, the plateaus were all perfectly flat, and generally the same height. Their surfaces were slick and dry, unadorned save for the occasional white boulder. There were a few of the boulders on every plateau, their white providing quite a contrast to the dun earth beneath. They reminded Jerick of Melerand; there had been similar strains of rock near his home.

“You don’t belong here, Jerick,” Tenne said quietly beside him.

Jerick turned with a confused look. “What was that, Tenne?”

“You, Jerick,” the older man said, his eyes staring out across the plateau. “You don’t belong in this war—or, at least, you shouldn’t be a bridgeman.”

“Why not?” Jerick asked slowly.

Tenne shook his head. “You’re too poised, too confident. You aren’t a peasant, no matter what that castemark says. The other men, they look up to you, even though you’re nothing more than a lad.”

“I’ve been here for a while,” Jerick defended.

“True,” Tenne agreed. “But I’ve seen men much older last much longer without earning the respect you have. The men don’t look at you and see a boy, they look at you and see a leader.”

“I’m just a lumberman.”

“I’ve never met a lumberman who could speak Fallin before,” Tenne noted.

“How many lumbermen have you met?” Jerick asked pointedly.

Tenne smirked. “You see? You say clever things like that, Jerick. You think like a noble. You’re a waste, dying here with the rest of us.”

Jerick didn’t respond for a moment. “Why did you come to the war, Tenne?”

The older man looked surprised at this comment. Then, he just shrugged. “Greed,” he finally said.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jerick replied.

Tenne sighed, leaning back. “My son did something very foolish, Jerick; got himself made a slave. A farmer can’t earn enough to buy a man’s freedom, so I came here.”

Jerick nodded, opening his mouth to respond, but Tenne cut him off.

“Here they come,” the grizzled man noted.

Jerick looked up. Sure enough, the Sho Del had arrived. He could see their bone-white faces approaching on the plateau beyond the one the warriors held, and soon arrows began to fall on both sides. As the demons reached the edge, they began to jump, sailing over the twenty-five foot gorge to land on the contested plateau. They needed neither bridges nor bridgemen.

All the warriors had to do was hold out until the Dragonsteel appeared, then they could collect the prize and retreat across the bridges. The Sho Del rarely gave chase, for they knew that once the Dragonsteel was in human hands, it was very difficult to retrieve—Sho Del legs could jump far, but they could not keep up with a galloping chariot. Couriers waited on every plateau leading back to the camp, ready to accept a thrown vial of Dragonsteel should the Sho Del decide to try and follow.

Jerick and the other bridgemen watched the battle with strangely uninvolved eyes. It was odd, seeing men fight and die just a few feet away but knowing that he himself was in no danger. Jerick couldn’t feel quite as detached as the rest of the bridgemen, with their tired eyes and uncaring faces. The horrors of what he had experienced over the last few months were too strong, too vibrant, to forget simply because this time he wasn’t personally in danger. Watching the soldiers fight, the Sho Del throwing horrible visions at them, made Jerick shiver with dread. I will never last two years like this, he realized.

“By the Lords, have a look at that,” Tenne mumbled from beside him.

“What?” Jerick asked, glad of any distraction that took his mind off of the battle.

“Look over there,” Tenne said, pointing at General Demetris’s plateau. A powerful-looking figure in white and gold was approaching Demetris, followed by a file of tan-clothed warriors.

“It’s General Ki Tzern,” Tenne said with awe.

“Really?” Jerick asked with interest, looking closely at the form. Tzern rode a magnificent horse like Sir Hsor had back in Melerand—one of the amazing Tzend beasts that was capable of carrying a man on its back. It towered over even the chariot horses used in Demetris’s army. Ki Tzern was a tall man, though Jerick had always heard that Tzends were a short people.

The general dropped off his horse and approached Demetris with a firm stance. Jerick had heard of Tzern; the Tzend was said to be the most successful general in all of the Eternal War.

“Ah, Jerick,” Tenne said wistfully. “How many times have you wished you’d gone to that man’s camp for recruitment instead of here? They say his companies almost never have casualties, even bridgemen.”

Jerick snorted. “I wouldn’t believe it, Tenne. Like you Fallins say—your tea never tastes as good as your friend’s.”

“Ah, but wouldn’t it be nice if the stories were true?” he asked. “The most successful camp, and the one with the least deaths? They say his warriors are immune to the Sho Del illusions. They even say he has men on his side that can make illusions of their own.”

“I doubt the Emperor would stand for the use of demonic magic, even if it did bring him Dragonsteel,” Jerick contested.

“Probably true,” Tenne agreed. “What do you suppose he’s doing over there?”

Jerick shrugged. “I don’t know. Having tea with Demetris?”

Tenne snorted. “I hope so. Maybe if Demetris associates with Tzern enough, some of the Tzend’s humanity will rub off on him. The hardest thing about this war, Jerick, is knowing your leaders are nearly as monstrous as the devils we’re fighting.”

“Hush, Tenne,” Jerick said, looking around for Gaz. If the Kaz’ch heard such talk, it would mean serious retribution.

“I’ll say what I want to,” Tenne grumbled sullenly, though he did lower his voice.

The sound of galloping drew Jerick’s attention back to the battle in front of them. One charioteer was riding madly for the bridges, the rest of the company retreating more slowly behind. In the charioteer’s hand was a steel container, and inside of that Jerick knew there would be a small glass vial. Dragonsteel, which would remain in liquid form until some fortunate buyer touched it and gave it shape with his mind, determining the form the metal would hold for eternity.

“Let’s move!” Gaz bellowed, ordering the bridgemen into place for the trek home.

Demetris stood watching the battle’s end, a slight smile on his lips. Earlier, when he had seen the dragon, he had been angry. Others had told him that the cursed creature had returned, but Demetris hadn’t believed them. Dragons were supposed to be superstitious tales. But now he had seen it himself—he would look foolish for punishing the men who had claimed to have seen it before.

But, fortunately, Ki Tzern had arrived. Not that Demetris liked the Tzend, quite the opposite. Tzern’s arrival, however, had given Demetris a chance to show how well his armies were doing. His army had won this battle—they had even managed to do it with minor losses. Demetris knew the victory would bring envy to the Ki Tzern’s heart.

“Well fought,” Ki Tzern said with mock-humility.

Oh, you can’t fool me, Tzern, Demetris thought to himself with glee. I know how you’re really feeling. I know the resentment, the jealousy, the hate. I have felt them all too often.

The thing Demetris hated most about Ki Tzern was his height. Normally, a single box allowed Demetris to stand even with other men, and a second box allowed him to tower over them. Tzern, however, was tall enough that two boxes only gave Demetris a few inches advantage. What’s more, the Tzend had a stature so militaristically sharp that Demetris felt short no matter how high he stood. It was frustrating, and he knew that Tzern enjoyed his discomfort.

“They did passably well,” Demetris said, watching the men retreat across the bridges.

“Your bridge crews are remarkably efficient,” Tzern said, his Tzendish accent making each word sound staccato.

Demetris scanned the crews, searching for the flaw Tzern must have noticed. The comment was obviously meant sarcastically, but how? Tzern’s own crews couldn’t possibly move faster than Demetris’s. When it came to peasants, a carefully cultivated sense of terror was always the best motivation.

Tzern turned away from the battle. “I came to inform you, Demetris, of a new bridge mechanism I have designed.”

A new bridge? Demetris scoffed. Impossible. I know what you’re doing, Tzern. You seek to trap me, to make me think you have a technology I do not. It will not work.

Tzern continued. “I have noticed the casualties amongst your bridge crews. I think this new design will cut down on your losses.”

Ah, so that’s it, Demetris realized. He’s come to plead for me to stop making him look bad. He knows that my aggressive tactics will soon overcome, and then I will take his precious place as first general.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Tzern,” Demetris said with a smile.

Ki Tzern’s brow wrinkled with confusion.

Yes, you weren’t expecting me to see through your scheme, were you?

“At least let me send you the plans, Demetris,” Tzern said.

Demetris frowned. A clever comment—Tzern was always lording over the other generals, seeking to gain prestige by implying he could read. Demetris knew better. The man carried around books, as if he were some sort of scholar, but no general had time for such foolishness. It was a trick, one Demetris had never been able to prove.

“Not necessary, Tzern,” Demetris said, hopping off of his boxes and wandering toward his chariot.

“All right, Demetris,” Tzern said, his voice sounding displeased.

The Tzend’s pet warriors, a squadron of men dressed in tan uniforms, parted as Demetris waved them out of his way. Demetris climbed into his chariot.

“I should let you know, Tzern,” he said, turning to regard the team of warriors, “I’ve let the emperor know about your devil-warriors. I doubt he will be pleased.”

Tzern’s face grew dark. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Demetris.”

Demetris snorted, shooting a look at the warriors in tan. “I’ve heard about these men, Tzend. I know that you’re teaching them demon Sho Del magic.”

“In Tzendor we teach our men to focus their minds, Demetris,” Tzern said stiffly. “There is nothing magical about it. A man who controls his thoughts cannot be fooled by Sho Del illusions. That doesn’t make him a demon.”

“Claim what you want, Tzern,” Demetris said lightly, nodding for his honor guard to mount. “We’ll just see what the emperor has to say.”

At this, Tzern just shook his head, smiling slightly. “You know your Fallin Emperor has no jurisdiction over Tzend troops, Demetris. I doubt he would say anything even if we were using magic—he needs the Holy Tzend Armies far too much to risk offending us.”

Demetris shook his head slightly. He seems so confident. Could he have bribed one of the Emperor’s advisors? But which one?

Mulling over this new information, Demetris signaled his men and rode away, leaving the Tzend and his devil-warriors behind.

Dragonsteel Prime Chapter 25: Bridge Four 1

This chapter comes from the 2000 draft of a book called Dragonsteel. Some of the settings, situations, and characters were repurposed into The Way of Kings (2010).

From their vantage atop the hill, Jerick and Frost could see the strange landscape. Just ahead, the land of southern Fallamore, normally fertile and green in the year-round warmth, suddenly turned brown and dark. The hills dribbled into an enormous flat plateau, the grasses failing at its edges, the land growing sterile and lifeless. Here, extending for miles in either direction, the infamous Shattered Plains spread out before them.

The schisms began small, apparently no more than natural cracks in the sun-dried earth. At the edges of the Shattered Plains the largest cracks were barely wider than a man’s finger. They interlaced, joined, and diverged, running like tiny dried-out rivers. As they moved further out onto the flat, lifeless steppes, however, the cracks grew larger. They expanded, slowly changing from cracks to chasms, until finally the land itself seemed to fall away, breaking into thousands of column-like plateaus. Most were still close to one another, some even within jumping distance, but the rifts between them were sheer and incredibly deep.

Jerick stood awed beside Frost, looking out at the disjointed plateaus. “How . . . ?” he asked in wonder.

“Dragonsteel, Young Master,” Frost explained. “This is where it comes from. It seeps up from the ground, gathering in pools at the tops of those plateaus. Long ago this place was a flat plain, but thousands of years of erosion have eaten away at the ground. Dragonsteel, however, is indestructible. Over time, it seeped into the ground around the places where it pools, strengthening the earth. As a result, the ground there doesn’t wear away. The final product is what you see before you, a system of plateaus and thin, but very deep, gorges.”

The young boy’s eyes were filled with wonder as he looked down. Frost smiled slightly; as much as he disapproved of the logic behind Jerick’s travels, he knew the experience had done the boy immeasurable good. Over the last three months of traveling Jerick had experienced the wondrous variety of the land, seeing what life was like on the continent of Yolen. Now if the boy could only manage to keep himself from getting slaughtered in the Eternal War.

Frost sighed, looking out over the Shattered Plains. The sight was familiar to him; though, admittedly, [REDACTED]. The land was a dear old friend to Frost, no matter what face it chose to put on. Looking at the Shattered Plains, however, he felt a special affection well in his heart. Not for the Plains themselves; to him those only represented Dragonsteel and death. They did, however, remind him of a place nearby, a place he had once called home.

“Is that the place?” Jerick asked, nodding toward the edge of the Shattered Plains. A short distance away, built at the base of a hill, was a semi-permanent collection of tents and wooden structures. Thousands of people milled about, light twinkling as it reflected off of their various weapons and armor.

“Yes,” Frost admitted flatly.

Jerick barely kept himself from dashing toward the tents in an exuberant run. After three months of laborious travel, they were finally here. The Shattered Plains. He contained his excitement as they began to walk toward the army. It was vital that he make a good impression.

Except for that first week, his trek across Yolen had gone remarkably, if uneventfully, well. Under Frost’s council he had kept a low profile, offering his services only in smaller towns, where suspicious nobles or jealous rivals would be less likely to demand his castemark as proof of his station.

Wherever he had gone, there had always been quick demand for a scribe. Frost claimed that it was because the nations of Yolen were only beginning to understand the true benefits of literacy, and in wake of the explosion of interest there weren’t enough trained scribes to do the work. In many areas, Jerick’s position as a scribe had earned him more respect and admiration than if he had been a powerful Kalord, rather than a simple courtier. He had soon been able to afford an ox and cart, and after that they could move more quickly. Traveling in such a manner was less dignified than using a chariot, but it was also cheaper and less likely to mark him as a target for bandits. He had sold both animal and vehicle at the last stop before arriving.

The land had changed a great deal as they moved south. They had taken a direct route through the mountains that divided Fallamore in half, leaving Aldbin behind as soon as possible. After climbing up through the Fallin mountains—which, in Jerick’s opinion, were more hills than true mountains—they had dropped into the lush area known as the Rothanden Valley. Here the land was fed by the two branches of the Flueese River, creating a long strip of land that many scholars called the most fertile area on the continent.

And, as the two travelers had dropped out of the mountains, Jerick had seen why. The land to the north consisted of flat plains covered sparsely with short grasses and shrubs. In the valley, however, everything was green. Great twisting trees Jerick didn’t recognize splattered the land, and life seemed to coat every surface, whether it be dirt or rock.

And the heat was like nothing Jerick had ever experienced. Even at the height of summer in Melerand it hadn’t been half as hot as it was in Fallamore. His body soon grew sticky from the humidity, and his brow was constantly streaming with sweat. It seemed as if the entire land were an enormous bathhouse filled with steaming water.

He was surprised anything could live in such an environment. Frost, however, had only laughed when he made the comment, claiming that the southern heat was actually rather mild when compared to places like the Ke’Chan desert. Jerick’s only response had been to decide that he would definitely never visit Old Ke’Chan.

Frost walked lethargically beside him. For some reason the old scholar continued to travel with him, even though he hadn’t been able to persuade Jerick to return to Melerand. But, despite the constant naggings, Jerick had been glad for the company. Frost’s presence had not only given him someone to talk with, but the scholar was also a fount of useful knowledge. He knew the customs, languages, and mannerisms of even the smallest ethnic groups, not to mention their histories.

Jerick’s footsteps grew quicker as he approached the camp. It was enormous, more like a city than an army. The camp seemed to be divided into sections, different groupings marked by different colors. Men of all body shapes stood about, some lounging, others practicing, others working. Jerick looked at them in wonder, noting their armor. It was bright and silver. Steel, not bronze. This was a real army, unlike the ornamental guards of King Rodis’s court.

Jerick paused at the edge of the conglomeration of tents and buildings, his brow furrowing as he looked from side to side. Which way was he to go? A quick look at Frost told him that in this case, the old scholar knew no more than himself. So, shrugging, he approached an armored man leaning against his spear. A sentry of some sort.

“Um, excuse me . . . ?” Jerick began.

“New conscripts report at the big white tent,” the man mumbled in Fallin, pointing lazily.

Jerick nodded, motioning for Frost to follow. It was time for the real adventure to begin.

General Demetris stood over his table map, a scowl on his face. The map had been carved into the top of the massive table—so large it took up half of his conference room—then painted to give accents to the separate plateaus. The rough circles were connected by strings of various colors, the common pathways used to move from plateau to plateau. Through the use of mobile bridges every plateau could be reached by at least one route, though sometimes a company had to take an extremely round-about path to reach its goal. If only he could make fortresses on the Plains themselves. . . .

But, no, he had tried that. Demetris hadn’t believed the stories when he’d first arrived at the Eternal War a year earlier, and had proceeded to experiment with permanent settlements. He had lost several forts before learning the truth. Plants could not grow on the Shattered Plains, and the Sho Del demons were impossibly quick. He hadn’t been able to keep his fortresses supplied, let alone get them reinforcements in an attack. Demetris shook his head—it all came back to the bridges.

Most of the generals used the same basic bridge design. A couple used wider constructions that allowed more men to move from plateau to plateau at the same time, but most favored the thinner bridges for mobility’s sake. Demetris now used the smaller variety, as did Ki Tzern. Yet, somehow the Tzendish general still managed to hold his place as the most profitable leader in the war, forcing Demetris to be an unacceptable second.

Demetris pounded his fist against the hard wooden table. Over the last year Demetris had taken Ske Company from the least successful position all the way up to second place. Yet, for all the glory and wealth he had earned, he still couldn’t defeat Ki Tzern. The man continued to stay a little bit ahead of Demetris, reaching wells a little more quickly, retrieving just a little more Dragonsteel, killing just a few more Sho Del.

It had to stop. Demetris was poised to lead his Ka to the imperial throne. The succession was only a few years away, but Demetris would never gain the prestige necessary as long as Ki Tzern continued to make a fool of him. He—

“My lord?” a voice asked from the front of the tent.

Demetris turned angrily, almost toppling off the wooden box he used to raise his height a couple of feet. It was Flavinne, the captain in charge of conscriptions.

“What?” Demetris demanded. The man should have known better than to bother him.

“I apologize, sir,” Flavinne said, saluting. “But there is a matter that demands your attention.”

“What?” Demetris demanded dismissively. “The men want more prostitutes? Tell them to win more battles, and I’ll see about it.”

“Um, no, sir,” the man stuttered. “It’s about a new volunteer. He claims to be trained as a nobleman.”

“What does his castemark say?” Demetris asked.

“It says he’s a lumberman from Melerand, sir.”

Demetris snorted. Flavinne was wasting his time again. “Peasants, especially runaways, go to the bridge crews,” he spat. “You know that.”

“But, he claims he was raised in the palace, sir,” Flavinne continued to argue. “And he speaks perfect Fallin.”

“Yes, well, so do you, but that doesn’t appear to make you any smarter. Put him in the bridge crews, and be gone!”

“Um, yes sir,” the man said as Demetris turned back to his map. The man wasn’t through, though. “Just one more thing,” he added.

Demetris felt his face turning red. He opened his mouth, about to order this annoying captain to place himself in the bridge crews as well, but Flavinne spoke more quickly.

“There’s a scribe, traveling with him, sir.”

Demetris paused. “A scribe?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. His castemark is valid.”

Demetris scratched his Antoli. “Send the scribe to me,” he said. “I’ve been needing someone to write correspondences with my contacts back in the capital.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said, saluting again.

Demetris watched him go, shaking his head. Yes, the first order he would have this scribe write would be one sending captain Flavinne to the bridge crews. It was just his sort of incompetence that was letting Ki Tzern stay ahead of them.

“You, follow him. You, come with me.”

Jerick looked up with surprise at the soldier’s blunt voice. He was pointing for Jerick to follow another man, one who didn’t look very warrior-like. He was overweight and had a rather slovenly appearance, his blue uniform stained in numerous places. Jerick turned back to the soldier who had spoken. The man was grabbing Frost by the arm and pointing for him to follow.

“Wait,” Jerick objected. “My man is to—”

Jerick fell silent with a sharp groan as a sudden pain jabbed him in the stomach.

“When an officer gives you an order,” the overweight soldier informed, removing his fist from Jerick’s midsection, “you obey.”

Jerick croaked his response, feeling his legs wobble slightly under the pain. He looked up, blinking through tears to catch one last glimpse of Frost as the scholar vanished inside a large brick building. The old tutor’s head was shaking slightly with resignation.

“Move,” the soldier said, pushing Jerick down an earthen path running through the camp. Jerick stumbled to respond, too shocked to do much else.

None of the soldiers gave the pair much heed as Jerick followed his companion’s proddings. They only made one stop, beside a short, open-sided tent. After speaking with the soldier inside, his guide returned, shoving a diminutive sheathed sword and leather jerkin into Jerick’s hands.

“Here,” the soldier informed. “Put these on.”

Jerick obeyed, pulling the leather vest over his head and strapping the weapon around his waist. As they walked, he pulled the short sword free of its sheath. It was bronze, and the blade looked as if it hadn’t even been sharpened. In addition, it was so stumpy and slight-looking that Jerick doubted it would do him any good in battle.

He looked back at his guide with a frown. “This is it?” he demanded.

The guard simply nodded.

“But, when do I get one of those?” he asked, nodding to the steel long sword at the man’s side.

“You don’t.”

“But—”

The soldier interrupted Jerick, pushing past him and waving toward a tent that appeared to be their destination. “Hey, Gaz,” he bellowed. “New recruit.”

Beside the tent an enormous form turned, and Jerick felt his breath catch in his throat. He was Ke’Chan. Or, at least, he had the thin eyes and dark skin of a Ke’Chan, though he was wearing a blue uniform instead of the traditional skirt and coat. Jerick had never seen a Ke’Chan wearing regular clothing before.

“That spindly thing?” the Ke’Chan, Gaz, roared back. His voice held no trace of the Ke’Chan accent. “He’ll barely stop an arrow!”

Jerick’s guide chuckled, reaching back and pushing Jerick toward the Ke’Chan. Jerick stumbled, barely catching himself. Further conversation, however, was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats and a loud blaring horn.

Gaz cursed as Jerick’s guide dashed away, running back toward the front of the camp. Men began to scatter through the camp, large groups of them either dashing or, in the case of the armored soldiers, jogging in rank. Soon a group of scruffy-looking men in leather vests like Jerick’s own had gathered around Gaz.

“Move, move, move!” Gaz yelled as the men split into several groups. “You!” the enormous Ke’Chan bellowed, pointing at Jerick. “Follow that group; you’re a member of Bridge Four. Go!”

Jerick jumped scrambling in the direction Gaz ordered. His mind was confused at the noise and rush of bodies, and he barely kept up with the others as they approached a large wooden bridge sitting on the ground a short distance from the tent. Its construction was simple, with no wheels or other means of movement.

One man, an older man with a face so scarred his beard came out in patches, stood to the side as the group of about twenty men surrounded the bridge. “You,” the older man said, pointing at Jerick. “You new?”

“Yes sir,” Jerick said, disoriented.

“To the back with you then,” the man ordered, pointing at the back of the wooden bridge.

In a daze, Jerick did as commanded, falling into place between two other soldiers. “What now?” he mumbled, almost to himself.

“We lift,” the man beside him explained, reaching down with the others. Jerick followed, digging his fingers under the edge of the bridge and heaving in rhythm with the old warrior’s command. The ponderous bridge raised slowly into the air, incredibly heavy, and then settled into place on the men’s shoulders. There were grooves to make the carrying easier, but it was still extremely uncomfortable.

“Let’s go, lads!” the older man at the front ordered, and the men began to move, following the sound of their leader’s voice. From the back, Jerick could see little of what was happening. They seemed to be joining other crews carrying bridges of their own, and he did catch a glimpse of the large Ke’Chan warrior trotting along beside them.

They moved out onto the Shattered Plains themselves, leaving behind the scrub grass and striking out onto the dry, dusty plateau Jerick had seen from above. The air beneath the bridge was stuffy, smelling of dirt and sweat, and he found it difficult to keep rhythm with the walking men around him. It grew even more difficult as an order from Gaz drove the crew into a trot.

Jerick struggled to keep going, still uncertain of what was happening.

“First day?” a voice asked beside him, speaking in Meleran.

Jerick looked up, an action that didn’t do him much good. The shoulder mounts by which he carried the bridge prevented him from turning his head toward the sound.

“Yes,” Jerick said between laborious breaths.

“Poor lad,” the voice said. It bore the distinctive accent of a man from Aldbin.

“Where are we going?” Jerick asked the voice.

“T’one of t’wells,” the man explained. “A scout must have spotted one preparin’ t’put out Dragonsteel.”

Jerick didn’t say anything for a long moment, his breathing too difficult to allow speech. Finally he managed to get out one more question. “And the bridge?”

“T’cross t’chasms, of course,” his unseen companion explained.

Jerick fell silent, trying not to concentrate on his complaining feet or the wooden boards digging into his shoulders. Fortunately, the leather vest seemed to have extra padding on the shoulders, which helped somewhat.

Just a few moments later, he sensed a change in the ground below. The sound of feet clunking against wood sounded in his ears.

“Near t’edges there are permanent bridges,” the voice explained, answering Jerick’s unasked question. “At least, where t’cursed demons haven’t burned them.”

Jerick nodded to himself beneath the canopy of wood, sweat dripping from his nose in the humidity. They quickly crossed the permanent bridge, passing onto what must have been a separate plateau, though Jerick could see nothing but the brown earth below. Hopefully, they would reach their destination quickly. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on.

He hoped in vain.

Over the next half hour they crossed four more bridges, following Gaz’s bellowed orders. By the time the call came for them to halt, Jerick could no longer feel his arms, and he could barely stand. The order to lower the bridge came like a blessed sound from the Nine Lords themselves. Jerick moved with the rest of the group, first lifting the bridge with numb fingers, then backing away and setting it down on the hard earth.

Gloriously fresh air enveloped Jerick. However, he was given little respite.

“Now push!” Gaz ordered.

The men around Jerick moved to the back of the bridge and together they began to push the large contraption forward. Several men moved to the sides, holding ropes attached to the far end of the bridge. As they moved, Jerick noticed for the first time the enormous gap in the ground ahead of them. The earth simply stopped, dropping abruptly. Across the twenty-foot chasm was another plateau, and the men slowly pushed the bridge over the gap—the men with ropes pulling the end up to keep the entire thing from falling into the chasm. Carefully, they guided the edge of the bridge, settling its far end on the other side of the chasm. Other bridge crews did the same to Jerick’s right and left.

The men around him collapsed as the work was finished, and Jerick gladly copied them. As he sank to the ground, a thundering sound was heard and a line of horse-drawn chariots, which must have been following them the entire way, galloped across the bridge. The charioteers were followed by a squad of several hundred armored soldiers carrying swords, bows, or spears.

Jerick watched them go with wonder. Was he to have nothing to do with the combat? There had to be some mistake—he wasn’t going to spend the next two years as a simple packman. Of course, at the moment he probably couldn’t have lifted a sword if he wanted to, so he was happy to let the warriors pass. He could correct the mistake later, after his body recovered.

“All right,” Gaz ordered as the last warriors crossed. “Move!”

The men around him groaned, climbing to their feet. “Come on, lad,” a familiar voice came from beside him. Jerick’s unseen companion was a lanky, long-faced man with thin hair that was wet with sweat.

“What?” Jerick complained, climbing to his feet. “Time to turn back already?”

“Turn back?” the man laughed. “No, lad. We’re probably not even half-way there, though t’Lords only know which plateau we’re headin’ for.”

“What!” Jerick exclaimed as the group of bridgemen clamored across their bridge. He allowed himself to be pushed forward, only marginally noticing the depth of the drop below. The sides of the Plains were smooth, almost like polished marble, and the chasm continued on seemingly forever, its bottom lost in darkness.

On the other side the men pulled the bridge back. Then, to Jerick’s horror, they moved to lift the contraption once again. Beyond, the soldiers and charioteers waited with varying levels of patience as Jerick’s companions hoisted the bridge onto their shoulders.

“T’first time is always the worst, lad,” the Aldbish man’s kind voice came from beside him. “Keep movin’, and you’ll do all right.”

“Move!” Gaz’s unyielding voice spat again, and the nightmare began anew.

They repeated the same exercise a dozen times, spanning chasms that all looked the same to Jerick. It was as if they weren’t making any progress; the only thing that varied was the size of the plateaus. Sometimes they only carried the bridge for a few moments before putting it down again. Those times, the group of warriors would be crowded on a plateau barely large enough to hold them all. Other times the plateau extended far to either side, the cracks that marked its edges barely visible in the distance.

Each time the call came to put down the bridge, Jerick prayed with all his might that it would be the last, but each time the call came to move again. At every incident, Jerick was certain he wouldn’t be able to move when the command came, but each time he managed to pull himself forward, though sometimes it took a kick from Gaz to get him going. As the time progressed, the group of soldiers began to grow increasingly apprehensive, and Gaz’s orders became more urgent.

Finally, a new order came. It was a simple one, but one Jerick didn’t understand.

“Be ready!” Gaz ordered.

Ready for what? Jerick’s befuddled mind wondered.

“Lords,” the Aldbish man’s voice came from beside him, “please let us have gotten here first.”

“Go!” Gaz’s voice yelled sharply. The forms around him burst into a trot, moving with an energy Jerick wouldn’t have thought possible after such an extended hike. He tripped, almost losing his footing, and he reacted so sharply he knocked his head against the back of the bridge.

Through the shock, the sweat, and the daze, Jerick heard the screams begin. The bridge shook suddenly, as if it had run into a wall. However, it didn’t stop moving, it only rocked slightly. The screams continued, coming from all around. Jerick felt horror in his chest, and his arms began to shake. It was then that his foot slammed against something soft. He looked down to barely catch sight of a body in a leather vest like his own, its eyes staring blankly into the air, a white-fletched arrow in its chest.

Then Jerick screamed. He wanted to back away, to run from whatever doom he was approaching, but the bodies around him prevented him from scrambling away. The bridge continued to tow him along.

“Drop!” a voice ordered from in front. The men moved quickly, lifting the bridge in a single fluid motion and stepping away from underneath. The bridge dropped to the ground, and Jerick was thrown into a world of terror.

Arrows whizzed around them, snapping into the wooden bridges and slicing through bodies, tumbling them screaming to the ground. More frightening, however, were the monsters. Great slathering beasts with wide, bat-like wings and multi-toothed mouths hung around them. Drool and bile poured from their bulbous white bodies, and they screamed with terrible, inhuman voices that shook the air.

“They aren’t real, lad!” the man beside him warned. “They’re Sho Del illusions! Push!”

The voice jogged Jerick into motion, and he ducked down to throw his weight against the bridge. Arrows continued to fall. As Jerick pushed, the friendly Aldbish man beside him took a shaft in the chest, then another in the neck as he fell. Blood spurted from the neck wound, washing over Jerick as the man twitched, his body spasming on the ground. A second later the bridge locked into place, and Jerick barely dodged out of the way as a dozen chariots roared across the chasm, trampling the corpse of the unnamed man who had spoken so kindly to him.

Jerick sat on the hard earth as the battle progressed, his mind numb. He barely even noticed the corpses around him—fully a third of the bridge crew was dead. As soon as the bridge was in place, however, the arrows stopped falling, and the bridgemen were ignored.

Apparently, the Sho Del had obtained the plateau first, and had been ready for the humans’ approach. He could see them, their white-skinned forms battling with the blue-suited soldiers. Most of the fighting was hand-to-hand now, and the human line was slowly pushing toward the center of the plateau. Only the humans used chariots, and these rode randomly through the battle, striking where they could. The horrific illusions that had surrounded the bridge crew earlier hovered in the air above the warriors seeking to distract them. Even as Jerick watched, one of the beasts drove a charioteer off the side of the cliff, toppling him and his horse into the chasm beyond.

It lasted about an hour, neither side making much headway as far as Jerick could tell. However, eventually the Sho Del retreated, and the bridge crews around him let out a weak yell of joy. The warriors did something near the center of the plateau that Jerick couldn’t make out, then rode, or marched, back across the bridges.

Only then did Jerick’s over-taxed mind realize that he would be expected to cart the bridge back to camp, this time with two thirds the men as before.

Annotation The Way of Kings Prologue

Szeth uses magic

In Mistborn, by intention, I saved any big action sequences with the magic until the characters and setting had been established. This was intentional.

I did the opposite in The Way of Kings.

There are a couple of reasons for this. I spoke on the learning curve of this book; I felt it was best to just be straightforward with what I was doing. This book would be steep, and you’d see it in the first few scenes. Better to be straightforward with what you are.

At the same time, I felt that readers would put up with more from me. Fantasy readers can handle a steep learning curve, and tend to celebrate books that have a lot of meaty worldbuilding. I feel from my own experience as a reader, however, that I am wary of giving much effort to a book by a new author. Learning a new world takes work, and if an author is going to demand that kind of work from me, I want big payoff.

My hope is that I’ve earned my right to put out a book with this involved a setting. I’ve proven that I can tell a good story, and that it’s worth the effort to get into one of my books and worlds. The Way of Kings is the most challenging book I’ve written; the payoff will be equal to that challenge. (I hope.)

Lashings

I’ll be referencing the original draft of The Way of Kings (AKA Way of Kings Prime), written in 2002, as I feel it will probably be fun for readers to see how the book evolved over time. Every other book of mine you’ve read was conceived and executed over a relatively short period. The Way of Kings is different—it had a lot of evolving to do before hitting the state it’s in now.

One of those evolutions was the magic. Mistborn had one of my best magic systems to date. In Way of Kings Prime (written before Mistborn) we only had two types of magic: Shardblades and Soulcasting. Shardblades were great, but not really magic. Soulcasting didn’t work so well. [Assistant Peter’s note: There was also something called Windrunning, but it was completely different from the version we know now.]

Mistborn really upped the ante in terms of magic in my books, and I wanted The Way of Kings to have a more dynamic, interesting magic system. That is one factor in why I waited so long to release it.

I finally worked out Lashings while on tour for The Well of Ascension. (That was the tour I went on following the call from Harriet, asking if I was interested in finishing The Wheel of Time.) What I liked about the Lashings system was the visual power and the means of manipulating gravity and pressure in interesting visual and creative ways. I had already built into the sensibilities of the world the idea that there were ten fundamental forces I had based on the idea of fundamental forces in our world’s physics. It all fit together nicely.

Anyway, Szeth (named Jek in the first version of the book) was a more ordinary assassin in the original. He didn’t have powers beyond being a really, really good killer.

Secrets

Obviously, there are a lot of things embedded in this scene for later books. I’ve noted frequently that with Mistborn, I got the luxury of writing the whole series before releasing it. I don’t have that chance with Stormlight. I had to make sure all of my foreshadowing was placed and ready for later use.

I worry that so much of it is obvious, yet also confusingly so. The sphere that Gavilar give Szeth is barely mentioned in the book, for example.

No, I’m not going to tell you what it is.

Annotation the Way of Kings Prologue

Szeth uses magic

In Mistborn, by intention, I saved any big action sequences with the magic until the characters and setting had been established. This was intentional.

I did the opposite in The Way of Kings.

There are a couple of reasons for this. I spoke on the learning curve of this book; I felt it was best to just be straightforward with what I was doing. This book would be steep, and you’d see it in the first few scenes. Better to be straightforward with what you are.

At the same time, I felt that readers would put up with more from me. Fantasy readers can handle a steep learning curve, and tend to celebrate books that have a lot of meaty worldbuilding. I feel from my own experience as a reader, however, that I am wary of giving much effort to a book by a new author. Learning a new world takes work, and if an author is going to demand that kind of work from me, I want big payoff.

My hope is that I’ve earned my right to put out a book with this involved a setting. I’ve proven that I can tell a good story, and that it’s worth the effort to get into one of my books and worlds. The Way of Kings is the most challenging book I’ve written; the payoff will be equal to that challenge. (I hope.)

Lashings

I’ll be referencing the original draft of The Way of Kings (AKA Way of Kings Prime), written in 2002, as I feel it will probably be fun for readers to see how the book evolved over time. Every other book of mine you’ve read was conceived and executed over a relatively short period. The Way of Kings is different—it had a lot of evolving to do before hitting the state it’s in now.

One of those evolutions was the magic. Mistborn had one of my best magic systems to date. In Way of Kings Prime (written before Mistborn) we only had two types of magic: Shardblades and Soulcasting. Shardblades were great, but not really magic. Soulcasting didn’t work so well. [Assistant Peter’s note: There was also something called Windrunning, but it was completely different from the version we know now.]

Mistborn really upped the ante in terms of magic in my books, and I wanted The Way of Kings to have a more dynamic, interesting magic system. That is one factor in why I waited so long to release it.

I finally worked out Lashings while on tour for The Well of Ascension. (That was the tour I went on following the call from Harriet, asking if I was interested in finishing The Wheel of Time.) What I liked about the Lashings system was the visual power and the means of manipulating gravity and pressure in interesting visual and creative ways. I had already built into the sensibilities of the world the idea that there were ten fundamental forces I had based on the idea of fundamental forces in our world’s physics. It all fit together nicely.

Anyway, Szeth (named Jek in the first version of the book) was a more ordinary assassin in the original. He didn’t have powers beyond being a really, really good killer.

Secrets

Obviously, there are a lot of things embedded in this scene for later books. I’ve noted frequently that with Mistborn, I got the luxury of writing the whole series before releasing it. I don’t have that chance with Stormlight. I had to make sure all of my foreshadowing was placed and ready for later use.

I worry that so much of it is obvious, yet also confusingly so. The sphere that Gavilar give Szeth is barely mentioned in the book, for example.

No, I’m not going to tell you what it is.

Way of Kings Prime Chapter 22: Merin 5

This is a chapter from the original 2002 draft of The Way of Kings. The 2010 published version was completely rewritten.
Note: This chapter contains minor spoilers for Words of Radiance.

Merin clanked through the hallways of the Kholinar palace, looking for Aredor. He found Renarin instead. The younger son was in Aredor’s sitting room, seated beside a table—a brushpen held in his hand.

“You’re writing!” Merin accused, aghast.

Renarin looked up with surprise, then relaxed when he saw it was only Merin. He held up his sheet of paper, which was scribbled with very simple glyphs—ones that even Merin recognized. “They’re just numbers,” Renarin defended. “Men are allowed to write numbers.”

“They are?” Merin asked uncertainly.

“Well . . .” Renarin hedged. “Merchants do it, though they usually use tallies. A lot have just started using the glyphs for convenience, though.”

“Yes, but why do you need to write them?” Merin asked, regarding the sheet of paper. He knew very little of mathematics, but some of the numbers appeared to be sequences of one sort or another. If there were any connections between the other sets of numbers, however, they were beyond him.

“I just like playing with numbers,” Renarin said in his sheepish way, accepting the paper back.

Merin shrugged. “Where is Aredor?”

“He’s meeting with someone,” Renarin said, nodding toward the heir’s audience chamber. “It’s a little early to be off to sparring practice.”

“We’re not going there yet,” Merin explained, setting aside his helmet, then reaching over to undo the clasp on his right gauntlet. “Your brother promised to arrange for someone to read to me from The Way of Kings today. I was going to go over to Faithhome to get a reading, but he said he’d arrange for a monk to come here and do it, so he could listen too.” Merin frowned as he spoke, pulling off the other gauntlet, then peering inside.

“What’s wrong?” Renarin asked.

“The gauntlet,” Merin complained, shaking it up and down for a moment, then peering inside. “There’s a rock or something stuck inside—it’s been bothering me all day.” He set the gauntlet aside with a sigh. “Here, will you help me with the breastplate?”

Renarin rose, helping him pull off the chest piece. Then the younger son picked up Merin’s gauntlet, putting it on and letting it size itself to him.

“You’re right,” Renarin said as Merin took off the rest of the armor. “There is something in here.” Renarin pulled off the gauntlet, picking at the inside.

Merin pulled off the last boot, then sat down with a sigh. He was so tired of the awkward metal that he was almost beginning to regret the day he had saved King Elhokar’s life. Vasher had him training in the Plate so often he felt like he wore the suit more often than he didn’t—he was surprised the monk hadn’t commanded him to sleep in it yet.

“There!” Renarin said, pulling something out of the gauntlet. “It was wedged underneath a layer of leather. Look.” He held up something very different from the rock Merin had been expecting—a small pendant, tipped with a disclike piece of carved stone.

“What is it?” Merin asked, reaching for the stone.

“Looks like jade,” Renarin said. “A glyphward.”

As soon as Merin touched the glyphward, the air in the room drew breath and came to life. Merin stood frozen for a moment, the source of the strange visions suddenly manifest. Just as before, he could see the air flowing through the room, sense its motions blowing in beneath the door, seeping out through the shuttered window, and even being drawn in and out by Renarin’s lungs.

Tentatively, he released the glyphward. The room returned to normal.

“I wonder how it got in there,” Renarin was saying with a musing voice. “Must have belonged to the man who tried to kill the king. A glyphward brought with him, tucked safely in the gauntlet, for protection in battle. Didn’t work very well, did it?”

Merin touched the glyphward again, tapping it as it hung from the string below Renarin’s fingers. As soon as his fingers brushed the glyph, the air became visible again.

“Merin?” Renarin asked, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

“Touch the glyphward,” Merin said. “Try it.”

Renarin shrugged, placing the glyph in his hand. “All right. What now?”

“You don’t . . . sense anything different?”

“No,” Renarin said. “Should I? It’s just a glyphward, Merin.”

It doesn’t work for him, Merin thought. But why? “What glyph is it?”

Merin regarded the carved character. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Looks like it’s a derivative of Nah.”

Nah—power. Merin withdrew his hand uncertainly. What kind of strange magic was this? Glyphwards were supposed to protect against the super-natural, not foster it. And why would it work only for Merin?

“Do you want it?” Renarin asked.

Merin paused. Did he? He reached into his sencoat’s side pocket, pulling out one of his mother’s sewn glyphwards—one he had carried with him through battles. It was stained and dirtied, and would look silly next to his fine clothing, but his experiences earlier had taught him to at least carry it with him. He opened it up. “Here,” he said, “drop it in this.”

Renarin frowned, but did as requested. Merin folded the cloth, locking the strange pendant within it, and tucked both in his pocket.

“And people say I’m strange,” Renarin mumbled, sitting down. “I—” He was cut off as the door to Aredor’s audience chamber opened and a man stepped out, followed by Aredor. Merin didn’t recognize the stranger, though he wore riding clothing—not lavish, but rich enough. Probably a minor nobleman, Nineteenth or Twentieth Lord. The breast of his cloak bore the glyph of House Kholin, but the glyph was twisted into an unfamiliar design.

Aredor stood for a moment, speaking to the newcomer.

“Who is he?” Merin whispered, leaning closer to Renarin.

“A very distant cousin,” Renarin whispered back. “From Crossguard—one of Parshen Jezenrosh’s couriers.”

“Jezenrosh?” Merin asked. “Isn’t he supposed to be dying or something?”

Renarin shook his head. “He left the war because of sickness, but he’s since recovered.”

Aredor gave the stranger a familial clasp on the shoulder, and the courier bowed his head, then turned and walked quickly from the room.

“What was that all about?” Merin asked as Aredor walked over to join them.

“Family business,” Aredor said offhandily. He eyed Merin’s Shardplate, sitting in a heap on the floor. “More wall-jumping?”

Merin shook his head. “Vasher wants me to lean how to jump up to my feet from a prone position without using my hands.”

“Wearing Shardplate?” Aredor asked with amusement. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, it is,” Merin said. “I managed to do it a couple of times.”

“Out of how many tries?” Aredor asked skeptically.

“Five hundred or so,” Merin admitted.

Aredor chuckled, and Merin blushed. “It’s better than last week,” Merin said. “He had me jumping off the wall, landing on my feet, rolling to the ground, coming up, swinging twenty times, then jogging back up the stairs—all without stopping. Five repetitions nearly killed me.”

This time, Aredor laughed out loud. “Well,” he said, “if I ever get attacked by a wall, I’ll know who to send for. I assume you’re here for the Kings reading?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Aredor replied. “She should arrive any moment.”

Merin paused. “She? You said you were going to bring in a monk!”

“Oh, did I?” Aredor said innocently. “Completely forgot.”

Merin flushed, looking down at his outfit. He was dressed in a padded shennah undershirt and trousers, meant for use beneath armor. Both were stained with sweat from his day’s exertions.

“By the winds!” he swore. “Lend me something else to wear!”

Aredor laughed, nodding toward his bedroom chambers. Merin rushed inside, selecting an outfit as he heard the outer door open and a feminine voice speak. He hurriedly changed—Aredor was a tad taller than he, but the clothing fit without looking too bad. He quickly splashed some water on his face from the bin, sprinkled a bit of scented oil on his neck, then composed himself and rejoined the others.

Merin had to admit, this one was rather attractive. Thin-faced with dark Aleth hair, she was a model of noble femininity—reserved without being cold, immaculately dressed and composed. She rose when Merin entered, bowing respectfully.

Aredor winked his direction, and Merin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Merin,” Aredor announced, “let me introduce the Lady Sankal, first daughter of Lord Chanaran Miendavnah. We are fortunate for this opportunity—Lady Sankal is known for her poetic voice.”

“It is an honor, my lady,” Merin said with a nod.

“For me as well,” the lady replied. “Please, be seated. You wished to hear from The Way of Kings? Which section?”

“The First,” Merin requested, seating himself beside Aredor on the couch. Lady Sankal waved to her companion—a younger girl, probably Sankal’s ward, who bore a very thick tome. Sankal seated herself as well, opening the book in her lap.

“Part One,” she read, “the Ideal Monarch. The Sovereign is not a tyrant, but a father. As the Almighty cares for his creations, so the Sovereign should love and care for his people. His is a holy position granted to him by birth from the Almighty. In the eternal eye of the Almighty, a Sovereign’s worth will be judged not by his acts of heroism, his great conquests, or his wealth. It will be determined by the love he earned from his people.”

Despite his annoyance with Aredor, Merin smiled. The reading was far better than the ones he had received from the monks. Lady Senkal spoke with a melodic cadence, converting Bajerden’s simple passages into a rhythmic near-ballad. Her voice was sweet and relaxing, and she never stumbled over words like the monks often did.

“She’s something, eh?” Aredor said quietly, nudging him. “You should trust me more.”

Merin raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t forgiven you yet,” he informed.

“Oh?” Aredor asked. “What are you going to do? Make me jump off the wall a couple of times?”

“No,” Merin replied. “But next time I’m up there, I’ll do my best to make certain I fall on you.”

Aredor chuckled to himself, leaning back and relaxing as he listened. Merin did likewise. Actually, he was rather pleased with the outcome, even if he was getting a little tired of The Way of Kings. He felt guilty admitting it, even to himself, but it was true. He knew the words were important—Kanaran society was founded on Bajerden’s philosophies. However, the writing was just so dry. Bajerden outlined his beliefs in a straightforward, but dull manner. Merin had been excited the first couple of times he had received a reading, but Dalenar had recommended that Merin hear from the book at least once a week—more often when he could manage it. Even with six sections to choose from, the readings were beginning to seem very repetitive.

“The great and magnificent duty of the Sovereign is the safety of his people. Without them, he is nothing. As they provide for his sustenance, he must provide for their livelihoods. The second duty of the Sovereign is the wealth of his people. He is a waged servant, and if his people do not prosper more because of his presence, then he has failed them.”

The book made more sense to him now that he understood that Bajerden’s word ‘Sovereign’ didn’t just refer to the king, but to anyone of noble blood. The first and fourth sections were the ones Merin found most interesting—the first because it reminded him of the heroes of the past, and the fourth because it mentioned Protocol and swordplay. However, even the best sections were a little dry.

Merin forced himself to continue listening to readings, however. Dalenar was right—how could he perform his duty if he didn’t understand what that duty was? There was no better place to hear about the obligations of his station than through The Way of Kings.

The truth was, however, he would much rather have been hearing from one of the great ballads. He had accidentally made the discovery—after a The Way of Kings reading, Merin had heard a monk reading from The Fall of Kanar in a nearby room. He had gone to investigate and had listened ravenously. It wasn’t until that moment that he had realized the treasure at his disposal—there were hundreds of great epics to be heard, everything from The Betrayal of Inavah to The Chronicles of the Returns. Back in Stonemount, he had only been able to hear the songs known by townsfolk or passing minstrels, but now—as a Lord—he could demand any of them on a whim. It had become his habit to request a reading from one of them after hearing a section out of The Way of Kings.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to sneak in any ballad-reading this day. Lady Senkal marched onward through her recitation, reading about the rules by which a Sovereign should decide whether or not to go to war.

“She’s not married, you know,” Aredor whispered about three-quarters of the way through the reading.

Merin rolled his eyes. “Why is it you insist on trying to marry me off?” he hissed. “You’re five years older than me, and you haven’t seen fit to woo a bride yet—in fact, everything I hear claims you enjoy keeping the women guessing.”

“I’m horribly misrepresented,” Aredor said. “It’s a conspiracy among the mothers. None of them want me as a son-in-law.”

Merin shot his friend a suffering look. Aredor was one of the most sought-after matches in Alethkar. It was commonly expected that he would be chosen as Parshen after his father died—either way, he would inherit Kholinar, one of the most powerful cities in the kingdom. Any mother would be eager to choose him for her daughter if she thought he would agree to the match.

Aredor nodded toward Senkal. “Her father is lord of Basinrock,” he noted. “A sixth city.”

“And?” Merin asked. That made her a Sixteenth Lady.

“And,” Aredor said meaningfully, “she has no brothers.”

No brothers? Merin thought with surprise, turning to regard the woman again. She continued her reading despite the whispers—apparently, it was expected that the men would get distracted every once in a while. She looked up as she spoke, shooting him a glance and a smile, then looked down at the book.

“That means her husband will inherit the city,” Aredor explained quietly.

“I’m not dense, Aredor,” Merin replied.

“Basinrock is only a sixth city,” Aredor continued. “But that’s very respectable, all things considered. It’s a tribute city to Kholinar right now, but its emerald mines are productive enough that my father has considered granting it full independence. If its lord were a relative, Father could easily be persuaded to make the change. Her father is very eager to see that happen.”

“Eager enough to marry his daughter to a former peasant?” Merin asked with a frown.

“Don’t be so quick to judge them, Merin,” Aredor said. “Not every nobleman is like Meridas or the king. Some of us see a lorded citizen as the most honorable kind of nobleman. Listen to what Bajerden says—his entire social system is based around the idea of rewarding those who serve well. The best leaders are to be elevated, and those who deserve nobility will find it. In a way, your existence legitimizes all of us.”

Merin sat back thoughtfully, remaining quiet until the end of the recitation. Once it was finished, Lady Senkal modestly withdrew—it would be unseemly for her to tarry too long with men she had barely met. As she left, however, she mentioned that she would be visiting Kholinar for a period of two weeks, and that she would be pleased to return and read to them from the other sections.

“I think she likes you,” Aredor said after the door closed.

“That’s because she couldn’t smell me,” Merin said with a frown. “Next time, warn me when you’re going to do something like that.”

Aredor snorted. “Last time I did, you found an excuse to run away and hide. Pick up your sword—it’s time for training.”

The opal in Merin’s Shardblade had darkened steadily over the weeks. Merin examined the gemstone closely as he walked, peering into its greying depths. It had been about two months since the final Pralir battle—nearly eighty days. He was getting so close . . . just a few more weeks, and the Blade would be his completely. He would be able to dismiss it and recall it, and all shadows of its former owner would be gone.

As it was, the only remnant of the dead man was a faint outline of the glyphs running up the length of the blade. Over the weeks, the weapon had lengthened by half a foot, growing to Merin’s needs. The gemstonelike indentations on the blade had melted away, instead being replaced by shifting waves that looked something like water. Merin wasn’t certain why the design was appearing—he’d only seen the ocean once, when they had passed near its tip while marching to Prallah. Yet he was told that the Blade would know his soul better than he did, and that its ornamentations would reflect him.

The blade had begun to curve slightly, losing its straightness. That, at least, he understood. The fighting style Vasher was teaching him relied heavily on broad swings and slashes, and had very little focus on thrusts. The weapon was growing to fit his training. The hilt had grown as well, perfect for the two-handed blows he often delivered, and the crossguard was curving delicately, the ends growing into points.

“You know,” Aredor noted, “staring at it won’t make it bond any faster.”

Merin lowered the weapon. “I’m just worried—the Dueling competition is only a few days away. I guess I won’t have the weapon bonded in time.”

“You can still participate,” Aredor said. “You’ll just have to fight with the sheath on so you don’t accidentally hurt anyone.”

“That will make it awkward to fight,” Merin said. “Assuming I even get to participate.”

“You haven’t asked him yet?” Aredor asked.

Merin shook his head. “I’m going to do it today.”

“He’s got to let you,” Aredor said confidently. “I mean, why is he training you, if not teach you how to duel? This is a perfect opportunity to test your skills.”

Merin wasn’t so certain. Vasher still forbade Merin from dueling with anyone besides himself and a couple of his fellow monks. Merin bid Aredor farewell as they entered the monastery, making his way toward Vasher’s customary corner of the courtyard.

Vasher nodded to him as he approached. “Today we spar again,” he said simply, tossing Merin a practice sword.

Merin caught the sword and fell into his stance. A few moments later, they were trading blows on the sandy ground. Merin liked to think he was getting better. After all, Vasher had finally consented to begin teaching him how to spar, rather than just making him practice swings and stances.

Of course, Merin had yet to even score a hit on the older man. He tried hard as they practiced—waiting for that one chance, that one opening, when he would finally show his teacher his improvement. It had yet to come.

Merin held up a hand forestallingly as the latest exchange ended. Vasher waited patiently as Merin stretched his arms, then fell back into a dueling stance. The stance was the sign, and the elder monk advanced again, kicking up sand as he approached. Merin held his weapon forward, watching carefully for the first strike, parrying it as it came. According to Vasher, most fights were won on the turn of one or two blows. However, before those blows came, there was often testing—a few tentative exchanges, meant to distract one’s opponent, or perhaps judge his strength.

The end came in a flash. Merin parried as he had been trained, on the defensive, trying to block or dodge all of the strikes. As usual, he wasn’t left with any opportunities to attack—Vasher struck so quickly, his attacks came so rapidly, that it was all Merin could do to keep himself from being hit.

This time, he blocked most of them. One blow, however, slipped through, striking him on the side of the leg. Merin grunted in pain, losing his rhythm as Vasher pressed forward, bowling over him and knocking him to the ground.

Merin sighed, resting back in the sand, staring up into the darkening sky. It was completely free of clouds—during spring and fall the sky was often cloudy, even when no highstorm was approaching. During the summer, however, even a hint of rainfall was too much to expect.

“You keep leaving your left side open,” Vasher said. “You’re not a spearman anymore—you don’t have a shield to protect you.”

“I trained with a spear and shield for two years,” Merin replied. “I can’t expect to overcome my reflexes in two months.”

“Excuses are fine until they kill you,” Vasher said. “Come on—we haven’t been at it that long.”

Merin sighed, sitting up. As he did so, he felt an unfamiliar lump in his pocket. He frowned, reaching down reflexively before remembering the glyphward he and Renarin had discovered. He glanced up at Vasher, then hesitated.

It can’t be evil, Merin told himself. It’s a glyphward. However, he was still uncertain.

Use any advantage you have. . . . Vasher’s words from before returned to him.

Merin reached in his pocket as he stood, quickly unwrapping the glyphward. He brought out the ward with a hasty motion, slipping it around his neck and tucking it beneath his shirt. The air became perceptible around him, driven by a cool breeze coursing through the valley. He could see it, stronger up above, blowing over the wall and dropping in upon them.

“Stance,” Vasher ordered.

Merin did as commanded. What kind of advantage did he expect to receive from the glyphward? Being able to see the wind wasn’t exactly a strong martial benefit.

Vasher approached, sword held before him in a familiar, careful grip. He was cautious, discerning, perfect. He gave no clue as to his thoughts. Except . . .

Vasher took a sharp breath. Merin saw it—saw the air get sucked through Vasher’s nose, then suddenly stopp. The monk was holding his breath.

Merin struck even as Vasher raised his blade to attack. Merin moved in quickly, beneath the man’s guard. Vasher’s eyes flashed with surprise, but it was too late. Merin’s weapon struck Vasher on the side of the chest, causing a grunt of pain and throwing dust from the monk’s clothing.

The monk stumbled back, lowering his weapon.

“Ha!” Merin said. “Finally!”

Vasher rubbed his side, eyes thinning. “You’re getting too accustomed to my style,” he informed. “Fight the same man too long, and even a novice will learn to anticipate his moves. Let’s get a drink.”

Merin continued to smile, tempted to mention Vasher’s own lecture on ‘excuses.’ However, now was not the time to agitate the aging monk. As they approached the water barrel, Merin carefully broached a new subject.

“The dueling competition is in four days,” he said.

“So?” Vasher asked.

Merin shrugged. “I thought I might participate.”

“Not if you want to keep learning from me, you won’t,” Vasher informed.

Merin groaned, dropping his ladle into the water. “Why, Vasher? Don’t you understand the opportunity I’ll be passing up?”

“You already have a Blade,” Vasher said. “The competition means nothing to you.”

“It means everything,” Merin said. How could he explain? “You’re a monk, Vasher—you don’t understand these things. I need to participate, show the others that I can be one of them. They still think of me as Lord Dalenar’s ‘pet peasant.’ I need to prove myself.”

“You’re young,” Vasher said, taking a drink. “There will be plenty of time for you to ‘prove yourself.’ Afterward, there will be plenty of time to regret doing so.”

Merin sighed, leaning against the barrel with a frustrated glare.

“I understand more than you think, Merin,” Vasher said. “I haven’t always been a monk.”

Merin nodded disconsolately. Eventually he looked up, studying the grizzled monk. “Vasher, I’ve spoken to the others. You’ve never taken a student—not even a peasant. None of the monks you spar with have taken students either. What made you decide to train me?”

Vasher replaced the ladle, then fished out the one Merin had dropped. “I know something of what it is like to be a reject,” he said. “I understand what it is to leave one life and begin another.”

Merin frowned at the cryptic answer. Vasher just turned back toward their practice swords. “No duels, Merin,” he repeated. “Come on. You’ve training to do.”

Oathbringer Sample Chapters

Currently the Oathbringer sample chapters are hosted on Tor.com.

All of Part One of the book will be available to view on their website, three chapters each week until the book is released. Enjoy!

Oathbringer Release Party

Brandon’s assistant Kara here with details for the Oathbringer midnight release party. Further down in the post I’ll outline how to get your signed and numbered copies of the book.

VIP Backstage Party Tickets

We’ve run out of space at the BYU store, so we’re trying something new this year. BYU is still hosting the event, but the venue has changed to the Utah Valley Convention Center in Provo. In order to pay for the venue, we’ve worked with BYU to offer a VIP Backstage Party that will be held prior to Brandon’s presentation and Q&A at the Book Release Party.

Date: Monday, November 13th, 2017

Time: 7:00pm–8:30pm

Location: Backstage Room at UVCC

The VIP Backstage Party Ticket includes:

Entrance to the VIP Backstage Party where Brandon and Team Dragonsteel will make an appearance.
Light snack and beverage service
Exclusive release party T-shirt
Dalinar Cinch Bag
Bondsmith Mug
Raffle for Premium Prizes
Reserved seating for Brandon’s Presentation
PLEASE NOTE! The VIP Backstage Party Ticket does NOT include:

Book
Book number

ACHTUNG! The VIP Backstage Party is NOT a signing. Please don’t ask for any signatures. There will be time for that later.

The VIP Backstage Party Ticket (limited number of tickets available)

Cost: $150

Goes on Sale: Wednesday, September 27th at 7:00 pm MDT

LINK WILL BE PROVIDED HERE.

Book Release Party

Date: Monday, November 13th, 2017

Time: 7:00pm, Doors open at 6:45pm

Location: 2nd Floor of the Utah Valley Convention Center – 20 Center St, Provo, UT 84601; use the north entrance

Parking: See image below

Wristbands for the Book Release Party are FREE and will be handed out starting at 10:00 am in the UVCC North Lobby.

A wristband guarantees you a seat. Limited seating. You may pick up ONE wristband for yourself and ONE wristband for another person.

Book Release Party Activities:

Character Photo Ops
Trivia
Games
Artist’s tables
Badali Jewelry
Henna for Charity
Art Gallery
BYU Store
Raffle
Prizes

8:45 pm – Brandon’s Presentation and Q&A

10:00 pm – Tor Books has given the release party exclusive permission to release the books at midnight in New York! That means 10:00 pm here. We will distribute books and the signing line will begin.

Because of the earlier release time, many of the activities will actually continue until midnight. So fans will have something to do while waiting for their line numbers to be called.

Signed and Numbered Books

Pre-orders will start Wednesday, September 27th at 7:00 pm MDT

LINK WILL BE PROVIDED HERE

Order by November 9th to guarantee a signed/#’d book at the party.

PLEASE NOTE! Wristbands to get into the Release Party are separate from buying the book.

Your book # is determined by when you pre-order your book, first come, first served, starting with #100. (If you want the chance at a lower number, see the Camping section below.)

When your order is processed (November 10th), you will receive a barcode via email to use at the release party as proof of purchase and to verify your line number. PLEASE NOTE: No barcode. No book.

ACHTUNG! It is very likely that BYU will not have a lot of extra copies of the book for sale at the release party, so if you want a guaranteed signed/#’d book at the midnight release, you MUST pre-order one!

As we’ve done at previously release events, the books will be pre-signed and pre-numbered. After picking up your book, you may opt to skip the personalization line and leave before the station wagon turns back into a pumpkin, or you may choose to stay and get your book personalized after you pick it up.

LIMITED Commemorative Merchandise

In addition to selling signed and numbered copies of Oathbringer, the BYU Store is offering some limited-time official Stormlight Archive merchandise for sale.

Oathbringer Release Party Products

All products go on sale Wednesday, September 27th at 7:00 pm MDT

LINK WILL BE PROVIDED HERE

Order by November 9th! These items will be “limited to stock on hand.” Order before they are gone!
Products can be picked up the night of the party
If you are not attending the party, products will be mailed to you after the release party

Merchandise for sale include:

Exclusive release party T-shirt
Dalinar Cinch Bag
Bondsmith Mug
Commemorative Letterpress Map Fine Art Print
Bridge 4 Hoodie
Stormlight Water Bottle

PLEASE NOTE! If getting a low number matters to you, we recommend ordering the book first and then ordering any other merchandise.

Camping at BYU

For those of you hoping to snag books numbered 1–99, BYU has graciously allowed camping outside the BYU Bookstore for this book release. A map will be provided of where you are allowed to camp.

IMPORTANT! Numbered wristbands 1–99 will be issued at the BYU Bookstore at 7:45 am on Monday, November 13th.

PLEASE NOTE! All campers must still pre–order their book!

We will only give numbered wristbands to the first 99 campers. You must have your barcode as proof of purchase. Your numbered wristband will guarantee you a seat at Brandon’s Presentation and Q&A.

Camping Rules:

One body equals one line number
Check in at the “War Camp” Info Station (NW Door of BYU Bookstore)
Cannot leave for more than four hours per day
Must sleep overnight
Respect BYU’s and others’ property
Only use the outlets designated on the map

No cords strung across pathways!

Vacate Wilkinson Center by their designated hours
Quiet Time starts one hour past Wilkinson closing time
Be respectful of your fellow campers and BYU staff.

If asked to move by the University to another area, please do so. Let’s not create issues for future Stormlight book releases by not cooperating.

Hotel

If you’re coming from out of town, please note that the Provo Marriot Hotel is across the street from the Utah Valley Convention Center, where the party will be held.

Provo Marriot Hotel

Address: 101 W 100 N, Provo, UT 84601

Phone: (801) 377-4700

Weller Book Works Shipped Books

For those who can’t attend the release events but still want a numbered copy shipped to them, we’re working with Weller Book Works as we have in the past to make these available. They will be taking pre-orders for Oathbringer starting September 26th.

LINK WILL BE PROVIDED HERE

Books will be signed and numbered.
Personalization will be available for a charitable donation.

Mysterious Galaxy Numbered Copies

Numbered copies of Oathbringer will also be available at Brandon’s signing at Mysterious Galaxy.

That just about covers it. Please read the above instructions carefully and prepare ahead of time. Here’s to a fun release event for Oathbringer!