The Way of Kings (The Stormlight Archive, #1)

by Brandon Sanderson

“Rock, this is not my real name,” the Horneater admitted. “Is just what lowlanders can pronounce.” “What’s your real name, then?” Teft asked. “You won’t be able to say it.” Teft raised an eyebrow. “Numuhukumakiaki’aialunamor,” Rock said. Teft hesitated, then smiled. “Well, I guess in that case, Rock will do just fine.”

Thirty-five men marched in rusty orange carapace armor, expertly crafted by Leyten to fit onto leather jerkins and caps. They’d cut off arm guards and shin guards to complement the breastplates. The helms were built from several different headpieces, and had been ornamented—at Leyten’s insistence—with ridges and cuts, like tiny horns or the edges of a crab’s shell. The breastplates and guards were ornamented as well, cut into toothlike patterns, each one reminiscent of a saw blade. Earless Jaks had bought blue and white paint and drawn designs across the orange armor. Each member of Bridge Four carried a large wooden shield strapped—tightly now—with red Parshendi bones. Ribs, for the most part, shaped in spiral patterns. Some of the men had tied finger bones to the centers so they would rattle, and others had attached sharp protruding ribs to the sides of their helms, giving them the look of fangs or mandibles.

The bridgemen. The bridgemen were fighting. Dalinar gaped, lowering Oathbringer with numb arms. That little force of bridgemen held the bridgehead, fighting desperately against the Parshendi who were trying to force them back. It was the most amazing, most glorious thing Dalinar had ever seen.