"Maybe I don't want to sell him," Gare said, turning back.

"You're not selling him. You're transferring him to me."

Gare eyed the pouch. "Well then, maybe I don't like how everyone does what you tell them. I don't care how good you are with a spear. My squad is my own."

"I'm not going to give you any more, Gare," Kaladin said, dropping the pouch to the ground. The spheres clinked. "We both know the boy is useless to you. Untrained, ill-equipped, too small to make a good line soldier. Send him to me."

Kaladin turned and began to walk away. Within seconds, he heard a clink as Gare recovered the pouch. "Can't blame a man for trying."

Kaladin kept walking.

"What do these recruits mean to you, anyway?" Gare called after Kaladin. "Your squad is half made up of men too small to fight properly! Almost makes a man think you want to get killed!"

Kaladin ignored him. He passed through the camp, waving to those who waved at him. Most everyone kept out of his way, either because they knew and respected him or they'd heard of his reputation. Youngest squadleader in the army, only four years of experience and already in command. A darkeyed man had to travel to the Shattered Plains to go any higher in rank.

The camp was a bedlam of soldiers hurrying about in last-minute preparations. More and more companies were gathering at the line, and Kaladin could see the enemy lining up on the shallow ridge across the field to the west.

The enemy. That was what they were called. Yet whenever there was an actual border dispute with the Vedens or the Reshi, those men would line up beside Amaram's troops and they would fight together. It was as if the Nightwatcher toyed with them, playing some forbidden game of chance, occasionally setting the men on his gameboard as allies, then setting them to kill one another the next day.

That wasn't for spearmen to think about. So he'd been told. Repeatedly. He supposed he should listen, as he figured that his duty was to keep his squad alive as best he could. Winning was secondary to that.

You can't kill to protect…

He found the surgeon's station easily; he could smell the scents of antiseptics and of small fires burning. Those smells reminded him of his youth, which now seemed so far, far away. Had he ever really planned to go become a surgeon? What had happened to his parents? What of Roshone?

Meaningless, now. He'd sent word to them via Amaram's scribes, a terse note that had cost him a week's wages. They knew he'd failed, and they knew he didn't intend to return. There had been no reply.

Ven was the chief of the surgeons, a tall man with a bulbous nose and a long face. He stood watching as his apprentices folded bandages. Kaladin had once idly considered getting wounded so he could join them; all of the apprentices had some incapacitation that prevented them from fighting. Kaladin hadn't been able to do it. Wounding himself seemed cowardly. Besides, surgery was his old life. In a way, he didn't deserve it anymore.

Kaladin pulled a pouch of spheres from his belt, meaning to toss it to Ven. The pouch stuck, however, refusing to come free of the belt. Kaladin cursed, stumbling, tugging at the pouch. It came free suddenly, causing him to lose his balance again. A translucent white form zipped away, spinning with a carefree air.

"Storming windspren," he said. They were common out on these rocky plains.

He continued past the surgery pavilion, tossing the pouch of spheres to Ven. The tall man caught it deftly, making it vanish into a pocket of his voluminous white robe. The bribe would ensure that Kaladin's men were served first on the battlefield, assuming there were no lighteyes who needed the attention.

It was time to join the line. He sped up, jogging along, spear in hand. Nobody gave him grief for wearing trousers under his leather spearman's skirt-something he did so his men could recognize him from behind. In fact, nobody gave him grief about much of anything these days. That still felt odd, after so many struggles during his first years in the army.

He still didn't feel as if he belonged. His reputation set him apart, but what was he to do? It kept his men from being taunted, and after several years of dealing with disaster after disaster, he could finally pause and think.

He wasn't certain he liked that. Thinking had proven dangerous lately. It had been a long while since he'd taken out that rock and thought of Tien and home.

He made his way to the front ranks, spotting his men right where he'd told them to go. "Dallet," Kaladin called, as he trotted over to the mountainous spearman who was the squad's sergeant. "We're soon going to have a new recruit. I need you to…" He trailed off. A young man, maybe fourteen, stood beside Dallet, looking tiny in his spearman's armor.

Kaladin felt a flash of recall. Another lad, one with a familiar face, holding a spear he wasn't supposed to need. Two promises broken at once.

"He found his way here just a few minutes ago, sir," Dallet said. "I've been gettin' him ready."

Kaladin shook himself out of the moment. Tien was dead. But Stormfather, this new lad looked a lot like him.

"Well done," Kaladin said to Dallet, forcing himself to look away from Cenn. "I paid good money to get that boy away from Gare. That man's so incompetent he might as well be fighting for the other side."

Dallet grunted in agreement. The men would know what to do with Cenn.

All right, Kaladin thought, scanning the battlefield for a good place for his men to stand their ground, let's get to it.

He'd heard stories about the soldiers who fought on the Shattered Plains. The real soldiers. If you showed enough promise fighting in these border disputes, you were sent there. It was supposed to be safer there-far more soldiers, but fewer battles. So Kaladin wanted to get his squad there as soon as possible.

He conferred with Dallet, picking a place to hold. Eventually, the horns blew.

Kaladin's squad charged. "Where's the boy?" Kaladin said, yanking his spear out of the chest of a man in brown. The enemy soldier fell to the ground, groaning. "Dallet!"

The burly sergeant was fighting. He couldn't turn to acknowledge the yell.

Kaladin cursed, scanning the chaotic battlefield. Spears hit shields, flesh, leather; men yelled and screamed. Painspren swarmed the ground, like small orange hands or bits of sinew, reaching up from the ground amid the blood of the fallen.

Kaladin's squad was all accounted for, their wounded protected at the center. All except the new boy. Tien.

Cenn, Kaladin thought. His name is Cenn.

Kaladin caught sight of a flash of green in the middle of the enemy brown. A terrified voice somehow cut through the commotion. It was him.

Kaladin threw himself out of formation, prompting a call of surprise from Larn, who had been fighting at his side. Kaladin ducked past a spear thrust by an enemy, dashing over the stony ground, hopping corpses.

Cenn had been knocked to the ground, spear raised. An enemy soldier slammed his weapon down.

No.

Kaladin blocked the blow, deflecting the enemy spear and skidding to a stop in front of Cenn. There were six spearmen here, all wearing brown. Kaladin spun among them in a wild offensive rush. His spear seemed to flow of its own accord. He swept the feet out from under one man, took down another with a thrown knife.

He was like water running down a hill, flowing, always moving. Spearheads flashed in the air around him, hafts hissing with speed. Not one hit him. He could not be stopped, not when he felt like this. When he had the energy of defending the fallen, the power of standing to protect one of his men.

Kaladin snapped his spear into a resting position, crouching with one foot forward, one behind, spear held under his arm. Sweat trickled from his brow, cooled by the breeze. Odd. There hadn't been a breeze before. Now it seemed to envelop him.