Dalinar pulled his own helm free, sweet cooling air washing across his damp face. He took a deep breath, then nodded. "Your timing is…quite good, son."

Adolin helped Dalinar back to his feet. "I had to punch through the entire Parshendi army. No disrespect, Father, but what in the storms made you pull a stunt like that?"

"The knowledge that you could handle the army if I fell," Dalinar said, clapping his son on the arm, their Plate clinking.

Adolin caught sight of the back of Dalinar's Shardplate, and his eyes opened wide.

"Bad?" Dalinar asked.

"Looks like it's held together with spit and twine," Adolin said. "You're leaking Light like a wineskin used for archery practice."

Dalinar nodded, sighing. Already his Plate was feeling sluggish. He'd probably have to remove it before they returned to the camp, lest it freeze on him.

To the side, several soldiers were pulling Sadeas free of his Plate. It was so far gone that the Light had stopped save for a few tiny wisps. It could be fixed, but it would be expensive-regenerating Shardplate generally shattered the gemstones it drew Light from.

The soldiers pulled Sadeas's helm off, and Dalinar was relieved to see his former friend blinking, looking disoriented but largely uninjured. He had a cut on his thigh where one of the Parshendi had gotten him with a sword, and a few scrapes on his chest.

Sadeas looked up at Dalinar and Adolin. Dalinar stiffened, expecting recrimination-this had only happened because Dalinar had insisted on fighting with two armies on the same plateau. That had goaded the Parshendi into bringing another army. Dalinar should have set proper scouts to watch for that.

Sadeas, however, smiled a wide grin. "Stormfather, but that was close! How goes the battle?"

"The Parshendi are routed," Adolin said. "The last force resisting was the one around you. Our men are cutting the gemheart free at this moment. The day is ours."

"We win again!" Sadeas said triumphantly. "Dalinar, once in a while, it appears that senile old brain of yours can come up with a good idea or two!"

"We're the same age, Sadeas." Dalinar noted as messengers approached, bearing reports from the rest of the battlefield.

"Spread the word," Sadeas proclaimed. "Tonight, all my soldiers will feast as if they were lighteyes!" He smiled as his soldiers helped him to his feet, and Adolin moved over to take the scout reports. Sadeas waved away the help insisting he could stand despite his wound, and began calling for his officers.

Dalinar turned to seek out Gallant and make sure the horse's wound was cared for. As he did, however, Sadeas caught his arm.

"I should be dead," Sadeas said softly.

"Perhaps."

"I didn't see much. But I thought I saw you alone. Where was your honor guard?"

"I had to leave it behind," Dalinar said. "It was the only way to get to you in time."

Sadeas frowned. "That was a terrible risk, Dalinar. Why?"

"You do not abandon your allies on the battlefield. Not unless there's no recourse. It is one of the Codes."

Sadeas shook his head. "That honor of yours is going to get you killed, Dalinar." He seemed bemused. "Not that I feel like offering a complaint about it this day!"

"If I should die," Dalinar said, "then I would do so having lived my life right. It is not the destination that matters, but how one arrives there."

"The Codes?"

"No. The Way of Kings."

"That storming book."

"That storming book saved your life today, Sadeas," Dalinar said. "I think I'm starting to understand what Gavilar saw in it."

Sadeas scowled at that, though he glanced at his armor, lying in pieces nearby. He shook his head. "Perhaps I shall let you tell me what you mean. I'd like to understand you again, old friend. I'm beginning to wonder if I ever really did." He let go of Dalinar's arm. "Someone bring me my storming horse! Where are my officers?"

Dalinar left, and quickly found several members of his guard seeing to Gallant. As he joined them, he was struck by the sheer number of corpses on the ground. They ran in a line where he had punched through the Parshendi ranks to get to Sadeas, a trail of death.

He looked back to where he'd made his stand. Dozens dead. Perhaps hundreds.

Blood of my fathers, Dalinar thought. Did I do that? He hadn't killed in such numbers since the early days of helping Gavilar unite Alethkar. And he hadn't grown sick at the sight of death since his youth.

Yet now he found himself revolted, barely able to keep his stomach under control. He would not retch on the battlefield. His men should not see that.

He stumbled away, one hand to his head, the other carrying his helm. He should be exulting. But he couldn't. He just…couldn't.

You will need luck trying to understand me, Sadeas, he thought. Because I'm having Damnation's own trouble trying to do so myself.

"I hold the suckling child in my hands, a knife at his throat, and know that all who live wish me to let the blade slip. Spill its blood upon the ground, over my hands, and with it gain us further breath to draw." -Dated Shashanan, 1173, 23 seconds pre-death. Subject: a darkeyed youth of sixteen years. Sample is of particular note. "And all the world was shattered!" Maps yelled, back arching, eyes wide, flecks of red spittle on his cheeks. "The rocks trembled with their steps, and the stones reached toward the heavens. We die! We die!"

He spasmed one last time, and the light faded from his eyes. Kaladin sat back, crimson blood slick on his hands, the dagger he'd been using as a surgical knife slipping from his fingers and clicking softly against the stone. The affable man lay dead on the stones of a plateau, arrow wound in his left breast open to the air, splitting the birthmark he'd claimed looked like Alethkar.

It's taking them, Kaladin thought. One by one. Open them up, bleed them out. We're nothing more than pouches to carry blood. Then we die, rain it down on the stones like a highstorm's floods.

Until only I remain. I always remain.

A layer of skin, a layer of fat, a layer of muscle, a layer of bone. That was what men were.

The battle raged across the chasm. It might as well have been another kingdom, for all the attention anyone gave the bridgemen. Die die die, then get out of our way.

The members of Bridge Four stood in a solemn ring around Kaladin. "What was that he said at the end?" Skar asked. "The rocks trembled?"

"It was nothing," said thick-armed Yake. "Just dying delirium. It happens to men, sometimes."

"More often lately, it seems," Teft said. He held his hand to his arm, where he'd hastily wrapped a bandage around an arrow wound. He wouldn't be carrying a bridge anytime soon. Maps's death and Arik's death left them with only twenty-six members now. It was barely enough to carry a bridge. The greater heaviness was very noticeable, and they had difficulty keeping up with the other bridge crews. A few more losses, and they'd be in serious trouble.

I should have been faster, Kaladin thought, looking down at Maps splayed open, his insides exposed for the sun to dry. The arrowhead had pierced his lung and lodged in his spine. Could Lirin have saved him? If Kaladin had studied in Kharbranth as his father had wished, would he have learned enough-known enough-to prevent deaths like this?

This happens sometimes, son…

Kaladin raised shaking bloody hands to his face, gripping his head, as memory consumed him. A young girl, a cracked head, a broken leg, an angry father.

Despair, hate, loss, frustration, horror. How could any man live this way? To be a surgeon, to live knowing that you would be too weak to save some? When other men failed, a field of crops got worms in them. When a surgeon failed, someone died.

You have to learn when to care…