Five years later.
"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" Glenn asked.
The battle-hardened veteran beside him turned and looked him over from head to toe. He had a short beard, and the hair at the sides of his head was beginning to turn gray.
I'm going to die, Glenn thought, tightening his grip on his spear, its shaft slick with sweat. I'm going to die. Oh, Lightfather, I'm going to die…
"How old are you, son?" the veteran asked.
Glenn couldn't remember the man's name. It was hard to remember anything with the enemy army lining up across the rocky field.
Their formation looked so civilized. Elegant. Organized. Short spears at the front ranks, long spears and javelins behind, archers on the flanks. The dark-eyed spearmen wore equipment much like Glenn's: leather jerkin, knee-length skirt, a simple helm, and a steel breastplate.
Many of the lighteyes, though, wore full suits of armor. They sat atop horses, surrounded by honor guards in shimmering mail dyed deep crimson and forest green. Were there Lightbearers among them? Highlord Amorim wasn't a Lightbearer—but what if one of his men was?
And what if Glenn had to face one?
Ordinary men didn't kill Lightbearers. It was so rare that every such event became the stuff of legend.
This is really happening, Glenn thought, panic rising in his chest.
This wasn't a drill back at camp. Not a practice skirmish with blunt spears. This was real. And confronted with that fact—legs weakening, heart pounding like a cornered animal—Glenn suddenly realized he was a coward.
He should never have left the herds! He never should have…
"Son?" the veteran said, voice firm. "How old are you?"
"Fifteen, sir."
"And your name?"
"Glenn, sir."
The large, bearded man nodded.
"My name's Haren."
"Haren," Glenn echoed, still staring wide-eyed at the enemy lines. There were so many soldiers. Thousands. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"
"No." Haren's voice was rough, but oddly comforting. "You'll do fine. Keep your head up. Stay close to the squad."
"But I've barely had six weeks of training!" Glenn could swear he heard the soft clinking of enemy armor and shields. "I can barely hold this spear! Lightfather, I'm dead. I can't—"
"Son," Haren interrupted, gently but firmly, placing a hand on Glenn's shoulder. The rim of the large round shield on his back caught the light. "You'll do fine."
"How do you know?"
The question came out as a plea.
"Because I know, kid. You're in Vekdan's squad. The Lightblessed himself."
The nearby soldiers nodded.
Behind them, wave after wave of troops were forming ranks—thousands of them. Glenn stood right at the front, in Kaladin's squad of about thirty men. Why had Glenn been reassigned to a new squad at the last minute? Something about camp politics.
But why was this squad placed right at the vanguard, where the casualties would likely be the highest? Small fairies of fear—viscous, purple, globular things—bubbled up from the stone around his feet and clustered there.
In a sudden wave of panic, he nearly dropped his spear and ran. Haren's hand tightened on his shoulder. Looking into the veteran's confident black eyes, Glenn hesitated.
"Did you piss before we formed ranks?" Haren asked.
"I didn't have time to—"
"Do it now."
"Here?"
"If you don't, you'll wet yourself in battle, get distracted, and maybe die."
Ashamed, Glenn handed his spear to Haren and relieved himself on the rocks. When he finished, he glanced around at the others. None of Vekdan's men were watching with mockery. They stood steady in formation, spears at their sides, shields on their backs.
The enemy force had nearly finished organizing. The ground between the two armies was an open, unnaturally flat plain with only the occasional rocky bulge. It would've made excellent grazing land. A warm wind blew across Glenn's face, bringing with it the wet scent of the highstorm from the night before.
"Haren!" someone called.
A man was weaving through the ranks, carrying a short spear with two sheathed knives strapped to the shaft. He was young—maybe four years older than Glenn—but taller by a good handspan even than Haren.
He wore the standard leather uniform of the spearmen, but with black trousers underneath, which wasn't usually allowed. His wavy Marsedian black hair reached his shoulders, and his eyes were a deep brown. White cord with knots looped across the shoulders of his jerkin, marking him as the squadleader.
The thirty men around Glenn stood straighter and raised their spears in salute.
This is Vekdan, the Lightblessed? Glenn thought, stunned. This young man?
"Haren, we've got a new recruit coming in," Vekdan said. His voice was strong. "I need you to—"
He paused when he saw Glenn.
"He just arrived a few minutes ago, sir," Haren said with a smile. "I was giving him a rundown."
"Good work," Vekdan said. "I paid good spheres to pull this one out from Aguero. That man's so incompetent, he might as well be fighting for the other side."
What?, Glenn thought. Why would anyone pay for me?
"What do you think of the terrain?" Vekdan asked.
Other spearmen nearby raised their hands to shade their eyes and surveyed the rocks.
"What about that dip near the twin boulders, far right?" Haren asked.
Vekdan shook his head.
"Too uneven."
"Yeah. Maybe. And what about that hill there? Far enough to stay clear of the first wave of arrows, close enough that we don't advance too far."
Vekdan nodded, though Glen didn't really understand what they were assessing.
"Looks good."
"You hear that, you sorry bunch?" Haren called out.
The men raised their spears in acknowledgement.
"Keep an eye on the new kid, Haren," Vekdan said. "He doesn't know the signals."
"Of course," Haren replied with a grin.
Grinning! How could he be smiling right now? The enemy army was blowing their warhorns. Did that mean they were ready? Even though he'd just relieved himself, Glenn felt a fresh trickle of urine run down his leg.
"Hold your ground," Vekdan said.
Then he jogged down the front line to speak with the neighboring squadleader. Behind Glenn and the others, dozens of lines were still forming up. On the flanks, archers prepared to unleash volleys.
"Don't worry, son," Haren said. "We'll be fine. Squadleader Vekdan is lucky."
The soldier beside Glenn nodded. He was a skinny veteran with red hair and skin darker and more sun-bronzed than most Mitrezians. Why was he fighting in an Mitrezian army?
"It's true," the man said. "Vekdan's the Lightblessed, no doubt. We only lost, what, one man in the last battle?"
"But someone did die," Glenn replied.
Haren shrugged.
"People always die. But this squad loses fewer than any other. You'll see."