But how was he up and walking? Had he been less injured than he’d assumed? Hesitantly, he prodded at his side, feeling for broken ribs. Just a little sore. Other than the weakness, he felt as healthy as he ever had. Perhaps he should have paid a little more attention to his mother’s religious teachings.
As the men turned back to talking and celebrating, he noticed the looks they gave him. Respectful, reverent. They remembered what he’d said before the highstorm. Looking back, Kaladin realized he’d been a little delirious. It now seemed an incredibly arrogant proclamation, not to mention that it smelled of prophecy. If the ardents discovered that…
Well, he couldn’t undo what he’d done. He’d just have to continue. You were already balancing over a chasm, Kaladin thought to himself. Did you have to scale an even higher cliffside?
A sudden, mournful horn call sounded across the camp. The bridgemen fell silent. The horn sounded twice more.
“Figures,” Natam said.
“We’re on duty?” Kaladin asked.
“Yeah,” Moash said.
“Line up!” Rock snapped. “You know what to do! Let’s show Captain Kaladin that we haven’t forgotten how to do this.”
“‘Captain’ Kaladin?” Kaladin asked as the men lined up.
“Sure, gancho,” Lopen said from beside him, speaking with that quick accent that seemed so at odds with his nonchalant attitude. “They tried to make Rock bridgeleader, sure, but we just started calling you ‘captain’ and him ‘squadleader.’ Made Gaz angry.” Lopen grinned.
Kaladin nodded. The other men were so joyous, but he was finding it difficult to share their mood.
As they formed up around their bridge, he began to realize the source of his melancholy. His men were right back where they’d started. Or worse. He was weakened and injured, and had offended the highprince himself. Sadeas would not be pleased when he learned that Kaladin had survived his fever.
The bridgemen were still destined to be cut down one by one. The side carry had been a failure. He hadn’t saved his men, he’d just given them a short stay of execution.
Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive….
He suspected why that was. Gritting his teeth, he let go of the barrack wall and crossed to where the bridgemen stood in line, leaders of the sub-squads doing a quick check of their vests and sandals.
Rock eyed Kaladin. “And what is this thing you believe you are doing?”
“I’m joining you,” Kaladin said.
“And what would you tell one of the men if they had just gotten up from a week with the fevers?”
Kaladin hesitated. I’m not like the other men, he thought, then regretted it. He couldn’t start believing himself invincible. To run now with the crew, as weak as he was, would be sheer idiocy. “You’re right.”
“You can help me and the moolie carry water, gancho,” Lopen said. “We’re a team now. Go on every run.”
Kaladin nodded. “All right.”
Rock eyed him.
“If I’m feeling too weak at the end of the permanent bridges, I’ll go back. I promise.”
Rock nodded reluctantly. The men marched under the bridge to the staging area, and Kaladin joined Lopen and Dabbid, filling waterskins.
Kaladin stood at the edge of the precipice, hands clasped behind his back, sandaled toes at the very edge of the cliff. The chasm stared up at him, but he did not meet its gaze. He was focused on the battle being waged on the next plateau.
This approach had been an easy one; they’d arrived at the same time as the Parshendi. Instead of bothering to kill bridgemen, the Parshendi had taken a defensive position in the center of the plateau, around the chrysalis. Now Sadeas’s men fought them.
Kaladin’s brow was slick with sweat from the day’s heat, and he still felt a lingering exhaustion from his sickness. Yet it wasn’t nearly as bad as it should have been. The surgeon’s son was baffled.
For the moment, the soldier overruled the surgeon. He was transfixed by the battle. Alethi spearmen in leathers and breastplates pressed a curved line against the Parshendi warriors. Most Parshendi used battle-axes or hammers, though a few wielded swords or clubs. They all had that red-orange armor growing from their skin, and they fought in pairs, singing all the while.
It was the worst kind of battle, the kind that was close. Often, you’d lose far fewer men in a skirmish where your enemies quickly gained the upper hand. When that happened, your commander would order the retreat to cut his losses. But close battles…they were brutal, blood-soaked things. Watching the fighting—the bodies dropped to the rocks, the weapons flashing, the men pushed off the plateau—reminded him of his first fights as a spearman. His commander had been shocked at how easily Kaladin dealt with seeing blood. Kaladin’s father would have been shocked at how easily Kaladin spilled it.
There was a big difference between his battles in Alethkar and the fights on the Shattered Plains. There, he’d been surrounded by the worst—or at least worst-trained—soldiers in Alethkar. Men who didn’t hold their lines. And yet, for all their disorder, those fights had made sense to him. These here on the Shattered Plains still did not.
That had been his miscalculation. He’d changed battlefield tactics before understanding them. He would not make that mistake again.
Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, joined by Sigzil. The thick-limbed Horneater made for quite a contrast to the short, quiet Azish man. Sigzil’s skin was a deep brown—not true black, like some parshmen’s. He tended to keep to himself.
“Is bad battle,” Rock said, folding his arms. “The soldiers will not be happy, whether or not they win.”
Kaladin nodded absently, listening to the yells, screams, and curses. “Why do they fight, Rock?”
“For money,” Rock said. “And for vengeance. You should know this thing. Is it not your king who Parshendi killed?”
“Oh, I understand why we fight,” Kaladin said. “But the Parshendi. Why do they fight?”
Rock grinned. “Is because they don’t very much like the idea of being beheaded for killing your king, I should think! Very unaccommodating of them.”
Kaladin smiled, though he found mirth unnatural while watching men die. He had been trained too long by his father for any death to leave him unmoved. “Perhaps. But, then, why do they fight for the gemhearts? Their numbers are dwindling because of skirmishes like these.”
“You know this thing?” Rock asked.
“They raid less frequently than they used to,” Kaladin said. “People talk about it in camp. And they don’t strike as close to the Alethi side as they once did.”
Rock nodded thoughtfully. “It seems logical. Ha! Perhaps we will soon win this fight and be going home.”
“No,” Sigzil said softly. He had a very formal way of speaking, with barely a hint of an accent. What language did the Azish speak, anyway? Their kingdom was so distant that Kaladin had only ever met one other. “I doubt that. And I can tell you why they fight, Kaladin.”
“Really?”
“They must have Soulcasters. They need the gemstones for the same reason we do. To make food.”
“It sounds reasonable,” Kaladin said, hands still clasped behind his back, feet in a wide stance. Parade rest still felt natural to him. “Just conjecture, but a reasonable one. Let me ask you something else, then. Why can’t bridgemen have shields?”
“Because this thing makes us too slow,” Rock said.
“No,” Sigzil said. “They could send bridgemen with shields out in front of the bridges, running in front of us. It wouldn’t slow anyone down. Yes, you would have to field more bridgemen—but you’d save enough lives with those shields to make up for the larger roster.”
Kaladin nodded. “Sadeas fields more of us than he needs already. In most cases, more bridges land than he needs.”
“But why?” Sigzil asked.
“Because we make good targets,” Kaladin said softly, understanding. “We’re put out in front to draw Parshendi attention.”
&nbs
p; “Of course we are,” Rock said, shrugging. “Armies always do these things. The poorest and the least trained go first.”
“I know,” Kaladin said, “but usually, they’re at least given some measure of protection. Don’t you see? We’re not just an expendable initial wave. We’re bait. We’re exposed, so the Parshendi can’t help but fire at us. It allows the regular soldiers to approach without being hurt. The Parshendi archers are aiming at the bridgemen.”
Rock frowned.
“Shields would make us less tempting,” Kaladin said. “That’s why he forbids them.”
“Perhaps,” Sigzil said from the side, thoughtful. “But it seems foolish to waste troops.”
“Actually, it isn’t foolish,” Kaladin said. “If you have to repeatedly attack fortified positions, you can’t afford to lose your trained troops. Don’t you see? Sadeas has only a limited number of trained men. But untrained ones are easy to find. Each arrow that strikes down a bridgeman is one that doesn’t hit a soldier you’ve spent a great deal of money outfitting and training. That’s why it’s better for Sadeas to field a large number of bridgemen, rather than a smaller—but protected—number.”
He should have seen it earlier. He had been distracted by how important bridgemen were to the battles. If the bridges didn’t arrive at the chasms, then the army couldn’t cross. But each bridge crew was kept well stocked with bodies, and twice as many bridge crews were sent on an assault as were needed.
Seeing a bridge fall must give the Parshendi a great sense of satisfaction, and they usually got to drop two or three bridges on every bad chasm run. Sometimes more. So long as bridgemen were dying, and the Parshendi didn’t spend their time firing on soldiers, Sadeas had reason to keep the bridgemen vulnerable. The Parshendi should have seen through it, but it was very hard to turn your arrow away from the unarmored man carrying the siege equipment. The Parshendi were said to be unsophisticated fighters. Indeed, watching the battle on the other plateau—studying it, focusing—he saw that was true.
Where the Alethi maintained a straight, disciplined line—each man protecting his partners—the Parshendi attacked in independent pairs. The Alethi had superior technique and tactics. True, each of the Parshendi was superior in strength, and their skill with those axes was remarkable. But Sadeas’s Alethi troops were well trained in modern formations. Once they got a foothold—and if they could prolong the battle—their discipline often saw them to victory.
The Parshendi haven’t fought in large-scale battles before this war, Kaladin decided. They’re used to smaller skirmishes, perhaps against other villages or clans.
Several of the other bridgemen joined Kaladin, Rock, and Sigzil. Before long, the majority of them were standing there, some imitating Kaladin’s stance. It took another hour before the battle was won. Sadeas proved victorious, but Rock was right. The soldiers were grim; they’d lost many friends this day.
It was a tired, battered group of spearmen that Kaladin and the others led back to camp.
A few hours later, Kaladin sat on a chunk of wood beside Bridge Four’s nightly fire. Syl sat on his knee, having taken the form of a small, translucent blue and white flame. She’d come to him during the march back, spinning around gleefully to see him up and walking, but had given no explanation for her absence.
The real fire crackled and popped, Rock’s large pot bubbling on top of it, some flamespren dancing on the logs. Every couple of seconds, someone asked Rock if the stew was done yet, often banging on his bowl with a good-natured smack of the spoon. Rock said nothing, stirring. They all knew that nobody ate until he declared the stew finished; he was very particular about not serving “inferior” food.
The air smelled of boiling dumplings. The men were laughing. Their bridgeleader had survived execution and today’s bridge run hadn’t cost a single casualty. Spirits were high.
Except for Kaladin’s.
He understood now. He understood just how futile their struggle was. He understood why Sadeas hadn’t bothered to acknowledge Kaladin’s survival. He was already a bridgeman, and being a bridgeman was a death sentence.
Kaladin had hoped to show Sadeas that his bridge crew could be efficient and useful. He’d hoped to prove that they deserved protection—shields, armor, training. Kaladin thought that if they acted like soldiers, maybe they would be seen as soldiers.
None of that would work. A bridgeman who survived was, by definition, a bridgeman who had failed.
His men laughed and enjoyed the fire. They trusted him. He’d done the impossible, surviving a highstorm, wounded, tied to a wall. Surely he would perform another miracle, this time for them. They were good men, but they thought like foot soldiers. The officers and the lighteyes would worry about the long term. The men were fed and happy, and that was enough for now.
Not for Kaladin.
He found himself face-to-face with the man he’d left behind. The one he’d abandoned that night he’d decided not to throw himself into the chasm. A man with haunted eyes, a man who had given up on caring or hoping. A walking corpse.
I’m going to fail them, he thought.
He couldn’t let them continue running bridges, dying off one by one. But he also couldn’t think of an alternative. And so their laughter tore at him.
One of the men—Maps—stood, holding up his arms, quieting the others. It was the time between moons, and so he was lit mostly by the firelight; there was a spray of stars in the sky above. Several of those moved about, the tiny pinpricks of light chasing after one another, zipping around like distant, glowing insects. Starspren. They were rare.
Maps was a flat-faced fellow, his beard bushy, his eyebrows thick. Everyone called him Maps because of the birthmark on his chest that he swore was an exact map of Alethkar, though Kaladin hadn’t been able to see the resemblance.
Maps cleared his throat. “It’s a good night, a special night, and all. We’ve got our bridgeleader back.”
Several of the men clapped. Kaladin tried not to show how sick he felt inside.
“We’ve got good food coming,” Maps said. He eyed Rock. “It is coming, ain’t it, Rock?”
“Is coming,” Rock said, stirring.
“You’re sure about that? We could go on another bridge run. Give you a little extra time, you know, five or six more hours….”
Rock gave him a fierce look. The men laughed, several banging their bowls with their spoons. Maps chuckled, then he reached to the ground behind the stone he was using for a seat. He pulled out a paper-wrapped package and tossed it to Rock.
Surprised, the tall Horneater barely caught it, nearly dropping it into the stew.
“From all of us,” Maps said, a little awkwardly, “for making us stew each night. Don’t think we haven’t noticed how hard you work on it. We relax while you cook. And you always serve everyone else first. So we bought you something to thank you.” He wiped his nose on his arm, spoiling the moment slightly, and sat back down. Several of the other bridgemen thumped him on the back, complimenting his speech.
Rock unwrapped the package and stared into it for a long while. Kaladin leaned forward, trying to get a look at the contents. Rock reached in and held the item up. It was a straight razor of gleaming silvery steel; there was a length of wood covering the sharp side. Rock pulled this off, inspecting the blade. “You airsick fools,” he said softly. “Is beautiful.”
“There’s a piece of polished steel too,” said Peet. “For a mirror. And some beard soap and a leather strop for sharpening.”
Amazingly, Rock grew teary-eyed. He turned away from the pot, bearing his gifts. “Stew is ready,” he said. Then he ran into the barrack building.
The men sat quietly. “Stormfather,” youthful Dunny finally said, “you think we did the right thing? I mean, the way he complains and all…”
“I think it was perfect,” Teft said. “Just give the big lout some time to recover.”
“Sorry we didn’t get you nothin’, sir,” Maps said to Kaladin. “We didn’t know you
’d be awake and all.”
“It’s all right,” Kaladin said.
“Well,” Skar said. “Is someone going to serve that stew, or will we all just sit here hungry until it burns?”
Dunny jumped up, grabbing the ladle. The men gathered around the pot, jostling one another as Dunny served. Without Rock there to snap at them and keep them in line, it was something of a melee. Only Sigzil did not join in. The quiet, dark-skinned man sat to the side, eyes reflecting the flames.
Kaladin rose. He was worried—terrified, really—that he might become that wretch again. The one who had given up on caring because he saw no alternative. So he sought conversation, walking over toward Sigzil. His motion disturbed Syl, who sniffed and buzzed up onto his shoulder. She still held the form of a flickering flame; having that on his shoulder was even more distracting. He didn’t say anything; if she knew it bothered him, she’d be likely to do it more. She was still a windspren, after all.
Kaladin sat down next to Sigzil. “Not hungry?”
“They are more eager than I,” Sigzil said. “If previous evenings are a reliable guide, there will still be enough for me once they have filled their bowls.”
Kaladin nodded. “I appreciated your analysis out on the plateau today.”
“I am good at that, sometimes.”
“You’re educated. You speak like it and you act like it.”
Sigzil hesitated. “Yes,” he finally said. “Among my people, it is not a sin for a male to be keen of mind.”
“It isn’t a sin for Alethi either.”
“My experience is that you care only about wars and the art of killing.”
“And what have you seen of us besides our army?”
“Not much,” Sigzil admitted.
“So, a man of education,” Kaladin said thoughtfully. “In a bridge crew.”
“My education was never completed.”
“Neither was mine.”
Sigzil looked at him, curious.
“I apprenticed as a surgeon,” Kaladin said.
Sigzil nodded, thick dark hair falling around his shoulders. He’d been one of the only bridgemen who bothered shaving. Now that Rock had a razor, maybe that would change. “A surgeon,” he said. “I cannot say that is surprising, considering how you handled the wounded. The men say that you’re secretly a lighteyes of very high rank.”
The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archive, The) Page 71