“They lived high atop a place no man could reach, but all could visit. The tower city itself, crafted by the hands of no man.”
—Though The Song of the Last Summer is a fanciful tale of romance from the third century after the Recreance, it is likely a valid reference in this case. See page 27 of Varala’s translation, and note the undertext.
They got better at carrying the bridge on its side. But not much better.
Kaladin watched Bridge Four pass, moving awkwardly, maneuvering the bridge at their sides. Fortunately, there were plenty of handles on the bridge’s underside, and they’d found how to grip them in the right way. They had to carry it at less steep an angle than he’d wanted. That would expose their legs, but may be he could train them to adjust to it as the arrows flew.
As it was, their carry was slow, and the bridgemen were so bunched up that if the Parshendi managed to drop a man, the others would stumble over him. Lose just a few men, and the balance would be upset so they’d drop it for certain.
This will have to be handled very carefully, Kaladin thought.
Syl fluttered along behind the bridge crew as a flurry of nearly translucent leaves. Beyond her, something caught Kaladin’s eye: a uniformed soldier leading a ragged group of men in a despondent clump. Finally, Kaladin thought. He’d been waiting for another group of recruits. He waved
curtly to Rock. The Horneater nodded; he’d take over training. It was time for a break anyway.
Kaladin jogged up the short incline at the rim of the lumberyard, arriving just as Gaz intercepted the newcomers.
“What a sorry batch,” Gaz said. “I thought we’d been sent the dregs last time, but this lot…”
Lamaril shrugged. “They’re yours now, Gaz. Split them up how you like.” He and his soldiers departed, leaving the unfortunate conscripts. Some wore decent clothing; they’d be recently caught criminals. The rest had slave brands on their foreheads. Seeing them brought back feelings that Kaladin had to force down. He still stood on the very top of a steep slope; one wrong step could send him tumbling back down into that despair.
“In a line, you cremlings,” Gaz snapped at the new recruits, pulling free his cudgel and waving it. He eyed Kaladin, but said nothing.
The group of men hastily lined up.
Gaz counted down the line, picking out the taller members. “You five men, you’re in Bridge Six. Remember that. Forget it, and I’ll see you get a whipping.” He counted off another group. “You six men, you’re in Bridge Fourteen. You four at the end, Bridge Three. You, you, and you, Bridge One.
Bridge Two doesn’t need any…You four, Bridge Seven.”
That was all of them.
“Gaz,” Kaladin said, folding his arms. Syl landed on his shoulder, her small tempest of leaves forming into a young woman.
Gaz turned to him.
“Bridge Four is down to thirty fighting members.”
“Bridge Six and Bridge Fourteen have fewer than that.”
“They each had twenty-nine and you just gave them both a big helping of new members. And Bridge One is at thirty-seven, and you sent them three new men.”
“You barely lost anyone on the last run, and—”
Kaladin caught Gaz’s arm as the sergeant tried to walk away. Gaz flinched, lifting his cudgel.
Try it, Kaladin thought, meeting Gaz’s eyes. He almost wished that the
sergeant would.
Gaz gritted his teeth. “Fine. One man.”
“I pick him,” Kaladin said.
“Whatever. They’re all worthless anyway.”
Kaladin turned to the group of new bridgemen. They’d gathered into clusters by which bridge crew Gaz had put them in. Kaladin immediately turned his attention to the taller men. By slave standards, they appeared well fed. Two of them looked like they’d— “Hey, gancho!” a voice said from another group. “Hey! You want me, I think.”
Kaladin turned. A short, spindly man was waving to him. The man had only one arm. Who would assign him to be a bridgeman?
He’d stop an arrow, Kaladin thought. That’s all some bridgemen are good for, in the eyes of the uppers.
The man had brown hair and deep tan skin just a shade too dark to be Alethi. The fingernails on his hand were slate-colored and crystalline—he was a Herdazian, then. Most of the newcomers shared the same defeated look of apathy but this man was smiling, though he wore a slave’s mark on his head.
That mark is old, Kaladin thought. Either he had a kind master before this, or he has somehow resisted being beaten down. The man obviously didn’t understand what awaited him as a bridgeman. No person would smile if they understood that.
“You can use me,” the man said. “We Herdazians are great fighters, gon.” He pronounced that last word like “gone” and it appeared to refer to Kaladin. “You see, this one time, I was with, sure, three men and they were drunk and all but I still beat them.” He spoke at a very quick pace, his thick accent slurring the words together.
He’d make a terrible bridgeman. He might be able to run with the bridge on his shoulders, but not maneuver it. He even looked a little flabby around the waist. Whatever bridge crew got him would put him right in the front and let him take an arrow, then be rid of him.
Gotta do what you can to stay alive, a voice from his past seemed to whisper. Turn a liability into an advantage….
Tien.
“Very well,” Kaladin said, pointing. “I’ll take the Herdazian at the
back.”
“What?” Gaz said.
The short man sauntered up to Kaladin. “Thanks, gancho! You’ll be glad you picked me.”
Kaladin turned to walk back, passing Gaz. The bridge sergeant scratched
his head. “You pushed me that hard so you could pick the one-armed runt?”
Kaladin walked on without a word for Gaz. Instead, he turned to the one-armed Herdazian. “Why did you want to come with me? You don’t know anything about the different bridge crews.”
“You were only picking one,” the man said. “That means one man gets to be special, the others don’t. I’ve got a good feeling about you. It’s in your eyes, gancho.” He paused. “What’s a bridge crew?”
Kaladin found himself smiling at the man’s nonchalant attitude. “You’ll see. What’s your name?”
“Lopen,” the man said. “Some of my cousins, they call me the Lopen because they haven’t ever heard anyone else named that. I’ve asked around a lot, maybe one hundred…or two hundred…lots of people, sure. And nobody has heard of that name.”
Kaladin blinked at the torrent of words. Did the man ever stop to breathe?
Bridge Four was taking their break, their massive bridge resting on one side and giving shade. The five wounded had joined them and were chatting; even Leyten was up, which was encouraging. He’d been having a lot of trouble walking, what with that crushed leg. Kaladin had done what he could, but the man would always have a limp.
The only one who didn’t talk to the others was Dabbid, the man who had been so profoundly shocked by battle. He followed the others, but he didn’t talk. Kaladin was starting to fear that the man would never recover from his mind fatigue.
Hobber—the round-faced, gap-toothed man who had taken an arrow to the leg—was walking without a crutch. It wouldn’t be long before he could start running bridges again, and a good thing, too. They needed every pair of hands they could get.
“Head to the barrack there,” Kaladin said to Lopen. “There’s a blanket, sandals, and vest for you in the pile at the very back.”
“Sure,” Lopen said, sauntering off. He waved at a few of the men as he passed.
Rock walked up to Kaladin, folding his arms. “Is new member?”
“Yes,” Kaladin said.
“The only kind Gaz would give us, I assume.” Rock sighed. “This thing, we should have expected it. He will give us only the very most useless of bridgemen from now on.”
Kaladin was tempted to say something in the way of agreement, but hesitated. Syl would probably see it as a lie, and that would annoy her.
“This new way of carrying the bridge,” Rock said. “Is not very useful, I think. Is—”
He cut off as a horn call blared over the camp, echoing against stone buildings like the bleat of a distant greatshell. Kaladin grew tense. His men were on duty. He waited, tense, until the third set of horns blew.
“Line up!” Kaladin yelled. “Let’s move!”
Unlike the other nineteen crews on duty, Kaladin’s men didn’t scramble about in confusion, but assembled in an orderly fashion. Lopen dashed out, wearing a vest, then hesitated, looking at the four squads, not knowing where to go. He’d be cut to ribbons if Kaladin put him in front, but he’d probably
just slow them down anywhere else.
“Lopen!” Kaladin shouted.
The one-armed man saluted. Does he think he’s actually in the military?
“You see that rain barrel? Go get some waterskins from the carpenter’s assistants. They told me we could borrow some. Fill as many as you can, then
catch up down below.”
“Sure, gancho,” Lopen said.
“Bridge up!” Kaladin shouted, moving into position at the front.
“Shoulder carry!”
Bridge Four moved. While some of the other bridge crews were crowded around their barracks, Kaladin’s team charged across the lumberyard. They were first down the incline, and reached the first permanent bridge before the army even formed up. There, Kaladin ordered them to put their bridge down and wait.
Shortly thereafter, Lopen trotted down the hillside—and, surprisingly, Dabbid and Hobber were with him. They couldn’t move fast, not with Hobber’s limp, but they had constructed a sort of litter with a tarp and two lengths of wood. Piled into the middle of it were a good twenty waterskins.
They trotted up to the bridge team.
“What’s this?” Kaladin said.
“You told me to bring whatever I could carry, gon,” Lopen said. “Well, we got this thing from the carpenters. They use it to carry pieces of wood, they said, and they weren’t using it so we took it and now we’re here. Ain’t that right, moolie?” He said that last to Dabbid, who just nodded.
“Moolie?” Kaladin asked.
“Means mute,” Lopen said, shrugging. “’Cuz he doesn’t seem to talk much, you see.”
“I see. Well, good job. Bridge Four, back in position. Here comes the rest of the army.”
The next few hours were what they had grown to expect from bridge runs. Grueling conditions, carrying the heavy bridge across plateaus. The water proved a huge help. The army occasionally watered the bridgemen during runs, but never as often as the men needed it. Being able to take a drink after crossing each plateau was as good as having a half-dozen more men.
But the real difference came from the practice. Bridge Four’s men no longer fell exhausted each time they set a bridge down. The work was still difficult, but their bodies were ready for it. Kaladin caught more than a few glances of surprise or envy from the other bridge crews as his men laughed and joked instead of collapsing. Running a bridge once a week or so—as the other men did—just wasn’t enough. An extra meal each night combined with training had built up his men’s muscles and prepared them to work.
The march was a long one, as long as Kaladin had ever made. They traveled eastward for hours. That was a bad sign. When they aimed for closer plateaus, they often got there before the Parshendi. But this far out they were racing just to prevent the Parshendi from escaping with the gemheart; there was no chance they’d arrive before the enemy.
That meant it would probably be a difficult approach. We’re not ready for the side carry, Kaladin thought nervously, as they finally drew close to an enormous plateau rising in an unusual shape. He’d heard of it—the Tower, it was called. No Alethi force had ever won a gemheart here.
They set their bridge down before the penultimate chasm, positioning it, and Kaladin felt a foreboding as the scouts crossed. The Tower was wedge- shaped, uneven, with the southeastern point rising far into the air, creating a steep hillside. Sadeas had brought a large number of soldiers; this plateau was enormous, allowing the deployment of a larger force. Kaladin waited, anxious. Maybe they’d be lucky, and the Parshendi would already be gone with the gemheart. It was possible, this far out.
The scouts came charging back. “Enemy lines on the opposing rim!
They haven’t gotten the chrysalis open yet!”
Kaladin groaned softly. The army began to cross on his bridge, and Bridge Four regarded him, solemn, expressions grim. They knew what would
come next. Some of them, perhaps many of them, would not survive.
It was going to be very bad this time. On previous runs, they’d had a buff er. When they’d lost four or five men, they’d still been able to keep going. Now they were running with just thirty members. Every man they lost would slow them measurably, and the loss of just four or five more would cause them to wobble, or even topple. When that happened, the Parshendi would focus everything on them. He’d seen it happen before. If a bridge crew started to teeter, the Parshendi pounced.
Besides, when a bridge crew was visibly low on numbers, it always got targeted by the Parshendi to be taken down. Bridge Four was in trouble. This run could easily end with fifteen or twenty deaths. Something had to be done.
This was it.
“Gather close,” Kaladin said.
The men frowned, stepping up to him.
“We’re going to carry the bridge in side position,” Kaladin said softly.
“I’ll go first. I’m going to steer; be ready to go in the direction I do.”
“Kaladin,” Teft said, “side position is slow. It was an interesting idea,
but—”
“Do you trust me, Teft?” Kaladin asked.
“Well, I guess.” The grizzled man glanced at the others. Kaladin could see that many of them did not, at least not fully.
“This will work,” Kaladin said intently. “We’re going to use the bridge as a shield to block arrows. We need to hurry out in front, faster than the other bridges. It’ll be hard to outrun them with the side carry, but it’s the only thing I can think of. If it doesn’t work, I’ll be in front, so I’ll be the first to drop. If I die, move the bridge to shoulder-carry. We’ve practiced doing that.
Then you’ll be rid of me.”
The bridgemen were silent.
“What if we don’t want to be rid of you?” long-faced Natam asked.
Kaladin smiled. “Then run swiftly and follow my lead. I’m going to turn us unexpectedly during the run; be ready to change directions.”
He went back to the bridge. The common soldiers were across, and the lighteyes—including Sadeas in his ornate Shardplate—were riding over the span. Kaladin and Bridge Four followed, then pulled the bridge behind them.
They shoulder-carried it to the front of the army and put it down, waiting for the other bridges to get in place. Lopen and the other two water-carriers hung back with Gaz; it looked like they wouldn’t get into trouble for not running.
That was a small blessing.
Kaladin felt sweat bead on his forehead. He could just barely make out the Parshendi ranks ahead, on the other side of the chasm. Men of black and crimson, shortbows held at the ready, arrows nocked. The enormous slope of the Tower rose behind them.
Kaladin’s heart beat faster. Anticipationspren sprung up around members of the army, but not his team. To their credit, there weren’t any fearspren either—not that they didn’t feel fear, they just weren’t as panicked as the other bridge crews, so the fearspren went there instead.
Care, Tukks seemed to whisper at him from the past. The key to fighting isn’t lack of passion, it’s controlled passion. Care about winning. Care about those you defend. You have to care about something.
I care, Kaladin thought. Storm me as a fool, but I do.
“Bridges up!” Gaz’s voice echoed across the front lines, repeating the order given him by Lamaril.
Bridge Four moved, quickly turning the bridge on its side and hoisting it up. The shorter men made a line, holding the bridge up to their right, with the taller men forming a bunched-up line behind them, reaching through and lifting or reaching high and steadying the bridge. Lamaril gave them a harsh look, and Kaladin’s breath caught in his throat.
Gaz stepped up and whispered something to Lamaril. The nobleman nodded slowly, and said nothing. The assault call sounded.
Bridge Four charged.
From behind them, arrows flew in a wave over the bridge crews’ heads, arcing down toward the Parshendi. Kaladin ran, jaw clenched. He had trouble keeping himself from stumbling over the rockbuds and shalebark growths.
Fortunately, though his team was slower than normal, their practice and endurance meant they were still faster than the other crews. With Kaladin at their lead, Bridge Four managed to get out ahead of the others.
That was important, because Kaladin angled his team slightly to the right, as if his crew were just a tad off-course with the heavy bridge at the side. The Parshendi knelt down and began to chant together. Alethi arrows fell among them, distracting some, but the others raised bows.
Get ready… Kaladin thought. He pushed harder, and felt a sudden surge of strength. His legs stopped straining, his breath stopped wheezing. Perhaps it was the anxiety of battle, perhaps it was numbness setting in, but the unexpected strength gave him a slight sense of euphoria. He felt as if
something were buzzing within him, mixing with his blood.
In that moment it felt like he was pulling the bridge behind him all alone, like a sail towing the ship beneath it. He turned farther to the right, running at a deeper angle, putting himself and his men in full sight of the Parshendi archers.
The Parshendi continued to chant, somehow knowing—without orders —when to draw their bows. They pulled arrows to marbled cheeks, sighting on the bridgemen. As expected, many aimed at his men.
Almost close enough!
Just a few heartbeats more… Now!
Kaladin turned sharply to the left just as the Parshendi loosed. The bridge moved with him, now charging with the face of the bridge pointed toward the archers. Arrows flew, snapping against the wood, digging into it.
Some arrows rattled against the stone beneath their feet. The bridge resounded with the impacts.
Kaladin heard desperate screams of pain from the other bridge crews.
Men fell, some of them probably on their first run. In Bridge Four, nobody cried out. Nobody fell.
Kaladin turned the bridge again, running angled in the other direction, the bridgemen exposed again. The surprised Parshendi nocked arrows.
Normally, they fired in waves. That gave Kaladin an opportunity, for as soon as the Parshendi got the arrows drawn, he turned, using the bulky bridge as a shield.
Again, arrows snapped into the wood. Again, other bridge crews screamed. Again, Kaladin’s zigzagging run protected his men.
One more, Kaladin thought. This would be the tough one. The Parshendi would know what he was doing. They’d be ready to fire once he turned back.
He turned.
Nobody fired.
Amazed, he realized that the Parshendi archers had turned all of their attention to the other bridge crews, seeking easier targets. The space in front of Bridge Four was virtually empty.
The chasm was near, and—despite his angling—Kaladin brought his team in on-mark to place their bridge in the right spot. They all had to be aligned close together for cavalry charge to work. Kaladin quickly gave the order to drop. Some of the Parshendi archers turned their attention back, but
most ignored them, firing their arrows at the other crews.
A crash from behind announced a bridge falling. Kaladin and his men pushed, the Alethi archers behind pelting the Parshendi to distract them and keep them from shoving the bridge back. Still pushing, Kaladin risked a glance over his shoulder.
The next bridge in line was close. It was Bridge Seven, but they were floundering, arrow after arrow striking them, cutting them down in rows.
They fell as he watched, bridge crashing to the stones. Now Bridge Twenty- seven was wavering. Two other bridges were already down. Bridge Six had reached the chasm, but just barely, over half its members down. Where were the other bridge crews? He couldn’t tell from his quick glance, and had to turn back to his work.
Kaladin’s men placed their bridge with a thump, and Kaladin gave the call to pull back. He and his men dashed away to let the cavalry charge across. But no cavalry came. Sweat dripping from his brow, Kaladin spun.
Five other bridge crews had set their bridges, but others were still struggling to reach the chasm. Unexpectedly, they’d tried tilting their bridges to block the arrows, emulating Kaladin and his team. Many stumbled, some men attempting to lower the bridge for protection while others still ran forward.
It was chaos. These men hadn’t practiced the side carry. As one straggling crew tried to hold their bridge up in the new position, they dropped it. Two more bridge crews were cut down completely by the Parshendi, who continued to fire.
Heavy cavalry charged, crossing the six bridges that had been set.
Normally, two riders abreast on each bridge added up to a mass of a hundred horsemen, thirty to forty across and three ranks deep. That depended on many bridges aligned in a row, allowing an effective charge against the hundreds of Parshendi archers.
But the bridges had been set too erratically. Some cavalry got across, but they were scattered, and couldn’t ride down the Parshendi without fear of being surrounded.
Foot soldiers had started to help push Bridge Six into place. We should go help, Kaladin realized. Get those other bridges across.
But it was too late. Though Kaladin stood near the battlefield, his men— as was their practice—had fallen back to the nearest rock outcropping for shelter. The one they’d chosen was close enough to see the battle, but was
well protected from arrows. The Parshendi always ignored bridgemen after the initial assault, though the Alethi were careful to leave rear guards to protect the landing point and watch for Parshendi trying to cut off their retreat.
The soldiers finally maneuvered Bridge Six into place, and two more bridge crews got theirs down, but half of the bridges hadn’t made it. The army had to reorganize on the run, dashing forward to support the cavalry, splitting to cross where the bridges had been set.
Teft left the outcropping and grabbed Kaladin by the arm, tugging him back to relative safety. Kaladin allowed himself to be pulled along, but he still looked at the battlefield, a horrible realization coming to him.
Rock stepped up beside Kaladin, clapping him on the shoulder. The large Horneater’s hair was plastered to his head with sweat, but he was smiling broadly. “Is miracle! Not a single man wounded!”
Moash stepped up beside them. “Stormfather! I can’t believe what we just did. Kaladin, you’ve changed bridge runs forever!”
“No,” Kaladin said softly. “I’ve completely undermined our assault.”
“I—What?”
Stormfather! Kaladin thought. The heavy cavalry had been cut off. A cavalry charge needed an unbroken line; it was the intimidation as much as anything that made it work.
But here, the Parshendi could dodge out of the way, then come at the horsemen from the flanks. And the foot soldiers hadn’t gotten in quickly enough to help. Several groups of horsemen fought completely surrounded.
Soldiers bunched up around the bridges that had been set, trying to get across, but the Parshendi had a solid foothold and were repelling them. Spearmen fell from the bridges, and the Parshendi then managed to topple one entire bridge into the chasm. The Alethi forces were soon on the defensive, the soldiers focused on holding the bridgeheads to secure an avenue of retreat for the cavalry.
Kaladin watched, really watched. He’d never studied the tactics and needs of the entire army in these assaults. He’d considered only the needs of his own crew. It was a foolish mistake, and he should have known better. He would have known better, if he’d still thought of himself as a real soldier. He hated Sadeas; he hated the way the man used bridge crews. But he shouldn’t have changed Bridge Four’s basic tactics without considering the larger scheme of the battle.
I deflected attention to the other bridge crews, Kaladin thought. That got us to the chasm too soon, and slowed some of the others.
And, since he’d run out in front, many other bridgemen had gotten a good view of how he’d used the bridge as a shield. That had led them to emulate Bridge Four. Each of the crews had ended up running at a different speed, and the Alethi archers hadn’t known where to focus their volleys to soften the Parshendi for the bridge landings.
Stormfather! I’ve just cost Sadeas this battle.
There would be repercussions. The bridgemen had been forgotten while the generals and captains scrambled to revise their battle plans. But once this was over, they would come for him.
Or maybe it would happen sooner. Gaz and Lamaril, with a group of reserve spearmen, were marching toward Bridge Four.
Rock stepped up beside Kaladin on one side, a nervous Teft on the other, holding a stone in his hands. The bridgemen behind Kaladin began to mutter.
“Stand down,” Kaladin said softly to Rock and Teft.
“But, Kaladin!” Teft said. “They—”
“Stand down. Gather the bridgemen. Get them back to the lumberyard safely, if you can.” If any of us escape this disaster.
When Rock and Teft didn’t back away, Kaladin stepped forward. The battle still raged on the Tower; Sadeas’s group—led by the Shardbearer himself—had managed to claim a small section of ground and were holding it doggedly. Corpses piled up on both sides. It wouldn’t be enough.
Rock and Teft moved up beside Kaladin again, but he stared them down, forcing them back. Then he turned to Gaz and Lamaril. I’ll point out that Gaz told me to do this, he thought. He suggested I use a side carry on a bridge assault.
But no. There were no witnesses. It would be his word against Gaz’s.
That wouldn’t work—plus, that argument would leave Gaz and Lamaril with good reason to see Kaladin dead immediately, before he could speak to their
superiors.
Kaladin needed to do something else.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” Gaz sputtered as he grew near.
“I’ve upended the army’s strategy,” Kaladin said, “throwing the entire assault force into chaos. You’ve come to punish me so that when your
superiors come screaming to you for what happened, you can at least show that you acted quickly to deal with the one responsible.”
Gaz paused, Lamaril and the spearmen stopping around him. The bridge sergeant looked surprised.
“If it’s worth anything,” Kaladin said grimly, “I didn’t know this would happen. I was just trying to survive.”
“Bridgemen aren’t supposed to survive,” Lamaril said curtly. He waved to a pair of his soldiers, then pointed at Kaladin.
“If you leave me alive,” Kaladin said, “I promise I will tell your superiors that you had nothing to do with this. If you kill me, it will look like you were trying to hide something.”
“Hide something?” Gaz said, glancing at the battle on the Tower. A stray arrow clattered across the rocks a short distance from him, shaft breaking. “What would we have to hide?”
“Depends. This very well could look like it was your idea from the start.
Brightlord Lamaril, you didn’t stop me. You could have, but you didn’t, and soldiers saw Gaz and you speaking when you saw what I did. If I can’t vouch for your ignorance of what I was going to do, then you’ll look very, very bad.”
Lamaril’s soldiers looked to their leader. The lighteyed man scowled.
“Beat him,” he said, “but don’t kill him.” He turned and marched back toward the Alethi reserve lines.
The beefy spearmen walked up to Kaladin. They were darkeyed, but they might as well have been Parshendi for all the sympathy they would show him. Kaladin closed his eyes and steeled himself. He couldn’t fight them all off. Not and remain with Bridge Four.
A spear butt to the gut knocked him to the ground, and he gasped as the soldiers began to kick. One booted foot tore open his belt pouch. His spheres —too precious to leave in the barrack—scattered across the stones. They had somehow lost their Stormlight, and were now dun, their life run out.
The soldiers kept kicking.
