Only Teft didn’t join in. The aging bridgeman stood at the side, arms folded. He seemed concerned. “Teft?” Kaladin asked. “You all right?”
Teft snorted, but showed a hint of a grin. “I just figure those lads don’t bathe often enough for me to want to get close enough for a hug. No offense.”
Kaladin laughed. “I understand.” His last “bath” had been the highstorm.
The highstorm.
The other bridgemen continued to laugh, asking how he felt, proclaiming that Rock would have to fix something extra special for their nightly fireside meal. Kaladin smiled and nodded, assuring them he felt well, but he was remembering the storm.
He recalled it distinctly. Holding to the ring atop the building, his head down and eyes closed against the pelting torrent. He remembered Syl, standing protectively before him, as if she could turn back the storm itself. He couldn’t see her about now. Where was she?
He also remembered the face. The Stormfather himself? Surely not. A delusion. Yes…yes, he’d certainly been delusional. Memories of deathspren were blended with relived parts of his life—and both mixed with strange, sudden shocks of strength—icy cold, but refreshing. It had been like the cold air of a crisp morning after a long night in a stuffy room, or like rubbing the sap of gulket leaves on sore muscles, making them feel warm and cold at the same time.
He could remember those moments so clearly. What had caused them? The fever?
“How long?” he said, checking over the bridgemen, counting them. Thirty-three, counting Lopen and the silent Dabbid. Almost all were accounted for. Impossible. If his ribs were healed, then he must have been unconscious for three weeks, at least. How many bridge runs?
“Ten days,” Moash said.
“Impossible,” Kaladin said. “My wounds—”
“Is why we’re so surprised to see you up and walking!” Rock said, laughing. “You must have bones like granite. Is my name you should be having!”
Kaladin leaned back against the wall. Nobody corrected Moash. An entire crew of men couldn’t lose track of the weeks like that. “Idolir and Treff?” he asked.
“We lost them,” Moash said, growing solemn. “We did two bridge runs while you were unconscious. Nobody badly wounded, but two dead. We…we didn’t know how to help them.”
That made the men grow subdued. But death was the way of bridgemen, and they couldn’t afford to dwell for long on the lost. Kaladin did decide, however, that he’d need to train a few of the others in healing.
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.”
“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.”