Authors: Brandon Sanderson
“Ho, little bridgeman!” a soldier called from among those waiting their turn. “Curious at what
real
soldiers look like?”
Kaladin turned toward the man, a solid, brown-eyed fellow with arms the size of many men’s thighs. He was a squadleader, by the knots on the shoulder of his leather jerkin. Kaladin had borne those knots once.
“How do you treat your spear and shield, squadleader?” Kaladin called back.
The man frowned, but Kaladin knew what he was thinking. A soldier’s gear was his life; you cared for your weapon as you’d care for your children, often seeing to its upkeep before you took food or rest.
Kaladin nodded to the bridge. “This is
my
bridge,” he said in a loud voice. “It is my weapon, the only one allowed me. Treat her well.”
“Or you’ll do what?” called one of the other soldiers, prompting laughter among the ranks. The squadleader said nothing. He looked troubled.
Kaladin’s words were bravado. In truth, he hated the bridge. Still, he remained standing.
A few moments later, Highprince Sadeas himself crossed on Kaladin’s bridge. Brightlord Amaram had always seemed so heroic, so distinguished. A gentleman general. This Sadeas was a different creature entirely, with that round face, curly hair, and lofty expression. He rode as if he were in a parade, one hand lightly holding the reins before him, the other carrying his helm under his arm. His armor was painted red, and the helm bore frivolous tassels. There was so much pointless pomp that it nearly overshadowed the wonder of the ancient artifact.
Kaladin forgot his fatigue and formed his hands into fists. Here was a lighteyes he could hate even more than most, a man so callous that he threw away the lives of hundreds of bridgemen each month. A man who had expressly forbidden his bridgemen to have shields for reasons Kaladin still didn’t understand.
Sadeas and his honor guard soon passed, and Kaladin realized that he probably should have bowed. Sadeas hadn’t noticed, but it could have made trouble if he had. Shaking his head, Kaladin roused his bridge crew, though it took special prodding to get Rock—the large Horneater—up and moving. Once across the chasm, his men picked up their bridge and jogged toward the next chasm.
The process was repeated enough times that Kaladin lost count. At each crossing, he refused to lie down. He stood with hands behind his back, watching the army pass. More soldiers took note of him, jeering. Kaladin ignored them, and by the fifth or sixth crossing, the jeers faded. The one other time he saw Brightlord Sadeas, Kaladin gave a bow, though it made his stomach twist to do so. He did not serve this man. He did not give this man allegiance. But he
did
serve his men of Bridge Four. He would save them, and that meant he had to keep himself from being punished for insolence.
“Reverse runners!” Gaz called. “Cross and reverse!”
Kaladin turned sharply. The next crossing would be the assault. He squinted, looking into the distance, and could just barely make out a line of dark figures gathering on another plateau. The Parshendi had arrived and were forming up. Behind them, a group worked on breaking open the chrysalis.
Kaladin felt a spike of frustration. Their speed hadn’t been enough. And—tired though they were—Sadeas would want to attack quickly, before the Parshendi could get the gemheart out of its shell.
The bridgemen rose from their rest, silent, haunted. They knew what was coming. They crossed the chasm and pulled the bridge over, then rearranged themselves in reverse order. The soldiers formed ranks. It was all so silent, like men preparing to carry a casket to the pyre.
The bridgemen left a space for Kaladin at the back, sheltered and protected. Syl alighted on the bridge, looking at the spot. Kaladin walked up to it, so tired, mentally and physically. He’d pushed himself too hard in the morning, then again by standing instead of resting. What had possessed him to do such a thing? He could barely walk.
He looked over the bridgemen. His men were resigned, despondent, terrified. If they refused to run, they’d be executed. If they did run, they’d face the arrows. They didn’t look toward the distant line of Parshendi archers. Instead, they looked down.
They are your men,
Kaladin told himself.
They need you to lead them, even if they don’t know it.
How can you lead from the rear?
He stepped out of line and rounded the bridge; two of the men—Drehy and Teft—looked up in shock as he passed. The deathpoint—the spot in the very center of the front—was being held by Rock, the beefy, tan-skinned Horneater. Kaladin tapped him on the shoulder. “You’re in my spot, Rock.”
The man glanced at him, surprised. “But—”
“To the back with you.”
Rock frowned. Nobody ever tried to jump
ahead
in the order. “You’re airsick, lowlander,” he said with his thick accent. “You wish to die? Why do you not just go leap into the chasm? That would be easier.”
“I’m bridgeleader. It’s my privilege to run at the front. Go.”
Rock shrugged, but did as ordered, taking Kaladin’s position at the back. Nobody said a word. If Kaladin wanted to get himself killed, who were they to complain?
Kaladin looked over the bridgemen. “The longer we take to get this bridge down, the more arrows they can loose at us. Stay firm, stay determined, and
be quick
. Raise bridge!”
The men lifted, inner rows moving underneath and situating themselves in rows of five across. Kaladin stood at the very front with a tall, stout man named Leyten to his left, a spindly man named Murk to his right. Adis and Corl were at the edges. Five men in front. The deathline.
Once all of the crews had their bridges up, Gaz gave the command. “Assault!”
They ran, dashing alongside the standing ranks of the army, passing soldiers holding spears and shields. Some watched with curiosity, perhaps amused at the sight of the lowly bridgemen running so urgently to their deaths. Others looked away, perhaps ashamed of the lives it would cost to get them across that chasm.
Kaladin kept his eyes forward, squelching that incredulous voice in the back of his mind, one that screamed he was doing something very stupid. He barreled toward the final chasm, focused on the Parshendi line. Figures with black and crimson skin holding bows.
Syl flitted close to Kaladin’s head, no longer in the form of a person, streaking like a ribbon of light. She zipped in front of him.
The bows came up. Kaladin hadn’t been at the deathpoint during a charge this bad since his first day on the crew. They always put new men into rotation at the deathpoint. That way, if they died, you didn’t have to worry about training them.
The Parshendi archers drew, aiming at five or six of the bridge crews. Bridge Four was obviously in their sights.
The bows loosed.
“Tien!” Kaladin screamed, nearly mad with fatigue and frustration. He bellowed the name aloud—uncertain why—as a wall of arrows zipped toward him. Kaladin felt a jolt of energy, a surge of sudden strength, unanticipated and unexplained.
The arrows landed.
Murk fell without a sound, four or five arrows striking him, spraying his blood across the stones. Leyten dropped as well, and with him both Adis and Corl. Shafts struck the ground at Kaladin’s feet, shattering, and a good half dozen hit the wood around Kaladin’s head and hands.
Kaladin didn’t know if he’d been hit. He was too flush with energy and alarm. He continued running, screaming, holding the bridge on his shoulders. For some reason, a group of Parshendi archers ahead lowered their bows. He saw their marbled skin, strange reddish or orange helms, and simple brown clothing. They appeared confused.
Whatever the reason, it gained Bridge Four a few precious moments. By the time the Parshendi raised their bows again, Kaladin’s team had reached the chasm. His men fell into line with the other bridge crews—there were only fifteen bridges now. Five had fallen. They closed the gaps as they arrived.
Kaladin screamed for the bridgemen to drop amid another spray of arrows. One sliced open the skin near his ribs, deflecting off the bone. He felt it hit, but didn’t feel any pain. He scrambled around the side of the bridge, helping push. Kaladin’s team slammed the bridge into place as a wave of Alethi arrows distracted the enemy archers.
A troop of cavalry charged across the bridges. The bridgemen were soon forgotten. Kaladin fell to his knees beside the bridge as the others of his crew stumbled away, bloodied and hurt, their part in the battle over.
Kaladin held his side, feeling the blood there.
Straight laceration, only about an inch long, not wide enough to be of danger.
It was his father’s voice.
Kaladin panted. He needed to get to safety. Arrows zipped over his head, fired by the Alethi archers.
Some people take lives. Other people save lives.
He wasn’t done yet. Kaladin forced himself to his feet and staggered to where someone lay beside the bridge. It was a bridgeman named Hobber; he had an arrow through the leg. The man moaned, holding his thigh.
Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and pulled him away from the bridge. The man cursed at the pain, dazed, as Kaladin towed him to a cleft behind a small bulge in the rock where Rock and some of the other bridgemen had sought shelter.
After dropping off Hobber—the arrow hadn’t hit any major arteries, and he would be fine for a time yet—Kaladin turned and tried to rush back out onto the battlefield proper. He slipped, however, stumbling in his fatigue. He hit the ground hard, grunting.
Some take lives. Some save lives.
He pushed himself to his feet, sweat dripping from his brow, and scrambled back toward the bridge, his father’s voice in his ears. The next bridgeman he found, a man named Koorm, was dead. Kaladin left the body.
Gadol had a deep wound in the side where an arrow had passed completely through him. His face was covered with blood from a gash on his temple, and he’d managed to crawl a short distance from the bridge. He looked up with frenzied black eyes, orange painspren waving around him. Kaladin grabbed him under the arms and towed him away just before a thundering charge of cavalry trampled the place where he’d been lying.
Kaladin dragged Gadol over to the cleft, noting two more dead. He did a quick count. That made twenty-nine bridgemen, including the dead he’d seen. Five were missing. Kaladin stumbled back out onto the battlefield.
Soldiers had bunched up around the back of the bridge, archers forming at the sides and firing into the Parshendi lines as the heavy cavalry charge—led by Highprince Sadeas himself, virtually indestructible in his Shardplate—tried to push the enemy back.
Kaladin wavered, dizzy, dismayed at the sight of so many men running, shouting, firing arrows and throwing spears. Five bridgemen, probably dead, lost in all of that—
He spotted a figure huddled just beside the chasm lip with arrows flying back and forth over his head. It was Dabbid, one of the bridgemen. He curled up, arm twisted at an awkward angle.
Kaladin charged in. He threw himself to the ground and crawled beneath the zipping arrows, hoping that the Parshendi would ignore a couple of unarmed bridgemen. Dabbid didn’t even notice when Kaladin reached him. He was in shock, lips moving soundlessly, eyes dazed. Kaladin grabbed him awkwardly, afraid to stand up too high lest an arrow hit him.
He dragged Dabbid away from the edge in a clumsy half crawl. He kept slipping on blood, falling, abrading his arms on the rock, hitting his face against the stone. He persisted, towing the younger man out from underneath the flying arrows. Finally, he got far enough away that he risked standing. He tried to pick up Dabbid. But his muscles were so weak. He strained and slipped, exhausted, falling to the stones.
He lay there, gasping, the pain of his side finally washing over him.
So tired….
He stood up shakily, then tried again to grab Dabbid. He blinked away tears of frustration, too weak to even pull the man.
“Airsick lowlander,” a voice growled.
Kaladin turned as Rock arrived. The massive Horneater grabbed Dabbid under the arms, pulling him. “Crazy,” he grumbled to Kaladin, but easily lifted the wounded bridgeman and carried him back to the hollow.
Kaladin followed. He collapsed in the hollow, his back to the rock. The surviving bridgemen huddled around him, eyes haunted. Rock set Dabbid down.
“Four more,” Kaladin said between gasps. “We have to find them….”
“Murk and Leyten,” Teft said. The older bridgeman had been near the back this run, and hadn’t taken any wounds. “And Adis and Corl. They were in the front.”
That’s right,
Kaladin thought, exhausted.
How could I forget….
“Murk is dead,” he said. “The others might live.” He tried to stumble to his feet.
“Idiot,” Rock said. “Stay here. Is all right. I will do this thing.” He hesitated. “Guess I’m an idiot too.” He scowled, but went back out onto the battlefield. Teft hesitated, then chased after him.
Kaladin breathed in and out, holding his side. He couldn’t decide if the pain of the arrow impact hurt more than the cut.
Save lives….
He crawled over to the three wounded. Hobber—with an arrow through the leg—would wait, and Dabbid had only a broken arm. Gadol was the worst off, with that hole in his side. Kaladin stared at the wound. He didn’t have an operating table; he didn’t even have antiseptic. How was he supposed to do anything?
He shoved despair aside. “One of you go fetch me a knife,” he told the bridgemen. “Take it off the body of a soldier who has fallen. Someone else build a fire!”
The bridgemen looked at each other.
“Dunny, you get the knife,” Kaladin said as he held his hand to Gadol’s wound, trying to stanch the blood. “Narm, can you make a fire?”
“With what?” the man asked.
Kaladin pulled off his vest and shirt, then handed the shirt to Narm. “Use this as tinder and gather some fallen arrows for wood. Does anyone have flint and steel?”
Moash did, fortunately. You carried anything valuable you had with you on a bridge run; other bridgemen might steal it if you left it behind.