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“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.
