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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.
