The Way of Kings (The Stormlight Archive 1)

That didn’t hold for Bridge Four, of course. Bridge Four just got the leftovers.

Kaladin pointed to several rods and struts. “We could grab here, then run straight forward, carrying the bridge on its side to our right at a slant. We put our taller men on the outside and our shorter men on the inside.”

“What good would that do?” Rock asked, frowning.

Kaladin glanced at Gaz, who was watching from nearby. Uncomfortably close. Best not to speak of why he really wanted to carry the bridge on its side. Besides, he didn’t want to get the men’s hopes up until he knew if it would work.

“I just want to experiment,” he said. “If we can shift positions occasionally, it might be easier. Work different muscles.” Syl frowned as she stood on the top of the bridge. She always frowned when Kaladin obscured the truth.

“Gather the men,” Kaladin said, waving to Rock, Teft, Skar, and Moash. He’d named the four as his subsquad commanders, something that bridgemen didn’t normally have. But soldiers worked best in smaller groups of six or eight.

Soldiers, Kaladin thought. Is that how I think of them?

They didn’t fight. But yes, they were soldiers. It was too easy to underestimate men when you considered them to be “just” bridgemen. Charging straight at enemy archers without shields took courage. Even when you were compelled to do it.

He glanced to the side, noticing that Moash hadn’t left with the other three. The narrow-faced man had dark green eyes and brown hair flecked with black.

“Something wrong, soldier?” Kaladin asked.

Moash blinked in surprise at the use of the word, but he and the others had grown to expect all kinds of unorthodoxy from Kaladin. “Why did you make me leader of a subsquad?”

“Because you resisted my leadership longer than almost any of the others. And you were flat-out more vocal about it than any of them.”

“You made me a squad leader because I refused to obey you?”

“I made you squad leader because you struck me as capable and intelligent. But beyond that, you weren’t swayed too easily. You’re strong-willed. I can use that.”

Moash scratched his chin, with its short beard. “All right then. But unlike Teft and that Horneater, I don’t think you’re a gift straight from the Almighty. I don’t trust you.”

“Then why obey me?”

Moash met his eyes, then shrugged. “Guess I’m curious.” He moved off to gather his squad.

What in the raging winds… Gaz thought, dumbfounded as he watched Bridge Four charge past. What had possessed them to try carrying the bridge to the side?

It required them to clump up in an odd way, forming three rows instead of five, awkwardly clutching the underside of the bridge and holding it off to their right. It was one of the strangest things he’d ever seen. They could barely all fit, and the handholds weren’t made for carrying the bridge that way.

Gaz scratched his head as he watched them pass, then held out a hand, stopping Kaladin as he jogged by. The lordling let go of the bridge and hurried up to Gaz, wiping his brow as the others continued running. “Yes?”

“What is that?” Gaz said, pointing.

“Bridge crew. Carrying what I believe is…yes, it’s a bridge.”

“I didn’t ask for lip,” Gaz snarled. “I want an explanation.”

“Carrying the bridge over our heads gets tiring,” Kaladin said. He was a tall man, tall enough to tower over Gaz. Storm it, I will not be intimidated! “This is a way to use different muscles. Like shifting a pack from one shoulder to the other.”

Gaz glanced to the side. Had something moved in the darkness?

“Gaz?” Kaladin asked.

“Look, lordling,” Gaz said, looking back to him. “Carrying it overhead may be tiring, but carrying it like that is just plain stupid. You look like you’re about to stumble over one another, and the handholds are terrible. You can barely fit the men.”

“Yes,” Kaladin said more softly. “But a lot of the time, only half of a bridge crew will survive a bridge run. We can carry it back this way when there are fewer of us. It will let us shift positions, at least.”

Gaz hesitated. Only half a bridge crew…

If they carried the bridge like that on an actual assault, they’d go slowly, expose themselves. It could be a disaster, for Bridge Four at least.

Gaz smiled. “I like it.”

Kaladin looked shocked. “What?”

“Initiative. Creativity. Yes, keep practicing. I’d very much like to see you make a plateau approach carrying the bridge that way.”

Kaladin narrowed his eyes. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Gaz said.

“Well then. Perhaps we will.”

Gaz smiled, watching Kaladin retreat. A disaster was exactly what he needed. Now he just had to find some other way to pay Lamaril’s blackmail.

SIX YEARS AGO

“Don’t make the same mistake I did, son.”

Kal looked up from his folio. His father sat on the other side of the operating room, one hand to his head, half-empty cup of wine in his other. Violet wine, among the strongest of liquors.

Lirin set the cup down, and the deep purple liquid—the color of cremling blood—shivered and trembled. It refracted Stormlight from a couple of spheres sitting on the counter.

“Father?”

“When you get to Kharbranth, stay there.” His voice was slurred. “Don’t get sucked back to this tiny, backward, foolish town. Don’t force your beautiful wife to live away from everyone else she’s ever known or loved.”

Kal’s father didn’t often get drunk; this was a rare night of indulgence. Perhaps because Mother had gone to sleep early, exhausted from her work.

“You’ve always said I should come back,” Kal said softly.

“I’m an idiot.” His back to Kal, he stared at the wall splashed with white light from the spheres. “They don’t want me here. They never wanted me here.”

Kal looked down at his folio. It contained drawings of dissected bodies, the muscles splayed and pulled out. The drawings were so detailed. Each had glyphpairs to designate every part, and he’d committed those to memory. Now he studied the procedures, delving into the bodies of men long dead.

Once, Laral had told him that men weren’t supposed to see beneath the skin. These folios, with their pictures, were part of what made everyone so mistrustful of Lirin. Seeing beneath was like seeing beneath the clothing, only worse.

Lirin poured himself more wine. How much the world could change in a short time. Kal pulled his coat close against the chill. A season of winter had come, but they couldn’t afford charcoal for the brazier, for patients no longer gave offerings. Lirin hadn’t stopped healing or surgery. The townspeople had simply stopped their donations, all at a word from Roshone.

“He shouldn’t be able to do this,” Kal whispered.

“But he can,” Lirin said. He wore a white shirt and black vest atop tan trousers. The vest was unbuttoned, the front flaps hanging down by his sides, like the skin pulled back from the torsos of the men in Kal’s drawings.

“We could spend the spheres,” Kal said hesitantly.