The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,100

also meant that there wouldn’t be much Kaladin could do to punish his own crew, even if he’d had that authority. He had to motivate them in another way. He crossed the lumberyard to where the carpenters were constructing new bridges. After some searching, Kaladin found what he wanted—a thick plank waiting to be fitted into a new portable bridge. A handhold for a bridgeman had been affixed to one side.

“Can I borrow this?” Kaladin asked a passing carpenter.

The man raised a hand to scratch a sawdust-powdered head. “Borrow it?”

“I’ll stay right here in the lumberyard,” Kaladin explained, lifting the board and putting it on his shoulder. It was heavier than he’d expected, and he was thankful for the padded leather vest.

“We’ll need it eventually…” the carpenter said, but didn’t offer enough of an objection to stop Kaladin from walking away with the plank.

He chose a level stretch of stone directly in front of the barracks. Then he began to trot from one end of the lumberyard to the other, carrying the board on his shoulder, feeling the heat of the rising sun on his skin. He went back and forth, back and forth. He practiced running, walking, and jogging. He practiced carrying the plank on his shoulder, then carrying it up high, arms stretched out.

He worked himself ragged. In fact, he felt close to collapsing several times, but every time he did, he found a reserve of strength from somewhere. So he kept moving, teeth gritted against the pain and fatigue, counting his steps to focus. The apprentice carpenter he’d spoken to brought a supervisor over. That supervisor scratched his head beneath his cap, watching Kaladin. Finally, he shrugged, and the two of them withdrew.

Before long, he drew a small crowd. Workers in the lumberyard, some soldiers, and a large number of bridgemen. Some from the other bridge crews called gibes, but the members of Bridge Four were more withdrawn. Many ignored him. Others—grizzled Teft, youthful-faced Dunny, several more—stood watching in a line, as if they couldn’t believe what he was doing.

Those stares—stunned and hostile though they were—were part of what kept Kaladin going. He also ran to work out his frustration, that boiling, churning pot of anger within. Anger at himself for failing Tien. Anger at the Almighty for creating a world where some dined in luxury while others died carrying bridges.

It felt surprisingly good to wear himself down in a way he chose. He felt as he had those first few months after Tien’s death, training himself on the spear to forget. When the noon bells rang—calling the soldiers to lunch—Kaladin finally stopped and set the large plank down on the ground. He rolled his shoulder. He’d been running for hours. Where had he found the strength?

He jogged over to the carpenter’s station, dripping sweat to the stones, and took a long drink from the water barrel. The carpenters usually chased off bridgemen who tried that, but none said a word as Kaladin slurped down two full ladles of metallic rainwater. He shook the ladle free and nodded to a pair of apprentices, then jogged back to where he’d left the plank.

Rock—the large, tan-skinned Horneater—was hefting it, frowning.

Teft noticed Kaladin, then nodded to Rock. “He bet a few of us a chip each that you’d used a lightweight board to impress us.”

If they could have felt his exhaustion, they wouldn’t have been so skeptical. He forced himself to take the plank from Rock. The large man let it go with a bewildered look, watching as Kaladin ran the plank back to where he’d found it. He waved his thanks to the apprentice, then trotted back to the small cluster of bridgemen. Rock was reluctantly paying out chips on his bet.

“You’re dismissed for lunch,” Kaladin told them. “We have afternoon bridge duty, so be back here in an hour. Assemble at the mess hall at last bell before sundown. Our camp chore today is cleaning up after supper. Last one to arrive has to do the pots.”

They gave him bemused expressions as he trotted away from the lumberyard. Two streets away, he ducked into an alleyway and leaned against the wall. Then, wheezing, he sank to the ground and stretched out.

He felt as if he’d strained every muscle in his body. His legs burned, and when he tried to make his hand into a fist, the fingers were too weak to fully comply. He breathed in and out in deep gasps, coughing. A passing soldier peeked in, but