The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,125

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