The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,198

surface of the brownish liquid. “Will you join us?” Kaladin asked. “Please.”

Skar looked at him, then back down at the stew. He laughed, taking the stew. “I’d join the Nightwatcher herself around a fire if there was stew involved!”

“Be careful,” Teft said. “That’s Horneater stew. Might be snail shells or crab claws floating in it.”

“There is not!” Rock barked. “Is unfortunate that you have unrefined lowlander tastes, but I prepare the food such as I am ordered by our dear bridgeleader.”

Kaladin smiled, letting out a deep breath as Skar sat down. Others trailed out after him, taking bowls, sitting. Some stared into the fire, not saying much, but others began to laugh and sing. At one point, Gaz walked past, eyeing them with his single eye, as if trying to decide if they were breaking any camp regulations. They weren’t. Kaladin had checked.

Kaladin dipped out a bowl of stew and held it toward Gaz. The bridge sergeant snorted in derision and stalked away.

Can’t expect too many miracles in one night, Kaladin thought with a sigh, settling back down and trying the stew. It was quite good. He smiled, joining in the next verse of Dunny’s song.

The next morning, when Kaladin called for the bridgemen to rise, three-quarters of them piled out of the barrack—everyone but the loudest complainers: Moash, Sigzil, Narm, and a couple of others. The ones who came to his call looked surprisingly refreshed, despite the long evening spent singing and eating. When he ordered them to join him in practice carrying the bridge, almost all of those who had risen joined him.

Not everyone, but enough.

He had a feeling that Moash and the others would give in before too long. They’d eaten his stew. Nobody had turned that down. And now that he had so many, the others would feel foolish not joining in. Bridge Four was his.

Now he had to keep them alive long enough for that to mean something.

For I have never been dedicated to a more important purpose, and the very pillars of the sky will shake with the results of our war here. I ask again. Support me. Do not stand aside and let disaster consume more lives. I’ve never begged you for something before, old friend. I do so now.

Adolin was frightened.

He stood beside his father on the staging ground. Dalinar looked…weathered. Creases running back from his eyes, furrows in his skin. Black hair going white like bleached rock along the sides. How could a man standing in full Shardplate—a man who yet retained a warrior’s frame despite his age—look fragile?

In front of them, two chulls followed their handler, stepping up onto the bridge. The wooden span linked two piles of cut stones, a mock chasm only a few feet deep. The chulls’ whiplike antennae twitched, mandibles clacking, fist-size black eyes glancing about. They pulled a massive siege bridge, rolling on creaking wooden wheels.

“That’s much wider than the bridges Sadeas uses,” Dalinar said to Teleb, who stood beside them.

“It’s necessary to accommodate the siege bridge, Brightlord.”

Dalinar nodded absently. Adolin suspected that he was the only one who could see that his father was distressed. Dalinar maintained his usual confident front, his head high, his voice firm when he spoke.

Yet, those eyes. They were too red, too strained. And when Adolin’s father felt strained, he grew cold and businesslike. When he spoke to Teleb, his tone was too controlled.

Dalinar Kholin was suddenly a man laboring beneath great weight. And Adolin had helped put him there.

The chulls advanced. Their boulderlike shells were painted blue and yellow, the colors and pattern indicating the island of their Reshi handlers. The bridge beneath them groaned ominously as the larger siege bridge rolled onto it. All around the staging area, soldiers turned to look. Even the workmen cutting a latrine into the stony ground on the eastern side stopped to watch.

The groans from the bridge grew louder. Then they became sharp cracks. The handlers halted the chulls, glancing toward Teleb.

“It’s not going to hold, is it?” Adolin asked.

Teleb sighed. “Storm it, I was hoping…Bah, we made the smaller bridge too thin when we widened it. But if we make it thicker, it will get too heavy to carry.” He glanced at Dalinar. “I apologize for wasting your time, Brightlord. You are correct; this is akin to the ten fools.”

“Adolin, what do you think?” Dalinar asked.

Adolin frowned. “Well…I think perhaps we should keep working with it. This is only the first attempt, Teleb. Perhaps there’s still a way. Design the