The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,233

thin rounds off a log. Those would probably become chair seats.

He ran his fingers along the smooth hardwood. All mobile bridges were made of a kind of wood called makam. It had a deep brown color, the grain almost hidden, and was both strong and light. The craftsmen had sanded this length smooth, and it smelled of sawdust and musky sap.

“Kaladin?” Syl asked, walking through the air then stepping onto the wood. “You look distant.”

“It’s ironic how well they craft these bridges,” he said. “This army’s carpenters are far more professional than its soldiers.”

“That makes sense,” she said. “The craftsmen want to make bridges that last. The soldiers I listen to, they just want to get to the plateau, grab the gemheart, and get away. It’s like a game to them.”

“That’s astute. You’re getting better and better at observing us.”

She grimaced. “I feel more like I’m remembering things I once knew.”

“Soon you’ll hardly be a spren at all. You’ll be a little translucent philosopher. We’ll have to send you off to a monastery to spend your time in deep, important thoughts.”

“Yes,” she said, “like how to best get the ardents there to accidentally drink a mixture that will turn his mouth blue.” She smiled mischievously.

Kaladin smiled back, but kept running his finger across the wood. He still didn’t understand why they wouldn’t let bridgemen carry shields. Nobody would give him a straight answer on the question. “They use makam because it’s strong enough for its weight to support a heavy cavalry charge,” he said. “We should be able to use this. They deny us shields, but we already carry one on our shoulders.”

“But how would they react if you try that?”

Kaladin stood. “I don’t know, but I also don’t have any other choice.”

Trying this would be a risk. A huge risk. But he’d run out of nonrisky ideas days ago.

“We can hold it here,” Kaladin said, pointing for Rock, Teft, Skar, and Moash. They stood beside a bridge turned up on its side, its underbelly exposed. The bottom was a complicated construction, with eight rows of three positions accommodating up to twenty-four men directly underneath, then sixteen sets of handles—eight on each side—for sixteen more men on the outside. Forty men, running shoulder to shoulder, if they had a full complement.

Each position underneath the bridge had an indentation for the bridgeman’s head, two curved blocks of wood to rest on his shoulders, and two rods for handholds. The bridgemen wore shoulder pads, and those who were shorter wore extras to compensate. Gaz generally tried to assign new bridgemen to crews based on their height.

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