The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,237

wasn’t light his father held, but understanding itself. That’s Luten, Kal thought, noticing a man who limped. It was easy to distinguish him, despite the mask. Kal’s father had operated on that leg; it was because of him that Luten could still walk. He recognized others too. Horl was the one with the wide shoulders, Balsas the man wearing the nice new coat.

Lirin didn’t say anything to them at first. He stood with that light blazing, illuminating the entire stone square outside. The men seemed to shrink down, as if they knew he recognized them.

“Well?” Lirin said. “You’ve threatened violence against me. Come. Hit me. Rob me. Do it knowing I’ve lived among you almost my entire life. Do it knowing that I’ve healed your children. Come in. Bleed one of your own!”

The men faded into the night without a word.

“They lived high atop a place no man could reach, but all could visit. The tower city itself, crafted by the hands of no man.”

—Though The Song of the Last Summer is a fanciful tale of romance from the third century after the Recreance, it is likely a valid reference in this case. See page 27 of Varala’s translation, and note the undertext.

They got better at carrying the bridge on its side. But not much better. Kaladin watched Bridge Four pass, moving awkwardly, maneuvering the bridge at their sides. Fortunately, there were plenty of handles on the bridge’s underside, and they’d found how to grip them in the right way. They had to carry it at less steep an angle than he’d wanted. That would expose their legs, but may be he could train them to adjust to it as the arrows flew.

As it was, their carry was slow, and the bridgemen were so bunched up that if the Parshendi managed to drop a man, the others would stumble over him. Lose just a few men, and the balance would be upset so they’d drop it for certain.

This will have to be handled very carefully, Kaladin thought.

Syl fluttered along behind the bridge crew as a flurry of nearly translucent leaves. Beyond her, something caught Kaladin’s eye: a uniformed soldier leading a ragged group of men in a despondent clump. Finally, Kaladin thought. He’d been waiting for another group of recruits. He waved curtly to Rock. The Horneater nodded; he’d take over training. It was time for a break anyway.

Kaladin jogged up the short incline at the rim of the lumberyard, arriving just as Gaz intercepted the newcomers.

“What a sorry batch,” Gaz said. “I thought we’d been sent the dregs last time, but this lot…”

Lamaril shrugged. “They’re yours now, Gaz. Split them up how you like.” He and his soldiers departed, leaving the unfortunate conscripts. Some wore decent clothing; they’d be recently caught criminals. The rest had slave brands on their foreheads. Seeing them brought back feelings that Kaladin had to force down. He still stood on the very top of a steep slope; one wrong step could send him tumbling back down into that despair.

“In a line, you cremlings,” Gaz snapped at the new recruits, pulling free his cudgel and waving it. He eyed Kaladin, but said nothing.

The group of men hastily lined up.

Gaz counted down the line, picking out the taller members. “You five men, you’re in Bridge Six. Remember that. Forget it, and I’ll see you get a whipping.” He counted off another group. “You six men, you’re in Bridge Fourteen. You four at the end, Bridge Three. You, you, and you, Bridge One. Bridge Two doesn’t need any…You four, Bridge Seven.”

That was all of them.

“Gaz,” Kaladin said, folding his arms. Syl landed on his shoulder, her small tempest of leaves forming into a young woman.

Gaz turned to him.

“Bridge Four is down to thirty fighting members.”

“Bridge Six and Bridge Fourteen have fewer than that.”

“They each had twenty-nine and you just gave them both a big helping of new members. And Bridge One is at thirty-seven, and you sent them three new men.”

“You barely lost anyone on the last run, and—”

Kaladin caught Gaz’s arm as the sergeant tried to walk away. Gaz flinched, lifting his cudgel.

Try it, Kaladin thought, meeting Gaz’s eyes. He almost wished that the sergeant would.

Gaz gritted his teeth. “Fine. One man.”

“I pick him,” Kaladin said.

“Whatever. They’re all worthless anyway.”

Kaladin turned to the group of new bridgemen. They’d gathered into clusters by which bridge crew Gaz had put them in. Kaladin immediately turned his attention to the taller men. By slave standards, they appeared well fed.