The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,238

Two of them looked like they’d—

“Hey, gancho!” a voice said from another group. “Hey! You want me, I think.”

Kaladin turned. A short, spindly man was waving to him. The man had only one arm. Who would assign him to be a bridgeman?

He’d stop an arrow, Kaladin thought. That’s all some bridgemen are good for, in the eyes of the uppers.

The man had brown hair and deep tan skin just a shade too dark to be Alethi. The fingernails on his hand were slate-colored and crystalline—he was a Herdazian, then. Most of the newcomers shared the same defeated look of apathy but this man was smiling, though he wore a slave’s mark on his head.

That mark is old, Kaladin thought. Either he had a kind master before this, or he has somehow resisted being beaten down. The man obviously didn’t understand what awaited him as a bridgeman. No person would smile if they understood that.

“You can use me,” the man said. “We Herdazians are great fighters, gon.” He pronounced that last word like “gone” and it appeared to refer to Kaladin. “You see, this one time, I was with, sure, three men and they were drunk and all but I still beat them.” He spoke at a very quick pace, his thick accent slurring the words together.

He’d make a terrible bridgeman. He might be able to run with the bridge on his shoulders, but not maneuver it. He even looked a little flabby around the waist. Whatever bridge crew got him would put him right in the front and let him take an arrow, then be rid of him.

Gotta do what you can to stay alive, a voice from his past seemed to whisper. Turn a liability into an advantage….

Tien.

“Very well,” Kaladin said, pointing. “I’ll take the Herdazian at the back.”

“What?” Gaz said.

The short man sauntered up to Kaladin. “Thanks, gancho! You’ll be glad you picked me.”

Kaladin turned to walk back, passing Gaz. The bridge sergeant scratched his head. “You pushed me that hard so you could pick the one-armed runt?”

Kaladin walked on without a word for Gaz. Instead, he turned to the one-armed Herdazian. “Why did you want to come with me? You don’t know anything about the different bridge crews.”

“You were only picking one,” the man said. “That means one man gets to be special, the others don’t. I’ve got a good feeling about you. It’s in your eyes, gancho.” He paused. “What’s a bridge crew?”

Kaladin found himself smiling at the man’s nonchalant attitude. “You’ll see. What’s your name?”

“Lopen,” the man said. “Some of my cousins, they call me the Lopen because they haven’t ever heard anyone else named that. I’ve asked around a lot, maybe one hundred…or two hundred…lots of people, sure. And nobody has heard of that name.”

Kaladin blinked at the torrent of words. Did the man ever stop to breathe?

Bridge Four was taking their break, their massive bridge resting on one side and giving shade. The five wounded had joined them and were chatting; even Leyten was up, which was encouraging. He’d been having a lot of trouble walking, what with that crushed leg. Kaladin had done what he could, but the man would always have a limp.

The only one who didn’t talk to the others was Dabbid, the man who had been so profoundly shocked by battle. He followed the others, but he didn’t talk. Kaladin was starting to fear that the man would never recover from his mind fatigue.

Hobber—the round-faced, gap-toothed man who had taken an arrow to the leg—was walking without a crutch. It wouldn’t be long before he could start running bridges again, and a good thing, too. They needed every pair of hands they could get.

“Head to the barrack there,” Kaladin said to Lopen. “There’s a blanket, sandals, and vest for you in the pile at the very back.”

“Sure,” Lopen said, sauntering off. He waved at a few of the men as he passed.

Rock walked up to Kaladin, folding his arms. “Is new member?”

“Yes,” Kaladin said.

“The only kind Gaz would give us, I assume.” Rock sighed. “This thing, we should have expected it. He will give us only the very most useless of bridgemen from now on.”

Kaladin was tempted to say something in the way of agreement, but hesitated. Syl would probably see it as a lie, and that would annoy her.

“This new way of carrying the bridge,” Rock said. “Is not very useful, I think. Is—”

He cut off as a horn call blared over the camp, echoing against stone buildings