The Way of Kings - By Brandon Sanderson Page 0,430

blade—or in this case an arrow—to deflect away from the face. Wouldn’t want to spoil that pretty grin of yours.”

Kaladin smiled, taking back the piece of armor. Leyten had carved it expertly, putting in holes for leather straps to affix it to the jerkin. The chasm was cold and dark at night. With the sky hidden, it felt like a cavern. Only the occasional sparkle of a star high above revealed otherwise.

“How soon can you have them done?” he asked Leyten.

“All five? By the end of the night, likely. The real trick was discovering how to work it.” He knocked on the carapace with the back of his knuckles. “Amazing stuff. Nearly as hard as steel, but half the weight. Hard to cut or break. But if you drill, it shapes easily.”

“Good,” Kaladin said. “Because I don’t want five sets. I want one for each man in the crew.”

Leyten raised an eyebrow.

“If they’re going to start letting us wear armor,” Kaladin said, “everyone gets a suit. Except Shen, of course.” Matal had agreed to let them leave him behind on the bridge runs; he wouldn’t even look at Kaladin now.

Leyten nodded. “All right, then. Better get me some help, though.”

“You can use the wounded men. We’ll cart out as much carapace as we can find.”

His success had translated to an easier time for Bridge Four. Kaladin had pled that his men needed time to find carapace, and Hashal—not knowing any better—had reduced the scavenging quota. She was already pretending—quite smoothly—that the armor had been her idea the entire time, and was ignoring the question of where it had come from in the first place. When she met Kaladin’s eyes, however, he saw worry. What else would he try? So far, she hadn’t dared remove him. Not while he brought her so much praise from Sadeas.

“How did an apprentice armorer end up as a bridgeman anyway?” Kaladin asked as Leyten settled back down to work. He was a thick-armed man, stout and oval-faced with light hair. “Craftsmen don’t usually get thrown away.”

Leyten shrugged. “When a piece of armor breaks and a lighteyes takes an arrow in the shoulder, someone has to take the blame. I’m convinced my master keeps an extra apprentice especially for those kinds of situation.”

“Well, his loss is our good fortune. You’re going to keep us alive.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.” He smiled. “Can’t do much worse on the armor than you did yourself, though. It’s amazing that breastplate didn’t fall off halfway through!”

Kaladin patted the bridgeman on the shoulder, then left him to his work, surrounded by a small ring of topaz chips; Kaladin had gotten permission to bring them, explaining his men needed light to work on the armor. Nearby, Lopen, Rock, and Dabbid were returning with another load of salvage. Syl zipped ahead, leading them.

Kaladin walked down the chasm, a garnet sphere looped in a small leather carrier at his belt for light. The chasm branched here, making a large triangular intersection—a perfect place for spear training. Wide enough to give the men room to practice, yet far enough from any permanent bridges that scouts weren’t likely to hear echoes.

Kaladin gave the initial instructions each day, then let Teft lead the practice. The men worked by sphere light, small piles of diamond chips at the corners of the intersection, barely enough to see by. Never thought I’d envy those days practicing beneath the hot sun back in Amaram’s army, he thought.

He walked up to gap-toothed Hobber and corrected his stance, then showed him how to set his weight behind his spear thrusts. The bridgemen were progressing quickly, and the fundamentals were proving their merit. Some were training with the spear and the shield, practicing stances where they held lighter spears up beside the head with the shield raised.

The most skilled were Skar and Moash. In fact, Moash was surprisingly good. Kaladin walked to the side, watching the hawk-faced man. He was focused, eyes intense, jaw set. He moved in attack after attack, the dozen spheres giving him an equal number of shadows.

Kaladin remembered feeling such dedication. He’d spent a year like that, after Tien’s death, driving himself to exhaustion each day. Determined to get better. Determined never to let another person die because of his lack of skill. He’d become the best in his squad, then the best in his company. Some said he’d been the best spearmen in Amaram’s army.

What would have happened to him, if Tarah hadn’t coaxed him out of his single-minded