that amusing as he moved off into the night, shouldering his spear. He had three more crews to look in on.
The next, Bridge Eighteen, was one of those having problems. Their sergeant, though earnest, didn’t have the presence necessary for a good officer. Or, well, none of the bridgemen had that. He was just particularly weak. Prone to begging instead of ordering, awkward in social situations.
It couldn’t all be blamed on Vet, however. He’d also been given a particularly discordant group of men. Kaladin found the soldiers of Eighteen sitting in isolated bunches, eating their evening meal. No laughter, no camaraderie. They weren’t as solitary as they’d been as bridgemen. Instead, they’d splintered into little cliques who didn’t mingle.
Sergeant Vet called them to order and they rose sluggishly, not bothering to stand in a straight line or salute. Kaladin saw the truth in their eyes. What could he do to them? Surely nothing as bad as their lives had been as bridgemen. So why make an effort?
Kaladin spoke to them of motivation and unity for a time. I’ll need to do another training session in the chasms with this lot, he thought. And if that didn’t work either . . . well, he’d probably have to break them up, stick them in other platoons that were working.
He eventually left Eighteen, shaking his head. They didn’t seem to want to be soldiers. Why had they taken Dalinar’s offer then, instead of leaving?
Because they don’t want to make choices anymore, he thought. Choices can be hard.
He knew how that felt. Storms, but he did. He remembered sitting and staring at a blank wall, too morose to even get up and go kill himself.
He shivered. Those were not days he wanted to remember.
As he made his way toward Bridge Nineteen, Syl floated past on a current of wind in the form of a small patch of mist. She melded into a ribbon of light and zipped around him in circles before coming to rest on his shoulder.
“Everyone else is eating their dinners,” Syl said.
“Good,” Kaladin said.
“That wasn’t a status report, Kaladin,” she said. “It was a point of contention.”
“Contention?” He stopped in the darkness near the barrack of Bridge Nineteen, whose men were doing well, eating around their fire as a group.
“You’re working,” Syl said. “Still.”
“I need to get these men ready.” He turned his head to look at her. “You know something is coming. Those countdowns on the walls . . . Have you seen more of those red spren?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “I think so, at least. In the corners of my eyes, watching me. Very infrequently, but there.”
“Something is coming,” Kaladin said. “That countdown points right toward the Weeping. Whatever happens then, I’ll have the bridgemen ready to weather it.”
“Well, you won’t if you drop dead from exhaustion first!” Syl hesitated. “People really can do that, right? I heard Teft saying he felt like he was going to do so.”
“Teft likes to exaggerate,” Kaladin said. “It’s one mark of a good sergeant.”
Syl frowned. “And that last part . . . was a joke?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.” She looked into his eyes. “Rest anyway, Kaladin. Please.”
Kaladin looked toward Bridge Four’s barrack. It was a distance away, down the rows, but he thought he could hear Rock’s laughter echoing through the night.
Finally, he sighed, acknowledging his exhaustion. He could check on the last two platoons tomorrow. Spear in hand, he turned and hiked back. The advent of darkness meant it would be about two hours before men started turning in for the night. Kaladin arrived to the familiar scent of Rock’s stew, though Hobber—sitting on a tall stump the men had fashioned for him, a blanket across his grey, useless legs—was doing the serving. Rock stood nearby, arms folded, looking proud.
Renarin was there, taking and washing the dishes of those who’d finished. He did that every night, kneeling quietly beside the washbasin in his bridgeman uniform. The lad certainly was earnest. He didn’t display any of the spoiled temperament of his brother. Though he had insisted on joining them, he often sat at the edges of the group, near the back of the bridgemen at night. Such an odd young man.
Kaladin passed Hobber and gripped the man’s shoulder. He nodded, meeting Hobber’s eyes, raising a fist. Fight on. Kaladin reached for some stew, then froze.
Sitting nearby on a log were not one, but three beefy, thick-armed Herdazians. All wore Bridge Four uniforms, and Kaladin only recognized Punio out of the three.
Kaladin found Lopen nearby, staring at