Kaladin walked to the side of the chasm and extracted a discarded spear from some flood-strewn rubble. Once he had it, however, he realized that the spearhead had been knocked off. He almost tossed it aside, then reconsidered.
Spears were dangerous for him to hold. They made him want to fight, and might lead him to think he was who he’d once been: Kaladin Stormblessed, confident squadleader. He wasn’t that man any longer.
It seemed that whenever he picked up weapons, the people around him died – friends as well as foes. So, for now, it seemed good to hold this length of wood; it was just a staff. Nothing more. A stick he could use for training.
He could face returning to the spear another time.
“It’s good that you’re already prepared,” Kaladin said to the men. “Because we don’t have the six weeks I was given to train a new batch of recruits. In six weeks, Sadeas will have half of us dead. I intend to see you all drinking mudbeer in a tavern somewhere safe by the time six weeks have passed.”
Several of them gave a kind of half-cheer at that.
“We’ll have to be fast,” Kaladin said. “I’ll have to push you hard. That’s our only option.” He glanced at the spear haft. “The first thing you need to learn is that it’s all right to care.”
The twenty-three bridgemen stood in a double row. All had wanted to come. Even Leyten, who had been hurt so badly. They didn’t have any who were wounded so badly they couldn’t walk, although Dabbid continued to stare off at nothing. Rock stood with his arms folded, apparently with no intention of learning to fight. Shen, the parshman, stood at the very back. He looked at the ground. Kaladin didn’t intend to put a spear in his hands.
Several of the bridgemen seemed confused by what Kaladin had said about emotions, though Teft just raised an eyebrow and Moash yawned. “What do you mean?” Drehy asked. He was a lanky blond man, long-limbed and muscled. He spoke with a faint accent; he was from somewhere far to the west, called Rianal.
“A lot of soldiers,” Kaladin said, running his thumb across the pole, feeling the grain of the wood, “they think that you fight the best if you’re passionless and cold. I think that’s stormleavings. Yes, you need to be focused. Yes, emotions are dangerous. But if you don’t care about anything, what are you? An animal, driven only to kill. Our passion is what makes us human. We have to fight for a reason. So I say that it’s all right to care. We’ll talk about controlling your fear and anger, but remember this as the first lesson I taught you.”
Several of the bridgemen nodded. Most seemed confused still. Kaladin remembered being there, wondering why Tukks wasted time talking about emotions. He’d thought he understood emotion – his drive to learn the spear had come because of his emotions. Vengeance. Hatred. A lust for the power to exact retribution on Varth and the soldiers of his squad.
He looked up, trying to banish those memories. No, the bridgemen didn’t understand his words about caring, but perhaps they would remember later, as Kaladin had.
“The second lesson,” Kaladin said, slapping the decapitated spear to the rock beside him with a crack that echoed down the chasm, “is more utilitarian. Before you can learn to fight, you’re going to have to learn how to stand.” He dropped the spear. The bridgemen watched him with frowns of disappointment.
Kaladin fell into a basic spearman’s stance, feet wide apart – but not too wide – turned sideways, knees bent in a loose crouch. “Skar, I want you to come try to push me backward.”
“What?”
“Try and throw me off balance,” Kaladin said. “Force me to stumble.”
Skar shrugged and walked forward. He tried to shove Kaladin back, but Kaladin easily knocked his hands aside with a quick snap of the wrist. Skar cursed and came at him again, but Kaladin caught his arm and shoved him backward, causing Skar to stumble.
“Drehy, come help him,” Kaladin said. “Moash, you too. Try to force me off balance.”
The other two joined Skar. Kaladin stepped around the attacks, staying squarely in the middle of them, adjusting his stance to rebuff each attempt. He grabbed Drehy’s arm and yanked him forward, nearly causing him to fall. He stepped into Skar’s shoulder-rush, deflecting the weight of the man’s body and throwing him backward. He pulled back as Moash got his arms on him, causing Moash to overbalance himself.
Kaladin remained completely unfazed, weaving between them and adjusting his center of balance by bending his knees and positioning his feet. “Combat begins with the legs,” Kaladin said as he evaded the attacks. “I don’t care how fast you are with a jab, how accurate you are with a thrust. If your opponent can trip you, or make you stumble, you’ll lose. Losing means dying.”
Several of the watching bridgemen tried to imitate Kaladin, crouching down. Skar, Drehy, and Moash had finally decided to try a coordinated rush, planning to all tackle Kaladin at once. Kaladin held up his hand. “Well done, you three.” He motioned them back to stand with the others. They reluctantly broke off their attacks.
“I’m going to split you into pairs,” Kaladin said. “We’re going to spend all day today – and probably each day this week – working on stances. Learning to maintain one, learning to not lock your knees the moment you’re threatened, learning to hold your center of balance. It will take time, but I promise you if we start here, you’ll learn to be deadly far more quickly. Even if it seems that all you’re doing at first is standing around.”
The men nodded.
“Teft,” Kaladin ordered. “Split them into pairs by size and weight, then run them through an elementary forward spear stance.”
“Aye, sir!” Teft barked. Then he froze, realizing what he’d given away. The speed at which he’d responded made it obvious that Teft had been a soldier. Teft met Kaladin’s eyes and saw that Kaladin knew. The older man scowled, but Kaladin returned a grin. He had a veteran under his command; that was going to make this all a lot easier.
Teft didn’t feign ignorance, and easily fell into the role of the training sergeant, splitting the men into pairs, correcting their stances. No wonder he never takes off that shirt, Kaladin thought. It probably hides a mess of scars.
As Teft instructed the men, Kaladin pointed to Rock, gesturing him over.
“Yes?” Rock asked. The man was so broad of chest that his bridgeman’s vest could barely fasten.
“You said something before,” Kaladin said. “About fighting being beneath you?”
“Is true. I am not a fourth son.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“First son and second son are needed for making food,” Rock said, raising a finger. “Is most important. Without food, nobody lives, yes? Third son is craftsman. This is me. I serve proudly. Only fourth son can be warrior. Warriors, they are not needed as much as food or crafts. You see?”
“Your profession is determined by your birth order?”
“Yes,” Rock said proudly. “Is best way. On the Peaks, there is always food. Not every family has four sons. So not always is a soldier needed. I cannot fight. What man could do this thing before the Uli’tekanaki?”
Kaladin shot a glance at Syl. She shrugged, not seeming to care what Rock did. “All right,” he said. “I’ve got something else I want you to do, then. Go grab Lopen, Dabbid…” Kaladin hesitated. “And Shen. Get him too.”
Rock did so. Lopen was in the line, learning the stances, though Dabbid – as usual – stood off to the side, staring at nothing in particular. Whatever had taken him, it was far worse than regular battle shock. Shen stood beside him, hesitant, as if not certain of his place.
Rock pulled Lopen out of the line, then grabbed Dabbid and Shen and walked back to Kaladin.
“Gancho,” Lopen said, with a lazy salute. “Guess I’ll make a poor spearman, with one hand.”