Perhaps it had done so anyway.
As he watched the battle, he focused on one thing in particular to distract himself. How did the Parshendi treat their dead? Their actions seemed irregular. The Parshendi soldiers rarely disturbed their dead after they fell; they’d take roundabout paths of attack to avoid dead bodies. And when the Alethi marched over the Parshendi dead, they formed points of terrible conflict.
Did the Alethi notice? Probably not. But he could see that the Parshendi revered their dead – revered them to the extent that they would endanger the living to preserve the corpses of the fallen. Kaladin could use that. He would use that. Somehow.
The Alethi eventually won the battle. Before long, Kaladin and his team were slogging back across the plateau, carrying their bridge, three wounded lashed to the top. They had found only those three, and a part of Kaladin felt sick inside as he realized another part of him was glad. He had already rescued some fifteen men from other bridge crews, and it was straining their resources – even with the money from the pouches – to feed them. Their barrack was crowded with the wounded.
Bridge Four reached a chasm, and Kaladin moved to lower his burden. The process was rote to him now. Lower the bridge, quickly untie the wounded, push the bridge across the chasm. Kaladin checked on the three wounded. Every man he rescued this way seemed bemused at what he’d done, even though he’d been doing it for weeks now. Satisfied that they were all right, he moved to stand at parade rest while the soldiers crossed.
Bridge Four fell in around him. Increasingly, they earned scowls from the soldiers – both darkeyed and lighteyed – who crossed. “Why do they do that?” Moash said quietly as a passing soldier tossed an overripe pile-vine fruit at the bridgemen. Moash wiped the stringy, red fruit from his face, then sighed and fell back into his stance. Kaladin had never asked them to join him, but they did it each time.
“When I fought in Amaram’s army,” Kaladin said, “I dreamed about joining the troops at the Shattered Plains. Everyone knew that the soldiers left in Alethkar were the dregs. We imagined the real soldiers, off fighting in the glorious war to bring retribution to those who had killed our king. Those soldiers would treat their fellows with fairness. Their discipline would be firm. Each would be an expert with the spear, and he would not break rank on the battlefield.”
To the side, Teft snorted quietly.
Kaladin turned to Moash. “Why do they treat us so, Moash? Because they know they should be better than they are. Because they see discipline in bridgemen, and it embarrasses them. Rather than bettering themselves, they take the easier road of jeering at us.”
“Dalinar Kholin’s soldiers don’t act like that,” Skar said from just behind Kaladin. “His men march in straight ranks. There is order in their camp. If they’re on duty, they don’t leave their coats unbuttoned or lounge about.”
Will I never stop hearing about Dalinar storming Kholin? Kaladin thought.
Men had spoken that way of Amaram. How easy it was to ignore a blackened heart if you dressed it in a pressed uniform and a reputation for honesty.
Several hours later, the sweaty and exhausted group of bridgemen tramped up the incline to the lumberyard. They dumped their bridge in its resting place. It was getting late; Kaladin would have to purchase food immediately if they were going to have supplies for the evening stew. He wiped his hands on his towel as the members of Bridge Four lined up.
“You’re dismissed for evening activities,” he said. “We have chasm duty early tomorrow. Morning bridge practice will have to be moved to late afternoon.”
The bridgemen nodded, then Moash raised a hand. As one, the bridgemen raised their arms and crossed them, wrists together, hands in fists. It had the look of a practiced effort. After that, they trotted away.
Kaladin raised an eyebrow, tucking his towel into his belt. Teft hung back, smiling.
“What was that?” Kaladin asked.
“The men wanted a salute,” Teft said. “We can’t use a regular military salute – not with the spearmen already thinking we’re too bigheaded. So I taught them my old squad salute.”
“When?”
“This morning. While you were getting our schedule from Hashal.”
Kaladin smiled. Odd, how he could still do that. Nearby, the other nineteen bridge crews on today’s run dropped off their bridges, one by one. Had Bridge Four once looked like them, with those ragged beards and haunted expressions? None of them spoke to one another. Some few glanced at Kaladin as they passed, but they looked down as soon as they saw he was watching. They’d stopped treating Bridge Four with the contempt they’d once shown. Curiously, they now seemed to regard Kaladin’s crew as they did everyone else in camp – as people above them. They hastened to avoid his notice.
Poor sodden fools, Kaladin thought. Could he, maybe, persuade Hashal to let him take a few into Bridge Four? He could the use extra men, and seeing those slumped figures twisted his heart.
“I know that look, lad,” Teft said. “Why is it you always have to help everyone?”
“Bah,” Kaladin said. “I can’t even protect Bridge Four. Here, let me look at that arm of yours.”
“It’s not that bad.”
Kaladin grabbed his arm anyway, peeling away the blood-crusted bandage. The cut was long, but shallow.
“We need antiseptic on this,” Kaladin said, noting a few red rotspren crawling around on the wound. “I should probably sew it up.”
“It’s not that bad!”
“Still,” Kaladin said, waving for Teft to follow as he approached one of the rain barrels alongside the lumberyard. The wound was shallow enough that Teft would probably be able to show the others spear thrusts and blocks tomorrow during chasm duty, but that was no excuse for leaving it alone to fester or scar.
At the rain barrel, Kaladin washed out the wound, then called for Lopen – who was standing in the shade beside the barrack – to bring his medical equipment. The Herdazian man gave that salute again, though he did it with one arm, and sauntered away to get the pack.
“So, lad,” Teft said. “How do you feel? Any odd experiences lately?”
Kaladin frowned, looking up from the arm. “Storm it, Teft! That’s the fifth time in two days you’ve asked me that. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing, nothing!”
“It is something,” Kaladin said. “What is it you’re digging for, Teft? I–”
“Gancho,” Lopen said, walking up, carrying the medical supply pack over his shoulder. “Here you go.”
Kaladin glanced at him, then reluctantly accepted the pack. He pulled the drawstrings open. “We’ll want to–”
A quick motion came from Teft. Like a punch being thrown.
Kaladin moved by reflex, taking in a sharp breath, moving to a defensive stance, arms up, one hand a fist, the other back to block.
Something blossomed within Kaladin. Like a deep breath drawn in, like a burning liquor injected directly into his blood. A powerful wave pulsed through his body. Energy, strength, awareness. It was like the body’s natural alert response to danger, only it was a hundredfold more intense.
Kaladin caught Teft’s fist, moving blurringly quick. Teft froze.
“What are you doing?” Kaladin demanded.
Teft was smiling. He stepped back, pulling his fist free. “Kelek,” he said, shaking his hand. “That’s some grip you’ve got.”
“Why did you try to strike me?”
“I wanted to see something,” Teft said. “You’re holding that pouch of spheres Lopen gave you, you see, and your own pouch with what we’ve gathered lately. More Stormlight than you’ve probably ever carried, at least recently.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” Kaladin demanded. What was that heat inside of him, that burning in his veins?