“What do we do, gancho?” Lopen asked.
“We go to the chasms,” Kaladin said. “Just like we’re scheduled to. Then make sure we get some extra sleep tonight, as we’re apparently going to be staying up all night tomorrow.”
“The men will hate going into the chasms at night, lad,” Teft said.
“I know.”
“But we’re not ready for… what we need to do,” Teft said, looking to make sure nobody could hear. It was only him, Kaladin, and Lopen. “It will be another few weeks at least.”
“I know.”
“We won’t last another few weeks!” Teft said. “With Sadeas and Kholin working together, runs happen nearly every day. Just one bad run – one time with the Parshendi drawing bead on us – and it will all be over. We’ll be wiped out.”
“I know!” Kaladin said, frustrated, taking a deep breath and forming fists to keep himself from exploding.
“Gancho!” Lopen said.
“What?” Kaladin snapped.
“It’s happening again.”
Kaladin froze, then looked down at his arms. Sure enough, he caught a hint of luminescent smoke rising from his skin. It was extremely faint – he didn’t have many gemstones near him – but it was there. The wisps faded quickly. Hopefully the other bridgemen hadn’t seen.
“Damnation. What did I do?”
“I don’t know,” Teft said. “Is it because you were angry at Hashal?”
“I was angry before.”
“You breathed it in,” Syl said eagerly, whipping around him in the air, a ribbon of light.
“What?”
“I saw it.” She twisted herself around. “You were mad, you drew in a breath, and the Light… it came too.”
Kaladin glanced at Teft, but of course the older bridgeman hadn’t heard. “Gather the men,” Kaladin said. “We’re going down to our chasm duty.”
“And what about what has happened?” Teft said. “Kaladin, we can’t go on that many bridge runs. We’ll be cut to pieces.”
“I’m doing something about it today. Gather the men. Syl, I need something from you.”
“What?” She landed in front of him and formed into a young woman.
“Go find us a place where some Parshendi corpses have fallen.”
“I thought you were going to do spear practice today.”
“That’s what the men will be doing,” Kaladin said. “I’ll get them organized first. After that, I have a different task.”
Kaladin clapped a quick signal, and the bridgemen made a decent arrowhead formation. They carried the spears they’d stashed in the chasm, secured in a large sack filled with stones and stuck in a crevice. He clapped his hands again, and they rearranged into a double-line wall formation. He clapped again, and they formed into a ring with one man standing behind every two as a quick step – in reserve.
The walls of the chasm dripped with water, and the bridgemen splashed through puddles. They were good. Better than they had any right to be, better – for their level of training – than any team he’d worked with.
But Teft was right. They still wouldn’t last long in a fight. A few more weeks and he’d have them practiced enough with thrusts and shielding one another that they’d begin to be dangerous. Until then, they were just bridgemen who could move in fancy patterns. They needed more time.
Kaladin had to buy them some.
“Teft,” Kaladin said. “Take over.”
The older bridgeman gave one of those cross-armed salutes.
“Syl,” Kaladin said to the spren, “let’s go see these bodies.”
“They’re close. Come on.” She zipped off down the chasm, a glowing ribbon. Kaladin started after her.
“Sir,” Teft called.
Kaladin hesitated. When had Teft started calling him “sir”? Odd, how right that felt. “Yes?”
“You want an escort?” Teft stood at the head of the gathered bridgemen, who were looking more and more like soldiers, with their leather vests and spears held in practiced grips.
Kaladin shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”
“Chasmfiends…”
“The lighteyes have killed any who prowl this close to our side. Besides, if I did run into one, what difference would two or three extra men make?”
Teft grimaced behind his short, greying beard, but offered no further objection. Kaladin continued to follow Syl. In his pouch, he carried the rest of the spheres they’d discovered on bodies while scavenging. They made a habit of keeping some of each discovery and sticking them to bridges, and with Syl helping at scavenging, they now found more than they used to. He had a small fortune in his pouch. That Stormlight – he hoped – would serve him well today.
He got out a sapphire mark for light, avoiding pools of water strewn with bones. A skull protruded from one, wavy green moss growing across the scalp like hair, lifespren bobbing above. Perhaps it should have felt eerie to walk through these darkened slots alone, but they didn’t bother Kaladin. This was a sacred place, the sarcophagus of the lowly, the burial cavern of bridgemen and spearmen who died upon lighteyed edicts, spilling blood down the sides of these ragged walls. This place wasn’t eerie; it was holy.
He was actually glad to be alone with his silence and the remains of those who had died. These men hadn’t cared about the squabbles of those born with lighter eyes than they. These men had cared about their families or – at the very least – their sphere pouches. How many of them were trapped in this foreign land, these endless plateaus, too poor to escape back to Alethkar? Hundreds died each week, winning gems for men who were already rich, winning vengeance for a king long dead.
Kaladin passed another skull, missing its lower jaw, the crown split by an axe’s blow. The bones seemed to watch him, curious, the blue Stormlight in his hand giving a haunted cast to the uneven ground and walls.
The devotaries taught that when men died, the most valiant among them – the ones who fulfilled their Callings best – would rise to help reclaim heaven. Each man would do as he had done in life. Spearmen to fight, farmers to work spiritual farms, lighteyes to lead. The ardents were careful to point out that excellence in any Calling would bring power. A farmer would be able to wave his hand and create great fields of spiritual crops. A spearman would be a great warrior, able to cause thunder with his shield and lightning with his spear.
But what of the bridgemen? Would the Almighty demand that all of these fallen rise and continue their drudgery? Would Dunny and the others run bridges in the afterlife? No ardents came to them to test their abilities or grant them Elevations. Perhaps the bridgemen wouldn’t be needed in the War for Heaven. Only the very most skilled went there anyway. Others would simply slumber until the Tranquiline Halls were reclaimed.
So do I believe again now? He climbed over a boulder wedged in the chasm. Just like that? He wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter. He would do the best he could for his bridgemen. If there was a Calling in that, so be it.
Of course, if he did escape with his team, Sadeas would replace them with others who would die in their stead.
I have to worry about what I can do, he told himself. Those other bridgemen aren’t my responsibility.
Teft talked about the Radiants, about ideals and stories. Why couldn’t men actually be like that? Why did they have to rely on dreams and fabrications for inspiration?
If you flee… you leave all the other bridgemen to be slaughtered, a voice whispered within him. There has to be something you can do for them.
No! he fought back. If I worry about that, I won’t be able to save Bridge Four. If I find a way out, we’re going.
If you leave, the voice seemed to say, then who will fight for them? Nobody cares. Nobody…