The Way of Kings (Page 81)

Kaladin got out a sphere for light. The thing Rock had been carrying was an old iron cauldron. Even though it was secondhand, it had cost Kaladin a fair chunk of the knobweed sap money. The Horneater began to unpack supplies from inside the cauldron as Kaladin arranged some wood scraps inside the ring of stones.

“Dunny, water, if you please,” Kaladin said, getting out his flint. Dunny ran off to fetch a bucket from one of the rain barrels. Rock finished emptying the cauldron, laying out small packages that had cost another substantial portion of Kaladin’s spheres. He had only a handful of clearchips left.

As they worked, Hobber limped out of the barrack. He was mending quickly, though the other two wounded that Kaladin had treated were still in bad shape.

“What are you up to, Kaladin?” Hobber asked just as Kaladin got a flame started.

Kaladin smiled, standing. “Have a seat.”

Hobber did just that. He hadn’t lost the near-devotion he’d shown Kaladin for saving his life. If anything, his loyalty had grown stronger.

Dunny returned with a bucket of water, which he poured into the cauldron. Then he and Teft ran off to get more. Kaladin built up the flames and Rock began to hum to himself as he diced tubers and unwrapped some seasonings. In under a half hour, they had a roaring flame and a simmering pot of stew.

Teft sat down on one of the stumps, warming his hands. “This is your secret weapon?”

Kaladin sat down next to the older man. “Have you known many soldiers in your life, Teft?”

“A few.”

“You ever known any who could turn down a warm fire and some stew at the end of a hard day?”

“Well, no. But bridgemen ain’t soldiers.”

That was true. Kaladin turned to the barrack doorway. Rock and Dunny started up a song together and Teft began to clap along. Some of the men from other bridge crews were up late, and they gave Kaladin and the others nothing more than scowls.

Figures shifted inside the barrack, shadows moving. The door was open, and the scents of Rock’s stew grew strong. Inviting.

Come on, Kaladin thought. Remember why we live. Remember warmth, remember good food. Remember friends, and song, and evenings spent around the hearth.

You aren’t dead yet. Storm you! If you don’t come out…

It all suddenly seemed so contrived to Kaladin. The singing was forced, the stew an act of desperation. It was all just an attempt to briefly distract from the pathetic life he had been forced into.

A figure moved in the doorway. Skar—short, square-bearded, and keen-eyed—stepped out into the firelight. Kaladin smiled at him. A forced smile. Sometimes that was all one could offer. Let it be enough, he prayed, standing up, dipping a wooden bowl into Rock’s stew.

Kaladin held the bowl toward Skar. Steam curled from the surface of the brownish liquid. “Will you join us?” Kaladin asked. “Please.”

Skar looked at him, then back down at the stew. He laughed, taking the stew. “I’d join the Nightwatcher herself around a fire if there was stew involved!”

“Be careful,” Teft said. “That’s Horneater stew. Might be snail shells or crab claws floating in it.”

“There is not!” Rock barked. “Is unfortunate that you have unrefined lowlander tastes, but I prepare the food such as I am ordered by our dear bridgeleader.”

Kaladin smiled, letting out a deep breath as Skar sat down. Others trailed out after him, taking bowls, sitting. Some stared into the fire, not saying much, but others began to laugh and sing. At one point, Gaz walked past, eyeing them with his single eye, as if trying to decide if they were breaking any camp regulations. They weren’t. Kaladin had checked.

Kaladin dipped out a bowl of stew and held it toward Gaz. The bridge sergeant snorted in derision and stalked away.

Can’t expect too many miracles in one night, Kaladin thought with a sigh, settling back down and trying the stew. It was quite good. He smiled, joining in the next verse of Dunny’s song.

The next morning, when Kaladin called for the bridgemen to rise, three-quarters of them piled out of the barrack—everyone but the loudest complainers: Moash, Sigzil, Narm, and a couple of others. The ones who came to his call looked surprisingly refreshed, despite the long evening spent singing and eating. When he ordered them to join him in practice carrying the bridge, almost all of those who had risen joined him.

Not everyone, but enough.

He had a feeling that Moash and the others would give in before too long. They’d eaten his stew. Nobody had turned that down. And now that he had so many, the others would feel foolish not joining in. Bridge Four was his.

Now he had to keep them alive long enough for that to mean something.

For I have never been dedicated to a more important purpose, and the very pillars of the sky will shake with the results of our war here. I ask again. Support me. Do not stand aside and let disaster consume more lives. I’ve never begged you for something before, old friend. I do so now.

Adolin was frightened.

He stood beside his father on the staging ground. Dalinar looked…weathered. Creases running back from his eyes, furrows in his skin. Black hair going white like bleached rock along the sides. How could a man standing in full Shardplate—a man who yet retained a warrior’s frame despite his age—look fragile?

In front of them, two chulls followed their handler, stepping up onto the bridge. The wooden span linked two piles of cut stones, a mock chasm only a few feet deep. The chulls’ whiplike antennae twitched, mandibles clacking, fist-size black eyes glancing about. They pulled a massive siege bridge, rolling on creaking wooden wheels.

“That’s much wider than the bridges Sadeas uses,” Dalinar said to Teleb, who stood beside them.

“It’s necessary to accommodate the siege bridge, Brightlord.”

Dalinar nodded absently. Adolin suspected that he was the only one who could see that his father was distressed. Dalinar maintained his usual confident front, his head high, his voice firm when he spoke.

Yet, those eyes. They were too red, too strained. And when Adolin’s father felt strained, he grew cold and businesslike. When he spoke to Teleb, his tone was too controlled.

Dalinar Kholin was suddenly a man laboring beneath great weight. And Adolin had helped put him there.

The chulls advanced. Their boulderlike shells were painted blue and yellow, the colors and pattern indicating the island of their Reshi handlers. The bridge beneath them groaned ominously as the larger siege bridge rolled onto it. All around the staging area, soldiers turned to look. Even the workmen cutting a latrine into the stony ground on the eastern side stopped to watch.

The groans from the bridge grew louder. Then they became sharp cracks. The handlers halted the chulls, glancing toward Teleb.

“It’s not going to hold, is it?” Adolin asked.

Teleb sighed. “Storm it, I was hoping…Bah, we made the smaller bridge too thin when we widened it. But if we make it thicker, it will get too heavy to carry.” He glanced at Dalinar. “I apologize for wasting your time, Brightlord. You are correct; this is akin to the ten fools.”

“Adolin, what do you think?” Dalinar asked.

Adolin frowned. “Well…I think perhaps we should keep working with it. This is only the first attempt, Teleb. Perhaps there’s still a way. Design the siege bridges to be narrower, maybe?”

“That could be very costly, Brightlord,” Teleb said.

“If it helps us win one extra gemheart, the effort would be paid for several times over.”

“Yes,” Teleb said, nodding. “I will speak with Lady Kalana. Perhaps she can devise a new design.”

“Good,” Dalinar said. He stared at the bridge for an extended moment. Then, oddly, he turned to look toward the other side of the staging area, where the workers had been cutting the latrine ditch.

“Father?” Adolin asked.

“Why do you suppose,” Dalinar said, “there are no Shardplate-like suits for workmen?”

“What?”

“Shardplate gives awesome strength, but we rarely use it for anything other than war and slaughter. Why did the Radiants fashion only weapons? Why didn’t they make productive tools for use by ordinary men?”

“I don’t know,” Adolin said. “Perhaps because war was the most important thing around.”

“Perhaps,” Dalinar said, voice growing softer. “And perhaps that’s a final condemnation of them and their ideals. For all of their lofty claims, they never gave their Plate or its secrets to the common people.”

“I…I don’t understand why that’s important, Father.”

Dalinar shook himself slightly. “We should get on with our inspections. Where’s Ladent?”

“Here, Brightlord.” A short man stepped up to Dalinar. Bald and bearded, the ardent wore thick, blue-grey layered robes from which his hands barely extended. The effect was of a crab who was too small for his shell. It looked terribly hot, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Send a messenger to the Fifth Battalion,” Dalinar told him. “We’ll be visiting them next.”

“Yes, Brightlord.”

Adolin and Dalinar began to walk. They’d chosen to wear their Shardplate for this day’s inspections. That wasn’t uncommon; many Shardbearers found any excuse they could to wear Plate. Plus, it was good for the men to see their highprince and his heir in their strength.

They drew attention as they left the staging area and entered the warcamp proper. Like Adolin, Dalinar went about unhelmed, though the gorget of his armor was tall and thick, rising like a metal collar up to his chin. He nodded to soldiers who saluted.

“Adolin,” Dalinar said. “In combat, do you feel the Thrill?”

Adolin started. He knew immediately what his father meant, but he was shocked to hear the words. This wasn’t often discussed. “I…Well, of course. Who doesn’t?”

Dalinar didn’t reply. He had been so reserved lately. Was that pain in his eyes? The way he was before, Adolin thought, deluded but confident. That was actually better.

Dalinar said nothing more, and the two of them continued through the camp. Six years had let the soldiers settle in thoroughly. Barracks were painted with company and squad symbols, and the space between them was outfitted with firepits, stools, and canvas-shaded dining areas. Adolin’s father had forbidden none of this, though he had set guidelines to discourage sloppiness.

Dalinar had also approved most requests for families to be brought to the Shattered Plains. The officers already had their wives, of course—a good lighteyes officer was really a team, the man to command and fight, the woman to read, write, engineer, and manage camp. Adolin smiled, thinking of Malasha. Would she prove to be the one for him? She’d been a little cold to him lately. Of course, there was Danlan. He’d only just met her, but he was intrigued.

Regardless, Dalinar had also approved requests by darkeyed common soldiers to bring their families. He even paid half of the cost. When Adolin had asked why, Dalinar had replied that he didn’t feel right forbidding them. The warcamps were never attacked anymore, so there was no danger. Adolin suspected his father felt that since he was living in a luxurious near-palace, his men might as well have the comfort of their families.