One

Jod was a fool. A storming fool. He was a fool who had dared to think that simple common sense could win an argument. A fool to believe that he could stop the biggest idiot in the ten armies from making a bad decision. But, Stormfather, he couldn't just send that horse off to be killed. A strained ligament on the battlefield could mean death for both horse and rider. But Brightlord Nolin had dismissed his report and taken the horse anyway. And when the horse had stumbled in the middle of battle, throwing one of Brightlord Sadeas' generals, his death warrant had been signed. It hadn't mattered that he had tried to warn the general, he was responsible for the horse's care and he had failed.

So the darkeyed groom had been banished to the place where all of Brightlord Sadeas' failures ended up: the bridge crews.

Part of him wished that they just would have executed him on the spot. It was more honest. He had been a part of Highprince Sadeas' army for four years now. He knew what purpose the bridgemen filled. He had no illusions about what happen to him now that he was one of them.

He was a dead man who just hadn't gotten around to dying yet.

Now Jod had heard the story that if a bridgeman survived one hundred runs that he would reassigned to another duty. But he also realized that the promise was told to booster the hopes of doomed men. Because no one ever survived one hundred bridge runs. No one.

He would be lucky if he survived his first.

When the horns sounded, Jod lined up with the men of Bridge Twelve. His bridgeleader began to shout orders and then quickly gave him a few extra instructions. It was the first time he had heard the man speak and he had joined his crew hours ago.

Jod took his place on the outside row and hoisted the bridge onto his shoulders. Holding the bridge was not natural and his muscles screamed in protest. Thankfully, he was used to leading stubborn warhorses around or he might have struggled with the weight. However, the physical demands of carrying a bridge with forty other men for hours was more difficult than anything else he had ever done. So when his exhausted body stumbled, he almost caused his section of the bridge to fall. As he forced himself back to his feet, the man next to him growled, "Storming fool, take deep breaths and count your steps or you're going to get us all killed."

Jod gritted his teeth and took the insult in stride. The advice was good even though the manner in which it had been delivered was harsh. Counting his steps did make things easier as he fell into a rhythm.

The bridgeleader began to bark out orders as they reached the first chasm. "Bridge down! Push!"

Collapse.

They last order was not spoken. But as soon as the bridge was placed the men quickly stumbled off to the side and lay down on the ground while the army crossed. It was a moment of blessed respite that was much too short. For all too soon he was lifting and running again.

When the bridgemen finally came within sight of the final plateau, a wave of intense relief hit him. They had beaten the Parshendi to the chasmfiend! The horrific death he had imagined would not rain down upon him.

He would survive to fight another day.

Four

Jod had been lucky and he knew it. The easy runs couldn't last forever. It was only a matter of time before he would be asked to charge a plateau that the Parshendi had already taken, and as he saw the line of chanting marble-skinned monsters, he feared that his luck had run out.

The one small mercy was that he was running on an inside row. However, when the arrows started coming, he kept moving because he knew he would trampled from behind if he did not.

Men died all around him causing the bridge become heavier, but he did not stop running as he forced himself to keep up. Finally, they reached the chasm, threw the bridge down, and pushed it across. Once the bridge was in place, Jod collapsed to the ground. He barely managed to roll out of the way before the cavalry charged across the newly laid bridge.

Seven

Deathline. That was what all bridgemen called it. The line of five men who ran the last leg at the front of the bridge. Five men who were prime targets for Parshendi arrows.

It was the spot that all bridgemen dreaded to hold. You prayed that your turn came when your army arrived at the plateau first. But it felt like that never happened.

As they charged, Jod had a clear view in front of him and it was a view that made him wish that he had time to make peace with the Almighty.

The arrows flew and Jod was sure he was dead, but he was still standing when the others finished falling. Keep running, he told himself.

An arrow brushed against his cheek and felled the man behind him. The third wave was pure torture as he stood alone in the deathline.

The crew placed the bridge before the fourth wave came which meant they were safe. The Parshendi never bothered bridgemen after their bridge was down. They had more pressing concerns as soldiers began to pour onto their plateau.

Jod didn't watch. Instead he just laid flat on his back, staring at the sky. He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, but he had survived a bad run from the death position. He was alive and the four others up front with him were dead.

Was the Almighty watching out for him or was God simply saving him for an even more gruesome death?

Against all odds, Jod had someone survived five, six…no seven, he had survived seven runs.

Seven. It felt so far away from the needed one hundred – the number that he would never live to reach. But if he made seven was it too much to believe that he would make eight? He had stared death in the face today and came out alive. He could survive at least one more day in the damnation that was Bridge Twelve.

Thirteen

The boy didn't know what he had gotten into. He was a skinny runt of a Herdazian. He looked like he would be barely able to hold a bridge. But he was all smiles as he had been assigned to Bridge Twelve. Jod hadn't forgotten who he had come right up to him, held out his hand and said, "My name is Rafen. What's yours, gancho?"

Jod had turned away. A boy like that wouldn't last long. He couldn't risk getting attached.

It hadn't worked.

For when he starting searching the dead for spheres, he discovered the boy. He had been struck by an arrow and then trampled by those behind him. The sight of that hopeful friendly face now mangled beyond recognition was too much and he let out a strangled cry.

Laugher caused his head to snap up. Two soldiers were looking in his direction. Their faces told him that they found his grief amusing. As much as Jod wanted to punch the men in the face, he forced himself to remain still. No good would come of it.

But as the soldiers walked away, he came to one very important realization.

The Parshendi were not the real monsters in this war.

Twenty-Eight

Bridgeleader.

It was not a responsibility that he ever wanted. He had never wanted to order men to their deaths. To give commands that did nothing to improve their chances for survival. But being bridgeleader carried with it a small reward: safety. He would never again run deathline. He would be the most protected member of the crew. Even if the bridge fell, his odds of living would be higher than any other member of the crew.

As bridgeleader he just might have a chance of reaching one hundred runs.

However, part of his mind whispered that it was a lie. That he had witnessed two bridgeleaders in Bridge Twelve die just like any other bridgeman. Sure they died slower, but they still died. There was barely any point in living. There was no reason to keep up the count. No reason to prolong the inevitable end.

But prolong it he did. Rationally, he knew he'd never live to reach one hundred. But yet he couldn't stop. He had to try.

The count was the only thing he had left to live for.

Thirty-Six

Worse. No matter how bad his life was, he knew that is was possible for things to get worse. Much worse.

"Line up, cremlings!" screamed Gaz, the one-eyed sergeant charged with keeping the bridge crews in line, at the pathetic and downtrodden men of Bridge Four.

Bridge Four looked exhausted. They had chasm duty last night and it looked like none of them slept. They were also low on men; if the Parshendi beat them to the plateau, there was no way that bridge was getting placed.

But as far as the Alethi were concerned, Bridge Four didn't have to place their bridge to succeed. They just had to die. Each bridgemen that died was a soldier that didn't. And each time Bridge Four fell, another bridge crew made it out alive. That was reasoning behind Bridge Four – a crew made up entirely of the failures, the rejects and the scum of the bridge crews. And that was saying something when the rest the bridge crews were also made up of nothing but the failures, the rejects and the scum of the human race.

Bridge Twelve may be its very own circle of damnation, but there was at least one level of hell that Jod prayed that he would never live to experience.

Forty-Two

What was honor? That was the question on Jod's mind as he jogged across the Shattered Plains. The crew, his crew, was short a man. The missing man had visited the Honor Chasm last night.

A man had jumped to his death; he had made a choice that the army called honorable. Bridgemen commonly referred to it as the only honorable choice they had left. But Jod wasn't so sure.

Was it courageous, on knowing that your death was guaranteed, to pick a death that provides no benefit to army who sought to benefit from it? Or was it cowardly to stop fighting, to give up and let those who had sentenced you to death win?

And if he believed it was an honorable choice then what stopped Jod from making the same decision? What caused him to face uncertain death forty-two times, when a certain death was right there for the taking?

What was the more honorable choice – the count or the jump?

Fifty

Jod sank to the ground in the middle of the carnage. Dead bridgemen lay beside him on his right and on his left. However, he barely even noticed. The dead were a familiar companion these days.

His bridge was a mangled mess of wood behind them. They had failed. Their bridge hadn't been placed. He was one of small handful of men who had survived. It hadn't been the first time and, if he continued to live, it wouldn't be the last. He wouldn't even have to explain the loss of his bridge to his superiors. This failure wouldn't even faze them. When he returned to camp, they would give him a new bridge, a new crew. The army would continue to keep throwing his men at the Parshendi until they died. Bridgemen lives were worth less than a chip. There was always some other poor soul they could find to send to their death.

Sixty-One

The sun beat down. The rocks dug into his feet, the Parshendi chanted and all Jod could do was continue running, continue counting his steps. One, two, three, four...

He couldn't afford to think about the pain, to think about the weight of the bridge, to think about the possibility that he might die. …eleven, twelve, thirteen…

He counted his steps. He counted his runs.

Counting was only thing that kept him sane.

That was as long as he didn't count the growing number of the dead.

Seventy-Eight

Exhausted, Jod dragged himself and his bridge back toward camp. His orders to Bridge Twelve were lifeless and weary. Yet, every man summoned every ounce of energy they had to carry them out. They could not afford to be seen as slacking. Not after the army had lost the plateau. The army would be in a sour mood and his crew did not want to give any reasons for the soldiers to take out their anger on them.

But, as Jod worked, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched. Once he finished sliding the bridge into place, he glanced around and spotted Gaz glaring at him with his single eye.

Turning away, Jod sat down on the ground. He needed to rest his body while the army crossed over the chasm, but he couldn't get Gaz out of his mind. For in the bridge crews, attention was dangerous. Part of the reason Jod had survived so long was due to the lengths he undertook to stay unnoticed. But, he realized, that it was his survival that was making him noticeable. He didn't think that there was a man who had served in the bridge crews longer than him. And Gaz knew it. The man had to know that he was getting close a hundred runs.

Well, let the blasted man keep on watching. He was going to keep on surviving.

Eighty-Six

Jod wondered what sort of man could sleep in the middle of a battle, because he lay on the ground he was sorely tempted to try. The fact that Alethi and Parshendi were busy killing one another only a short distance away barely even registered in his mind. He was desensitized to it all. After all, his skin was covered with flecks of blood of other men and his only thought was annoyance that he would have to waste drinking water to clean it off.

A small part of him worried that the longer the survived, the less of his humanity he retained. That part of him wondered if would there even be a living man left if his body survived his tour in the bridge crews. Thankfully, that part of him was becoming easier and easier to ignore.

Glancing over at the battle that showed no signs of slowing down, Jod closed his eyes. Someone would wake him when they searched his body for spheres.

Ninety-Nine

Arrows were loosed. Men screamed. Bridgemen died. Jod ignored it all. It didn't matter that half the Parshendi army was shooting at them. He refused to die. He would place this bridge. He had to.

Yelling at his men to run faster, Jod focused only on maintaining his grip and the pounding of his feet. He was too close to fail now.

He would survive this run.

He would survive this battle.

He would make it to a hundred runs.

One Hundred

After everything that he had lived through, after everything that he had experienced, Jod couldn't believe that it all was ending so easily. For in his final run, the chasmfiend had appeared on the first plateau past their permanent bridges. They had been able to walk to where they needed to place their bridge. The soldiers had secured the gemheart before their scouts had spotted the first Parshendi.

And as he helped carry his bridge back to camp there nothing, nothing that was going to wipe that smile off of his face.

Jod lingered in the yard, while the others returned to the barracks. He didn't want to wait for Gaz to send for him. He was impatient to finally be free. After, searching the yard, he spotted Gaz reporting to Brightlord Lamiral. The bridgeman edged closer to the two men, but he didn't get too close. He would wait for the men to finish.

Gaz frowned as he noticed him standing there. "Move along, bridgeman."

Sensing Gaz's hostility, he knew he had to press his case now, while the Brightlord was watching. Gaz would have to allow his transfer if his superior ordered it. "Please excuse my interruption, Brightlord Lamiral, Sergeant," Jod said, nodding at each man. "I am waiting for my new assignment."

Gaz sputtered. "You're…new assignment? Who do you think you are?"

"Sarge, I've just finished my hundredth run. I get to be reassigned after a hundred runs."

Gaz's face turned bright red. "How dare you bother the Brightlord with this ridiculous tale!"

Jod began to feel fear, but he refused to let Gaz bully him. He had earned this. He had done the impossible. He had survived one hundred runs.

Thankfully, the Brightlord seemed intrigued rather than angry. "This matter is easily settled," he said as he gestured for his wife to join him. "The records do not lie."

"Thank you, Brightlord."

"Name?" the lady asked with a disinterested air.

"Jod, Brightness."

The lady studied her scroll. "Bridgeman Jod has participated in forty-three runs."

Forty-three! He could have accepted the count being off by a little. But this was less than half! The records could only be this wrong if the lighteyes had intended for them to be that way.

"Liar!" he screamed and lunged toward Brightlord Lamiral.

Lamiral's guards grabbed him and knocked him the ground. Jod curled up in a ball as the pain from the beating paled in comparison to the pain of the deception that had been played upon him. Upon all bridgemen.

"Hold," Lamaril ordered before the beating progressed too far. "I think I might be able to grant his request for a new assignment after all. Gaz assign this cremling to Bridge Four."

"Yes, Brightlord."

Bridge Four. He could barely breathe when he heard that sentence. There was no doubt now. They wanted him dead. He wouldn't survive a month in Bridge Four. Not at their casualty rate.

Gaz glared at him. Once they were alone, he hissed, "You speak a word of this to any of the other men and I won't wait for a Parshendi arrow to kill you."

Jod slowly rose to his feet. "Gaz, you know I'm not lying. I've served months longer than any other man." He knew his words would do no good, but he refused to back down.

The scarred man leaned forward so no one could overhear. "Bridgeman, then you've been around here long enough to know that no one ever survives one hundred runs. No one. Now report to your new barracks or I will call back those soldiers."

Powerless to protest, powerless to fight back, Jod trudged off to his new assignment. He had lost. He had never been anything but a dead man walking. A body destined for a Parshendi arrow.

That night as he lay in his bunk unable to sleep, he was surprised to find his new bridgeleader standing over him. Jod blinked; what did man want? No one engaged in friendly conversation in the bridge crews, especially not in Bridge Four. Besides, the man had had the desperate, haunted of the man whose job it was to order men to deaths he couldn't prevent. This was not some naïve idealist wanting to have a friendly chat.

"Is it true?" the man asked.

Gaz's warning echoed in his mind as Jod replied, "Does it matter? Brightlord Lamaril says I haven't."

"It matters to me."

He should lie, but he couldn't. Let the cursed lighteyes hang him up during the next highstorm. He was already dead. "I didn't miscount."

The man nodded then turned on his heel and walked out into the night. Jod didn't ask where he was going. He didn't need to. He had just taken away the man's last glimmer of hope.

The bridgeleader had left to carry out the only honorable choice left to him.

The only real question left was: why didn't Jod join him?

One Hundred and One

When Jod woke the next morning, as expected, the bunks were one man short. No one in the barracks commented on the fact. At least not until the horns sounded and Gaz demanded to know what had happened to their bridgeleader.

The truth did little to improve Gaz's already foul mood, though his ire was mostly directed toward a young slave who followed him. The one he called lordling. Jod should be grateful that Gaz was ignoring him after the events of yesterday, but he found himself oddly intrigued by the young man.

Don't say anything, he told himself. Don't get involved. Survive.

But when the slave lined up next to him without sandals or vest, Jod asked himself what doing anything to survive had accomplished. He had survived, but he was in no better position than the day he had been assigned to the bridge crews. He had achieved the impossible and participated in one hundred runs, but he was still here. He was still a dead man who just hadn't gotten around to dying yet.

At least he had survived for awhile, because it looked like Gaz didn't intend for this boy to survive his first run.

"Poor fool." The words were out of Jod's mouth before he could help himself.

"Are you…" the slave began. "Are you talking to me?"

It was too late to be quiet now. He might as well be friendly. "You shouldn't have insulted Gaz. He sometimes lets new men run in an outside row. Sometimes."

The young man nodded. His eyes spoke of a maturity beyond his years. He understood what was going on. This was a man who was a survivor. So when the slave began to struggle, Jod shared some advice. "Breathe in and out deeply. Focus on the steps. Count them. It helps."

Perhaps this man would survive. He certainly had the will to. That would show Gaz.

Jod followed his own advice and pushed thoughts of the young lad out of his mind, focusing only on his own breathing and his steps. Then, after they had placed the bridge at the first chasm, he sank to ground with everyone else.

Well, almost everyone else. What was that foolish boy doing now?

The boy was sitting while everyone else was lying on the ground. And he was staring questioningly at Gaz who had not failed to notice the slave's actions. "He's wondering why you aren't lying down," Jod said, hoping that the kid would get the hint. However, the young man ignored him and Jod returned to his usual state of silence. But then the slave noticed Sadeas, and Jod found himself once more drawn back into conversation. Though he did have to admit; he was amused when the lad mistook the Highprince for the King.

Gaz started yelling and his break was over. Jod wasted no time in taking his spot on the bridge; he didn't want to give the one-eyed man any reason to turn his ire back on him.

A flicker of relief showed on the new man's face. "I'll be glad when we get back."

"Back?" Jod asked.

"We aren't turning around?"

Jod couldn't help but laugh. "Lad, we aren't nearly there yet. Be glad we haven't. Arriving is the worst part."

The following march was one of the longest Jod had been on. And that meant only one thing. This was going to be a bad run. There would be no escaping the waves of Parshendi arrows.

"Switch!" Gaz ordered.

Jod moved automatically to the front of the bridge and the others rushed to their places. The slave Gaz called lordship stood at his right. He was going to have to watch the lad die, unless he managed to die first.

The Parshendi came into view.

One of the others cried out, "Talenelat'Elin, bearer of all agonies. It's going to be a bad one. They're already lined up! It's going to be a bad one!"

Jod knew. He knew in that moment that there would no surviving this run. He just hoped, that against the odds, the young man beside him would manage to. Someone had to survive this damnation. Someone had to live.

A wave of arrows was loosed towards the bridgemen. As he fell, Jod saw a vision of the young slave. He was filled with light, holding a glowing spear as he stood alone against an indescribable monster of darkness. Stormfather, it was terrible.

Then the defeated bridgeman hit the ground and know no more.

Author's Note: All of the spoken dialogue in the final scene comes from Chapter Six of The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson.

Also, I huge thank you to Jaxzan Proditor for being a wonderful beta!