Meantime, Lugh’s passed th’other end of the rope around his chest. Another slipknot to secure him an he’s ready to go. He straddles the girder. I hand him the blastpack. He tucks it snugly in his coat an starts to hitch along. Up up up towards the middle of the bridge. I pay out the rope as he goes.
Easy now, no hurry, I tell him.
I ain’t got it in mind to run, he says.
He reaches the vee of the new wooden struts. Now he’s gotta pick his way past ’em. Gimme some play on the rope, he says.
Usin the first strut to help him, he gits into a crouch. Then he stands up on the girder. My breath stalls as he makes his way around, over an between the two struts, huggin ’em as he goes. It’s awkward. He places his feet with care. I make sure the rope don’t hamper him.
Then he’s done it. He smiles. Slippy fer the feet, he says. His teeth gleam white in the gloom.
Once agin, he straddles the girder. Once agin, he inches hisself along. Along an up towards the centre of the bridge as I pay out the rope. Unease pricks my skin. Don’t listen to the roar of the river below. Don’t think about the sharpness of the rocks. He slides the blastpack from his coat.
Make sure you wedge it tight, I says. Go slow, Lugh, be careful.
Would you hush, he says.
A wolfdog howl shivers the air. It’s Tracker. It’s the signal.
Someone’s comin, I says.
Git the lights, he says.
But the rope—
Douse the lights!
Don’t move, stay there, I order you! I drop the rope an rush to snatch the torches. I shove ’em flame first in the rocks to douse ’em. As I grab the last one, as I turn to make sure Lugh’s okay, I see him reach out. Reach to jam the blastpack into place.
Reach.
Lose his balance.
An fall.
I scramble down the rocks. Leap to grab the rope. With a rush, it snaps taut. Reefed to full length by the weight of Lugh’s body, it catches on the vee of the struts.
Lugh hangs in thin air, high above the river. Held by nuthin but the rope around his chest. In one hand, he clutches the fuse cord by its end. The blastpack dangles far below him.
I fling myself onto the girder. Scrabble along it as fast as I can. Nero swoops an screeches in a panic. Shut up, I hiss.
I clamber into the vee. Wedge myself in. Reach down. Grab hold of the rope. To do what, I dunno. The blood’s poundin in my ears. My gut’s like water.
Lugh stares up at me. His face tight with terror. He twists an swings. The rope creaks.
Then we hear it. Faint at first. The beat of hoofs on the road. Comin at us from the west. A horse snorts. Bridle jingles. Metal. That means primo gear. Two riders. Not in a hurry but not laggin neether. Then they’re upon us. I don’t dare breathe as, not five foot above me, iron-shod hoofs clatter over the bridge. As Lugh hangs from it below. As he twists. An creaks. One rider says somethin. The second one laughs. Two men.
They pass onto the road. I breathe agin. The sounds of ’em start to fade. As the road curves around the hill to the east, I git a clear sight of their backs.
They ride well-groomed mounts with polished kit. Their leather knee boots gleam. They’re turned out neat, with short cropped hair. Dressed head to toe in black. Long black robes. It’s the Tonton. DeMalo’s militia men. In the middle of the night. At the edge of nowhere. What the hell’re they doin out here? They disappear around the bend.
Tonton, I tell Lugh.
Swing me, he says.
What?
Swing me to the side!
I git what he means right away. There’s bushes an tough little trees rooted in the steep sides of the Defile. If I can swing him—some ten foot or so—he can try to grab hold of one an climb to safety. I start workin at the rope. Towards the rocks, then back agin. I’m strong, but I’m crammed an cramped an Lugh’s a dead weight. He hardly moves.
Keep goin, he says. Harder.
I pull. Let go. Pull. Let go. My muscles burn. My shoulders scream. Inch by inch, I labour. I rage the red hot. Make it forge my strength.
Work with me, I gasp. Breathe with me. Out on the out. In on the in. An lean yer weight.
Our eyes fix on each other. We start to work together. Breathe together. Out as I pull. In as I let go. An he leans his weight … on the out … an the in. Bit by bit, it goes more easy. We swing him out. We swing him back. He goes a little further with every breath.
There’s a rush of feet an Tommo hustles down the side of the bridge. Sent by Creed to see what’s wrong. He takes in our plight at a glance, with a curse. He scrambles down the rocks, further into the gash of the Defile. He finds a handhold on a sturdy scrub tree. He gits in position to grab Lugh the moment he swings close enough.
We swing once, twice, an—
Now! says Lugh.
His arm reaches out as he sails towards Tommo. Tommo stretches to meet him. They grab hands. The force of Lugh’s backswing sweeps Tommo off his feet. They let go. Rocks shower as Tommo scrabbles back from his death. He braces hisself more firmly.
Ready, he says.
This time, as their hands grasp, Lugh’s that much closer. Tommo gives a mighty tug. Lugh grabs the tree an they tumble on top of each other. But he’s safe. Lugh’s safe. They both are. I let go a gasp of relief.
While Lugh clings to the tree an recovers his wits, Tommo hauls up the blastpack with care. I motion him to bring it to me quick. He clambers to the bridge an hitches along the girder to where I’m wedged between the struts.
We should abort, he says.
Hand me the pack, I says. Go help Lugh.
I don’t like the feel of this, he says.
Tommo, do as I say! I tuck the pack safe inside my shirt. I git myself around the struts an then, not lettin myself think, not lookin down, I start to move. Along the girder, inch by inch, in the pitch dark unner the bridge, till I feel my head touch the deck. Then, movin slow, oh so careful, I slide the pack out an, with one hand, I feel it into place. I make sure it’s jammed in tight, then I hitch myself backwards, payin out the fusecord as I go.
Then I’m back on solid ground. It’s done. Lugh an Tommo help me down. As we hurry up the hill, a bank of low cloud tumbles in. Damp an white an thick as woodsmoke. I cain’t hardly see my own feet. We run the fuse as straight as we can. Over boulders, between bushes an trees. By the time we reach Creed, there’s a foot or so to spare.
He’s got a lit spill ready. What the hell happened? he says.
Later, I says. Light it, we bin here too long.
The fuse don’t catch right off. Damp, says Creed. It’s this damn cloud. You know what this means? Ash won’t be able to see nuthin. She won’t hear so good neether.
Lugh’s shiverin with shock. I hug his shoulders. Okay? I says.
Thanks to you, he says. An you, Tommo. He grabs Tommo’s hand. Thanks, man. You saved my life.
I dare to take Tommo’s other hand. To my surprise, he don’t pull away. I couldn’t of done it without you, I says. He gives me the tiniest of smiles.
C’mon, c’mon, Creed mutters. The fuse catches. There’s a hiss. It starts to sizzle. But it’s sluggish. C’mon, he says, burn you beauty, gawdamnmit.
Jest then, Tracker’s wail shudders the cloud. Our heads shoot up.
Tommo mouths, What? at me.
It’s Tracker, I says.
But if Tracker’s wailin agin, that means—
My thought dies. The wall of cloud splits an rolls open, like a door. Down below, three Tonton ride into view. Comin from the west, jest like the other two. Behind ’em, two horse-drawn carts rattle along. Creed curses. I snatch my looker.