by Moira Young
I dare a glance at the canyon below. An I wish I hadn’t of. I look away quick. The Defile plunges dizzily, steeply down to the deathly rage of the river. I light Lugh with the torch as he loops his rope around the girder, jest at the point where it spears into the side of the ravine. He ties it off with a slipknot. I light th’other two torches from the first. Then I stick all three into the rocks so’s the unnerside of the bridge is lit.
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 hor
se-drawn carts rattle along. Creed curses. I snatch my looker.
In the first cart, straight-backed on the driver’s bench, a boy an a girl sit side by side. In the white cloudlight, the quarter circle brand stands out starkly on their foreheads. Stewards of the Earth. DeMalo’s Chosen ones.
There’s a spotted kercheef tied round her neck. Her hair ripples loose down her back. She ain’t seen more’n fourteen summers. Him, the boy, about the same. Strong an shinin with health, like all Stewards. So young, they’re probly newly paired outta Edenhome. Chosen fer each other by DeMalo, like the top breedin stock they are. The cart’s piled high with table, chairs, tools an other necessaries fer a life on the land. A life where, though? Surely not the Raze. It’s a wasted, desolate place.
But it’s the second cart that stops my heart.
One Tonton drives. Another sits facin backwards, firestick at the ready, keepin watch over their load. It’s slave workers. Maybe ten, maybe twelve of ’em. Men an women, crammed tight together. Sittin on the floor of the open cart. Shaved heads. Iron collars around their necks. Chained together, like slaves always is here. By the ankles when they’re workin, by the ankles an hands an necks fer transport.
Eight more mounted Tonton bring up the rear. Two great hounds pace beside them. Smooth white skin. Raw pink eyes. Massive heads with powerful jaws.
Ghosthounds, says Creed. Dogs of war.
My eyes flick to the fuse. It’s burnin, still sluggish but steady. Headed fer the bridge an the blastpack. Slaves. Innocent blood. I’m on the move. Throwin down the looker, snatchin my knife from its boot sheath.
Tommo grabs my sleeve. Too late, he says.
I fling him off an I run.
Saba, come back! says Lugh.
I pelt downhill, keepin low, chasin the lit fuse. Gotta beat it. Gotta stop it. Lucky it’s damp. I’m gainin on it. I pass it. Do a quick swing about. Snatch at the unlit fusecord, sweepin my knife in, ready to cut, to kill it.
My feet hit some scree. I slip. I’m fallin. I slam to the ground an I’m gone. I slide on my back, boots first, down the hill. Now the fuse burns brisk, hissin past me, racin home. I wing offa trees, crash into bushes. I flail with a wild hand, reachin fer somethin, anythin at all to stop me. I grab a thick root. Sharp jolt, wrist to socket. I jerk to a sudden halt.
I am. Too late.
The first three Tonton ride onto the bridge. Their horses sound soft thunder. An right behind ’em, the Stewards’ cart, loaded high, rolls onto the boards. The sizzlin fuse nips outta sight. Now the slave cart’s about to hit the bridge. I throw myself face down. Arms around my head, cramped tight to my ears.
It blows. A thick boom shakes the earth. I’m thrown in the air. I land with a thump. Stones an dirt shower down. On top of me. Around me. The sound of the world’s gone dull. Like listenin from deep down in water.
I raise my head. My throat’s choked by a warnin scream. A scream I never gave voice to. I squint through the shift of the cloud. An as the boom starts to fade to heavy, shocked air, I see. In flashes. Like dream shards. Through the rain of debris, I catch glimpses of our work. An my skin shrinks to my bones.
Gone. The three Tonton. All gone. The Stewards in their cart. The blameless beasts. Animals an people, now bloody lumps of flesh. Flung like so much bad meat. On the rocks of the Eastern Defile. Bits of cart. Sticks that was chairs, a table. They smash, slide, tumble an crash. Head fer the river below.
No dream, this. A nightmare. The sight seared cold to my soul. I git to my feet. A cart wheel hurtles from the clouds straight at me. Vengeance slammin down from the sky. I scramble an duck. It hits the ground. Bounces wild. Strikes my shoulder an knocks me flyin.
Fire gobbles at the bridge. Orange flames score the night. Smoke billows an rages.
Then. Sounds fade in. Horses. People. Screams. Cries. Through the smoke an cloud an chaos. A Tonton’s bin crushed by his horse. It strains an thrashes as it struggles to its feet. The slave cart’s shattered. Bodies spilled, sprawled still on the road. Still chained at the wrists.
Somethin flutters down to land on my arm. I pick it off an stare. It’s a tatter of spotted cloth. The Steward’s kercheef, the long-haired girl. It’s wet. Dark wet with her blood.
With a clatter of scree, Lugh skids in. C’mon! He hauls me to my feet. Starts draggin me uphill. What the hell, Saba, what was you thinkin?
The words stick to my lips. I tried to stop it, I says.
There’s a shout from below. We glance back to the road. Tonton. Gittin to their feet. Dazed. They’ve seen us. One points at us. Shouts. Gives orders. Six start to run in our direction. The ghosthounds come with ’em, howlin pursuit. A high-pitched wail, like a winter north wind.
Hurry! Creed an Tommo speed us on with anxious hands.
I grab the whistle. Blow two long blasts. Run! I yell. Go! Run!
Creed grabs Tommo an they’re gone. Scattered to the woods above. Ash’ll hear it too, wherever she is. She’ll head right away fer the meet point.
Go! I tell Lugh.
No, I ain’t leavin you!
We meet at the rendezvous. Dammit, Lugh, go. Go!
I shove him in the chest. With a curse, he scrambles off over the hill. I head the opposite way.
The red hot’s wild in me. Floods me. Speeds me. It flies my feet as I flee through the woods. As I leap felled trees. Vault over rocks. Nero flees with me. He’s silent. Smart bird. Don’t caw, not a peep, or they’ll find us.
Sounds of pursuit. Shouts. The Tonton. Headed away from me. Good, oh good. No, they could be chasin one of th’others. Maybe Lugh. No, not Lugh, please oh please. They’ll hurt him if they find him. Revenge, they’ll want revenge. Fer what we done. What we done, ohmigawd. The blood an the screamin an the blood an the flesh an bits of body blasted an flung—
My stummick heaves sour to my throat. I stumble to a halt an I’m sick. Thinly, wretchedly sick. Bent over, one hand on a tree. With a gasp, a sob, I run on, swipin at my mouth with my sleeve.
Wait. What’s that? Banshee yowls knife the air. Wails that slice to my bones. The ghosthounds. I falter. Listenin. Fearin. Oh gawd, they’re comin this way. Panic sweeps me on. Faster. Faster. I cain’t outrun dogs. I need water. A stream. Gotta lose my scent now.
I crash through the forest. Think, quick quick, think. Water. The bridge. The ravine. The river. Yes. Where did it fall from? Think. Nor-nor-east? Yes, where am I now? Wind’s lifted the cloud. I see Jupiter. Low, behind me. I peel off to the left. Nero sticks with me close.
I scramble over rocks. Stumble. Race on. My lungs burn. I start to hear somethin. Faintly. A rush. Wind in the trees? No, more like water, I think. I follow the sound. The unearthly yawl of the ghosthounds ever louder. Closer, closer, ever closer. My skin reeks of fear. My trail must hang sharp. Faster. Faster, run faster.
Then I bust from the woods, I’m free of the trees an—yes. A river. Narrow an fast. Clear an—oh merciful—shallow. A foot or so deep, no more. I hurry downstream. Dodgin low-hangin boughs, takin care to flag my direction. A snapped twig here, a cracked branch there. Nuthin too much, jest enough. I go a little ways along, then double back an head upstream. Roughly north. That’s good. North. The right direction.
Nero scouts ahead, flappin low to the water. I keep my head movin. Check this way, that way, all around. But it’s quiet. The shallow rush of the river. A redthroat warbler tunin up. The soft sounds of a wood as it gladdens to the day. Not long till dawn, not long now. The hounds ain’t wailin no more. Could it be? Did I manage to throw ’em off my trail? What if they found other quarry? Tommo or Creed or Lugh? I cain’t hear nuthin though, not a thing. Surely I would. Shots or shouts or somethin.
I scoop handfuls of water as I go. Swill my mouth clean an spit.
Jest ahead, a dead pine’s toppled. It bridges the river. Blocks my way. Nero lands on it an goes fer a bug. Stabbin the bark with his beak. I straddle the tree an grab him.
Find ’em, Nero, I whisper. Go find the dogs.
I launch him high to
the air. He soars above the woods fer a bird’s-eye view an disappears from my sight. The grey sky’s smudged to palest pink. Dawn’s on the break. A new day.
I slide off my bow an nock a arrow. I slip back into the water. Armed an wary, I track upstream. Above the water’s chatter, the air hangs heavy. Intent. It’s a stalker’s silence. My heart ticks in my throat.
The river curves. I edge round the bend. A few strides on, it widens to a pool calm an peaceful. The woods huddle close. Tangled roots sprawl into the water. As I wade through the pool, it deepens. To my knees. Then my thighs.
Nero dives at me. From nowhere. The world explodes. A racket of howls an wails. The ghosthounds! There! White terror streakin through the woods straight at me. Here, they’ll be here any second. A wild glance around as I shoulder my bow. A sturdy big cedar sweeps low to the pool. I leap from the water. Grab a branch. Pull myself up an start to climb.
The ghosthounds blast from the woods. They land with a splash in the pool jest below an throw theirselfs up in the air at me. Their bodies twist. Fangs slash. Jaws snap. I snatch my foot away jest in time. I scramble higher, higher. Their hot rage blasts me. They snarl an slaver. Claw at the air. Crash back in the water an leap agin. They’re frantic to tear me apart.
I go high as I can. I crouch tight to the trunk. I cling to it, huddle among its thick boughs. I’m tremblin. Hand on my heart. My rackety heart, set to bust from my chest. The heartstone. It’s hot on my skin.
The heartstone? I grab it. Hot. That means Jack. But—Jack? My lips move, soundless, as I think his name. Jack’s leagues away. I don’t unnerstand.
Skoll! Hati! Down! A man’s voice commands the dogs. Come, he says. To me.
The ghosthounds hush. I can hear ’em splash from the pool. Hear ’em pantin fer breath. That voice. That voice.
Down, the man tells ’em agin.
There’s silence fer a moment. Then he laughs. A short, this-ain’t-funny kinda laugh.
Treed like a cat, he says. I was wondering when you’d show your hand. Come down, Saba. I know you’re there.
