Raging Star Read Free

’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’spoundin 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 swinghim—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.