Raging Star (2 page)

He don’t acknowledge me. Jest stares straight ahead, with his chin set to mulish. He starts to speed up. So I do too. Before I know it, we’re racin each other. Neck an neck. I glare disbelief at him. Cut it out, I says. C’mon Lugh.

He makes no answer. He’s pushin hisself. Breathin hard. Nostrils flared. Jaw clenched. But he’s bin flat out runnin too long.

With a shake of my head, I kick up my speed. Fine! I says. Be like that!

I pull away easy. We leave him behind, me an Tracker. I glance back. He’s stopped. Bent double with his hands on his knees. His chest heaves as he pulls in air. Ash, Creed an Tommo hafta swerve around him.

What a time he picks to lock antlers. I’ll hafta have speech with him later. Fer now, that problem’s parked. Now, we got a bridge to blow.

We crouch behind a cluster of rocks, well up the hill above the bridge. We git our breath back as we take in the lie of the land. Tracker flops between me an Ash, his tongue hung out to cool.

Nero sails down onto my head. His claws needle my scalp.
As I pick him off, I see the tiny scroll of cherrybark tied to his right leg. It’s a message from Jack. Outta sight of th’others, I untie it. It might be somethin I need to know right away. He’s scratched a pyramid on the bark. No, not urgent. He’s changed our meet place fer tonight. He’ll see me at Irontree. I tuck the scroll in the small leather bag at my waist.

I train my long-looker on the bridge an terrain all around. It’s jest like Jack drew fer me, with a stick in the dirt. An how I drew it fer my crew as we stepped through this op. To a tee it’s how he said it ’ud be. He’s a good detail man, Jack, that’s fer sure.

They’ve built on the iron remains of a old Wrecker bridge. Added some wood support struts an a new bridge deck an beams. Plain an sturdy, forty foot from start to finish, it spans the steep gash of a rocky ravine. The Eastern Defile. It’s a savage axe-slash in the body of the earth. In its belly, far below, runs the wrath of fast water. A thread of river, silver in the night, fumes an foams as it bucks its way downhill.

Ash gives a low whistle. Hope you got a head fer heights, she says to Lugh. If you wanna trade jobs, my offer’s still open.

What? You don’t think I’m up to it? he says.

She blinks at his chippy tone. Don’t git the hump, she says. You know I jest like blastin things.

Specially if it’s built by the Tonton, says Creed.

Slaves, you mean, she says. They’re the ones buildin New Eden.

Okay, I says, let’s run through this one more time. I tap
Tommo’s arm. Jest barely touch him. He looks at me. Tommo, I says, advantages.

His dark eyes glitter, unreadable in the night. There’s a mocky little smile on his lips. No cloud, he says. Sharp moon. Small bridge. Quick job. Okay? His rough voice lays down each word over-slow, over-clear.

Heat scorches my cheeks. Of late, he’s bin makin like I talk down to him. Which I most absolutely do not. Maybe a deaf boy shouldn’t fight from the front. Ike used to worry about that. But Tommo don’t ask fer no quarter fer his deafness. He don’t need none. We fought our way outta some real tight spots an Tommo ain’t never let us down. Not once have I treated him special. So it stings that he makes like I do. He knows it irks me. That’s why he does it.

Good, I tell him. Okay, disadvantages. Creed?

He scans the road. That’s our main problem right there, he says.

While he talks, I start takin what I need from my sack. A shrill tin whistle on a cord that I hang around my neck. Our emergency signal. Two blows means split up, run, meet at the rendezvous. Next, the blastpack. Like a brick in size an weight. Wrapped in oiled cloth, the long nettle fusecord in a tidy bundle.

Our sightlines ain’t good, says Creed. Tommo an me’s only gonna have a clear view a hunnerd foot this side, not more’n seventy on the far side. Eh, Tommo? Tommo nods
agreement. If anybody was to come around these hills, says Creed, they’d be right on top of us an that means quick decision time. Shoot or don’t shoot.

The narrow dirt road runs from west to east. It hugs the curve of the hills an sweeps into our view at the last minute. Jest like Creed called it.

Yer informant, says Lugh. They’re absolutely sure the Tonton don’t patrol this far out?

Positive, I says. But we stay alert an keep cool heads. An that means all of us, Creed.

What? he says. I’m some kinda hothead? I’m like ice.

Ash, I says, you an Tracker’s our early warnin system. Where you gonna stand lookout?

She’s usin her own long-looker to con the hills all around. She points to the scrubby hogback ridge that runs along, high behind us. There, she says, no question. It’s the highest point around.

Okay, Tracker’s with you, I says. Good luck. Go on, boy, go with Ash.

He hesitates. Obedient, but torn. He’s a one-woman wolfdog. Mercy’s dog when I met him. Then somehow—many days distant from his home—I found him. Rather, he found me. An he claimed me fer his.

Tracker, go, I says.

As he sprints off with Ash, Creed an Tommo take their position behind the rocks. Advantages, disadvantages, the
best spot fer lookout, we knew it all before. We talked an walked this entire op agin an agin, but this is the real thing. To repeat everythin now that we’re here sets it in our eyes an minds. I shove three small birch torches in the back of my belt an tuck the blastpack unner my arm.

You sure that thing packs enough power? says Lugh.

I’m sure, I says. Slim knows what he’s doin. Okay, this is it. We’ll work fast as we can.

We gotcha covered, says Creed. He’s all business now, hard-faced an sharp-eyed as him an Tommo load their bows.

Lugh an me hurry down the slope. Nero flies ahead of us. We hit the road, run the few foot to the bridge an scramble down the rocks. It’s dark unnerneath the bridge. A strong smell of fresh-cut wood. As Lugh shrugs off the rope he’s bin carryin, I lay down the blastpack an light a torch with a spark from my flint an steel. I hold it high so’s we can see the structure.

It’s simple. Like a flat roof held up by a peaked roof. The two main girders left from Wrecker days—iron, dead straight, a foot wide—they ram deep into the sides of the Defile. From there, they rise at a angle to meet at the middle of the bridge deck. There’s one vee of new wood struts on each girder. No surprises. It’s all jest as we espected.

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.