“Want you… carry me,” Waels gasped.
“I’ll run… ahead… dump my pack and… come back.”
“Take mine with you.”
With a supreme effort, Orlad found enough breath to chuckle. Life was brighter when Waels was around. He liked the Orlad he became then.
The Leap had not changed. The jagged gap of Dust River zigzagged across the rounded landscape, seeming completely at odds with it. The wind, the deadly cold wind, wailed constantly along the gorge. Its sides were vertical and polished to glassy smoothness. At the moment the low sun filled it with ebony shadow, but on the rare occasions when the bottom was visible you could see the surface of the river seething, faint clouds of dust rising and settling. Fall that far into water and you would probably be stunned or smashed, but if it were deep enough and you were an exceptional diver, you would have a chance of surviving. Not here. Dust was strange stuff-soft underfoot and rigid as solid rock when struck hard. No one falling into the Dust River had a hope.
The bridge came into view, looking just as Orlad and his fellow workers had left it a year ago, a simple deck of wooden slats carried by a dozen sturdy hemp cables anchored to bronze stakes hammered into the rock at either end. Hand ropes on either side gave an illusion of safety and were set just far enough apart for a heavy-laden man to hold comfortably as he crossed.
Two heavy-laden men staggered across and dropped their loads on the far side with gasps of relief. This was not yet the Edge, but somehow this crossing seemed more significant. Orlad looked back and cursed. A spectacular black cloud was unfolding above the vicinity of the Cave, dwarfing Varakats. He had cursed the wind up here a million times, but never for not being strong enough. The pursuit would see that cloud and know that it spelled their death.
“Better not dilly-dally,” Waels said. “We cut it at the Vigaelian end, yes?”
“Of course.” They must not leave anything on that side that might be useful or salvageable. “Move the packs a safe distance along the road.”
Two puzzled eyes peered out of Waels’s hood. “Safe from what?”
“They may throw things at us.”
“Ah. I left my wits at First Ice. I’ll run back and fetch them.” He took up his pack again.
Orlad retrieved his jar of oil and returned to the Vigaelian side. Tools and coils of spare rope abandoned there a year ago still lay in the dust. He carried the tools one at a time onto the bridge and dropped them off. At Nardalborg he could have thrown them the whole distance. The rope he dragged all the way over to the Florengian side, just to make certain.
Despite that ghastly black plume in the sky, fire was hard to start on the High Ice and burned reluctantly. Ingeld Narsdor had blessed some tinder for Fabia to bring on the crossing, but it would have seemed wrong to use that for so deadly a purpose. Fortunately Orlad had brought the portfire from Hermesk’s canoe. He confirmed that the coals were still glowing and laid it a safe distance away. Then he began soaking the ropes and slats with oil. It was awkward work with his hands in thick mitts and eyes peering out a slit in his hood, but he had built the bridge that way. He should be able to destroy it likewise.
He began to worry about pursuit. He had little knowledge of Zarpan Zarpanson, the leader of Caravan Six, but if Heth were in charge, he would react to that smoke in one heartbeat. Heth would have a flank of warbeasts streaking up the trail to see what was going on and stop it.
He felt the bridge sway as Waels returned to stand at his back.
“You haven’t told me, beloved, why you think Saltaja’s men won’t be able to leap this.”
“Could you jump this far?”
Waels said, “Um. Usually, easily. I’d carry you on my back. Up here, I’d rather not try. But Stralg did it, didn’t he? Can I help you with that job?”
“Almost done. No, Stralg did not jump here. Stralg jumped at that wide spot over there.” Orlad rose and tossed the empty oil jar into the abyss. It vanished into shadow without a sound. He could see almost nothing of Waels’s face, but could guess at his incredulous expression. “Gzurg told me.”
As one of Stralg’s closest buddies, Hostleader Gzurg Hrothgatson had been here then. He had seen the leap. Last spring the old veteran had come home from the war, and his arrival at Nardalborg had coincided with one of Therek’s visits. The two old-timers had plunged into an orgy of nostalgia and suicidal drinking, but Therek had taken the chance to appoint his crony examiner for the current crop of probationers. When Gzurg had chosen Orlad for the chain collar, he had also entertained him to a solid night’s carouse and maundering reminiscence, just the two of them. The hangover had been memorable, the stories even more so.
“The River of Dust erodes,” Orlad said. “It abrades. The reason the horde tried to cross there was that the river divided there. They could make two short jumps. There was a pillar. It was sharp at the top, Gzurg said, and its top was lower than the banks. The trick was to leap down to the pillar, land your front paws on a tiny area, pull in your back paws, and launch yourself up at the far side, all without slowing down. That was what the first three men failed to do. Stralg did it. But once they had a cord strung across, they moved downstream and built the bridge at the narrowest point. When Gzurg came back this way in the spring, he noticed that the pillar had disappeared. We were talking about the new bridge, and he told me. He laughed and said that the bloodlord wouldn’t want to try his leap now.”
“Fry me!” Waels said.
“Not here and now.” That was a joke. Sometimes Orlad could even make Waels laugh, and that always felt good.
“But you’re closing the pass forever!”
Not quite. Varakats Pass would survive. The bridge could be replaced, but only with a lot of planning, and with equipment Caravan Six did not have.
At last the others were coming along the track. The Pathfinder was out in front, but moving very slowly, shuffling and unsteady on his feet. Dantio was farther back, leaning on his sister’s shoulder and obviously in pain.
“Here they come! Listen, my good buddy. My hands are all oily. I’d love to be warm, but not that warm. There’s the portfire. As soon as we get everyone across, you light the oil and run, understand? And then- Oh, Weru slay me! Look at that!”
Warbeasts! Four golden shapes had crested the skyline and were racing over the gray, featureless landscape, their paws throwing up puffs of dust. They disappeared into a hollow and more came after them, at least a full flank. They weren’t even following the trail, just heading straight for the bridge. Someone knew the area personally. Not Zarpan, certainly.
Orlad screamed “Fire the bridge now!” and took off like a spear.
He would not have believed that it was possible to run, and what he achieved was not much better than a fast stagger. How could those warbeasts keep it up? Either they were coming more slowly than they seemed, or they were going to kill themselves. He passed Hermesk, who had seen the danger and was making a gallant effort to go faster. Then he reached Dantio.
He gasped out one word, “Run!” to Fabia. Then he stooped, folded Dantio over his shoulder, and started carrying him back to the bridge.
That wasn’t physically possible, but he did it anyway. He floundered like a drunk, feet sliding in the greasy dust, all off-balance, hearing his own breath howling in his throat; not listening to Dantio begging him to drop him and save himself. Up ahead, Waels had obeyed orders. Of course. Waels would cut his own throat if Orlad told him to. The near end of the bridge was streaming black smoke. But Orlad had not told Waels to go back to the far bank and save himself. No, no! Waels was coming to help. Idiot! Idiot!
Fabia had more sense. She was still heading for the bridge.