reasons.
There it was again, a slight movement, too quick for cattle. And a figure, down by the bridge. Faolan’s scalp prickled. None of his business; no reason to interfere. Common sense said do nothing at all. Adeeper instinct made him stick the knife in his belt, put on his boots and cloak, and set out cautiously along the riverside path toward the bridge.
He could see where the ferry used to go. There was atumbledown jetty, now all but submerged, and a couple of frayed ropes. Faolan was glad of the moon. One false step here and a man would be over the bank and carried away by the river before hehad time to catch his breath. He was past the willows now, where they stood in the shallows like draggle-haired water nymphs, and passing over more even ground. Ahead loomed the shadowy form of the damaged bridge, rising from waters which, under the moonlight, resembled a boiling cauldron.
A sudden sound: barking, high, hoarse, a hysterical warning. A moment later he saw the figure again, hoodedand cloaked and apparently bearing a burden on its back, edging out onto the bridge, step by slow step. Someone was trying to cross over.
“Stop!” Faolan shouted. “Stop! The bridge is down!” but the person kept going, one hand on the flimsy railing, the other stretched out for balance. The fellow must see soon, surely; must recognize that at a certain point the timbers gave way to no more thana flimsy pair of ropes, a foolhardy crossing even by daylight, unthinkable by night. “Stop!” Faolan yelled, breaking into a sprint, but he knew he would not be heard. The noise of the river swallowed his voice. He ran, heart in his mouth. As he neared the bridge the person got to the place where Faolan had tied the rope earlier, and halted, clutching the rail with both hands. Thank all that was holy,the reckless fellow had seen the break in time and would retreat now. Faolan supposed he’d have to offer to share his place of shelter and the warmth of his fire.
The dog barked again, and now he could see it, a skinny gray thing, its eyes fixed on the figure hesitating by the ropes. Faolan swore.
That
dog. He knew it. As it turned its frantic eyes on him, he saw the person on the bridge putboth hands on the upper rope and step out onto the lower, wobbling violently. He—
she
—was trying to cross.
Faolan launched himself across the bridge, uttering a prayer to any deity that might be prepared to listen.
Letme reach her in time, let her keep hold, let this wretched apology for a bridge not crumble under my feet…
He reached the splintered edge; managed not to look down. Eile was a littleway out on the ropes, just too far for him to stretch out an arm and haul her bodily to safety. His heart went cold. Haul
them.
She had that child, Saraid, on her back, fastened with a band of cloth.
Quick, but not too quick, and not too loud. Startle her and she’d fall. Set foot on the rope himself and his weight would likely have the same result.
“Eile,” he said, pitching his voice just loudenough for her to hear over the water, “I’m here. Faolan, remember? Come back. I have shelter and a fire. Bring Saraid back. If you want to cross, I’ll take you tomorrow.”
She froze. He had no idea what she would do; obey him and retreat—let that be so—or try to go on, or maybe let go and fall. She and the child would both be lost then; the river would sweep them out of sight before he couldso much as regain the bank.
“Eile? You’re only a few steps out. Just back up a bit and I can reach you. This isn’t safe at night.” That was one way to put it; rotting timbers, suspect uprights, and only moonlight for guidance. She was utterly mad.
Eile stood there, wobbling a little on the lower rope, hands clutched around the upper. “I’m scared.” Her voice was a child’s.
Don’t look down
, Faolanordered himself.
Just remember, it’s not Breaking Ford.
“I’m coming to get you,” he called. “The rope’s going to move when I step
There it was again, a slight movement, too quick for cattle. And a figure, down by the bridge. Faolan’s scalp prickled. None of his business; no reason to interfere. Common sense said do nothing at all. Adeeper instinct made him stick the knife in his belt, put on his boots and cloak, and set out cautiously along the riverside path toward the bridge.
He could see where the ferry used to go. There was atumbledown jetty, now all but submerged, and a couple of frayed ropes. Faolan was glad of the moon. One false step here and a man would be over the bank and carried away by the river before hehad time to catch his breath. He was past the willows now, where they stood in the shallows like draggle-haired water nymphs, and passing over more even ground. Ahead loomed the shadowy form of the damaged bridge, rising from waters which, under the moonlight, resembled a boiling cauldron.
A sudden sound: barking, high, hoarse, a hysterical warning. A moment later he saw the figure again, hoodedand cloaked and apparently bearing a burden on its back, edging out onto the bridge, step by slow step. Someone was trying to cross over.
“Stop!” Faolan shouted. “Stop! The bridge is down!” but the person kept going, one hand on the flimsy railing, the other stretched out for balance. The fellow must see soon, surely; must recognize that at a certain point the timbers gave way to no more thana flimsy pair of ropes, a foolhardy crossing even by daylight, unthinkable by night. “Stop!” Faolan yelled, breaking into a sprint, but he knew he would not be heard. The noise of the river swallowed his voice. He ran, heart in his mouth. As he neared the bridge the person got to the place where Faolan had tied the rope earlier, and halted, clutching the rail with both hands. Thank all that was holy,the reckless fellow had seen the break in time and would retreat now. Faolan supposed he’d have to offer to share his place of shelter and the warmth of his fire.
The dog barked again, and now he could see it, a skinny gray thing, its eyes fixed on the figure hesitating by the ropes. Faolan swore.
That
dog. He knew it. As it turned its frantic eyes on him, he saw the person on the bridge putboth hands on the upper rope and step out onto the lower, wobbling violently. He—
she
—was trying to cross.
Faolan launched himself across the bridge, uttering a prayer to any deity that might be prepared to listen.
Letme reach her in time, let her keep hold, let this wretched apology for a bridge not crumble under my feet…
He reached the splintered edge; managed not to look down. Eile was a littleway out on the ropes, just too far for him to stretch out an arm and haul her bodily to safety. His heart went cold. Haul
them.
She had that child, Saraid, on her back, fastened with a band of cloth.
Quick, but not too quick, and not too loud. Startle her and she’d fall. Set foot on the rope himself and his weight would likely have the same result.
“Eile,” he said, pitching his voice just loudenough for her to hear over the water, “I’m here. Faolan, remember? Come back. I have shelter and a fire. Bring Saraid back. If you want to cross, I’ll take you tomorrow.”
She froze. He had no idea what she would do; obey him and retreat—let that be so—or try to go on, or maybe let go and fall. She and the child would both be lost then; the river would sweep them out of sight before he couldso much as regain the bank.
“Eile? You’re only a few steps out. Just back up a bit and I can reach you. This isn’t safe at night.” That was one way to put it; rotting timbers, suspect uprights, and only moonlight for guidance. She was utterly mad.
Eile stood there, wobbling a little on the lower rope, hands clutched around the upper. “I’m scared.” Her voice was a child’s.
Don’t look down
, Faolanordered himself.
Just remember, it’s not Breaking Ford.
“I’m coming to get you,” he called. “The rope’s going to move when I step
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