At its other end a huddled body clung feverishly to the rusted remains. The bridge and its priestly burden circled the inky depths as the final sounds of crashing debris slowly came back at them from the unutterable depths. The returned silence was then only punctuated by the rhythmic creaking of pendulum metal.
Pettar called out, “Are you alright down there?” but there was no answer. He looked quickly across at Drax and those priests with him, then to Phaylan by his side, totted up and exclaimed, “Braygar!” He now remembered seeing the old priest’s face as he’d dropped from sight, and like that image, his own heart sank.
He bent over the edge and tried again. “Braygar? Are you alright?” The echoes of his call died away, only slowly making way for the sound of small whimpers. When he peered more intently at the smoothly circling remains of the bridge, he saw them trembling with Braygar’s terrified grasp. Pettar looked across at Drax and shouted, “Have you got any rope?”
Drax looked crestfallen and held his arms apart. “Braygar’s got it! It’s with him!”
Pettar swore, a number of times, then tried to gather his wits. He looked at the one remaining join between pendulous bridge and rusting bracket, and realised the two would not be together for long. Certainly a much shorter time were Braygar to try to climb up.
Phaylan shot to his feet, threw his bag to the floor and started stripping.
Pettar stared at him, open mouthed, until understanding dawned and he got to his own feet to help. From beneath his raised robe, Phaylan called out, “Have you got a knife, Pettar?” Pettar was quick to follow the lad’s drift, even quicker to draw out his knife from its place in his pack. He helped pull Phaylan’s robes free from his arms, where they’d become entangled, and soon set to, cutting the robe into long strips.
As each one came free, they were securely tied together until in little time Pettar and Phaylan were once more at the edge, but now with a makeshift rope in hand. Pettar briefly glanced at the bridge’s remaining hold and saw clean and stretched metal, where it was slowly shearing as it twisted. “Quick!” he called. “Tie one end to that wall bracket over there.” He pointed to an old torch holder a few feet away.
Phaylan soon returned the free end to Pettar who then reeled it in, hard against the bracket. It held fast and there were no sounds of strain. “Good!” Pettar said to himself as he felt the strength of it, then studied Phaylan’s naked body, weighing each up carefully. He’d no need to explain, Phaylan’s bright eyes lighting up with understanding as he took the rope’s free end and tied it about his chest.
Pettar stood and braced himself, the rope between his huge hands and taut to Phaylan, who already stood with his back to the chasm. Pettar nodded at the lad and had a confident nod returned. Phaylan fell to his knees and onto his stomach, at the very edge.
Pettar carefully played out the lifeline as Phaylan shuffled his legs out over the chasm, until he could fold at the waist. With a last look at Pettar, the lad vanished from sight, but for his hands that briefly grasped the edge until they too were gone.
On their side of the chasm, Drax and the young priests stood watching as Phaylan was lowered. When he was level with Braygar, Drax called out for Pettar to stop. Pettar strained against the unseen shifting weight, hearing muffled noises from below, but more worryingly, the screech of tortured metal by his foot. Between gritted teeth, he urged the lad on whilst Drax remained silent, carefully watching what was happening below.
There was an almighty screech followed by a great renting sound, and Pettar saw the bracket by his foot spring up empty. Its clean end sharply reflected the lamplight, whilst out of sight the remains of the bridge thundered down the chasm, its metallic screams dwindling away to the depths.
The rope tugged savagely at Pettar’s hands, slipping through and burning them raw as he fought to brake its rapid escape. It stopped, with a sound like a longbow’s release, as it once more went taut, pulling at the bracket. The weight now painfully held between Pettar’s bleeding hands was far greater. He fervently hoped it was the sum of Phaylan and Braygar, and not simply some useless part of the bridge.
Drax’s voice soon gave him an answer. “Pull, Pettar, with all your might, PULL!”
Pettar strained hard to hold the rope’s coarse fabric, to relieve the bracket’s burden by working it from hand to hand. Ignoring the pain, Pettar drew it steadily towards himself, bit by bit, until a sudden loss of weight reignited his fears.
Drax again gave answer, and some degree of hope. “Nearly there, Pettar, stay with it, they’re nearly home.” The loss of weight had been Phaylan’s hand grasping at the chasm’s edge, trying its hardest to help pull them both free. His other arm, however, was clasped around Braygar’s waist. Try as he might, Pettar couldn’t pull them both past the edge, and the more he tried, the more he heard the rope rend.
Phaylan heard it too, but instead of losing his nerve, he took his hand from the edge and reached around into Braygar’s pack, where he then rummaged frantically. There was yet another loud rip, and they both jolted down a few more inches. He heard Pettar’s strained calls ringing in his ears as he delved once more, but then his hand found what it was after - a rope.
He quickly pulled it free, the bag slipping loose from them both and falling away to its silent demise. Hurriedly, he lashed the rope about them, as best he could with only one free hand. He hoped the knot would be up to the job as he threw the free end upwards in an arc towards Pettar.
The Certain Power must have been with them then for the rope struck Pettar across his shoulder and dropped to coil about his feet. For a terrifying moment he was struck by indecision, doubtful he could swap ropes fast enough, but then a loud tearing sound filled his ears as he was catapulted backwards.
It was the power of his braced legs that had pushed him away from the chasm, but the sudden whipped animation of the rope about his foot that pulled him rapidly back. Had he not held firm to the old rope, still secured to the bracket, he’d have quickly vanished into the depths, along with Phaylan and Braygar. As it was, he jolted to a jarring halt, stretched between the bracket in one hand and the priests’ swinging weight at his ankle.
The pain was excruciating and took his whole might to forbear. Instinctively, he flicked his wrist and looped the rope about it until it held fast by itself. He then lay there, almost exhausted. He knew full well he’d not yet finished, that there was still more torture to endure. He knew, if he left it too long, blood would soon be lost to both his hand and foot. He was also highly suspicious of the rope’s hold at his ankle.
With an almighty gathering of energy, he drew in a great gulp of air, locked his lungs tight, tensed his muscles hard and strained to sit up. His stomach stung as the muscles there burned, but he inched himself up and jerkily reached down. With his free hand, he snatched at his ankle, grabbing the rope in one. Using the last of his enormous strength, he twisted it about his wrist until it too held fast.
Only now could he spare his exhausted body, let its stout robustness bear the torturous agony whilst he waited on some returning strength. Through the intense pain, he could feel his joints steadily stretching, was sure he heard ligaments and tendons tear, but however hard he tried, his strength remained elusive.
It was only when he felt his vision engulfed by rippling curtains of black velvet, and his hearing swamped by the hissing of snakes, that he found one last ounce of strength to suffuse his battered limbs. He heaved and grunted anew, the veins in his neck dangerously bulging, and slowly wound in yet more and more rope.
At last, he got it tight about his forearm, and using his powerful legs, finally pushed himself upright to a stand. The burden was now much easier to bear, the rope more readily drawn about his arm, and he began, once more and slowly, to lift the stricken priests.
There, at the edge of the chasm, Phaylan’s fingers once more appeared, and as Pettar strained the harder, became an arm. To it was soon added a head, and at long last, a leg that hooked itself clear. When Phaylan’s weig
ht left the rope, Pettar’s efforts at long last hastened them both to safety, one they’d all genuinely doubted would ever have come.
They fell back from the chasm as a great cheer went up from Drax and the priests, the air fair ringing with their joy. Pettar’s body had had enough by then, more than enough in fact, so all he could do was lie upon the ground, swearing profusely. It wasn’t long before Phaylan crouched over him, tending as best he could to his hurts.
There were burns to Pettar’s palms and bruising to his ankle, but the thing that kept him flat on his back was simply his sheer exhaustion. Even Braygar tried to help, although he was obviously in some shock himself, but he tried his best.
Drax had called over a number of times, asking after them, but had been unheard in the press of their tasks. He got his answer when Phaylan had eventually done all he could for Pettar. “He’s not fit enough to continue for a while, Sentinar, he’s in bad need of rest. I don’t think he’s gravely hurt, though, from what little I know.”
Drax was certainly thankful and bade Phaylan make him comfortable, but then somewhat reluctantly, he broached the problem of their separation. “We’ve no way to join you, Phaylan. We’re stuck here! Oh, and not only that, but Braygar’s pack held all our supply of lamps.”
Pettar had at last found some returning strength, not much but some. Although he didn’t move from where he lay, he quietly managed a curse before calling out, “Drax? Retrace our route to that last stairwell we passed. When the storm eases, climb back out onto the wall. Head north, Drax, to a windowless tower, a league or so further on.”
“Very well, but where do we go from there?”
Pettar tried to remember, a time well spent gathering more strength. “At its base is a doorway. Go in there and climb down some steps.” He went silent whilst trying to remember. “Err. Yes. I think it’s the first landing you get to … off that should be a door, an unlocked one. Go in there and wait for us. Have you got all that, Drax?”
Drax confirmed he had, but then asked, with surprising concern, “But will you be alright? Will you be able to make it there yourself?”
Pettar started to chuckle, not loudly but in that confined place it carried well. “Thank you for your concern, Drax, it touches me greatly, and I thank you for it, truly I do. I’ll be fine. It’s not that far for us.”
Drax feigned disinterest, but seemed genuinely concerned when he finally offered his best wishes, and before turning back the way they’d come. Pettar quickly called back one last time. “And Drax? Take care of yourselves, eh? Take your time in the dark.” Drax assured him they would, before he and the priests left behind nothing more than the sounds of their halting footfalls slowly receding into the dark and hollow distance.
30 Leiyatel’s Gaze
At the end of the lane stood a rustic frame made from what looked like timbers salvaged from a derelict barn or outbuilding. It had tell-tale marks of previous jointing and weathered whitewash splashes that bore no relationship to its current form. It stood a few feet high and supported a rough-planked platform that carried numerous circular stains, all overlapping but of the same size and each dyed a blue-white into the age-bleached timbers.
Nephril had stopped and was taking advantage of the early morning light to peer down the lane that ran past it from the road they’d been following. He nodded to himself and then bade them follow as he stepped onto the lane’s hard-packed earthen surface, down between high, clipped hedges.
They followed the lane down into the valley, all the time hidden within its privet border until it turned sharply through an open gateway and into a tree-shaded and stone-flagged yard. To their left, running back up the valley’s side, a light woodland spread its carpet of bluebells. Their heads drooped, motionless in the hanging air between the slender trunks, but spilled out over the low wall at the wood’s edge, their delicate heads hanging to the stone flags beneath the wayfarers’ long tired feet.
To their right loomed a large barn, its doors wide open, exposing an almost black interior, the odd piece of farm equipment barely discernible within its gloom. Beyond it jutted the corner of a stone-built farmhouse whose roof was deeply thatched and ochre with age, beneath which hooded mullion windows dreamily stared out.
Other than the ratchet movement of a handful of hens, nothing stirred, not even the tall and shielding trees about the house. It was only its gable chimney, from which rose a thin, wavering column of smoke, that gave any hint of activity within.
Nephril clomped across the flags to a small and brightly painted door, and there rapped upon it two or three times before stepping back. Falmeard and Penolith joined him, and there the three waited, expectantly.
From within, they heard the clatter of pots and pans, and the slam of what sounded like an oven door, before the latch rattled and they saw the lever lift. The door eased open a few inches and a face appeared in the gap; rosy skinned with a mop of curly black hair, and a large and friendly eye that now peered out at them.
At floor level there was a sudden ruckus as a stout-legged and clog-shod foot appeared, interwoven with a large brown paw. From the head, a chastising series of admonitions were cast down in desperation at the melee. “Ya damned stupid bitch … get back, ya dollop o’nonsense, eh! Away I say, away!” The eye lifted back with softer words following on. “’Ello there, and what would ya be after then?”
Nephril stepped forward a pace, at which a deep and loud barking again erupted from within before the foot and paw ruckus began all over again. He stepped smartly back as the voice again began shouting. “Away I said, get yersen back! Down, lass, down! Stay, ya lummox, now stay there. STAY!”
The head returned to its visitors once more, and Nephril took advantage of the abated barking, as it sank to a low growl. “My good lady, I am Nephril, and these are my travelling companions, Penolith and Falmeard.”
The slight suspicion in the one eye visible seemed to evaporate at mention of Penolith’s name. It quickly confirmed her gender with a plainly relieved stare. Seemingly satisfied, the eye’s owner then pulled the door fully open, releasing the tempting waft of newly baked bread.
Before them stood the bulk of a stout woman. She was dressed in a rough woven but well-made pinafore over a drab yet clean jerkin, below which rumpled knee breaches exposed short plump shins, but on her feet were the very clogs they’d already met. She was round faced and very rosy with slate grey eyes hooded beneath black and heavy eyebrows. Her hair was just as heavy, raven, thick and closely curled, seeming to explode from her head.
She smiled, broadly, but mainly at Penolith, with nothing more than a curt nod at the two old men. What she’d already seen clearly confirmed them each to be quite harmless. Her voice continued, full, as round as her face and pleasantly high. “And what, may I ask, can I do for you folk?”
She was plainly more at ease with women, and so Penolith was quick to answer, “Good morning, good lady. I hope you’re well and we’re not disturbing you?” The woman’s face lit up, as she assured Penolith that she didn’t mind, not in the least, and so Penolith enquired, “We were wondering if it would be possible to find lodgings hereabouts for tonight, as we’re badly in need of rest. We’ve had to travel a long way, you see, and are unfamiliar with the area.”
The woman once more appraised them, each in turn, before standing aside and inviting them in. As they passed over her threshold, she affirmed, “Not a problem, not a problem at all. I’m sure we can find room for thee all here, but thee’ll have ta mind t’bitch, although she don’t bite or owt, no, just barks a bit … oh, and slobbers a lot too. Come on in, come in and sit thesens down … Bracken! Off there and let these good folk sit darn.”
They filed into the all-enveloping smell of bread that filled the kitchen from a large farmhouse table, now loaded with freshly baked loaves. They’d only recently been taken from two large ovens flanking the enormous fireplace, and were slowly cooling there.
The fire itself raged bright and hot, quickened by air drawn thr
ough it by the chimney, its burning logs quietly spitting and crackling in the intense red heat. On tiered shelves sat bags of flour, and a large earthenware pot stood warming by the fire, its contents alive with yeast.
The woman introduced herself as Berratrisher but assured them she preferred Berra, and then bade them be seated wherever they could find space within the ordered clutter of her kitchen. Penolith was offered the only chair, a rocker stained with years of flour dust and dog hair, whilst Falmeard and Nephril were left to move empty sacks from the window settle, and there settled themselves in amidst yet more white dust. The bitch had stopped growling by then, fortunately, but had begun sniffing suspiciously at their muddy boots.
Berra was warm and welcoming, and asked after their thirst and hunger, to which they informed her they’d not yet eaten today. She suddenly called out at the top of her voice, “EMMA? Here, lass, I be needing ya,” and then chatted on quite casually about this and that.
Eventually, she explained she’d only the two spare rooms and so the gents would have to share, at which point the inner door opened and a young sylphlike girl with long black hair quietly entered. She wore a dairymaid’s frock and was leisurely wiping her milk-wetted hands on a towel. She looked around the room in some surprise before turning to her mother and asking what she wanted.
“These good folk’ll be staying t’night, so when thee’s finished t’milking, ya can sort out t’spare rooms. Give ‘em a bit of an airing and make sure t’linen’s clean … oh, and put out a jug a’milk in each and some mugs.” Emma looked a little downcast and traipsed from the room somewhat dejectedly, without a further word.
Berra looked after her and sighed. “She’s a good lass really but it’s ‘er age. Get a bit shirty at ‘er age, tha knows, but she’ll sort out ya rooms reet enough. Now, what can I get ya to eat?”
Leiyatel's Embrace (Dica Series Book 1) Page 27