A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [74]
The fiber that bound them was the same kind that held the bridge together. It didn’t yield easily, not to so rudimentary a cutting tool. But in time, the rock had its way with it.
A quick look of gratitude, some rubbing of tortured limbs to get the circulation back. Then the two of them were clambering silently out of the wagon, headed in the direction of the incline and, ultimately, the bridge.
By the time they were out of sight, Geordi was working on the next pair. Like the others, they appeared to be ready for him, to divine his intentions. Again, the liberation process went without a hitch.
The same with the third pair.
When he reached the fourth wagon, however, Geordi had a sense that the noise surrounding the drivers’ combat was diminishing. Dying down, like their fire.
His heart seemed to enlarge in his chest. It banged against his ribs so hard it hurt.
But he couldn’t stop now. Not yet. There was still time to free this last pair, wasn’t there? How damned long could it take?
Thrusting his edged rock between them, he sawed furiously. And as he did so, he glanced at their faces.
He saw the caked skin of blood from the temple down to the jaw, recognized the man who had impressed him with his dignified demeanor. These, then, were the first prisoners who had come over the bridge. The ones who’d given him his first inkling of the deception under which he’d labored.
It renewed his sense of anger-of having been violated. And because of that, he gritted his teeth and worked even harder.
Finally, the fiber gave way. The pair should have been free now to unravel the rest of it themselves.
But they weren’t. For some reason, these two had been bound more surely than the others. Each was tied hand and foot with his own fiber, in addition to the one that had held them together.
Geordi glanced in the direction of the fire. Most of the armored ones were standing now, bodies bulked against the night. The confrontation seemed to be over, or almost over.
There was no time, he told himself, to cut both of them loose. So he tugged at the bonds of the nearest one, the wounded man, and worked on those.
Sweat trickled down the side of his face, cold and clammy, the product of his exertions. He could hear his breath rasping a little in his throat and he tried to control it.
It took longer than he’d expected, but at last the still-living strands of the fiber began to fray. To break and peel back. Finally, the whole fiber just snapped.
Quickly, efficiently for one whose arms and legs had to be awakening with pain, the prisoner turned around and applied himself to his companion’s restraints. With his fingers alone, he clawed at the knots.
“No,” said Geordi, leaning closer in-his voice barely a whisper, yet crystal clear in its insistence. “We’ve got to move-now.”
He saw the muscles work in the wounded one’s jaw. “I have no choice,” came the response, hissed over the man’s shoulder. “He saved my life.”
Geordi had done all he could. If he waited any longer, they’d all get caught. But even so, he couldn’t pull himself away. He couldn’t abandon them.
Cursing himself for a half dozen kinds of a fool, he put his rock to work again.
The wounded one looked at him. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Geordi just grunted and concentrated on his sawing. That is, until he heard the sudden uproar among the drivers-and saw a number of them lumbering toward the wagons, weapons in hand.
There wasn’t a second to waste. If he bolted now, he might still make it over the bridge ahead of them. Maybe lose them in the shadowy terrain on the other side. At least, he had a chance.
But the wounded one might make it too-if he tried. And having gone to the trouble of freeing him, Geordi was reluctant to see him bound again. Particularly