The bridge was a simple, crude affair, no railings, but two ropes on either side gave some security.
"Flan. Go cut the ropes on that end while I undo these." He knelt and began working on the thick rope. By the time he had finished, Flan had cut both and was standing beside him.
Asgalt stripped off his armor and began to fashion a sling to go around his body and between his legs. Once this was done he turned to Flan and Eithne.
"You two go on ahead. I can cut the bridge loose from this side and cross on the two remaining ropes. This was in case we ever got caught on this side. I told you old Lyulf was cagey."
Flan shook his head. "Let me climb down. I can cut them quicker than you."
"No, I helped build it. I'll cut it down. Now get on across."
Asgalt secured the rope and lowered himself until he was even with the supporting posts of the bridge. He swung out and back until he had grasped a beam, then wedged himself between it and the cliff, wrapping his legs tight around the wood.
He leaned back. He was tired and wanted to rest for a few minutes, but there wasn't time. He removed the axe from his belt and began to chop.
The space was narrow, and the cut had to be made close to his body, so that there was little room for a full swing. He swung the axe in short, hard blows, wrenching it to clear the blade on each stroke. His hand cramped and his forearm began to quiver with the strain, but he never ceased his relentless rhythm. It seemed to him that with each stroke the wood grew harder and the axe duller.
But slowly, ever so slowly, the cut widened and deepened. He stopped, thrust the axe back through his belt and massaged his aching hand and forearm.
A few more should do it, he thought. Damn, will I be glad to rest in a bed again, beside a nice warm fire.
He hooked his knees about the beam, and trusting to the thick rope, leaned out, swinging the axe upward in vicious strokes, as if the wood were a personal enemy.
The wood cracked and broke loose, and Asgalt kicked out and swung free in case the whole bridge broke loose, but it sagged, creaked and held.
The Duke ignored the yawning chasm below him, and cursed with a fervor and feeling that was awesome in its intensity. Still cursing, he pulled himself back up the rope, attached it on the other side, and began the whole process over.
Sweat stung his eyes, and his back began to ache from the strained unnatural position. He worked more slowly, and would stop after several strokes to gauge the depth of the cut, and to clear his vision. The bridge creaked and sagged even further as the amount of wood holding it grew less. After what seemed hours, the top began to splinter and snap. He quickly slipped off the beam and as he kicked back and away, swung the axe once more. The axe bit, the wood cracked, and the bridge slipped downward, grabbing the axe, flipping it loose from his grip. Then bridge and axe fell end over end into the depths below.
Asgalt watched the dwindling shapes . . . "Hmmuph, man could starve before he hit bottom," he thought.
Again he pulled himself up the rope, this time more slowly. A shout greeted him, and he saw Flan and Eithne wave from the other side.
"Well done, Lord Duke, well done!"
Asgalt waved tiredly. Even his bones ached. His forearms quivered uncontrollably, and his knees were flaccid, almost unable to bear his weight. He pat down heavily, his body worn and his eyes dulled with fatigue. His hand aimlessly gripped the hilt of his sword, he gazed blindly at the mail shirt, helmet and shield that lay at his feet.
Wearily he rose and walked back along the path. Far down he could see the first of the Shang as they made the turn, walking cautiously, expecting an ambush behind every rock.
"Still time," he muttered under his breath.
He walked back and picked up his mail, slipped it on, and buckled the sword about his waist. The familiar weight felt comforting, an old friend.
Once again he sat down on the rock, ignoring the urgent shouts from Flan and Eithne.
He chuckled to himself. They're right, I'm growing old. Old Lyulf was right, it comes before you know, and soon you don't even care.
He looked across the gorge to Flan and Eithne, and their youthful figures brought back a flood of memories, and his past life fled across his mind's eye. He remembered the aimless wanderings, the battles; he stood again on the walls of Castle Glaun, with Colwen beside him, holding the breach against attack after attack, until the enemy fell back, dismayed and broken and not being able to break two men. He wandered again, guarding the life of the King and the young Prince, and he remembered the final charge in the battle for the Crown. The foes falling before him until he had reached the Standard, cutting down the bearer, and then with one stroke cutting through the helmet, head and chest of Morgaun.
He realized suddenly that life had been good to him, that he had achieved a great deal, and that now the battles were over. All he had to do was walk across that rope bridge. There would be parades, and feasts, and even tournaments, all in his honor. And once that was over, there would be a quiet life for the remainder of his years. He would grow old, and slightly fat, and honors would still be heaped on him. His sons were near grown, and his daughters already promised. The Kingdom was secure, no new threats, no new battles.