There, for the moment, I had a good foothold and rested as wind and rain lashed at my body. Below me the cliff was a smooth sheet offering absolutely nothing in handhold or foothold. At the bottom, however, glimpsed briefly in flashes of lightning, I perceived a ledge a few inches wide of another rock sheet that overlay that on which I waited.
Gingerly, I edged out on the smooth surface, flattening myself against the rock. Then I let go and began to slide. There was a moment of sheer panic at the thought of the vast depth below and what would happen if I overshot the ledge or failed to stop myself there.
Braking my slide with elbows, body, and toes, I slid, rapidly gaining speed. Grasping at the rock for anything to slow my speed, I felt a sharp sliver of pain as a fingernail tore loose, and then my toes thudded against the narrow ledge, and only my body weight against the rock kept me from being thrown clear.
Clinging to the rock face, I fought away the fear and took slow, deep breaths of the cool air. Gasping hoarsely, I waited, struggling to calm myself and prepare for the ordeal that lay before me.
How far down I had come I had no idea, but there was no returning, no stopping now. Escape and freedom lay before me; around me, death.
The inches-wide ledge on which my feet had come to rest seemed to extend along the face of the rock and to slant downward, so clinging to the rock face, I edged along. Time ceased to exist. At times the narrow ledge became no more than an inch wide. Then it grew wider again, and suddenly I found myself in a shallow cave, hollowed by wind and rain. There was room to sit down, and I did, but first I looked up, waiting for a flash of lightning. It came, and I was no more than a hundred and fifty feet from my cell!
Only the sharp urgency of my position and the knowledge that I could not remain where I was started me moving again. It was not in me to wait for death nor to give up to despair. Somewhere my father, if still alive, was a prisoner, and I must free him. Sucking my torn finger, I studied the rock. Then handhold by precious handhold, I lowered myself. Twice I found narrow chimneys down which I could lower myself for short distances. Once a ledge of rock crumbled under my toes, and only the grip of my fingers saved me. Another time only my closed fist in a vertical crack held me suspended above a black gulf. I had only to open my hand to fall to my death.
It was some time after the rain had ceased that I became aware of it, so intense was my concentration on the task before me. Thunder rumbled in the gorges like a sulky bear in a cavern. The face of the rock became rougher. I moved more swiftly until suddenly I slipped and fell, and I was brought up with a jolt that smashed my skull against a rock.
Half stunned, I lay there for several minutes before I rolled over and climbed drunkenly to my feet. Distant lightning flashed, and I looked around me for a way down—and there was none. I was standing in the bed of a dry creek!
A rumble from upstream warned me a flash flood was coming, and I ran, stumbling, across the creek and up the far bank, only just in time. Pale yellow edged the clouds in the east. Now for the pink house, and my horse!
I had been all night on the face of the cliff. My forearms were raw, the skin torn and lacerated. My knees were in the same condition, and I walked in pain. There was a cut on my skull from which blood issued, but most painful of all was the lost fingernail.
My head throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, but I was down. I was free!
17
Eastward I fled, eastward astride the fast-running Barb, and before the noon sun was in the sky I took to the hills, riding into rough, broken country. It was a land of naked mountains, serrated ridges, lofty towers, and natural fortresses, forever unused by man, impregnable beyond comprehension.
Sweat trickled into my raw wounds, and the blazing sun caused my head to throb with pain. Nowhere could I find water, and there was but little food in the saddlebags. Yet my only safety lay in losing myself in the empty mountains, reputed to be the hiding place of brigands.
It was nearly sundown when I heard the tinkle of a bell.
Riding along a rocky slope, I came upon the droppings of goats and tracks of their tiny hooves. Topping a ridge, I saw them before me. At least two hundred goats guarded by three men and two huge, savage dogs.
With them was a girl.
She walked several steps toward me and stood, feet apart, her flimsy skirt blowing in the wind. Her hair was wild and uncombed, but there was a fine insolence in her eyes and manner, and under the flimsy skirt her body had an outline that turned my mouth dry and made my pulses pound.
She held her ground as I allowed the Barb to pick his way through the scattered rocks. The men shouted at her, but when she continued to stand they left their goats and walked toward her, and me.
All were armed, and they were taking in my horse and scimitar as if they already possessed them. I was doing the same with the girl.
“What do you want?” she demanded insolently.
“Food and wine,” I said, letting my eyes say more than my words, “and perhaps a place to rest.”
She looked at me boldly from under long lashes. “Food and drink you may have. As to rest, you will find little here!”
I took my foot from a stirrup. “Ride?” I suggested.
She looked at me, then tossed her head and, thrusting a bare foot into the stirrup, stepped up beside me. I put an arm about her waist.
“Which one is your man?” I asked.
“Of them?” Her tone was contemptuous. “None of them! Although each wishes to be. They are afraid of my father.”
“They are fools.”
“Wait.” She gave me a cool glance. “You have not met my father.”
The three shouted at her to get down, but she swore at them, swore wickedly and with eloquence. I surmised she was younger than she looked, but whatever her age, a wildcat, and worth the taming.
“Get down!” The shouter was a big young man who looked like the casual offspring of some Visigoth warrior. “Get down!” he shouted. “Or I shall take him from the saddle!”
“Try it,” I invited, “and I shall ride you down.”
He glared at me, but his courage was all in his mouth. My hand was on my scimitar, and my horse within two jumps of him, and the Barb was a horse who started with a bound. Had he started to lift his bow, I’d have cut him down like the swine he was, but he was a big-muscled swine, and I began to wonder what the girl’s father must be like. I was to find out.
She pointed down a worn path, and we followed it, the Barb pricking his ears and quickening his step. A moment and we rounded a bend into a beautifully green valley, completely hidden by the barren hills. On the floor of the valley, crowning a small knoll, was a walled ruin, an ancient castle that had been repaired somewhat.
As we rode up to the gate, out walked the biggest man I had ever seen.
He was a head and a half taller than I, and half again as broad. His hands were huge, his eyes fierce. He wore a black beard, and his hair was to his shoulders, black as a raven’s wing.
He gave me the merest glance, yet his eyes lingered on my scimitar and the Barb. “Get down from there!” he shouted at the girl, as if she were two fields away from him.
She started to obey, but deliberately, I held her back and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “He will kill you!” she hissed, then dropped to the ground, sauntering away with that fine, impudent way she had.
He took a swift stride toward me, reaching for the bridle. Sidestepping the Barb, I drew my blade. “Keep your hands off, my big friend, or you will be lacking one of them.”
He took a second look at me. He was big, tough, and mean, and he was used to men being frightened of him. Before he could speak, I spoke quietly. “I have not come for trouble. Your daughter was kind enough to invite me for food and drink. If you can provide them, I shall be on my way.”