Authors: Terry Mancour
It was hard work, even with the assistance and security of the rope. When she reached the point that had stopped her before, she was able to walk up a few steps, her weight entirely on the line, until she found another handhold. But six feet beyond that she hit another smooth patch, and she had to trust the rope again.
Then she was over a particularly difficult scramble, and ready to face the next one, but there weren’t any more. The grade leveled out somewhat, and Dara climbed the last few yards by herself.
Then she was on top of the mountain, at the very peak of Rundeval, the entire valley of Sevendor spread out before her.
To the left, the western enclave of the Westwood seemed so small, compared to the rest of the valley, though the Westwoodmen’s mandate extended as far into the interior of the mountains as a man could range. To the north she saw the distant and distinctive mound of Matten’s Helm; it was beautiful, with the autumnal foliage arrayed at its base.
Directly below her, at the base of the north face of the mountain, was Sevendor Castle, a dark and hulking mass of stone that represented everything oppressive to Dara. She wondered if she could throw a rock from the summit and manage to hit Sir Erantal as he relieved himself for the morning.
Of course she knew that was silly. She was here to get a bird, not take petty revenge. She began to fasten the end of the rope on the “knob of rock no bigger than a hogshead” that her father had spoken of, when she finally had a chance to look down –
really
look down – and appreciate just how high up she was.
I’m above the falcon’s nest,
she observed to herself.
I am above the birds. And it’s a long, long way down. With a very dreary ending awaiting her at the bottom.
For a few moments fear overtook her, and she almost started back down the way she came without her prize. But despite the fear of falling, the fear of failure was even greater. In the end Dara’s need for the falcon’s eyas won out over her fear of losing her own life.
When she was certain that her ropes were secure, her equipment in place, and her basket tied firmly to her chest, Dara whispered one last prayer to the Flame, took a deep breath to calm herself, and took her first step over the ridge and down the sheer wall of black stone that was the north face of the mountain.
Frightful
Moments after Dara began her journey, she knew it was a terrible mistake.
The first few moments weren’t too bad, as Rundeval’s summit arced gracefully down away from the ridge . . . but after that, every step she took pushed her farther and farther away from safety. The face of the cliff was smooth, with few handholds. Without a rope, Dara would never have had a chance.
As it was, she slipped and found herself almost dangling several times on the way down. She had wrapped a long portion of her line around herself, and tied the end securely around her waist and shoulders so that if her hands let go she would not fall automatically, but one crazy step after another turned her adventure into a harsh lesson in gravity and friction. Her fingers were soon scraped and bleeding, as she paid out the hempen rope one painful hand at a time. The gloves she’d brought had smooth leather palms which made the rope slip too easily, and she had to abandon them to her belt before she’d descended twenty feet.
But after the first scrambling descent, there was a gentle knob in the cliff that gave just enough support so that she could lean against it and catch her breath.
Dara was exhausted after just a few scant yards. Her arms ached with effort, her legs – which were tender from all the climbing she’d done – were protesting painfully to her after the effort she’d put them to climbing down. But she’d made it this far, she recognized proudly. She’d made it too far to easily turn back now. The nest was only another few dozen feet down over the side, she reminded herself encouragingly.
Then she looked down.
Vertigo struck her as she saw with unobstructed clarity the long, long way down the face of Rundeval. The bottom of the cliff seemed so far away, yet she seemed to be able to see every little detail of the rocks that promised to punish her slightest misstep below. The distance was terrifying, and the reminder of the price of one mistake was just too potent; Dara made herself look elsewhere. Otherwise, she realized, she wouldn’t be able to make her hands and feet do anything, she was so frightened.
Sevendor Castle’s hulking dark mass was the next easiest thing for her bewildered eyes to focus upon. It seemed laughably small from up here, a square stone keep the same color of the mountain’s dark stone with some additional towers, all of which were in a shabby state of repair. The shingled rooftop of the castle’s hall and round refuge tower had patches and holes she could see from here. She couldn’t imagine her people trying to defend themselves against enemies behind that wreck. Old Sir Erantal had a lot to answer for in the Duke’s service, Dara told herself in an effort to distract her mind from the terrible danger she’d brought on herself. She could almost imagine how the neglected old pile of stones must smell.
When she’d calmed her fear and took stock of her situation, she realized that she had to force herself to go on. Dara glanced over the side of the knob and saw the falcon’s nest below. Another twenty feet, perhaps thirty, and she’d be there. She could see the wide tangle of brush and twigs that made up the nest . . . and she could see three distinct bobbing shapes below.
And no mother bird. She must be out hunting for breakfast,
Dara decided.
No better time to capture one of the fledglings, then.
Taking a deep breath Dara grasped the rope tightly and took a step down, backwards, into nothingness. The knob overhung just enough to make finding a foothold maddeningly difficult. First with one foot, then the other, Dara probed the cliff below her until finally her left toe found purchase . . . if she stretched her legs out as far as she could. It wasn’t much, but it gave her just enough purchase to descend another few inches, where she repeated the process with her other foot.
Her mind sang a frantic monolog the entire time.
One more inch, just one more inch, please . . . oh, there! Almost at that pretty bird, I’m almost . . . almost there . . . Flame, this rope is hurting my hands! Maybe I should put the gloves back on? Certainly for the climb back up, if I can even get back up . . . there! Now just lower yourself carefully down and flex that knee carefully . . . Yikes! Slipped! Oh, ashes and cinders this hurts! What was I thinking? Flame, my elbow hurts now! Have to keep going, though, must keep going, every inch brings me closer, just . . . have to get my toe . . . right there . . . am I going to slip? No? Am I sure? No? Oh, Flame, what do I do now . . . maybe just . . . a little to the right . . . but ---AHHHHHHHH!
Dara yelped as her foot slipped and she felt the mountain slap her in the face and chest. She fell rapidly, her hands madly scrambling for any kind of purchase. She fell six feet, scraping her chin badly and biting her tongue, when her left toe unexpectedly found a shallow concavity she was able to use to stop her descent. The rope above her was taught with the tension of her weight, still, but almost two inches of her left foot kept her from falling. That was enough.
Checking her rope carefully before she proceeded, Dara pushed herself toward the right, again, until she found another toe hold that didn’t quite stretch her legs out like a dressed hen ready for stuffing. Both feet, she realized, had solid rock under her and for a few precious moments she wasn’t in imminent danger of a plummet to her doom. She hugged the cliff and panted, letting her legs bear her weight for a few moments while her arms rested.
The position also gave her just enough room to look back and down over her shoulder at the nest below.
There wasn’t as much as a hint of a toehold from where she was down the fifteen feet left to the narrow ledge where the nest awaited her. Below her boots the cliff cut sharply back inwards, only a few feet . . . but a few feet might as well be miles away. The slope picked back up below the nest, but the mother falcon had cleverly chosen a hard-to-reach spot for her nest. From the ground the difference had seemed so small. Now that she was here “small” might just mean “impossible”
.
Or at least “risky”, she decided.
There was one thing she could do, she realized, as she investigated moving strongly to either the left or right, and then decided against it. As narrow as the cliff was, at its widest point there was a space over four feet wide and nearly flat, in front of the nest. She could just pay out the rope enough to drop straight down into that very,
very
narrow space and hope she didn’t fall over the cliff in the process.
It was a calculated effort. She’d fallen farther from trees, before, and had landed without problems in spaces far smaller than the one below her, she reasoned. But then she hadn’t been worried about plunging over any cliffs, either. She debated with herself for what seemed like forever, and nearly quit the effort when she considered her chances of falling.
But then she looked at her bloodied, scraped hands. The sweat was starting to make them sting even more than they already hurt. If she gave up now, then she’d injured her poor hands for nothing.
Taking another deep breath, Dara pushed herself gently out and let the rope pay out through her hands as gravity pulled her quickly down. She had a few seconds of abject terror as the winds themselves were the only thing between her and death . . . and then she felt her feet hit the rocky ledge so hard her knees flew up and clacked her jaws together.
But she was alive. She clung to the stone and panted, delighting in the sensation of solid ground. She laughed. She’d made it to the ledge. She noted with satisfaction that she was over a foot away from certain doom, almost two feet.
Plenty
of room.
When she’d caught her breath again, she carefully rolled over and surveyed the nearby nest. It was huge, nearly four feet wide at the center, and deep. Dara pulled herself over to the habitat on her bruised and complaining knees and elbows, until she was staring down at three sets of beady little eyes and three beaks. The fledglings were just starting to lose their baby plumage and grow real feathers. They still looked half like plucked chicks.
Then they all stared back at her and began angrily squawking at her.
They must think I’m a predator
, she realized.
I’m certainly not their mother. Best be on my way with what I came for before she returns,
Dara reasoned.
She looked at the trio of eyases and tried to remember everything her Uncle Keram had told her. After a few moments of thoughtful consideration, Dara chose the chick in the rear, the largest of the three. Females tended to be larger at this stage, she remembered him saying, and females were superior hunters to males. They had to be, to feed this many hungry beaks.
“Hello, beautiful,” Dara breathed as she reached her bloody hands out to pick up the chick. The bird was not cooperative – indeed, the moment her fingers came in range the angry chick viciously pecked at her until she cried out.
“Flame! You are a frightful beast, aren’t you?” swore Dara, sucking on her fingertips before making another approach. The chick fluffed its wings defiantly and took another strike at Dara’s fingers, but the girl persisted until she could feel the warm, feathery little bundle madly scrambling between her hands, her siblings now attacking Dara’s wrists in defense of their sister. “Ow! Flame! Ow! Ash and cinders! Ow!” she cried as she tried to get the chick in the basket she’d brought. She earned one final, deep scratch on her left wrist for her trouble before she was able to close the basket and fasten it tightly with string.
Dara took a few breaths and examined the remaining chicks before she left. She couldn’t properly tell their sex, at this age, but they seemed confused by the amount of room that they suddenly had. Nor were they happy about it; their screeching and squawking had risen in pitch and shrillness in their alarm at the “attack” on their home.
At least they’ll get more to eat without . . . without their frightful big sister around, now,
Dara reasoned as she began to prepare herself for the brutal climb ahead of her. Uncle Keram had told her how the smaller nestlings often were neglected in favor of larger, stronger ones. It was Nature’s way, he’d said, solemnly, when she’d complained of the unfairness. But without their big sister to compete with, the remaining chicks should both prosper . . . she hoped.
When she had rested sufficiently to attempt the ascent back up the cliff, Dara secured the basket carefully behind her before she began climbing up the only slope that promised even a hint of traction. She also began winding her rope around her waist and re-securing it, every time she collected enough slack to do so. She had no desire to lose an inch of ground her aching arms and back gained for her. She was feeling triumphant, now, the additional weight of the chick on her back giving her extra reason to be cautious as well as exultant. If she could just make it back up to the peak . . .
Dara had climbed no more than ten feet from the nest when disaster struck. She was lifting her left foot painfully into the air, searching for a toehold, when suddenly her right shoulder was struck, hard, by a vicious mass of feathers and claws. Her right shoulder exploded in pain as she felt razor-sharp beak and talons slice into her flesh. Despite herself, she lost purchase on the cliff.