The Eye of the Falcon by Michelle Paver Page A

free.
    â€œPirra, this is madness!” shouted Telamon.
    With rising panic, she kept going. Suddenly the stone moved by itself. Then someone yanked it out, a hand reached through and grabbed her wrist, and she heard a hoarse whisper. “Pirra! It’s me!”

    To Hylas’ relief, Pirra didn’t waste an instant asking how he’d found her. The Crows might appear at any moment.
    The first stone had doubled the size of the hole, which made it easier to get at the next. In frantic silence they attacked it together, Hylas digging and levering with a stick, Pirra hammering from inside. At last the stone jolted free. With both feet, Hylas kicked in another one—and before he could help her, she’d wriggled through.
    Seizing her hand, he half dragged her up the slope. The wind helped, hiding them in choking smoke as they scrambled from bush to bush. But it would hide the Crows too.
    At last they reached the boulders below the waterfall, where Hylas had hidden to spy out the sanctuary. Pirra leaned against a rock, bent double, with her hands on her knees. For the first time, he got a good look at her. He was shocked. Her face was gray and painfully thin, with dark-blue shadows under her eyes. She didn’t look strong enough to make it up to the ridge, let alone trek across a mountain.
    â€œAre you all right?” he panted.
    â€œNo,” she snapped, suddenly a lot more like herself. “I’ve had fever, I’m weak as a cat. And I’ve lost my sealstone,” she added, staring in horror at a bloody scratch on her wrist.
    He snorted. “Well, you can’t go back for it now.”
    â€œI know that,” she retorted.
    He flashed her a grin—which she didn’t return. It was taking all her resolve just to stay standing.
    Below them, the roof of Taka Zimi collapsed with a crash, and orange flames shot skyward. Through the smoke, Hylas glimpsed warriors searching the ground near the walls. Soon they would find Pirra’s escape hole and pick up their trail.
    Hylas thought fast. Returning the way he’d come would mean a long, steep climb past the waterfall and onto the ridge. Even if Pirra managed it, she’d never outrun the Crows. There had to be another way . . .
    â€œLet’s go,” he said. “If we head down the other side of this slope, we’ll come to a gorge. There’s a bridge. When we’re across, we’ll cut it; that’ll give us a good day’s lead.”
    Under cover of the smoke, they started off, stumbling between the pines toward where Hylas reckoned the gorge must be—although in this smoke, it was hard to tell. Trees and boulders loomed out of the haze, but no Crow warriors. Which didn’t mean they weren’t close behind.
    To his relief, the pines thinned—and there was the gorge, with the bridge just a few paces away.
    â€œThat’s not a bridge,” panted Pirra, “that’s a rope!”
    â€œIt’s a bridge,” said Hylas. “One for the feet, two for the hands. But we need to go barefoot.” Already he was yanking off his boots and tying them around his neck.
    â€œI can’t do it,” she said. “I—”
    â€œYou can. Quick, take off your boots and tie them round your neck.”
    After an instant’s hesitation, she did, although he could see that she didn’t think she’d make it across.
    â€œThe trick is to keep moving,” he told her, “but don’t rush and don’t look down.”
    The “bridge” was braided rawhide, lashed on this side to three wind-battered pines and on the other to a clump of sturdy oaks. It was maybe twenty paces long, and the drop to the bottom was stomach-churning. One wrong move and they’d be splattered all over the rocks.
    â€œWill it take both our weights?” muttered Pirra.
    â€œYes,” said Hylas, although he was far from sure. Blessing Periphas for his gift of rope,