been literal.
He reached the edge of the ramp, looking down to the vertiginous drop below, the crashing ocean surrounding the island of unforgiving rock, swaying, arms flailing, as a gust of wind nearly took him over the edge. He looked about, frantic, seeking a path to flee, but seeing none; the ramp was guarded by the foreman and his warriors, with more rushing up to join. He ducked, as another arrow streaked past him, missing by inches, before turning back to the drop.
There, in the gloom of the stormy night air – a wooden scaffold, rising high and rickety, clutched to the side of the towering lighthouse like ivy to a tree. With one last desperate look at his would-be killers, the slave took a couple of steps back, before taking a deep breath, quelling his fear at the madness of what he was about to do, before running and leaping with all his might.
The comforting solidity of the ramp beneath him disappeared, in its stead the yawning emptiness of air. He fell, leaving his stomach above him, but his momentum carried him forward, foot by foot till he reached, with a crash of splintering wood and the tangling of ropes, the scaffolds he’d aimed for.
Jafari clung, like a newborn monkey to its mothers fur, to the wooden structure, laughing out loud in disbelief that he’d made the jump, before an arrow thudded into the wooden post an inch from his head and, with a gulp, he shuffled his way, precariously, further into the structure, swinging his way down, feet and hands slipping on the wood slick with rain, making use of whatever ropes he could find to keep him from falling as he made his way down, down, down into the darkness below, every rung, every handhold taking him further and further away from the arrows of the Clansmen and the cracking impotent whip of the bawling foreman.
***
The worsening rain obscured their vision, even the structure of the scaffolding tough to make out now in the storm.
“Do we pursue?”
The question was almost rhetorical, for it would be madness to climb down the wooden tower in this weather. The foreman shook his head, his rage slowly dissipating like smoke dispersing on a breezy day.
“No. He is but one slave, no need to risk Clansmen. Even if the fool makes it down the tower alive – which I highly doubt – he won’t last long on the Isle of Storms.” He grinned evilly as he extracted some satisfaction from the following observation. “If the sea doesn’t claim him, then the beasts will…”
***
Joltan narrowed his keen eyes as he scanned the darkening forest all about him, ever watchful for shadows, his bow in readiness, only one hand on the reins of his disciplined steed.
The hounds, big, burly brutes, were quiet. This unnerved him.
Two weeks now they had been here, high in the foothills of the Arragonians, the mountains of the North, seeking this hidden valley he’d heard his commanders speaking about. Two weeks of boredom and tension, with only the rabbits and deer upon which to vent his frustrations, communicating with his fellow Marzbans leading the other parties by Steppes-Falcon, messages tied to their legs. He’d sent his last Falcon two days ago.
It still hadn’t come back.
The hills here had eyes, of this he was certain. He could feel them watching him, feel the itching at the back of his neck that you always felt when someone was staring at you behind your back.
He hated this place.
Catlyn snorted beneath him, showing her disdain for the place too, and he patted her on the side of the neck, drawing comfort from the fact that she was with him, ever loyal. A Savaran had a bond with his steed that few could understand, and Catlyn, all sixteen hands of dappled grey mare, had seen him through thick and thin over the years. She
He reached the edge of the ramp, looking down to the vertiginous drop below, the crashing ocean surrounding the island of unforgiving rock, swaying, arms flailing, as a gust of wind nearly took him over the edge. He looked about, frantic, seeking a path to flee, but seeing none; the ramp was guarded by the foreman and his warriors, with more rushing up to join. He ducked, as another arrow streaked past him, missing by inches, before turning back to the drop.
There, in the gloom of the stormy night air – a wooden scaffold, rising high and rickety, clutched to the side of the towering lighthouse like ivy to a tree. With one last desperate look at his would-be killers, the slave took a couple of steps back, before taking a deep breath, quelling his fear at the madness of what he was about to do, before running and leaping with all his might.
The comforting solidity of the ramp beneath him disappeared, in its stead the yawning emptiness of air. He fell, leaving his stomach above him, but his momentum carried him forward, foot by foot till he reached, with a crash of splintering wood and the tangling of ropes, the scaffolds he’d aimed for.
Jafari clung, like a newborn monkey to its mothers fur, to the wooden structure, laughing out loud in disbelief that he’d made the jump, before an arrow thudded into the wooden post an inch from his head and, with a gulp, he shuffled his way, precariously, further into the structure, swinging his way down, feet and hands slipping on the wood slick with rain, making use of whatever ropes he could find to keep him from falling as he made his way down, down, down into the darkness below, every rung, every handhold taking him further and further away from the arrows of the Clansmen and the cracking impotent whip of the bawling foreman.
***
The worsening rain obscured their vision, even the structure of the scaffolding tough to make out now in the storm.
“Do we pursue?”
The question was almost rhetorical, for it would be madness to climb down the wooden tower in this weather. The foreman shook his head, his rage slowly dissipating like smoke dispersing on a breezy day.
“No. He is but one slave, no need to risk Clansmen. Even if the fool makes it down the tower alive – which I highly doubt – he won’t last long on the Isle of Storms.” He grinned evilly as he extracted some satisfaction from the following observation. “If the sea doesn’t claim him, then the beasts will…”
***
Joltan narrowed his keen eyes as he scanned the darkening forest all about him, ever watchful for shadows, his bow in readiness, only one hand on the reins of his disciplined steed.
The hounds, big, burly brutes, were quiet. This unnerved him.
Two weeks now they had been here, high in the foothills of the Arragonians, the mountains of the North, seeking this hidden valley he’d heard his commanders speaking about. Two weeks of boredom and tension, with only the rabbits and deer upon which to vent his frustrations, communicating with his fellow Marzbans leading the other parties by Steppes-Falcon, messages tied to their legs. He’d sent his last Falcon two days ago.
It still hadn’t come back.
The hills here had eyes, of this he was certain. He could feel them watching him, feel the itching at the back of his neck that you always felt when someone was staring at you behind your back.
He hated this place.
Catlyn snorted beneath him, showing her disdain for the place too, and he patted her on the side of the neck, drawing comfort from the fact that she was with him, ever loyal. A Savaran had a bond with his steed that few could understand, and Catlyn, all sixteen hands of dappled grey mare, had seen him through thick and thin over the years. She
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