At the end of an hour I had learned a few things. The castle in which I was imprisoned was on a lonely crag some distance from Córdoba, and the walls fell into a deep gorge on all but one side. The idea did not frighten me, as from boyhood I had climbed about on the lofty cliffs of my native Brittany. Heights did not disturb me, and I had learned how to use every tiny finger grip, every crack, every opening in the rock.
My beard had grown; my clothing was unclean, and the straw on which I spent my nights was forever clinging to it. Yet that clothing was still sufficient to cover me, and sewn into the seams were the remaining gems I had kept from the galley.
That night when the cell was dark I labored long at the loosened bar and the second one also. By daylight when I lay down to sleep there was some movement in the second bar.
The guard awakened me by bringing food. On this morning he did not seem disposed to talk nor would his eyes meet mine.
“The order has come then?”
He shrugged irritably and closed the door behind him. Then he said quite distinctly. “You are to be strangled.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You may have my horse.”
When he spoke, there was something in his tone I could not fathom. “I already have him. He is in the stable at my house in the village, with your saddle and your weapons.”
Was he boasting? Or trying to give me information?
“Wait. Is anyone near us?”
“No.”
“I must escape. I have a diamond. Help me and it is yours.”
“I would be killed. Prince Ahmed is furious.” He chuckled. “It is said the beautiful one murmurs your name in her sleep.”
He hesitated at the door. “You have friends who wish you free.”
“Aziza?”
“It was not she who sent the books. But I cannot help you.”
“You were asked?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“I cannot say, only that she is very powerful in some places. Yet even her influence cannot reach beyond ibn-Haram and Prince Ahmed.”
She?
I knew no woman who might wish to help other than Aziza, nor any person. Perhaps John of Seville—but he would have no knowledge of my danger.
When he had gone I wasted no time. From my guard’s manner I knew he would not mind if I escaped, but he would take no hand in it himself.
Besides, what could he or anyone do? The passage was filled with men, the outer court also. One could not buy them all, nor would they risk the reprisals of ibn-Haram.
Hoisting myself to the window, I grasped one bar with my left hand, the other with my right. With all my strength I pushed on the right-hand bar.
Nothing happened.
Bracing myself, I drew the right-hand bar back in its socket, only a tiny distance, then smashed it outward with all the power I could muster. For an hour I worked until drenched with sweat and my knees and arms became raw with chafing against the rock wall.
My guard returned with food, and if he noticed anything, he gave no indication. Only, as he was leaving, he commented, “Twice men have tried to climb down the wall; each was dashed to pieces on the rocks below. It is seven hundred feet to the bottom.
“My house,” he added, “is not a pretty one, but it is painted pink. It is the only pink house outside the walls.”
When he had gone there would be no one nearer than the guardroom. I ate what meager food there was, then scrambled to the sill.
Desperately, I went to work. Escape tonight or die tomorrow; die upon the rocks below risking my life for freedom or be strangled like a sheep.
Grasping the loosest bar, I gave a tremendous shove and something gave. Rock grated, and I shoved again. The bar came loose at the bottom; the top slipped from its socket. I now held in my hand an iron bar three feet long, slightly beveled at one end. An hour later the second bar was free.
Thrusting my head from the window, I looked off into a vast, unbelievable space. The cell in which I was imprisoned was set upon the rock of the clifftop, but the precipice fell away in a sheer drop for two hundred feet and was then broken by several crevices that seemed to run down the face of the cliff.
Studying the wall below my window, I carefully noted the knobs and projections that might offer fingerholds. Returning to the floor of my cell, I drank what remained of the water, then lay down for a brief nap. Within the hour my body might lie broken and bloody on the rocks below, but I would never be strangled by the retainers of Prince Ahmed.
Awakening, I rinsed my mouth with the few drops I had missed of the water, then climbed to the windowsill and went through the window, feet first. Gripping with my fingers on the window ledge, I groped with my toes for the hairline of rock where the building rested, and found it.
Always agile, and adept at rock climbing, I knew the trial before me would be the worst I would ever meet. In my belt, tied there, were the two iron window bars. Clinging to the ledge with my fingertips with one hand only, I leaned down and thrust one of the bars deep into a crack in the wall.
Letting go the sill, I let myself fall, catching the bar with both hands. Had the bar slipped or the rock crumbled—but neither happened. A gust of wind caught my body; I heard distant thunder. My toe found a crack. Holding to the bar behind me with my left hand, I leaned down and wedged the second bar into place.
Farther along the cliff face was a vertical crack some three feet wide and but a few inches deep. Edging my way, handhold by handhold across the face of the rock, using the second iron bar, which I had recovered, for the first I had abandoned in place, I made my way to that crack.
Rain spattered on the rock face around me, and a gust of wind, harder than the first, tore at my clothing. Placing the sole of one foot against the edge behind me and my knee against the edge in front, using my hands with care, I began to work my way down the crack. After a few feet of descent the crack deepened so I could also oppose a shoulder against the edge behind me. In this way, using a technique often applied during my boyhood climbs along the rocky shores, I descended for at least sixty feet.
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.”
He waited while I could have counted a slow ten, then said, “Get down. Come in.”
“I would care for my horse first.”
“Alan will do it.” He gestured toward a slim, dark young man with quick, intelligent eyes.
Swinging down, I said, “Take good care of him. He’s a fine animal.”
His eyes lighted up. “Of course,” he said. Then under his breath he warned, “Be careful of my uncle. If you touch Sharasa, he will kill you. And,” he added, “he may kill you, anyway.”
“A man who wishes to kill,” I said, “must also be ready to die.”
Sharasa held the door for me as I entered. Her father was already at the rough board table, pouring wine from a flagon. There was bread on the table, cheese, and a haunch of mutton. Suddenly, I realized I was ravenously hungry.
A half hour earlier there had been nothing else on my mind, but Sharasa—such influences can be distracting.
He stared at me from the opposite end of the table. “I am Akim,” he said. “This is my valley.”
“And I am Kerbouchard, a soldier.”
“Bah!” he sneered. “There are no soldiers now! In my young days—”
“In your young days,” I said, “the soldiers were no better than now. I will share your food and wine, my friend, but do not think I am one of your goats, or one of those sheep you call men. I am as good a man as you are, or ever were.”
He glared at me, furious. He liked me not one bit, and I liked him no more, nor was I to be put upon by boasting. I could match him, lie for lie, boast for boast. It was true I was no soldier, although trained in arms. My blade had been blooded as a good blade must be, yet at such a time the truth is only for those lackin
g imagination. If it was war he wanted, I would match him war for war, battle for battle, and lie the better as I was the better read.
Reaching across the table, I took the mug from in front of him and shoved mine at him. “You would poison me,” I said, “before you would try me with a sword. I trust you not at all.”
He tore meat from the slab of mutton before me, but taking out my dagger, I cut thin slices from mine, letting him appreciate its razor-edge.
He drank with me, eating some of the bread, but my eyes were busy. These were no simple shepherds, but thieves when opportunity offered. No doubt this place had seen the spilled blood of many an innocent traveler, but I would not be among them.
Akim had the look of a seasoned campaigner, and he would be a dangerous man in battle, but such as he would not be turned aside by soft words. Such as he would kill those who submit, respect only those dangerous to them.
My seat, purposely taken, allowed me to watch the door, and no one could come up behind me. Akim had noticed this, and there was surly respect in his eyes.
Sharasa brought more food, a bowl of fruit and some choicer slices of meat. She walked away from me swaying her hips, and Akim swore at her. She flipped a corner of her skirt at him, and he half started from his seat.
“She’s a likely girl,” I said. “Have you found a man for her?”
There was a glassy look to his eyes when she stared back at me. “I will kill the man who touches her.”
I grinned at him, cheerful with filling my stomach. “Is that what the sheep are afraid of? Well, it does not frighten me. She would be worth it. And as for the killing, two can play that game.”
“When you finish eating, get out of here.”
“You mean you have decided against robbing me? Better think again. That’s a fine horse out there.” My dagger slid into my hand, and again I cut a paper-thin slice from the roast. “You might be able to get it, and then again, you might not.”
Sharasa returned with a pitcher of cold goat’s milk. I could see the sweat on the sides of the pitcher. She had taken this from a well or a cave.
The Walking Drum (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 13
