The Eyes of the Dragon

130

Down and down Peter went. His arm muscles trembled with exhaustion. His mouth was dry; he couldn’t remember ever wanting a drink as badly as he did right now. It seemed that he had been on this rope for a very, very long time, and a queer certainty had stolen into his heart-he would never get the drink of water he wanted. He was meant to die after all, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. He was going to die thirsty. Right now that seemed the worst of it.

He still did not dare look down, but he felt a queer compulsion-every bit as strong as his brother’s compulsion to go into their father’s sitting room-to look up. He obeyed it-and some two hundred feet above, he saw Flagg’s white, murderous face grinning down at him.

“Hello, my little bird,” Flagg called down cheerfully. “I’ve an axe, but I really don’t think I’ll need to use it after all. I’ve put it aside, see?” And the magician held out his bare hands.

All the strength was trying to run out of Peter’s arms and hands just the sight of Flagg’s hateful face had done that. He concentrated on holding on. He couldn’t feel the thin rope at all anymore-he knew he still had it because he could see it coming out of his fists, but that was all. His breath rasped in and out of his throat in hot gasps.

Now he looked down… and saw the white, upturned circles of three faces. Those circles were very, very small-he was not twenty feet above the frozen cobbles, or even forty feet; he was still a hundred feet up, as high as the fourth floor of one of our buildings.

He tried to move and found he could not-if he moved, he would fall. So he hung there against the side of the building. Cold, gritty snow blew in his face, and from the prison above, Flagg began to laugh.