by Wilbur Smith
Mansur had fallen a little behind her, but he was content to follow and watch her. He felt a deep longing welling within him. This is my woman. This is the one I have waited and longed for. As he thought it, he caught a flicker of movement ahead of her running horse. It might have been the flit of the wings of one of the drab little thrushes, but he knew it was not.
He concentrated his attention and the complete picture leaped into his mind. It was a lion: the lash of its tail had alerted him. It was crouching in a shallow gully directly in Verity's path. It was flattened against the ground, which was the same pale brown as its sleek hide. Its ears were laid flat against its skull, so that it looked like a monstrous serpent coiled to strike. Its eyes were an implacable gold. There was pink froth on its thin black lips, and a lance wound high in its shoulder, which had angled down to pierce the lung.
"Verity!" Mansur screamed. "It's there, right in your path. Turn back! For God's sake, turn back!"
She looked back over her shoulder, her green eyes wide with surprise. He did not realize that he had shouted at her in English. Perhaps she was so taken aback by his change of language that she did not understand the import. She made no effort to check her mare, and galloped on towards the crouching lion.
Mansur spurred his stallion to the top of his speed, but he had dropped too far back to catch them. At the last moment the mare sensed the presence of the lion, and shied violently to one side. Verity was almost hurled from the saddle, but she snatched at the pommel and prevented herself going right over. She lost her seat, however, and one toot was out of its stirrup. As she was thrown forward over the mare's neck she hung on with both arms. The mare threw her head at the stench of the lion and the reins were jerked from Verity's hand. She was no longer in control.
The lion charged at the mare from the side. It was uttering deep chesty grunts and with each one bloody froth burst from its lips. The
mare pivoted away and Verity was flung to one side, hanging down her flank with one foot trapped in the stirrup. The lion sprang upwards with both front paws reaching out, the claws fully extended, great yellow hooks that could slice through hide and muscle to the bone.
It struck the mare with a force that sent her staggering back on her haunches, but the lion's claws were sunk into her hindquarters. The mare shrilled with terror and agony and kicked out with both back legs. Verity was trapped between the two plunging bodies and her screams cut across Mansur's nerves. It sounded as though she was mortally wounded.
His stallion was already at full charge. Mansur couched his lance and steered the horse under him with his heels, altering the angle of his attack, reaching forward with the bright lance-head dancing before him like a silver insect. The lion humped up over the mare's back, hanging on to her with the strength of those massive forelegs as she reared and bucked. It was roaring in a continuous bellow of sound. Its flanks were roped with muscle and the rack of its ribs was clearly outlined beneath the skin. He aimed the lance just behind the straining shoulder. It struck cleanly exactly at the spot he had intended. He ran the steel in with the impetus of the stallion's weight. It was almost effortless, just the jar as the steel touched bone, then glided on to transfix the lion from shoulder to shoulder. The beast arched its spine backwards in mortal agony, and the shaft of the lance snapped like a reed. The mare tore herself free of the hooked claws and raced away, the blood from her wounds slicked down her quarters. Still writhing and contorting the lion rolled in the low scrub.
Verity was half under the mare, clinging to the side of her neck, one foot still trapped in a stirrup. If she lost her grip she would be thrown to the ground and dragged along, with the back of her head bouncing along on the stones until her skull cracked open like an eggshell. She had no more breath to spare for screams. She hung on with all her strength, as the mare bolted.
Despite the bloody gashes in her hindquarters the horse ran hard. She was mad with terror, her eyeballs rolled back until the red lining of the sockets glared and silver ropes of saliva trailed from her open mouth. Verity tried to pull herself back into the saddle but her efforts merely goaded the mare to greater speed. In extreme terror she seemed endowed with fresh strength.
Mansur dropped the broken stub of the lance and shouted at the stallion, hammering his heels into the animal's heaving flanks, whipping him across the shoulders with the loose ends of his reins, but he could not catch the mare. They raced back down the slope, and at the bottom
the mare turned towards the ancient riverbed. Mansur sent the stallion after her.
For half a mile they ran on, and the gap between the horses never changed, until the mare's dreadful injuries began to tell. Her stride shortened almost imperceptibly and her back hoofs began to throw outside the line of her run.
"Hold hard, Verity!" Mansur shouted encouragement. "I am gaining on you now. Don't let go!"
Then he saw the brink of the precipice open directly ahead of the mare, and he looked down the sheer wall of rock into the river valley two hundred feet below. Black despair clamped down on his heart as he imagined mare and girl hurled out over the cliff and dropping to the rocks far beneath.
He drove the stallion on with the strength of his arms and legs, and fierce resolve in his heart. The mare weakened visibly and the gap between them closed, but only slowly. At the last moment the mare saw the earth open ahead of her and tried to turn away, but as her front hoofs bit into the loose earth of the rim it broke away under her. She reared and teetered in wild panic, then toppled backwards.
As the mare went over Mansur threw himself from the back of the stallion and on the edge of the precipice he reached out and grabbed Verity's ankle. He was almost jerked out over the drop, but then her stirrup leather snapped and her leg was free. Still her weight dragged him face down on the sill, but he held on with all his strength. The mare fell away under them, dropping fifty feet before striking the cliff face and screaming in terror as she bounded out into the void.
Verity swung like a pendulum, dangling upside down from his right hand by one leg. The skirts of her coat fell over her head, but she dared not move, knowing that it might break his precarious grip on her ankle. She could hear his harsh panting above her, but she dared not look up. Then his voice reached her. "Stay like that. I am going to pull you up." His voice was strangled with the effort.
Even in her dreadful predicament she took note that he was still speaking English, unaccented and sweet in her ears, the voice of home. If I must die, let that be the last sound I hear, she thought, but could not trust her own voice to reply to him. She looked down through dizzying space to the valley floor so far below her. Her head swam with vertigo, but she hung quiescent and felt his hard fingers biting into her ankle through the soft leather of her boot. Above her Mansur grunted with the effort, and the rough rock of the cliff scraped against her hip as she was drawn upwards a few inches by his strength.
Blindly Mansur groped backwards with one leg and found a narrow
cleft in the rock. He shoved his knee and thigh deeply into it. It anchored him, and now he could release his left hand with which he had been clinging to a precarious hold. He reached down over the sill of the cliff and locked both hands on to Verity's ankle.
"I have you now with both hands." His voice was harsh with the effort. "Courage, girl!" More decisively she was pulled upwards. He paused to gather himself.
"And a tiger!" Mansur gasped out the old nautical exhortation to encourage himself and her.
She wanted to scream at him to shut his mouth, to eschew the childish nonsense and use all his strength to lift her. She knew that the difficult part still lay ahead when he had to heave her backwards over the rock rim. He pulled again and she was dragged up another short space. There was a pause and she felt him adjusting and strengthening his position, using his hips to wriggle backwards, trying to wedge his other leg into the cleft in the rock. He pulled again more strongly from his enhanced position, and she was lifted higher.
"God love you for thi
s," she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, and he heaved again so hard that she felt her leg might be pulled out of its socket in her hip.
"Nearly there, Verity," he said, and pulled, but this time she did not move. A small shrub had taken root in a crack in the cliff face. Now its branches had hooked into her breeches. He pulled again but he could not budge her. She was firmly held by the wiry bush.
"Can't move you," Mansur grunted. "Something holding you."
"It's a bush, catching my legs," she whispered.
"Try to reach it," he ordered.
"Hold me!" she replied, and bent her body at the waist, reaching up with one hand. She felt the branches under her fingers, and made a quick grab at them.
"Got them?" he demanded.
"Yes!" But her grip was one-handed and tenuous. Then her heart turned to ice in her chest as she felt the boot he was holding begin to slide slowly off her foot.
"Boot's coming off!" she sobbed out.
"Give me your other hand," he panted. Before she could refuse she felt him release one hand from her ankle and reach down along her leg. Her foot slid further out of the soft leather boot.
"Your hand!" he pleaded. His fingers were scrabbling urgently down her thigh towards where the bush had come up against her and blocked her way. She felt the back of her boot ride down under her heel.
"Boot's going! I shall fall!"
"Your hand! For the love of God, give me your hand."
She lunged upwards and their fingers locked. She still had a grip on the bush with her other hand. Mansur was hanging on to the ankle of the boot, but now his right hand was linked to hers. Verity was doubled up, suspended by both arms and one leg. The skirts of her coat fell away from her face so she could see again. His face above her was flushed and swollen. His beard was dark, sodden with sweat. It dripped into her upturned face. Neither dared move.
"What must I do?" she said, but before he could answer it was decided for them. The boot slid off her foot. Her lower body dropped forcefully, then flicked round. Now she was stretched out arms upwards and feet down. Although the jerk had loosened her grip, she was still clinging to his right hand and to the bush.
Both were drenched with sweat, which greased their skin. His fingers began to slide through hers.
"I can't hold on to you," she gasped.
The bush," he said. "Don't let go of the bush."
Though she felt as though he were crushing the bones of her fingers, their grip parted like a faulty chain link, and she dropped again until the bush broke her fall. It cracked and bent with her weight.
"It will not hold," she screamed.
"I can't reach you." He was groping for her with both hands and she was stretching up with her free hand, but she was just beyond his reach.
"Pull! You must pull yourself up so I can get you," he grated. She felt the ice in her heart numbing her muscles. She knew it was over. He saw the despair in her eyes, saw her grip on the bush start to fail. She was going to let go.
He snarled at her savagely, trying to shock her into a last effort, "Pull, you feeble creature! Pull, damn your lily liver!"
The insults stung her and anger gave her the strength for one more attempt. But she knew it was useless. Even if she could reach him their sweat-slimy hands could not hold together. She lunged for the branch and found a double hold, but the bush could no longer bear her weight. It crackled and snapped as it tore.
"I am going!" she sobbed.
No, damn you, no!" he shouted, but the bush gave way. She started to fall, but suddenly both her wrists were seized and held. Her fall was arrested with a strength that made the joints of her upper arms pop in their sockets.
Mansur had made his last effort. He had freed his legs from the cleft in which he had wedged them, and threw himself forward over the lip f the cliff. At the full stretch of body and arms he had just reached her.
He was hanging head down, only his toes hooked into the rock cleft held him. But he had to raise her before she slipped through his fingers again. He braced his elbows against the face of the cliff and slowly bent his arms, raising her until they were face to face. His features were swollen and contorted with the agony of his straining muscles, and with the rush of blood into his inverted head. "I cannot lift you higher," he breathed, with their lips almost touching. "Climb up my body. Use me as a ladder."
She locked one arm through his, the bend of her elbow through the bend in his. This left his other hand free. He reached down and took hold of her leather belt and pulled her a little higher. She grabbed his belt buckle and they pulled together. He reached lower and took a handful of the seat of her breeches. She hooked her other arm between his legs and again they heaved. Now her face was level with his waist and she could see over the top of the cliff. He reached down, linked his fingers together and made a stirrup for her bare foot. With the purchase this gave her she could drag herself up and over the lip.
She sprawled on the rock for only an instant, then whipped round. "Can you get back?" she gasped. He was fully extended, powerless to pull himself backwards and regain the crest.
He was almost too far gone to articulate coherently. "Get the horse," he gasped. "Rope on saddle. Pull me back with the horse."
She glanced around and saw the stallion a quarter of a mile away, trotting back up the valley. "Your horse is gone."
Mansur reached backwards and tried to find a finger hold on the rock, but it was smooth. There was a tiny rasping sound as the toe of one boot moved in the rock crack. He slid forward an inch towards the edge of the cliff. Then his foot caught again. She was frozen with horror. His toehold was all that held him from the drop. She seized his ankle with both hands, but she knew it was hopeless. She could never hope to hold the weight of such a big man. She tried to brace herself as she watched his foot slip again and then his hold in the cleft broke. He slid forward irresistibly, and his ankle was plucked from her hands.
He shouted as he went over the edge, and she flung herself forward across the rock sill to peer down, expecting to see him falling away with his robes ballooning around him. Then she stared in disbelief. The hem of his white robe had snagged on a shard of granite on the lip of the cliff. It had broken his fall, and now he was swinging like a pendulum just below her, dangling over that dizzying void. She stretched down with one hand to try to reach him.
"Give me your hand!" she called. She was weak with her own efforts to escape, and her hand shook wildly.
"You will never hold me." He looked up at her, and there was no fear in his eyes.
That touched her deeply. "Let me try," she pleaded.
"No," he said. "One of us will go, not both."
"Please!" she whispered, and the hem of his robe tore with a sharp, ripping sound. "I could not bear it if you died for me."
"Worth it," he said softly, and she felt her heart break. She sobbed and looked behind her. Then hope bloomed again. She slid back from the edge and wedged herself firmly into the rock cleft. She reached back over her shoulders and seized a double handful of her dense brown hair, pulled it forward and twisted it into a loose rope that hung below her waist. Then she threw herself flat on to the rock sill. She was just able to see over the edge. The rope of her hair tumbled forward.
"Take my hair," she shouted. He swivelled his head and stared up at her as it brushed lightly against his face
"Do you have purchase? Can you hold me?"
"Yes, I am wedged into the rock cleft." She tried to sound confident, but she thought, Even if I can't we will go together. He twisted her hair round his wrist, and with a final crack of tearing cloth the hem of his robe gave way. She had just time to brace herself before the shock of his full weight dropping on to her hair half stunned her. Her head was jerked forward and her cheek slammed into the rock with a force that jarred her teeth. She was pinned down. She felt the vertebrae in her neck popping, as though she were hanged on the gallows.
Mansur hung on the rope of her hair only for the seconds it took him
to orient. Then he climbed up, hand over hand, swiftly as a top yard sailor going up the main shrouds. She screamed involuntarily for it seemed that her scalp was being torn from her skull. But then he reached past her, found a handhold in the rock cleft and heaved himself over the rim of the cliff.