[piosenniel]

Gravity seemed to be winning . . . or gravities, perhaps . . . the heaviness of Tasa’s body and the force by which the very ground seems to draw all objects to it . . .

A quick ‘oh!’ as if someone above were taken by surprise and then the sharp pattering sounds of loosed rock skittering down the slope. Endamir glanced up to where Tasa climbed a little to his right and several yards above him. She had lost her hold on the rocky wall and her fingers could find no purchase. Still she pressed her body to the slope, hugging the rock as she could; hoping, it seemed, the scraping of her clothes against the surface might slow her down.

His feet secure on a short, meager ledge, Endamir moved as quickly as he could to the right hand edge of the jutting stone. He had already scoped out the choice of hand holds as he’d climbed earlier to this spot. At this end of his foothold, there was only a narrow, oblique crevice. Hardly wide enough for a thin lizard to squeeze into.

Without a second’s thought, he jammed the fingers of his left hand into the crevice and, hugging the slope, reached as far to the right as he could with his free hand. His hand caught the sliding Elf by the waistband of her breeches and pushed her hard against the rock, stopping her descent.

‘Reach over with your left foot and find my boot toe. It has good support. It will give you something to secure yourself against.’ Endamir looked up to where Malris had paused and was looking down. ‘Throw down a looped rope for her!’ he shouted. ‘And hurry!’

Already he could his wedged fingers beginning to grow numb in their precarious hold . . .