The Eyes of the Dragon - Stephen King [128]
Up and around, up and around, higher and higher. He was a devil with murder on his mind.
A hundred. A hundred and twenty-five.
Faster," Ben Staad panted to Dennis and Naomi. The temperature had begun to fall again, but all three of them were sweating. Some of the sweat came from exertion-they were working very hard. But much of their sweat had been caused by fear. They could hear Flagg shrieking. Even Frisky, with her brave heart, felt afraid. She had withdrawn a little and huddled on her haunches, whimpering.
COMING, YOU LITTLE WHELP!"
Closer now-his voice was flatter, with less echo.
"COMING TO DO WHAT I SHOULD HAVE DONE ALONG TIME AGO!"
The twin blades swished and whickered.
This time the knot held.
Gods help me, Peter thought, and looked back once more toward the sound of Flagg's rising, shrieking voice. Gods help me now.
Peter threw one leg out the window. Now he sat astride the sill as if it were Peony's saddle, one leg on the stone floor of his sitting room, the other dangling over the drop. He held the heap of his rope and the iron bar from his bed in his lap. He tossed the rope out the window, watching as it fell. It tangled and bound up halfway down, and he had to spend more time shaking the rope like a fishline before it would drop free again.
Then, uttering one final prayer, he grasped the iron bar and pulled it against the window. His rope hung down from the middle. Peter slipped the leg that was inside over the sill, twisted around at the waist, holding on to the bar for dear life. Now only his bottom was on the sill. He made a half-turn so that the cold outer edge of the sill was pressed against his belly instead of his butt. His legs hung down. The iron bar was seated firmly across the window.
Peter let go of it with his left hand and caught hold of his narrow napkin rope. For a moment he paused, battling his fear.
Then he closed his eyes and let go of the bar with his right hand. His whole weight was on the rope now. He was committed. For better or worse, his life now depended on the napkins. Peter began to lower himself.
COMING-
Two hundred.
"FOR YOUR HEAD-"
Two hundred and fifty.
MY DEAR PRINCE!
Two hundred and seventy-five.
Ben, Dennis, and Naomi could see Peter, a dark man-shape against the curved wall of the Needle, high above their heads-higher than even the bravest acrobat would dare to go.
"Faster," Ben panted-almost moaned. "For your lives for his life!"
They went about emptying the cart even faster but in truth, all they could do was almost done.
Flagg raced up the stairs, his hood falling back, his lank dark hair flying off his waxy brow.
Almost there now-almost there.
The wind was light now, but very cold. It blew against Peter's bare cheeks and bare hands, numbing them. Slowly, slowly, he descended, moving with careful deliberation. He knew that if he let his descent get out of hand, he would fall. In front of him, the great mortared stone blocks rolled steadily upward very soon he came to feel that he was remaining still and it was the Needle itself which was moving. His breath came in tight gasps. Cold dry snow rattled on his face. The rope was thin if his hands grew much number, he wouldn't be able to feel it at all.
How far had he come?
He didn't dare look down and see.
Above him, individual strands of thread, cunningly woven together as a woman might braid a rug, had begun to pop threads. Peter did not know this, which was probably just as well. The breaking strain had nearly been reached.
Master, King Peter!" Dennis whispered. The three of them had finished emptying the cart; now they could only watch. Peter had descended perhaps half of the distance.
"He's so high," Naomi moaned. "If he falls-"
"If he falls, he'll be killed," Ben said with a flat and toneless finality that silenced them all.
Flagg reached the top of the stairs and ran down the corridor, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. Sweat stood out all over his face. His grin was