But there was nothing I could do about that now but pray.
When the closest skiris were about 30 feet away from me – meaning I had about a minute before they reached me – I abandoned my post and headed for the drop side of the cliff. I had used all 30 arrows from the spare quivers, and I needed to keep some if I wanted to engage in combat later.
I scurried over to the rope I had anchored into the cliff side.
Anchor at the top, anchor at the bottom… basically 100 feet of fairly taut rope attached at both ends to the mountain.
I detached the rope from the top-side anchor and fastened it to my climbing harness.
Then I started climbing backwards down the mountainside as fast as I could, using my ice axes and crampons. I took more risks than I should have, but time was of the essence.
As I went, I took up the slack in the rope, making sure that if I fell, I wouldn’t fall the entire length of the line.
If I’d fallen from the very top of the cliff, that would have been a 200-foot drop – the top of the rope to the anchor point down below being the first 100, and then another 100 feet until all the slack in the rope played out. That far of a drop would have broken my back, and I wanted to avoid that at all costs.
I wasn’t planning on falling, but I might not have a choice if circumstances changed.
Circumstances changed.
Suddenly there were several growls up above me, and a shower of snow dusted my head.
I looked up to see a couple of skiris looking down at me from the edge of the cliff, 50 feet overhead.
Shit.
As soon as they saw me look up at them, they roared, exposing a full set of inch-long fangs.
Good for me they weren’t too bright, or they might have started hurling rocks down the mountainside at me.
If they did that, I was shit out of luck. I would have to take my chances and fall down the mountainside, praying that the safety line jerking taut wouldn’t hurt me too badly.
But like I said, they weren’t too bright. They just continued howling at me as more and more of them joined their brethren up atop the ridge.
I went as fast as I could, taking up as much slack as possible, until I reached the anchor point.
YES!
At this point I could just let myself down the mountain with the rope and gain another hundred feet between me and the skiris. Not rappel, since kicking out from the mountain would reduce the outcroppings between me and a bullet. But I could absolutely let out the line and slither down the rope, keeping my body close to the cliff.
Two hundred feet total – plenty of room to –
“Well, well, well,” a voice said from up above. “What have we here.”
I probably should have started dropping right at that second. But curiosity got the better of me.
I peered up to see the red-bearded man standing at the top of the cliff, surrounded by skiris.
I could just barely see him over the bumps and mounds of the cliff – which was a good thing in case he decided to open fire.
Not so good for seeing him, though.
Imagine lying on your stomach on the 50 yard line of a football field, your chin pressed against the astroturf. Now imagine a buddy of yours on the 15 yard line, lying on his back, craning his neck up and looking down at you from between his open feet.
Yeah, that was basically the view I had of him.
He was wearing sunglasses as he peered down over the top, and grinning like he was pleased.
Thank god he wasn’t pointing the gun directly at me, though. It was directed off to the side as he leaned over the precipice a few inches to get a better look at me.
“I thought I was the only one on this godforsaken rock. Who the fuck’re you?” the guy called down. “And what the fuck’s with all the arrows?”
I hadn’t really prepared for this part.
I had kind of thought it would play out balls-to-the-wall, one giant battle with me against the gunman, with me having to slide down the mountainside in a great escape.
I hadn’t planned for a conversation.
I wanted to avoid mentioning the women in the pen, though, in case he got suspicious and went back to check on them.
If Lelia had followed my instructions, the women were probably already on their way down to the fort by now. Hopefully they could take out that lone skiris before he sounded the alarm.
“Name’s Jack Harrington,” I shouted out.
I decided I wouldn’t drop down the cliff with the rope unless he made a move first.
“Jack Harrington,” the other guy said, as though musing aloud. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“I, uh… used to have a television – ”
“Holy SHIT!” he cried out in delight, laughing like a loon. “I know exactly who you are! Survive This or somethin’ – right?”
Of all the weird shit that had happened to me, this was quite possibly the most surreal moment of them all.
I had died in an avalanche, entered the afterlife on another planet with two moons, and fallen in love with a blue-skinned elf woman… all so I could talk to an armed fan of my show while hanging from a rope hundreds of feet from certain death.
Okay, waking up on another planet was more surreal, but I’d gotten used to that shit, so this was the biggest surreal moment since that.
“Uhhhh… yeah,” I said hesitantly. “Survive.”
With an exclamation point, actually, but I wasn’t really feeling chipper enough to put that in my tone of voice right now.
“What the fuck! This is crazy!” the guy said with a laugh. “I’m Weaver. Hate my first name, so everybody just calls me Weaver. Where you from, Jack?”
“Well, all over, actually. But when I wasn’t shooting the show, my house
