Free Hawkmaiden by Terry Mancour Page A

before she realized that there simply weren’t any more handholds, nor anything she could secure her rope to.  Not where she could reach them.  She tried to hammer a nail into a crack in the hard basalt, but the crack was too thin and the rock was too hard.  Nor could she swing the hammer at an angle that might drive it in.  She bent the iron of the precious nail in the attempt, and nearly lost it.
    She was frustrated when ten minutes of maneuvering and repositioning herself yielded no better result; she was stuck.  Had she been a foot taller, or if she could get even one toe purchased on the rock, she could lift herself up to the next round of handholds above.  But try as she might, there was just no way forward.  She studied the matter long and hard before she gave up.  She could see the handhold, tantalizingly close, but there was no way to get there. 
    That’s when she spied a scraggly shrub, a type she wasn’t familiar with, lodged in a crack far above her head, less than twelve feet from the summit.  If only she could get a line up there and get solid purchase, she could use it as leverage and nearly walk up the rest of the cliff.
    But that tiny tree was at least twenty feet above her.  She couldn’t throw the heavy rope – or even the lighter coil she’d brought – that far.  Not even if it was weighted.
    Her little arbalest, on the other hand, could throw a bolt thrice that distance, she realized.
    Dara started envisioning the plan, using her tiny crossbow to propel a bolt over the tree.  If she aimed at a rock above it, she figured, and hit it at the right angle then deflecting the bolt back down on the other side of the tree shouldn’t be too difficult.
    Of course, how to attach the rope to the bolt was beyond her.
    Frustrated, irritated, but unbeaten, Dara descended the mountain after reaching her limits, leaving the rope and much of her other gear up there.  She wasn’t finished, not by any stretch.  She merely needed to regroup and approach the problem again, better prepared.
    It took just over half the time coming down the mountain as it had climbing it, so Dara was well on her way back to the nutwood by lunchtime.  While discouraged and disappointed, she had a plan, and she had not died in the attempt.
    Yet.
    She stopped by Westwood Hall on her way.  Even though she had brought her lunch, someone was baking something wonderful smelling, and Dara’s nose led her inside.  She managed to cajole two meat pies from her old Aunt Lini, who baked for the Hall.
    While she was there, her sister Lista came in.  Dara froze.  She very much wanted to avoid her big sister.  She delighted in getting her in trouble in some misguided idea that Dara was devious, just as their brother Kobb delighted in teasing them both.
    Lista was nearly old enough to be wed, now, and she had taken her father’s restrictions on market day visits with little grace.  Traditionally, if a maid did not fancy any of the Westwood lads she had grown up with, the place to find a husband was Sevendor Village market – or even farther afield, if there was no decent man who showed interest at market.
    But with market days winding to a close for the winter, her sister was going mad with anxiety over the lack of social opportunities.  A pretty Westwood girl had attracted the attention of prosperous young farmers at market before.  Lista was determined to put herself in a position to be so noticed.
    Yet Dara understood the danger of allowing her to roam into the Vale, right now, even if she didn’t.  The Castle men were always leering at the village girls, no matter how plain they were, and a fair one would attract their attention like crumbs did geese.  And Lista was more beautiful than their older sister, sure to attract the leers of Sir Erantal’s lackeys.  While they usually didn’t bother the Westwood women much, on account of the manor’s militancy, that didn’t stop the occasional harassment. 
    Worse, if nasty