Free Once Upon a Summer Day by Dennis L. McKiernan Page A

to the Sprite, taking up the line.
    Boom! . . . Doom! . . .
    Borel passed the rope between his legs and rightward ’round and up across his chest and over his left shoulder and down his back. Then he stepped to the sill and, making certain that the hook was well set, he turned about and backed over the edge. His last sight of the door was that of stone dust sifting down from one of the brackets. And then he began a swift rappel.
    With his right hand at the base of his spine and gripping the rope and controlling his descent, and his left above, loosely holding the lead for balance, down he went, the line slipping through his gloved hands. Down he slid and down, pausing only to work his way past the knots.
    “Oh, hurry, hurry,” cried the Sprite, darting about alongside, the bee trailing, “else something dreadful will hap, I just know it.”
    From above there came a sharp crack and the banging of a door slammed wide.
    “Faster!” cried the Sprite.
    Still Borel slid downward, the rope slipping through his upper hand and ’round his leg and up across his chest and over the shoulder and down his back to his other hand, friction burning, so swift was his descent.
    ONCE UPON A SUMMER DAY / 55
    As Borel neared the bottom, far above a huge face peered over the sill. Then the rope gave a jerk, and suddenly went entirely slack. And with the Sprite screaming, Borel fell, the massive, three-pronged grappling hook plummeting down behind, its now-deadly tines aglitter as it plunged toward its victim below.

10
    Flight

    A t the base of the bluff, Borel crashed down on a steep, precarious slope of scree; and pebbles and sand and gravel and shale and rocks and boulders and slabs roared down in a great rock slide, Borel tumbling amid all. Blang! Behind, the huge grapnel struck a boulder and bounded into the air, spinning, tines flashing like great whirling talons as it lunged after, the tied-on rope whipping violently in great spiralling arcs. “Look out! Look out!” shrieked the Sprite, darting this way and that, the bumblebee following, yet there was nought Borel could do as down he pitched amid a great spill of rock, the massive hook now overtaking in its wild and deadly swirl. And as the slide and Borel slowed— Blang! —again the huge grapnel struck another boulder and caromed wildly and passed over the prince, its great spinning talons slashing nought but empty air as it hurtled onward. And then Borel slid to a stop, a few pebbles rattling on past, a large slab sliding by.
    And even as Borel staggered upright and the Sprite cried out, “My lord, you are safe,” the tumbling, whirling juggernaut of a grapnel hurled on, snapping the rope taut to violently jerk Borel from his feet and wrench him plowing down through scree the remainder of the slope ere both hook and prince came to a stop.
    With the Sprite anxiously hovering nearby and the bee orbiting ’round, Borel lay for long moments, trying to collect his thoroughly addled wits and wondering if ought was broken.
    “My lord, are you dead?” asked the Sprite.
    “Ungh,” replied Borel, cautiously moving, feeling of his limbs and fingers and ribs, grimacing now and then as he probed.
    “Oh, good, you are fine,” said the Sprite, settling on a nearby rock, the bee alighting as well. “For an instant I thought you killed.”
    “I feel as if I have been slain,” replied Borel, bloody and bruised and wincing as he removed the three-cornered hat, which incredibly had somehow managed to stay on, and he touched a great knot even then swelling on the back of his head.
    “My lord, we must away,” said the Sprite. “The Trolls are like to pursue.”
    Borel eased the tricorn back on his head and, groaning, slowly got to his feet. Moving with care, he untangled the rope from ’round his torso. “See you the rucksack I tossed over the sill?”
    “I will look,” said the Sprite, taking to wing, “though we must away soon.” Off he darted, the bee following.
    Borel examined