The Silver Sun Read Online Free PDF

the stone was loose and treacherous. The surf pounded loudly below, the fast sea surf that Alan had ever seen, and he did not like its cold, angry look. Slowly he lowered himself over the edge of the cliff.
    Once over, Alan moved as quickly as he could, but with great caution. A loosened stone could alert the guard, or send Alan crashing to the rocks below. He lowered himself for several feet, then started to work his way across the cliff face. A large stone slipped from under his foot and left him hanging momentarily by his hands. He scrambled for a foothold, too frightened to think of the guard. But, as he clung to the cliff, the only sounds he heard were the pounding of the surf and the pounding of his own heart.
    After a while Alan went on, moving tensely to within a few feet of the top. He was past the guard now, and past the fortified walls, but the unfinished stonework rose smooth and sheer from the edge of the cliff. Alan inched along, with throbbing arms and stiffened fingers, until at last he found a wooden scaffolding where masons had been working. He hauled himself up and lay panting on the timbers, grateful to be alive.
    Then he stiffened. Footsteps were approaching just beyond the stones. A guard was walking inside the wall; Alan could see the glint of his helmet His head passed within feet of Alan's face. But he did not look around or shoulder any weapon. An evening stroller, Alan decided.
    At first he thought only of slipping by the man, though he felt sure he would be forced to fight before the night was over. But then a desperate plan came to Alan's mind. He remembered the robber's fingers on his throat, the blackness which had quickly followed, and he felt certain that he could do as much. He crept forward on the stony rubble as his quarry wandered back in his direction. Then, when the man's face was only inches from his own, Alan struck like an eagle and gripped with all his strength. The guard gave a small, questioning sound, struggled a moment and then went limp. Alan swung himself down from the wall and sank to the ground beside his prey, thankful for the shadows and the silence of the night.
    He hastily stripped the guard of his helmet, breastplate and gloves. He slipped them on, and the man's cloak, not daring to be more elaborate. Briefly, he wondered what to do with the guard. Slit his throat, like a downed deer? Cursing under his breath, Alan found that he could not bring himself to kill so coolly. He gagged the man with a strip of shirting, and bound him hand and foot with bootlacings.
    In a few minutes a quaking guard entered the door to the White Tower, head down under his helmet and keeping well away from the torch stuck in a sconce beside the entrance. “Ah, Joe, feeling better?” cried the doorkeeper cheerfully. Alan gestured in the manner of one who is not feeling well at all, and fled into the inner darkness.
    Furtively, Alan peeked into the cells on the ground floor. Groans greeted him; he could discern nothing but suffering. The stench of the place was terrible, and he hastily made his way up the spiral stairs to the next level. Near the top a door was ajar. Alan peered cautiously around the doorjamb. In a small, bare room was a table, and on the table stood a tallow candle. The candlelight shone on a heavy ring of iron keys which hung from the wall. But between Alan and the keys a burly guard sat at ease with his back to the door.
    Alan flexed his hands, steeling himself to throttle another guard. Then he realized that even if he could find Hal, it would take him half the night to find the right key. There were perhaps a hundred on the ring. He felt for his hunting dagger, drew it from the leather scabbard and felt its razor-sharp edge. Then he moved.
     
     
     
     

 
    Chapter Three
     
    Hal sat in the filthy straw of his cell, chained to its clammy stone wall by leg and wrist irons. His face was swollen and his ribs ached where they had beaten him. But he scarcely noticed his