The Eyes of the Dragon

132

Flagg had seen the thinness of Peter’s rope, its whiteness-and in a trice he understood everything, from beginning to end-the napkins and the dollhouse as well. Peter’s means of escape had been under his nose the whole time, and he had very nearly missed it. But… he saw something else as well. Little pops of fiber where the strands were giving way, some fifteen feet down the taut length of rope.

Flagg could have turned the iron bar he was resting his hand on and sent Peter plummeting that way, with the anchor trailing after to perhaps bash his head in when he struck bottom. He could have swung the battle-axe and parted the fragile rope.

But he preferred to let matters take their course, and a moment after he had challenged the voices, matters did take their course.

The rope’s breaking strain was reached. It parted with a twang like a lute string that has been wound too far on its peg.

“Goodbye, birdie,” Flagg cried happily, leaning far out to watch Peter’s fall. He was laughing. “Goodb-”

Then his voice ceased and his eyes widened as they had when he looked into the crystal and saw the tiny figure descending the side of the Needle. He opened his mouth and screamed with rage. That awful cry woke up more people in Delain than the fall of the Tower.