The commanding voice that had earlier demanded the music be quelled spoke again, thickly layered with concern. “Can ya’ tell if he’s alive?”

“Not yet,” a much closer voice called back. “Another couple of feet or so… Slowly… Okay… A little more… A little more… Okay… Hold it. Right there.”

Glimpses of someone outfitted in a climbing harness shone through the gap. Eldon pressed himself further into the shadows and held fast against the surge of pain in his arm.

No movement.

No noise.

He listened intently for the verdict, hoping against all hopes that his mission had been carried out to its conclusion. Praying that, by the grace of Almighty God, the warlock was dead.

His prayer went unanswered.

“He’s still alive!” the nearby voice called upward with momentous relief and then seemed to direct back upon the suspended figure. “Can you hear me, Mister Gant?”

The warlock lived.

Eldon had failed.

He closed his eyes and waited in silence. All that he could do now is make certain he escaped.

*****

More than a dozen hours passed before the scene was finally clear, and he could safely extricate himself from his hiding place. Weak with cold, pain, and surely blood loss-even with the makeshift tourniquet bound tightly just above his elbow-Eldon made his way cautiously across the steel beams.

He was deeply chilled and felt clammy with the remnants of a cold sweat. His trousers were still damp and reeked of urine where hours ago he had finally been forced to empty his bladder while still wedged in his cramped hiding place. He felt degraded by the act of urinating on himself, but there had been no other choice.

The fog had long dissipated, and he could see the ice-packed river far below. A swift wave of vertigo touched him, and he held fast to the latticed girder. Several minutes later the wave of fear passed, replaced by his dire need to escape, and he continued his shaky climb.