The only other feature it showed beneath
the crowning battlements, were the lizard- and gargoyle-headed
drainspouts, which in centuries past had been used to pour boiling oil
down upon the heads of would-be attackers, along with a volley of
arrows and a shower of stones.
Craning his neck to look up at it, Michael saw neither light nor
sentinel, either in the Tower itself, or upon the high, adjacent wall.
For none were needed. Sheer physical impassability guarded this
bulwark turned prison, where there could be no thought of rescue or
escape. The Berserkers themselves had not been able to storm its
fastness, and they were five centuries gone and forgotten.
Here at the last, Michael realized the full desperation of his scheme.
It would take a near perfect throw to reach the upper windows with one
of the projectiles in which he placed such hope. And as Stephen had
said, they didn't even know which cell the women were in. He could not
look at Purceville now, who surely must be sneering at his `faith' and
naivet?.
So there it was. To have come so far, and overcome such obstacles,
only to be defeated in the end by cold, indifferent stone.
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