Desperately needing some air, he popped his head out of the water. Still feeling no pain, he stood up. A sharp, agonizing twang stabbed him like a thousand steak knives. His head pounded, and his right eye twitched uncontrollably. Eyes blurred, and knees weak, he collapsed to the ground. Sand filled his mouth, and he groaned. Putting his hand up to his forehead, he felt the hot, dripping blood. He could sense the crisp night air creeping up on him on him, and it sent a shiver up his spine. Figuring that it would be virtually impossible to climb back up the cliff in the dark, Rainsford shakily got to his feet.
Tilting his head skyward, he observed the sun slowly setting on the rippling water. The late afternoon sky was cloudless, and filled with streaks of orange and pink. Rainsford gripped his thin undershirt, and tore a piece from it. He wrapped it tightly around his head, hoping it would partially soak up the blood that was oozing from his gash. The pounding became more intense, but fortunately, the sharp pain subsided. Feeling sturdy and renewed, he strode towards the face of the cliff. The General's chateau towered overhead. Rainsford touched the cliff rock, and it crumbled into his hands. Luckily, there were numerous divots and holes in the rock. He could grab, and get a grip on these to help him climb. Rainsford nodded his head, and clenched his fists. "I'm ready, " he assured himself. With a surge of adrenalin, he hurdled himself against the cliff, kicking his feet into two holes, and seizing a deep crack with hands. .
Cautiously, he began his ascent. He grunted, and gritted his teeth as he used all of his upper body strength to pull himself inch by inch up the cliff wall. The moccasins he was wearing had little to no grip, and his feet were constantly sliding on the loose, weathered rock. His arms were numb, and his eyes stung with fiery tears. It was almost pitch black, and Rainsford's only sources of light were the full, shining moon, and the twinkling stars that surrounded it.