By Royal Command by Charlie Higson Page B

was almost touching his skis, and then shot straight down the slope in a wild Schuss .
    This was like weightless sailing. He was almost flying over the snow crystals. He had mastered gravity. The pressure of the wind in his face was immense, however, and if he didn’t lean far enough into it he knew that it would flatten him.
    James was so intent on watching Miles, so keen to overtake him, so lost in the joy of speed that he wasn’t paying close enough attention to what lay ahead. He was brought brutally back to reality, however, when he heard Miles cry out in terror, and the next moment the ground beneath his feet rose sharply and then disappeared altogether.
    They had skied right off a cliff.
    Now he really was flying. He was high in the air above the clouds with a view right out across the valley and the only way was down. He knew that he was dead. The mountain had claimed him after all. For a second or two it was as if he was just hanging there, and then he dropped into the white fog with terrifying suddenness.
    He yelled, and then could make no sound at all as the air was sucked out of him. Tattered cloud tore past and he watched in horror as the ground rushed up to meet him. He held his nerve, though, keeping his balance, his skis parallel, the tips raised. In a flash he saw that he might have a chance. The slope was still very steep here; he would be landing at an angle. There was a slim possibility that he might just be able to land on his skis. He braced himself for the impact, and when he did land it was surprisingly gentle, his skis kissed the snow and he was thundering down unharmed. He gave a whoop of triumph and the next thing he knew he was tumbling head over heels down the slope.
    He had no idea how far he rolled, but when he finally came to a halt he lay there, alternately laughing like a madman and sobbing. Nobody would ever believe what he had just done, because nobody had seen it… except, perhaps, Miles.
    Miles? Where was he? James sat up and looked around. He had dropped right out the bottom of the cloud. Visibility was good, though the sky was darkening. His blood froze as he saw, not ten feet away from where he had stopped, a second drop that would have spelt certain death. He approached the edge. Below there were just jagged grey rocks. Had Miles gone over?
    He peered down. There was no sign of him. He called out. And then again. Louder this time. He waited. Had he heard something? A feeble response? He screamed Miles’s name, until his voice was hoarse. Yes. There it was. From further up the slope, a faint, quavering response.
    James chopped his way up sideways with little six-inch steps, keeping his skis straight and using his sticks for balance.
    ‘Keep calling!’ he shouted. ‘Let me know where you are, Miles.’
    ‘I’m here,’ came the weedy response. ‘I’m up here.’
    ‘Where?’ said James, trying to see into the ceiling of cloud above him. ‘I can’t see a thing.’
    Then a cold wind raced across the mountain and the clouds were ripped away. There was Miles, lying awkwardly in the snow among his sticks and skis, like a squashed black bug. It took James five more minutes to get to him, and he slumped down, exhausted, fighting for breath.
    ‘I thought you were dead for sure,’ he said.
    ‘So did I,’ said Miles. ‘I’m not really sure what happened. I think I must have knocked myself out for a moment.’
    ‘You skied off a cliff,’ said James. ‘Now will you believe that we’ve gone the wrong way?’
    ‘Sorry,’ said Miles. His skin was as white as the snow and his eyes a livid red.
    ‘Are you hurt?’ James asked.
    Miles looked at him, swallowed hard, then slowly nodded his head, fighting back tears.
    ‘Where?’ said James.
    ‘All over,’ said Miles. ‘But I’m worried about my leg. I’m scared to look, but it hurts like hell and I can’t move it. I think it might be broken.’
    James steeled himself, fearing the worst, then glanced down. Miles was right: