A few of the Folk escaped up the cliff, but most of them were shot off the face of it as they strove to climb.

I remember Long-Lip.

He got as far as my ledge, crying piteously, an arrow clear through his chest, the feathered shaft sticking out behind, the bone head sticking out before, shot through the back as he climbed.

He sank down on my ledge bleeding profusely at the mouth.
It was about this time that the upper tiers seemed to empty themselves spontaneously.

Nearly all the Folk not yet smoked out stampeded up the cliff at the same time.