R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

And so the five men picked up their gear and set off eastward across the barren plain in search of answers. They plodded on in silence, each examining possible explanations. Del, though, having fully accepted the situation, was more concerned with the people he had left behind. He determined that this would be his time of mourning, and yet he found no tears to shed. Perhaps it was the unreality of the adventure, the subconscious expectation of awakening from a dream at any moment; or maybe, he hoped, it was his newfound awareness of the universal mysteries. With his heightened insight, he didn’t perceive his father or Debby as dead. Rather, they existed in a different time than he. Separated by eons, yet all very much alive. Immortality within our own little bubbles of time-space?

Del hoped he wasn’t dreaming.

For most, the deep reflections soon passed. The relentless sun and the choking dust simply weren’t conducive to contemplation. As the distraction of thought passed away, Billy got bored all alone up front, but knew better than to argue with Mitchell, given the captain’s foul mood. He wouldn’t have found much company with the other four anyway. Mitchell and Reinheiser had begun a private planning session, discussing courses of action should certain situations arise. Del had lightened his thoughts, but they remained private. Now he was enjoying another fantasy as a warrior engaged in a heroic battle. And this time the loathsome beast was Hollis Mitchell.

Brady, too, was preoccupied, stubbornly trying to sort out a general uneasiness with this whole situation. His concern ran too deep for the discomfort of the wasteland to distract him. For the doctor, alone among the group, something just didn’t seem to fit.

The sun climbed high above them, its penetrating rays draining their energy with every step and weakening their determination to go on. Finally, lathered in sweat, with irritating dust clinging to their wetness, they took their first break. There was no shade to be found, but at this point they gladly settled for a bit of food and, more important, something to drink.

Their packs contained dried, bland-looking cakes that the men eyed with grudging acceptance, if not hungrily. But they were in for a pleasant surprise, for one nibble turned their lips up into delighted smiles. The cakes proved wonderfully delicious, and the sweet-smelling liquid in the skins incredibly refreshing, revitalizing their lost energy with every drop. Their resolve returned with their strength, for they knew that this gift from the Colonnae would sustain them across the wasteland. All too soon they felt themselves sated, but in packing up, they were stunned to find that they had actually consumed very little.

“It seems that we have more provisions than we thought,” Billy said cheerfully.

“Probably just means that we’ve got farther to go,” Mitchell grumbled, equating anger with alertness. He was scared now, not knowing what to expect next, and would not allow himself to be caught unawares.

They traveled on that afternoon, and the land remained brown and foul. Even the air tasted unwholesome, and the colorless and empty sky offered no hopeful promises. Jagged cracks gouged the landscape like parched mouths begging the unhearing heavens for water. The men saw no living thing, for they traversed the land of Brogg, the Brown Wastes, a desolation wrought by Thalasi in the early days before the Battle of the Four Bridges to discourage any curious adventurers who might discover Talas-dun and his secret army. Even centuries later, the scourge of the Black Warlock remained complete upon this land.

Night came suddenly, cool and refreshing. But it was all too short, and almost without warning the morning sun burst over the eastern horizon. Again the day was hot and dry, as the men realized every day would be in this desert. To further their misery, a sharp wind came up, whipping stinging sand into their eyes and mouths. Still they saw no signs of life, and all of them grew more sullen and quiet, particularly Doc Brady. Something deeply troubled the doctor. He seemed uneasy, worried, his eyes constantly darting about as if in search of some impending disaster. But when Del asked him about it, he shrugged it off and would not answer.

Day turned into night, and night back to day. And when the days became a week, the land still had not changed.

That first week was brutal. The relentless sun took its toll on their skin, and the hike had their feet aching and swelling tight within their boots. On Doc Brady’s suggestion, the men tightened their laces and didn’t remove their boots even when sleeping, fearing they wouldn’t be able to get them back on.

The second week proved worse. Physically, the men improved, their blisters turning to calluses and their skin tanning a deep brown. But boredom pressed in upon them. Each day became nothing more than putting one foot in front of the other in a countless procession that seemed to accomplish nothing in the never-changing landscape. The wasteland remained physically trying, but its demands multiplied when their hearts went out of the journey. Even Del had tired of this adventure. He had run out of fantasies to explore and now found only tedium. They trudged on, though, having nowhere else to go.

In the third week the tops of dark mountains reappeared far in the north and the men’s packs grew noticeably lighter. They prayed this meant that their travels were nearing an end, but with the eastern horizon before them still an unbroken line of scorched brown, they feared otherwise.

Near the end of that week, they passed a few scrawny bushes widely scattered and nearly as scarred as the broken earth. The desperate men welcomed even this small change as a blessing, though their hopes sank quickly as several more miles of nothingness slowly rolled by.

Then, so suddenly that it took their dust-reddened eyes a few moments to adjust, they breached the top of a sandy slope and found themselves on the edge of a green field with rich blue skies overhead. Birds fluttered excitedly about at the approach of strangers, and small coneys lifted their twitching noses high to examine the unfamiliar scent.

Del fell to his knees and muttered a sincere thank-you to the heavens above. More than once Billy wiped tears from his eyes, explaining it as sweat, though the others shared his feelings and knew better. Only Doc Brady remained sullen. For some unknown reason, the change in scenery did little to lift his spirits.

The green carpet spread wide before them, rising and falling gently in a series of rolling hills. The tall northern mountains seemed much closer now, and the men could also discern a low, rocky range off to the south. These majestic peaks looked markedly different from the foreboding mountains they had left far behind in the west. Curling streams of mica crisscrossed the mountainsides like icicles on a Christmas tree, sparkling brilliantly in countless reflections of the sun.

The great range stretched eastward for many miles and then swung south, so that ahead of them, still a day’s journey or more, the men could see the towering landscape that they somehow knew held the refuge of Illuma. Perhaps Calae had ingrained this image in their minds as a guide. They picked up their pace considerably, for their hearts pounded with excitement at the prospect of finding their goal, and finding some answers.

Hours and miles later, the northern mountains loomed even closer and the narrowing vale sloped gradually down. The spirited men could have gone on a few hours more, but soon the light began to wane.

Crimson splayed across the western sky, marking the end of the day, igniting a thousand red fires on the mica rivers of the mighty northern mountains. Even Mitchell gaped in awe at the overwhelming beauty of the Crystal Mountain sunset.