R. Salvatore - Echoes of the Fourth Magic

And then, freed from their trance as the sky turned a deep blue and the mountains became dark and cold, the men set up camp under the sheltering branches on the western edge of a small, thick wood.

ANXIOUS TO FINISH the trek, they broke camp long before the yellow ball of the sun peeked over the lower summits of the Crystal Mountains. The forest proved rough going, though, with undergrowth piled upon undergrowth, plants bent over by the sheer weight of the tangle, crisscrossing under their feet at every step and vines hanging all about in impassible clusters. Few paths snaked through the thin and tightly packed trees-so tight together that there was simply no room for large trees to grow. It seemed to the men that all the life stripped from the soil of the Brown Wastes had taken root here in a jumble of living chaos, an upraised pillar of defiance against the perversion of the lifeless desert. The men pushed in anyway, seeking the most direct route and hoping to find some sort of path.

The hours passed more quickly than the miles, and the tangled mass of life did not relent even a bit. Exhaustion became a factor, for the men constantly had to tear themselves free from shrubs or vines that seemed to grasp at them as they passed. Sheer stubbornness kept them going, and each step brought them deeper in and lessened their desire to admit their mistake and turn back to find a route circumventing the wood. Noon was fast approaching when Billy, who was once again up in front, gave a welcomed call.

“There’s a break up ahead,” he yelled as he surged forward. The others, too, picked up their pace when they came in sight of the open area, but their hopes fell away when they came again in sight of Billy.

A dimming mist rose before him as he leaned with his back to a tree and his head down in frustration.

The others couldn’t understand until they stood beside him.

Beside him on the ledge of a deep gorge.

The cliff fell almost perfectly straight for hundreds of feet. At its base a river, swollen by the spring thaw, thrashed southward about its rocky course, sending up the fine spray. Barely a hundred yards away, the other side seemed no more than a reflection in a foggy mirror, with a cliff just as sheer and the thick forest continuing undisturbed atop it.

“Damn!” Mitchell moaned.

“We’re having one hell of a day.” Billy chuckled with lighthearted sarcasm. He looked despondently at the ravine and sighed. “No way we’re climbing down that.”

“Can’t find something you don’t look for,” the undaunted Del muttered to himself, and he determinedly disappeared into the mist northward along the ledge.

“This river obviously flows from the northern mountains,” Reinheiser said, the physicist, like Del, seeming more interested in finding a solution to the problem than in grumbling about it. But while Reinheiser based his hope on logical structure, Del was playing on a hunch, an eerie, overpowering feeling that something was needed to complete this hauntingly familiar scene.

“So?” Mitchell quipped at the unremarkable revelation.

“So,” Reinheiser continued, perturbed at the sharp reply, “judging from the line the river takes, it must intersect with the lower mountain range to the south of us.” Mitchell’s expression remained impassive, almost oblivious to Reinheiser’s attempt to right their course. The physicist’s eyes narrowed to dart-throwing slits as he went on. “Our eye level is well above the base of those mountains. So”-he emphasized the word with contempt-“the land obviously slopes down to them. A slight grade, no doubt, but sufficient to bring us down to the level of the river.”

Surprised at such an easy answer, and a bit embarrassed by his pouting, Mitchell quieted to consider the logic, when “Yeah!” came Del’s shriek.

The four startled men spun toward the sound, crouching defensively, as if expecting some approaching danger. Mitchell began to draw his sword, but Del’s subsequent shouts dispelled his fear.

“I knew it!” Del yelled in delight. “It had to be here. Hey!” he called to the others, but they were already on their way.

They came upon him suddenly in the mist, his arms folded triumphantly across his chest and a smug look on his face as he leaned on an anchor post for a railing to an old rope bridge. It stretched out, just a silhouette in the heavy spray until it disappeared altogether about halfway across the span. Even in the misty veil, the men could see that several planks were missing, and the remaining wood sounded precarious at best, creaking and groaning like an old man’s bones as the bridge swayed and rolled gently on the updrafts and swirling currents of air.

They were thrilled at the discovery anyway, for the bridge was the first sign of civilization they had encountered since the Halls of the Colonnae. Still, Mitchell had no intention of crossing the aged and rickety thing.

“How far to where the land gets low enough to cross the river?” he asked Reinheiser.

“A couple of miles, no more,” Reinheiser answered, his expression showing that he shared the captain’s apprehensions about the bridge.

“Why?” Del asked incredulously. “What are you talking about?” For Del was as certain of the bridge’s safety as he had been in knowing it would be here in the first place. Somehow it all fit together for him, like pieces of a puzzle to which he had learned the key.

“You think we’re going to cross that?” Mitchell snapped. Del shrugged as if he didn’t even understand the problem. “Well, be my guest,” Mitchell chided, then he turned to the others and added, “we can fish out his body downstream.” His grin turned sadistic as he motioned to the bridge, inviting Del to lead the way.

Del swung around the post onto the first planks, meaning to march straight across. He hesitated, though, as his senses gripped him in spinning, vertiginous fear. He snapped his eyes shut, swallowed the terror, and demanding of himself that he trust his new insight, started out.

Gaining confidence with every step, he soon passed from the other’s sight. About two-thirds of the way across, he came to a gap several feet wide where the boards had broken away. Somehow assured that he simply wasn’t meant to die now, he casually hopped onto one of the rope supports and grasped the cord rail in both hands.

But the support was slick with spray, and just as Del moved from the safety of the boards, a blast of air rushed into his face and sent the bridge on a wide swing. He leaned into the wind, using it to secure his balance, moving as if the gust was but a minor inconvenience. Unafraid, he didn’t pay complete attention to what he was doing and overcompensated for his lean. When the bridge reached the limit of its sway, it jerked back violently and Del’s feet fell free. He dangled there, stunned and terrified for several long seconds as the bridge continued to roll about and the cord railing bit mercilessly into his straining fingers. The river seemed to get louder as his senses attuned to the grim fate laid out before him.

Was I wrong? he asked himself as his grip weakened. He grimaced in anger at the thought of missing the adventure, and growled defiantly, “Not going to die now!” Swinging his legs in time to the bridge’s sway, he was able to heave one up over the rope support, and he managed to pull himself up to straddle it. Then he inched his way to the far side and rolled onto the boards. Looking over the edge at the rocks below, he repeated, “Not going to die,” less convincingly, and quickly added, “unless I get stupid!” Humbled, he continued on much more carefully, taking shorter steps and gingerly testing each board in front of him before he put his full weight on it. Soon he reached the other side and called back to his companions that it was indeed safe to cross-but with all due caution!