Men’ak spat as he bowed down to pull a stalk of grass from the ground and shoved it between his teeth, chewing on the sweet tender growth. “What a waste.”
“I’d have thought the Guild would have rebuilt it after the war,” Grit said.
“One would have thought,” said Dra’kor flatly, as he examined the markings on the nearest stone. “Look, that appears to be written in — Torren!”
Grit leaned over for a better look. “I wonder how old it is?”
“Old enough to have been forgotten, I’d wager,” Men’ak replied.
“Ja’tar mentioned the bridge when he talked about Three Rivers,” Grit recalled. “Didn’t he?”
“He did,” Dra’kor nodded, “and he said it had been rebuilt.”
He had certainly mentioned the falls in great detail, so he must have seen the place himself. It was curious that he failed to mention that the bridge was never rebuilt. Dra’kor decided he would ask the old man himself when the opportunity presented itself.
The tall all red granite cliff walls of the ravine rimmed the falls, and separated the rivers into two forks. The farthest canyon went due east, deep into the Moran Mountain range and the middle river headed up southeast toward The Rock of Ages. The nearest fork, the one that they were traveling, formed a steep sloped ridge on the near side between the river and the other two canyons that ran south, back from whence they came.
In the center, where the rivers converged, was a set of rocky crags officially known as Symmetry Spires, carved by the turbulent water over many centuries. The Twins, as they were affectionately called by the locals, jutted straight up out of the water for nearly three hundred rods, their shear red granite and blackened basalt-veined walls sparkled in the sun. The Twins were not more than six or seven ox carts wide each, and looked like fingers of the gods, swirled and smooth reaching up for the heavens. The tallest had an ancient evergreen tree growing at the top, roots wrapped down the sides and dug into fissures and cracks that meandered across the otherwise smooth surface. The other, a full four men shorter, was flat on top and barren.
Although the river narrowed as the three separate rivers converged, it was still twice as wide as a strong man could throw an egg-sized stone. The three friends stood and marveled as the fierce current rapidly carried the spring runoff thundering over the polished edge.
“T-t-that water is running fast,” Men’ak marveled.
Grit leaned over, picked up a small stick, and gave it a toss into the middle of the stream. He watched as it was quickly washed over the rim. The water was moving very fast, but there weren’t any rapids in this section, the water was far too deep and the path worn smooth over the ages.
“Looks frigid,” Grit added.
“There’s the ferry, just like the tinker said,” Dra’kor remarked, pointing across the gap.
The ferry, which only amounted to a small log raft about four-paces square, complete with corner posts and rails, was loosely tethered to the guide rope and gently swayed in the shallows of the far shore. The large jute guide rope, almost the size of a man’s wrist, swung in the soft breeze. It was held aloft by several very huge logs that were wedged and buried deep in the dirt at each end. Dra’kor walked up to the near support post, grabbed the line and tugged hard, testing its tautness. It barely moved, even after he had thrown his weight behind the effort and hung by his arms.
On closer inspection, the far log looked like it used to be a tree that had caught the business end of a lightning strike. The support logs were tied back to several huge stakes hammered deep into the dirt, some anchored to wagon-sized boulders for additional support. The rustic raft, maybe large enough for a small wagon and horse, was bobbing as the river surged. The man-sized logs were roughly-hewn, probably by an adze, to provide a more level surface for the wagons and animals.
“Let’s go down by that big slab and get a better look,” Dra’kor said, pointing to a jutting rock just below the lip of the falls.
The three magi walked past the ferry and stepped down onto a precarious slab of rock that cantilevered out over the chasm, affording the group a clear view of both the falls and the valley far below.
“I’m not going out there,” Men’ak shouted belligerently as he tried to be heard over the thunder of the falls. He took a couple steps backwards until he was satisfied he was on firm ground. He just couldn’t understand why a sane man would want to walk out on a teetering rock. Seemed like tempting fate to him and he wanted no part of it.
Dra’kor and Grit waved him back, but he just shook his head, refusing to follow. They shrugged and ventured slowly out onto the large jutting rock slab, which was anchored to the cliff, and watched as the water crashed far below, each wearing the largest of grins. They looked back and saw Men’ak at the far end of the slab keenly watching them.
The falls were almost thirty men high by Grit’s estimation, although the mist obscured most of the bottom, where the water pounded the rocks relentlessly. Only the center section fell straight into a deep waiting pool at the base. The sides were fraught with obstacles, strewn boulders and were broken into multi-tiered falls that fought each other causing huge towers of water to jump and dance as water leapt from terrace to terrace, seeking the valley floor. Large logs and debris were jutting haphazardly from the rocky mess, having been washed down during floods and the spring thaw.
They could just barely see the town of Three Rivers nestled in the small valley far off in the distance, but trees on the ridge near the town were blocking them from having a clear view. Mostly, they saw the small furls of smoke that lifted from the roofs and spread out across the valley following the light breeze out of the mountains.
“Are you sure that’s T-t-three Rivers?” Men’ak stuttered.
“I guess. It isn’t what I expected. Where are the towers and the buildings?” Dra’kor asked. “It looks like a simple little village, nothing more —”
Men’ak shrugged, “Maybe we can’t see the old town from here. Maybe it’s over that ridge or something.”
“That makes no sense at all,” Grit said. “Why would you move a town of that size? Ja’tar’s map showed it in the center of the valley. Didn’t it take up almost the whole valley?”
“— I thought it did,” Men’ak tried to recall.
“Who knows, maybe something happened. It has been almost a thousand years …,” Dra’kor grumbled, as he looked down the road. “I still don’t know why you’d build a small town of log cabins next to a fabulous city built of stone.”
“Guess we’ll have to wait and see,” Grit said. “Maybe it’ll all get explained once we get there —”
The three stood on the road where it split. Downhill, the heavily rutted and boulder-strewn road continued on, creeping along the steep side of the cliff, and slowly working its way down to the lakeshore. The other stopped at the precipice and continued along on the other side of the falls.
Men’ak looked down river and examined the small map he had sketched out at the Keep. “Wonder if that’s Finger Lake?”
“Suppose it must be,” said Dra’kor, as his eyes followed the shoreline. “That’s how I recall it looking.”
After circling the lake, the path headed up into the Winseer Mountains toward Five Peaks, following another meandering stream that dumped into the lake’s far end. The trail on the opposite side of the ferry wasn’t nearly as worn, or rutted. It wound its way up over the cascading hills one switchback at a time and disappeared from sight.
Dra’kor pointed to a trail winding up the far side of the lake that headed off to the east, “That must be the way to the Northlund. It must use the same road as to Stonegate.”
“Maybe we can head there after we are through here. I mean, if we can’t get to Five Peaks and all,” Men’ak grinned sheepishly.
Dra’kor snorted. “Why not!”
Men’ak stepped hesitantly toward the edge.
“By the Ten, that is one huge waterfall,” Grit exclaimed loudly with a whistle. He stood
precariously near the precipice, with his overcoat flapping in the cold breeze blowing down the ravine, “I haven’t seen a big waterfall since I was a kid, but they sure weren’t like this back home in the Lowlands!”
“Lowlands are pretty flat, aren’t they?” Dra’kor concurred.
Grit nodded.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Men’ak yelled his reply, cupping his mouth, however he was too far away and no one heard.
Dra’kor shook his head in amazement and leaned close to Grit, “It’s really something. I think my favorite part of this whole adventure is getting to see things like this. You know? When we were stuck in the Keep we never saw anything.”
Grit shot his friend a big gap-toothed grin.
“I agree. No wonder the travelers rarely come back.”
Now that the sun was cresting and the golden light was filling the canyon, the mist formed a set of twin rainbows that glimmered against the cerulean sky. Dra’kor pointed, “Water nymphs!” As he saw the small delicate creatures diving in and out of the swirling clouds. Their small, perfectly formed figures glistened in the sunshine illuminated mist.
Grit nodded, seeing them too, and shielded his eyes as he took in the beauties of the falls. He found it difficult to break his stare, but eventually he raised his gaze to the raft.
Men’ak still stared, lost in a private fantasy.
Grit pointed at the deserted raft on the other side of the ravine. “What do you think that pile of stuff is on the raft?”
“Can’t tell from here,” Dra’kor said, squinting into the sun. “Maybe if we climb up higher, we could get a better look.”
They cautiously climbed up off of the granite slab and walked the dozen or so paces back uphill to the site of the ferry, gathering Men’ak along the way.
“Can’t I just stay and watch the nymphs for a little while?” Men’ak moaned.
Dra’kor frowned, and gave him a tug up the hill. Men’ak roughly ripped his arm free, but followed.
“We need to get a better look at that ferry,” said Dra’kor, as he looked around. “Maybe I could stand on one of the posts; can you guys give me a lift?”
“I can climb up on the rocks and get a lot higher,” Men’ak suggested coyly, as he eyed the serrated rocks abutting the narrow road. “I used to scramble on the rocks by the Keep a lot when I was younger … before they forbade it, of course!”
Dra’kor looked Men’ak’s way, “Of course —”
Men’ak sneered, ignoring the dig. He walked up to the rocky cliff and examined it, scratching his head. “This shouldn’t be too hard.”
“I thought you were afraid of heights, can’t look over the edge?” said Grit mockingly.
“No, I just don’t see where standing on a piece of rock that looks like it’s gonna fall is a good idea,” replied Men’ak curtly, as he mumbled under his breath, “I don’t dance naked with demons either, no matter how cute they are —”
“What was that?” Grit growled as he turned red, just catching the end of Men’ak’s remark.
It irritated him that Men’ak wouldn’t stop kidding him about the revelry of the solstice last century when he drank too much spiced wine and ended up dancing with demons without even knowing it. He had to admit that Men’ak probably saved his life, but why couldn’t he just let it go? He supposed getting caught naked with several demons was a bit funny. But how was he to have known they weren’t tree nymphs? They looked like bloody tree nymphs.
“Nothin’, just talking to myself,” grinned Men’ak, rolling his eyes at Grit.
He carefully placed his boot-clad foot between two rocks and began his climb, grunting as he pushed himself up. The boots were ill fitting and they rolled on his foot as he tried to stand on the small chunks of rock that sparsely covered the lower portion of his climb. He thought about removing them. After all, as a young mage he never wore shoes. He stood quietly for a second as he figured out his route. He moved his hands and feet meticulously, carefully placing them, testing and finally putting his weight on the new hold. He only allowed himself to move one foot or hand at a time. It was best to always keep three points on the rock, just in case!
He slowly scaled the small crag, gaining a couple bodies height above his friends, by squeezing himself into a narrow crack and using his feet, wedged sideways as footholds to shimmy up the flaky rock. The rock wasn’t very solid and he lost his footing more than a few times, as his foot forced the rock to crumble under his weight. At one point, both his feet slid out from their small perch and he was hanging on for dear life by just one hand on a rocky knob. Luckily, the drop was only a bit more than head high, so even if he had fallen, he would have lived to talk about it.
“Don’t try to go too high,” Grit shouted, stepping back from the rock face as loose scree and rocks tumbled down onto the road, just missing his head.
Dra’kor, having seen Men’ak slip, hastily wove a blanket of air on the ground to break his fall, just in case.
Men’ak searched and found a wide spot for his feet and turned around to get a good look out over the river, “It looks like there are bodies,” he shouted down as he leaned out holding on with one hand, the other cupped to his mouth. He had a good vantage now, about five rods above his friends.
“What?” Dra’kor hollered, trying to be heard above the falls. He cupped his ears.
“Bodies —” yelled Men’ak loudly in a hoarse voice.
“Bodies?” Grit mouthed surprised, turning to Dra’kor. “Men’ak says there are people? Are they alive?”
Dra’kor shouted up, “Alive?”
Men’ak shook his head slowly as he hollered his answer. “Not that it looks like, but I could be wrong.”
“See anything else?” Dra’kor yelled back, placing his hands on either side of his mouth, trying to be heard over the roar of the falls.
“I can see the town a bit better. I don’t see anyone around outside, but it’s still a far ways off. Looks mostly deserted to me, but they have a wall around the town. Maybe they’re off in the fields.”
Men’ak’s reply came back in broken pieces over the roar of the rushing water.
“Maybe. See any smoke?” Dra’kor shouted.
Men’ak shook his head while pointing to his ear, and slowly descended as the others watched. He jumped down the last three feet and wiped his hands clean on his robe after he landed.
“How do we get to the other side,” Grit asked Dra’kor.
“We could walk around the lake,” Men’ak suggested. “It looks like a fairly level walk — once we get down to the shore.”
“I’d rather not …,” said Dra’kor, vehemently. “I just don’t think we can afford to lose another day or two. I reckon the lake is over two leagues long each way. That’s a lot of walking just to get back to where we are.”
“I suppose you’re right,” commented Grit begrudgingly as he scratched his head. “Anyone have another suggestion?”
“We could fly,” Grit exclaimed.
Dra’kor frowned, “Bad idea. Levitation over water is extremely unpredictable and it is a very long way to the other side!”
He quickly added, “Especially moving water.”
“Just saying …,” Grit grumbled. “Maybe we could freeze the water and walk across.”
Dra’kor rolled up his sleeves and cast a spell. The water near his feet froze, but before it could spread from the shore, water washed up over the top and melted it.
Dra’kor shook his head, “I think there’s too much water and its moving way too fast. We’d be washed off the ice as the river upstream flowed over the top.”
Grit reluctantly agreed, he knew Dra’kor was right. “How do you think they got the guide rope across?”
“I bet they used a cross bow, shot a small rope across and then pulled the larger after,” Dra’kor reasoned.
“Wish we had some rope …” Grit mumbled.
Men’ak’s face lit up, “We could try to summon the raft to this side.”
&
nbsp; Dra’kor nodded slowly, “It’s worth a try.”
“You better do it,” Grit added awkwardly. “You have a better touch for these things. I’d probably destroy the raft.”
Dra’kor nodded and extended his hand, weaving his spell. The raft trembled and moved a few feet before stopping. Dra’kor tried a second time.
Dra’kor threw his hands up, dispelling the magic.
“I can’t. The raft is securely tied and I can’t work the knots without being able to clearly see them.”
Men’ak was disheartened. “It was a good idea, too bad it didn’t work.”
Dra’kor eyed the heavy jute rope. “Maybe we can hang from the rope and crawl across.”
“It’s a long way,” Men’ak observed, stepping down off the rock. “I’m not sure my arms would hold out.”
“I think I can make it,” said Grit, as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “If I can free the raft, we can cross together.”
Grit looked across the rope and rubbed his hands together. He thought back to his childhood when he used to help his father at the docks in Edu’bar, a small coastal village far south from the Winseer mountains on the northern tip of the I’jean Sea. He frowned. He used to be able to cross a rope to a ship hand over hand, but that was a long time ago. His father had made him practice until it became second nature. As a child, he had practiced walking the plank, climbing the ratlines and shimmying up the masts. He had felt the icy cold slap of the ocean more than once when his grip or balance had been lost. It was a long time ago, but the memories were still vivid.
His father was a burly man, a simple dockworker. He worked hard for Grit and his mom. Always up before light and often working well past dark. Grit recalled how strong he was and remembered the thick calluses that covered his gnarled hands. He knew his father loved the ocean and he had spent many a year sailing the nine seas, but as he aged, his hips went bad and he could no longer pull his weight on board and had to settle on a career as a dockworker. They had spent many an evening sitting at the end of the dock staring out across the ocean watching the red sky at sunset while his father puffed on his pipe filled with leaf.
The Legacy of the Ten: Book 01 - Eyes of the Keep Page 33
