Darkin A Journey East - By Joseph A. Turkot Page 0,46

through the hole in the mountainside. Slowin quickly mounted Thunderhoof and fell in line behind Fablefen as they all made it inside just in time, and a loud crash accompanied by an earth shaking tremor let them know the way was sealed once more.

“What strange magic,” said Adacon.

The three horses maneuvered through the short cavernous pass and came out on the eastern slope of the mountain, slowly stepping onto what seemed a trail amidst the rooted tangle of the forest floor. The descent was not nearly as steep as the way into Rislind, and it was easy riding for what seemed a long stretch of time, until finally the trees began to thin out and a flat horizon once again appeared. The slaves beheld the golden prairie before them, forgetting fast the mountains they had come through. The sun was high overhead and no dark clouds weighted the sky. Ahead was the Rislind Plateau Wilds: golden straw and emerald-patched grasslands stretching interminably into the distance. The party saw, though very faintly from great distance, what looked to be a road tangling in and out of several running brooks. By all measures it was a beautiful day, and being thoroughly heartened at the sight of blue sky and puff-white clouds, Erguile spoke with cheer:

“How long is it before we reach the Saru Gnarl cape?”

“Riding strong, as I would have it, we’ll be there by nightfall,” Slowin replied.

“This land is beautiful,” Adacon said, reviewing the roving green hills that stretched away in each direction. Each hill was twined with flowers and pink-leaf trees that grew down to the edge of the streams.

“Rislind has always been a pretty place, but it turns to marsh soon, and we must return to the gravel slave road of Grelion before long, lest we sink deep into the mire,” Slowin warned.

“How are you holding up Flaer?” asked Erguile. Flaer glanced over at Weakhoof and Erguile, and from his expression it looked as though he thought them the oddest looking pairing he’d ever seen. Smiling, Flaer looked to the sky and back at Erguile, nodding approval.

“Alright, time to quiet our chatter and see the mettle of our steeds at last,” Slowin said, holding tight his reigns and kicking Thunderhoof’s side gently. “Yar!”

Thunderhoof began galloping over the brimming prairie at increasing speed. Fablefen followed at Flaer’s command, and finally, bringing up the rear, was Weakhoof. All three horses left the green mountains and sped far from the haven of Rislind. In the west whence they had come was a small silhouette of a distant range.

Before long the horses closed in on the gravel slave road they had spied from afar, and much as Slowin predicted the terrain turned marsh-like. Slowly the grass had turned grey and thin, and the streams ran wider and darker. The trees grew gnarled and hunched, and the meadows turned to treacherous vats of mud. Bugs swarmed the riders as they slowly descended the Rislind plateau. The sky stayed clear and bright, but the air had certainly thickened with a humid stink that ran with a growing wind; the odor became more rancid with each passing moment as they worked deeper into the bog. It had been five hours since they had passed through the mountains, and Slowin brought them to a halt at the side of the road by a clear stream.

“This may be our last source of pure water for awhile,” he said. “Have your fill and replace what you’ve drunk.” All the riders dismounted and gathered at the edge of a murky stream. The horses greedily lapped their fill; Weakhoof tried to drink from the same spot where Thunderhoof and Fablefen drank, but they neighed and aggressed on him, forcing him to walk away and find some other place to drink.

“Poor Weakhoof, disrespected as an elder,” Erguile sympathized.

“He is a slow horse. I wonder if Remtall could have found no other for you, he weakens our pace,” Slowin remarked. Just then Weakhoof shot a cold glance at Slowin, as if in recognition of the slander.

“Mind your tongue, metal brain. Weakhoof is going on as best he can manage, and we should be grateful for any horses at all,” Erguile said with a hint of anger in his tone. Slowin didn’t respond; he merely completed filling his canteen. Flaer drifted off on his own to survey the land, the scents, and the grey-blue horizon.

“I suppose we should eat something now, given we have two more hours of riding before we reach the city,”