Granite Ford stretched out beneath their feet, their path suspended above the deep gorge below. The stone surface, slick with moss and droplets of water from a damp rain earlier that day, narrowed as it crossed the chasm, forcing each step to be taken with great caution. To their left, the drop was sheer, an unforgiving plunge into an endless fall, the sound of rushing water nearly lost to the wind's howl. To the right, the great wall of a black mountain rose jagged and immovable like a tower of granite that seemed to lean in.
Midway across the walkway, the mountain began to fall away and eventually there was nothing on either side of the walkway besides open air and a drop to one’s death. Below them, the river raged in a tangled mesh of whitewater, too far down to see clearly but close enough to taste the fear in the cool, damp wind.
Eamon led the way, followed by Nothelm, Tristan, Loren, and then Asherin and Kenton. Asherin and Kenton struggled to walk side by side, Kenton’s left arm slung around Asherin for support. His wounds were bothering him once again. The medicine that had once made his wounds seem fully healed no longer brought relief. In addition, black strangulation marks turned the skin of his neck to a deathly black color, although Kenton swore no one had touched his neck and he didn’t have any trouble breathing. It was his scars that were throbbing and making his legs lose feeling besides the prickling sensation one gets when their leg falls asleep.
“How does anyone ever bring a horse across this Ford anyways?” asked Nothelm, trying to ease his conscious about giving up their horses. “It’s too narrow.”
“It’s been done before,” said Eamon. “But most would take a different route through these lands. Unfortunately for us, we don’t have that kind of time if we’re hoping to beat Basidin’s Servants to the Plains of Ashara.”
“How far are we from Ashara?” asked Loren. She had her arms outstretched to help her keep balanced, but it made her look uncoordinated, as the walkway wasn’t so narrow that any others in the group felt the need to do so.
“Not far,” said Tristan and Eamon in unison.
“Once we make it to the other side of this crossing, we’ll have about twenty miles until we hit Ashara, and then a further ten miles or so until we hit the Plains.” Eamon paused, breathing heavily and testing a spot lightly with his foot that appeared as though the stone was cracked and likely to give way. “We have to travel the distance of the Plains before we get to the fertile land where the crops are.”
“Which is how far?” asked Loren.
“I don’t know the exact distance,” said Eamon. “But it’s far. Likely going to take us a few days.”
“How do we know where we’ll meet Basidin’s Servants? And what they look like?” asked Loren.
“Look, we can discuss all the details once we get off this stonebridge. As for now, I’m just trying not to think about the two hundred foot drop before my vertigo sends me spiraling to my death,” Eamon said. His face was fixed in a look of discomfort.
The wind whipped at them as they came upon the midway point in the trek across the path. The sun was a blood-orange smear against the bruised blue of the sky. The light was fading fast, and with it the cool, chilling wind was setting Tristan’s teeth to chattering. His hand reached behind him instinctively, clutching Myroniad. He felt comforted somehow, knowing his weapon was still secured at his back. But he missed Drakiler. The scabbard at his hip contained a dull, rusted sword he’d found in Elaria. It was clunky and its weight didn’t feel right in his hand--not after all this time he’d gotten used to wielding Drakiler--the Drakonstone Killer. I will find that sword, and I will kill him.
Without warning a figure materialized ahead. As if conjured from the impending night sky, Shiv, the assassin, stood in their path at the far end of the stonebridge. His black cloak was rustling in the wind, his obsidian dagger gleaming faintly in the dim light.
Eamon’s hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword. They were too far across the stonebridge to retreat now, but a glance over his shoulder confirmed his fear. The way back was blocked. One of Salafar’s men stood at the far end of the bridge, an unblinking statue, a longbow in his hands drawn tight. There would be no escape.
Asherin cursed. Kenton groaned in pain, blissfully unaware of the peril that barred their path. Loren held her head in her hands, her mouth forming an “O” in disbelief. Tristan fumbled for Myroniad whilst Nothelm pulled his dagger from its scabbard.
“We don’t have a choice,” Eamon muttered, his voice low. “We fight.”
“No going back now,” Tristan replied, his eyes narrowing, a grim smile pulling at his lips.
“I’ll go first. This is my fight,” said Eamon.
“No,” replied Tristan. “He’s after me. He’s an assassin sent by the King. It’s only right--”
“--I won’t let you, Tristan.” Eamon’s eyes met Tristan’s. “Trust me on this.”
Tristan exhaled deeply, backing away to allow Eamon room to advance on the assassin.
“I lost my men to the Takers, those damned bandits,” said Eamon. “This is my chance to make it right--to make it up to myself.”
Shiv stepped closer, his movement smooth and predatory. His knees were slightly bent, his obsidian dagger held overhand so that he could bring it down in a harsh slash when the time was right.
“Leave the Blackthorn boy to me and the rest of you can walk free,” shouted Shiv in a gravelly voice. He took long, slow steps across the stonebridge. Eamon walked lucidly with his shoulders back and his longsword held out in front of him.
“Blackthorn’s not up for the taking, I’m afraid,” said Eamon defiantly. “He’s out to do the very thing the King sent you here for, and I’m going to see to it that you don’t stand in his way,” said Eamon.
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“Don’t be stupid,” shouted Asherin in her deep, guttural voice. Her black hair was blowing softly in the wind. The water below them was gushing loudly and Asherin’s voice hardly carried to where Eamon was standing.
“Your footing, Eamon,” said Tristan.
“I’ve got it,” replied Eamon, running a hand through his hair. He gave a nervous shudder.
Eamon took the first step, advancing with terrible purpose. The smell of wet stone was in the air as the sun crested below the horizon. The sky grew dull and purple. Shiv’s eyes narrowed, his cloak billowing behind him.
Eamon swung his sword wide and sweeping, nearly taking Shiv’s head off. Shiv ducked, nearly losing his footing on the wet stonebridge. He was nimble and recovered his position quickly. Shiv darted forward, advancing with his obsidian blade and flashing it across Eamon’s neck. Eamon took a hurried step backward, but it was too late. Shiv’s dagger nicked Eamon’s throat, a wild spurt of blood gushing like a fountain. Loren gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. Asherin shouted but her voice was muffled by the wind and the rushing waters below.
Shiv landed another blow, but this time his dagger was met by Eamon’s sword and was deflected away with a loud clang. Shiv struck twice more, each time being met by the defiant block of Eamon’s sword. The assassin swiped his dagger in a quick and menacing jab, slicing through Eamon’s shoulder and cutting through the fabric that adjoined his chainmail. He had stripped most of his heavy armor earlier in their journey but he still had protective chainmail and a few pads. His arm just below his shoulder was ill-covered, and now Shiv’s blade had sliced deeply into the flesh. Eamon cried out, but his instincts were still heroic.
He kicked out, using the sole of his boot to slam down hard on Shiv’s chest. He flew back and skidded roughly on the slick mossy stone. Shiv’s eyes had widened significantly, weary of the steep drop-off to either side of him. If Eamon had angled his kick, Shiv could have been free falling before meeting his certain death.
The assassin rose to his feet, a smirk playing on his lips, as though the whole exchange had merely been a game of skill and wit, not life or death. Eamon’s heart thundered in his chest. He held his longsword in his left hand, grimacing and clutching the deep gash in his upper left arm with his other hand.
“Step back, Eamon!” cried Nothelm. He was already charging past Eamon, nearly knocking him over as he went by.
“Nothelm, no!” cried Eamon.
Nothelm swung his sword widely in a series of three thrusts. Shiv was equal to the task, dropping to a crouch and using his dagger to parry Nothelm’s blows. He swung his leg wide in an agile movement, catching the back of Nothelm’s leg and sending him staggering back onto his backside. Shiv sheathed his dagger and grabbed a blunt staff that was slung across his back. It had blended right in with his cloak. Shiv kneeled down, dislodging a loose stone from the walkway and grasping it in his right hand whilst the staff was in his left.
“Nothelm, get down!” shouted Tristan, who had seen it coming.
Nothelm was slow to his feet, and did not register Tristan’s warning in time. The brick-sized stone came hurling at him, striking him on the side of the head. Nothelm staggered and swayed, then his body went limp and he was tumbling to the ground. Loren and Tristan lurched forward, clinging only to Nothelm’s lower body to keep him from toppling off the walkway and down to his death.
Eamon, now recovered, stepped forward wearily as blood stained his garments around his neck, chest, and left arm. He lunged forward, trying to catch Shiv off guard with a powerful thrust aimed directly at Shiv’s chest. Shiv raised his staff, using it as a blockade to stop the downstroke of Eamon’s sword. The sword cut through the wood, smashing Shiv’s staff in half. Shiv tossed one end of the stick at Eamon, and then used the other half of the stick to jab at Eamon’s chest and send him back a step.
Eamon lunged a second time, but this time it was to his detriment. Shiv was too quick, as he shimmied around Eamon, using his momentum against him. He had slipped behind Eamon in the blink of an eye, and before Eamon could react, the obsidian dagger had been driven into his back. Pain lanced through him as the dagger sank between his shoulder blades, a white hot searing pain rushed through him. Eamon felt his breath leave him as his muscles contracted and his knees crumbled beneath him.
Shiv wasted no time withdrawing his dagger and coming onto Eamon again. Before he could land another fatal stabbing with his dagger, a hand came over his shoulder and ripped him back. It was Asherin. Shiv jutted an elbow back, landing a blow to Asherin’s nose and sending her reeling. He turned, landing an additional fisted punch through the center of Asherin’s face. He grabbed his dagger again, hungry for more blood. He brought his dagger above his head, prepared to bring it down on Asherin before she could react.
Eamon grabbed the hood of Shiv’s cloak and yanked him with all his might. Shiv came toppling down over Eamon, who had been crouched on one knee. Shiv toppled over the side of the stonebridge, both his hands clutched around Eamon’s wrists.
“Let go, you bastard!” muttered Eamon. Blood dripped from his neck and poured over Shiv’s face as he held on for dear life, his entire body dangling over the deep chasm. Tristan, who had just managed to get Nothelm back onto the stonebridge with Loren’s help, rushed over with Myroniad.
“Eamon, move!” shouted Tristan. Eamon leaned his shoulders back, screaming as the searing pain of his upper arm radiated all over his body.
One of Shiv’s hands let go of Eamon’s arms, going to his side and grabbing his dagger. He used his last surge of strength, looping his dagger up and into Eamon’s neck. The dagger penetrated Eamon’s soft skin, made a light thud as it plunged in. Eamon’s eyes glossed over, his body went limp. Eamon’s body slid over the slicked stone path, taking Shiv down with it as they plummeted down to their deaths hundreds of feet below.
Tristan cried out in despair. Loren fell to her knees, crestfallen.
“Come on!” shouted Asherin, desperate to get across and be done with the whole affair. “The bowman is still standing with his bow strung. We can lament his death when we’re safely across, come on!”
Tristan snapped out of his longing gaze down into the depths of the rushing waters. The two bodies—Eamon and Shiv—were now little more than specks in the dark void below. The river, wild and merciless, had swallowed them whole, pulling them into the depths with no trace of their fall. The only proof of their existence was the blood-stained stone beneath him.
“Move!” Nothelm urged, his voice taut with impatience.
Tristan’s chest ached, but he allowed himself to be pulled forward. His feet moved mechanically at first, each step a battle against the numbness that threatened to consume him.
Asherin was already leading the charge across the bridge, her pace quick and purposeful with Kenton tailing at her back, hunched over and moaning. The others, struggling to keep up, did not notice how narrow the stonebridge had become in their haste, how precariously it seemed to narrow as they continued their journey forward. It had always been perilous—one wrong step and the abyss would claim you—but now, in the wake of their loss, it felt like the ground itself was giving way beneath them.
And so they moved—step by step—each one more difficult than the last. The stonebridge, so narrow now, seemed like a razor-thin thread between life and death. But with each step forward, the memory of Eamon's sacrifice burned brighter in Tristan’s chest, pushing him onward.
They would not let it be for nothing.