Song of Locke by J Washburn

Author:J Washburn [Washburn, J]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: addtokindle, Fantasy
Google: _DRNCgAAQBAJ
Goodreads: 26031482
Publisher: Lost Boys Ink
Published: 2015-08-03T23:00:00+00:00

43. COLLAPSE

E’D SEEN TREES FALL before, toppling sideways when their trunks were cut.

But these didn’t tip.

Along the river, the chalky white trees fell straight down, with the roots still beneath them, sinking slowly to draw out the torment. As the earth cracked, it rumbled loud and prolonged, like crashing waves, a bang of rocks and fury rattling the bones. The split raced toward us, tearing the earth in two, too quick for anything but a slight twist.

The ground dropped beneath the elves.

Air and dust surged upward, pushing against me and the other sylves, obscuring the whole picture.

Locke let go of his sword and jumped as the ground crumbled and vanished. If it weren’t for a root reaching gallantly toward him, he would have tumbled into the chaos. His hand caught the root. He squeezed. The bark tore loose as his weight pulled back and down before slamming him into the wall of the newly formed cliff. His shoulder sent a surge of pain down his spine.

Shouts leaped upward, failing to grab hold of anything but their own terror.

The strange feeling returned—the same nightmare we’d felt when the wolfe should’ve killed us outside the cave. A phantom dressed as death came at us with claws to tear our innermost parts. Sickness twisted at our insides. Locke, hanging by that root, tried to turn away from the feeling, to cower down, to shrink away, but he couldn’t. The feeling surrounded us, then screamed as we miraculously slipped out of its reach.

Locke coughed through the dust. His fingers burned.

The screams echoed below us, like moaning ghosts growing distant. The dust settled, sticking to Locke’s sweaty forehead and going in his ears. But he held on, clinging with fingertips and kicking against the surface.

“Picke, I can’t find a footing. Can you?”

“Maybe. Right here. You feel that?”

Locke put the toe of his moccasin where I’d pointed, and pulled himself up.

“Help!” came a cry from below.

Locke’s toes slipped, leaving him dangling. But a lifetime of climbing had given him a strong upper body. Soon he rolled onto the ledge above, coughing and panting. He looked at me, wanting to know what happened, and who survived, and what we should do.

We stared at the dust brooding below. If a Tenarie tried to climb out, would Locke kill him as he struggled? Could he really send an unarmed elfe to the place of no return?

“Help!” came the cry again.

A light wind pulled back the cover of dust, revealing lumps of dirt and rock. But nothing moved. Then we saw a face struggling for life, a face that didn’t know what happened or what was to come—the face of the young guard, Gante. Roots stuck out from the newly exposed cliff, and he dangled from one of these, trying to climb.

“Hang on!” Locke pulled off his backpack and gripped one strap, hanging the other below.

Gante managed to climb within reach. He took hold of the strap, and Locke pulled him onto solid ground. Then it was Gante’s turn to lie there panting.

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