The Mist by A.L. Cline

Author:A.L. Cline
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Magic, Wizard, Quest, time travel, Teeenage Heroes and Heroine
Publisher: A.L. Cline
Published: 2017-05-13T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

Shun and his three Batu warriors had decided to travel through the pine forest, cross a vine bridge over Dragon Gorge, then make their way through the Mourning Woods to the caves of Mogao in the Nangling Mountains. The caves were surrounded by desert, but the land was lush and green a hundred thousand years ago, and rainwater cut gaping holes into the sandstone cliffs. Only a few of the hundreds of caves had been explored, for they were treacherous and dove deep beneath the earth. Shun had wanted to start his search there because he had decided, If I were a Mant, this is where I would live.

They followed the trail through the pine forest. The Mist was heavy and odorous the entire way. When they reached the vine bridge, they could only see a few feet in front of them. The area around the bridge was remote, and the small abandoned camp on the other side, once a hideout for bandits and disgraced warriors, was now nothing but a pile of decaying shacks.

The bridge was made of extraordinarily long, thick, wisteria vines with wooden planks woven into them. There were no handrails, and the bridge swayed side to side even in the slightest wind. One hundred feet below lay a rocky, dried river bed.

"Careful, my friends," Shun said. "I crossed this bridge many years ago with my father, and even then, the wooden planks were rotting and weak. Single file now. And step lightly."

To make sure the wooden planks were sturdy enough to pass, Shun led the way. The vines creaked and whined, the bridge swaying and bouncing with every step.

"I'm across,” Shun said. “But beware of the last five planks; they're ready to give way.”

Yung and Zian tentatively worked their way to the other side, but Lok, the last warrior on the bridge, heard a loud crack a few feet from the bridge’s end, and his foot broke through the plank. His entire left leg was hanging through the bottom of the bridge, his body about to breakthrough. Shun walked back onto the bridge and grabbed Lok’s arm in his vise-like grip. Then, with a colossal yank, he pulled Lok from the rotten bridge. They all watched as the tattered vines tore apart and ancient causeway collapsed into the ravine.

Shun and his men camped that first night in the remnants of the old village, and the next day started out for the Mourning Woods. Even before The Mist descended from the mountaintop, the Mourning Woods was a source of fear and trepidation to the Batu. The woods had gotten its name from the wail of the wind through the trees, which sounded like a grieving mother’s cry. Its towering trees were covered in vines. Their twisted, sprawling roots looked like the gnarled fingers of an old woman, and a smell of putrefied vegetation rose from the forest floor. The villagers would go far out of their way to avoid these bloodcurdling woodlands.

The closer they got to the Mourning Woods, the darker it became.

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