Autumn (The Size of the Moon Book 1) by Michael Edmond

Author:Michael Edmond [Edmond, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: RFP Publishing
Published: 2023-11-23T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

It being too painful to sit the saddle a frickin’ clippity-clop-second longer, Marcus limped onward, using the white mare for support. The black beasties had given up trying to urge him to go faster, trudging ahead and behind, heads down as if ashamed of a job-well-botched.

Marcus didn’t understand the elf prison. That was true. The fey didn’t understand him. If his son was lost to the abyss of one of those spokes, Marcus would bring the whole place down on top of the elves’ heads. And whatever skyscrapers they dwelled in. Or trees, if any still did.

He moved as fast as his body would go. He thought of strapping himself in the saddle, gritting his teeth as the white sprinted toward Rashaar Car’theall. The horse had long since stopped running, her steps slower than Marcus’s.

He was too pissed now to be angry. Anger was tiring. Instead, his ire smoldered beneath the surface, ready to erupt at the smallest stimuli, a fire fueling his every step despite the pain in his knee. The Karthantians must have sensed the cloud of danger surrounding him, keeping well away, no longer giving him distance updates, choosing not to speak at all.

For the first several hours he’d asked them every thirty minutes how far they had to go. The miles left never seemed to lessen. He was happy they didn’t give him all the just around the corner or over the next hill nonsense. When the black fur ball ahead stopped walking, waiting for Marcus to catch up before saying it was just over the next crest, Marcus knew they were close.

Several painful steps later he stood atop the hill looking at…a lake. He saw nothing resembling a structure, let alone something that could be a prison unless it was constructed of logs.

“Awesome,” said Marcus unimpressed. “I’d hate to be a convict imprisoned by all this beauty. Where is the blasted place? In the water?”

“Under it,” said the Karthantian. “Underground.”

“Sounds cozy.” Marcus shook his head, smirking. “Am I too late to save my son?”

“You are in time. They will have been alerted to your proximity and removed him, if in fact he had been placed in one of the spokes.”

“Then lead on, Sierra Whiskey.”

“What did you call me?”

“Sierra Whiskey. Marine talk. S for scary. W for wolf. Scary wolf. But in military speak, S is Sierra. W is Whiskey. Never mind. Sorry.”

It grunted. “It’s better than beastie or blasterd.”

“Then Sierra it is.”

“I’ll be Whiskey,” said Whiskey. He pointed with his muzzle toward the other Karthantian trotting toward them. “You can call her Sierra.”

“Her? She’s a she?” said Marcus, nodding. “Of course, she is. I knew that.”

“This is as far as we go. Proceed to your left, skirting the shore of the lake. You’ll see the entrance,” said Whiskey.

“It makes you wonder, though, that if the interests of all the elves were aligned, why in the world would they ever need a prison for them?”

Whiskey didn’t respond.

“Well, I bid you adieu, Whiskey,” said Marcus. “Goodbye, Sierra.

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