Dragonhammer: Volume I Read Free Page B

stocky.  James is also the polar opposite of Percival:  reckless, and most of the time extremely stubborn and hot-headed.  He also considers himself a ladies’ man.
    I ignore James and answer Percival, “Only if you are.”
    He nods.  “Let’s be off then!”
    The bridge spans just more than twenty yards of water, but is wide enough for two carriages to travel side-by side, even though Virfith hasn’t seen one of those in at least six years.  It’s made completely of stone with built-in crenellations, and I marvel at how the builders of the bridge could have constructed such a thing centuries ago.
    On the other side of the bridge, we find ourselves outside of the village and on a dirt road that turns right, to run along the riverside.  There’s not much conversation along the road; we just enjoy the clear air and the severe verdant beauty of the world.
    As the day progresses, the road climbs up a rocky mountainside and away from the river, which continues to flow violently over everything in its path.  The opposite side of the river is a titanic cliff face, with fallen trees and dark green growth along the bank.  Large boulders from somewhere far up the cliff have made their way into the river, whether over hundreds of years or in only a few moments.
    Pine trees grow everywhere.  Either side of the path is overgrown.  Great boughs hang like arches over the road, welcoming us into their domain.  Enormous stumps, at least five or six feet in diameter, mourn silently for their lost luster, which lies either dead and crumbling next to the path or at the bottom of the ravine, lost in the swell of the roaring river.  The fallen trees are enormous, with boughs sticking out every which way like a monstrous barbaric mace.  One even had fallen on top of some other trees, cracking a few over until one was strong enough to hold the weight.
    The road lets out of the forest momentarily, into a small valley covered with bushes and some flowers of varying reds, purples, whites, and yellows.  Pines grow only on the sides of the valley, but not inside it.  Then we are plunged back into the mountainous forest.
    Always we can hear the roar of the river.
    The road, rather than simply going straight, follows the contour of the mountains.  It goes up and down and left and right, but the river is always down in the gulf to the right.
    At about midday, we come to Highrock Lookout.  The road takes a sharp left turn around the mountain, but at that point the trees to the right recede from the path and create a clearing to the right of the path.  A flat rock, about the size of my home, sticks straight out of the mountain side like an enormous shelf, with only cliffs below and to its sides.  In ancient days it was used exactly for what the name implies.  It’s the highest point the road reaches on the way to Terrace, so all can be seen for miles.
    I can’t resist the urge to stop here and enjoy the view.  It’s almost a rule to me; I must stop here.
    We must be at least a few hundred feet up from the bottom of the valley.  Mountains roll into the distance and out of sight, reaching to stroke the underside of the passing clouds.  Forests of pine cover them like a fur coat.  The sun shines brightly in the middle of the sky, almost directly above.  Sheer rock faces decorate the mountains.  At the very bottom runs the Fravora River, which is still both visible and audible.
    Here we eat lunch.  James says something about how it’s hot, and Ethan tells a fascinating story about how he once convinced Nicholas that a goose had passed loud gas.  He and James continue to trade stories of such nature, but I sit next to Percival who doesn’t say much of anything until he’s finished.  Even then he’s silent, staring out across the mountains until I ask what he’s thinking about.
    “I wonder what’s beyond them,” he says.  “I’ve never been on the other side.  What other people are there?  What’s their culture