Fires of Prophecy_ Book Two of the Morcyth Saga - Brian Pratt [98]
With Roland’s help, he gets them moving in the right direction as they work their way through town. They finally meander their way back to camp where the drunks collapse and pass out.
“Everything go okay?” Delia asks when they arrive.
“We’re here aren’t we?” he asks her.
“What happened?” she asks.
Too tired to want to talk, he just says, “Tell you in the morning.” Lying down, he’s soon fast asleep.
The boozehounds all have incredible hangovers from the night before and not too surprisingly, most don’t remember being tied up in the basement. Jiron and Scar remember it somewhat, but mainly it’s all just a blur.
Smelling far worse than normal, James has them all go to the river, clothes and all and at least make an attempt to get the stink out.
While they’re gone to the river, he and the others work to get the caravan ready for travel before they return.
“You going to tell them what happened last night?” Roland asks James as they secure a team of horses in their traces.
Grinning, he says, “If I do, I’ll probably make up a bunch of stuff.”
Roland breaks out laughing and then they finish securing the horses to the wagon. Everything is set to go by the time they see them coming back toward the wagons, drenched and cold. With the heat of the day already beginning to rise, it won’t take long before it dries them out.
Sitting atop his horse, James watches and waits while they return and mount their horses. This day, Jiron is to drive the wagon while James gets to ride point. James is wearing his floppy hat that he bought back at Korazan to keep the sun off.
When everyone is ready, he takes the lead and soon they’re back on the road following the river south. After riding for several hours, an odd fog bank appears off to the east, several miles away. “Do you see that?” he asks Jiron when he pauses to allow the wagon to catch up with him.
Shielding his eyes against the glare, he replies, “Yeah, so?”
“I’ve never heard of there being fog in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the day,” he says. “Certainly not during summer, the heat should’ve burnt it off long ago.”
When Roland catches up to them, James asks him about it.
“I think it’s called the ‘Mists of Sorrow’,” he explains.
“Why do they call it that?” Jiron asks.
“Don’t know,” he replies. “I just heard someone passing through mention it once.”
By this time the whole caravan has stopped to see what’s going on. They all stare at the fog in the distance.
“What is it?” asks Shorty.
“We’re not sure,” Roland explains. “It might be the ‘Mists of Sorrow’.”
“Oh,” he says.
“We’re not getting anywhere by standing here gawking,” James says to everyone who’s gathered around him. They get back on their horses and wagons as he resumes riding to the south.
Throughout the rest of the day, the fog bank remains a permanent fixture on the horizon, they all can’t help but keep glancing at it from time to time. James notices how the traffic is all but nonexistent on this road. The few travelers they do encounter tend to be nonsocial, giving only short responses to greetings if they give any at all.
When the sun rides low in the sky, they stop for the night next to the river. Before the sun goes down, James looks to the east and can still see the fog bank sitting there, miles away.
The next morning, he’s shocked to discover the wall of fog had moved during the night. Now it’s no more than a half mile from the road. It easily extends fifty feet high and is so dense, you can’t see anything within it.
“Wow,” says Delia when she wakes up and joins him where he’s gazing at it. “Creepy.”
“You said it,” he agrees.
“Should we go check it out?” she asks.
Shaking his head, he says, “No, it makes me feel uneasy. Might be a good idea if we stayed away from it.”
Then suddenly, they see a shadow pass through it along the fringe, the density of the fog keeping them from getting a clear view of it. It was half the size of a horse and was running like a dog.
They look at each other and she asks,