The oar dipped into the lake, muscles strained, the boat slid silently across the still water.
The mist had closed about them some time ago, and the occupants had put their faith in the grizzled old man to steer.
At his signal they stopped rowing, and suddenly they were amongst the rocks: sharp jagged things gliding noiselessly past them mere inches on either side.
One miscalculation...
And then on distant shores, yet not quite far enough, the orange glow of torchlight and occasional bursts of indistinct and guttural talking.
Another signal: half stroke left.
Then 3 full strokes.
And stop...
The rock fell away and a bridge crept slowly out of the mist above them. More words, the meaningless garble becoming the still meaningless language of some orc clan or another.
Nearly through. The mist gathered under the bridge as sharks around sinking war galleys.
Right. Pull.
Right. Pull.
And full strokes.
The bridge disappeared behind them with the glow of torchlight.
Then after time measureless in the clinging damp, the mist itself fell away.
They were through. The moon was high in the sky and the sun rising in the distance. The lake was open before them, the turrets of the capital rising like the trees of a great forest on their right.
They were through.
Photo courtesy of pixabay.com
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Good story, congratulations, greetings from Venezuela!!!
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