Horin’s arm glows green and then he points.
We all gaze in astonishment when the net lifts in silence, flies overhead and settles in a curve over the expanse of water. The moment it touches, it solidifies. It is no longer a net.
Horin walks over as if the bridge has always been there.
Swiftly Damin and I exhort the others to follow. The crossing is achieved in minutes, rather than the hours one expects when the line is as long as this one. The instant a foot touches the bridge, the man, woman, child or animal appears on the other side, magically sped across.
The lad then points again, and the bridge lifts, swirls, and settles upon the land, dead straight upon rock and scrub. It points directly to the mountains of Arc. Blinking, I gesture, and again we cross in minutes. We gather in miles instead of mere yards.
He does it twice more before Damin commands him to stop. We all see the weariness in the boy’s every muscle and gesture. Accepting no argument, Damin lifts Horin onto that horse of his, and says we will now walk.
We march on the usual way, for it is not even midday yet. Looking back, I realise how far we have travelled in only hours. The plateau is now the smudge, while the mountains ahead have taken on some definition.
“We will make the deadline,” I murmur to Damin, joining him in the rear of the column. I notice the net is again behind us, but it is now a sliver of what it was. I frown. “How is this a warrior talent?”
Horin lifts his weary head from Forest’s mane. “It’s a shield. It protects from the rough ground.”
Siri walks on the other side. “It also protects us from time,” she adds.