The Bridge of Death
written by: Rae S. Earley (thestoryscripter)
Ekrel, fiercest warrior of the Moll Clan, found himself begging on his knees. His leader and mentor, Clenn, had been bedridden for weeks, and no known treatment had returned her to good health. Ekrel refused to give in to fate. With all other options extinguished, he vowed to cross the Bridge of Death and beg the ancient Hawthorne for a cure. Clenn rejected the offer. She admired the capable youth, but knew he could be headstrong and blind to unintended consequences. Over the past few days, she had made her peace with her imminent death, and at her age, was ready to join her ancestors. She would not ask to sacrifice half her Clan for her limited well-being.
But Ekrel’s mind was already spinning. The Bridge of Death was known for killing half of all humans who traveled across it. Those who attempted to cross in odd numbers would always lose the extra traveler to the Bridge. However, those lucky enough to make it across were rewarded by the Hawthorne, which would grant each traveler one wish.
At daybreak, Ekrel rallied his fellow warriors, hoping to gather a band large enough for at least him to survive the journey, but every person he asked hesitated. The 50/50 risk that they would be unlucky enough to be struck down by the Bridge was immense. It was guaranteed that some would be lost, but exactly who was unknown.
After hours of pleading, Ekrel left with three willing warriors. They mounted their horses and made for the Bridge, riding past twisted blackened trees, ruins that spurted noxious gas, and deathly quiet marshes. On the third night, the mist parted, and the railingless Bridge appeared above a hellish gorge. The horses spooked and abandoned them miles from home. At the last second, one of the warriors cowered and fled, leaving the patrol with only three.
Summoning every ounce of courage, Ekrel took the first step. The Bridge let out a moan as the other warriors followed, clenching their swords and shields. As they passed over the middle, one of the footsteps ceased. Ekrel dared not look behind as the Bridge began to claim its victims. He started to run. Boulders began crumbling, sending shockwaves through his skull. With a final lunge, he stepped on the far side, only to turn back and see no one behind him.
The gleaming Hawthorne of gold and silver welcomed him from the darkness. Ekrel, weak in the knees, laid a palm on its bark and pleaded with all his being for a cure for his great leader. From its divine roots, a potion emerged, encased in a glass vial. Triumph surged through Ekrel. Wrapping it in the sleeve of his cloak, he turned to head for home, only to have his heart sink.
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