It isn't like Bombo to change his mind about anything, especially when it comes to things of importance like his vendetta against the giant man, Boulder. But he had been on the fence about leaving Windston and Frem and now he was just about on the wrong side of it.

  He had just left the ravine on the western side and was gazing at sunny fields of grass and the River Steels, that mighty rushing river that ran miles free from Mirra Lake and spilled cliff-side over the drop. Mist rose over those falls, falls whose rumble rivaled thunder.

  Bombo continued those last few miles to the drop stand where a great metal bracket jutted out from the ground and hung suspended over the falls. It was supported by a giant pole buried deep in the ground. A massive pulley was fixed at the end of it and from it hung a cord as big around as Bombo's upper arm. It was taut and it creaked as its wheel turned toward Gorrals. A man was there next to the bracket and there was a great bit of that cord that ran past him to another pulley and another rope that ran to yet another pulley and then down the drop beside the Steels Falls. There was a basket attached to the rope and it hung there in the falls. When it was time for that pulley to pull up, slats on the bottom of the basket turned so that its floor became nearly solid, trapping water so that it filled until its weight was greater than its counter and it slowly descended, pulling up whatever might be on the rising cart on the other end of the rope. That cart was presently bearing thirty men, their hauls and their teams of horses, their families (those who brought them) and their supplies.

  When the platform of men from below reached the top and exited, slats on the bottom of that basket would open again and the water would slip through at a slightly faster rate, causing that cart to drop as its weight became greater than the force of water hammering down on the basket.

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  One would think this system would fail; how could the basket last such a brutal beating day in and day out? The simple reality was that that basket and its pulley system was older than the civilizations of the free world below, and both the rope and the structures were made of black steel, which does not yield to the effects of time any more than it blunts, breaks or buckles to anything else outside of extreme heat.

  Bombo had seen it before. Though he'd like to marvel at it again, he couldn't, as he couldn't stop thinking about what might be going wrong with his two favorite punky boys. He had tossed and turned more than slept since they'd parted. They were more than friends to him. They were like family.

  Frem could be getting the both of them into trouble.

  Frem, so much like Jamby….

  “I just know they're in some cell, rotting because of Frem's thieving ways,” he said, shaking his head. “Or worse; they kill the jailers and now are marked for execution by the guilds!”

  He was so deep in thought that he had lost his place in line without even so much as an excuse me from the line butters.

  “Maybe I go, just while they there in the unknowns. Maybe I go help them just now and then we part ways in the Freelands. At least there they're among people. Here they go in the cold and wet, by themselves! To climb the tallest mountain east of Galsia!” His teeth were gritted, and his fists were clenched as he said these things aloud to himself; he imagined Windston falling, crashing down onto Frem, and both landing on something very hard and very sharp.

  Another man and his horse skipped him.

  And then another on a wagon.

  Bombo noticed and waved them past, shaking his head, rolling his eyes and muttering more and more to himself.

  “This man Boulder, this giant man, is so lucky I find these kids,” he said. “Boys!” he yelled to no one. “Don't worry! Here he is! He comes! Here comes Bombo!”