After several hours at a hard gallop, they came to a river that was too swift to cross. Before the bandits could even slow down, they saw a streaking figure— Was it a boy? Made of light? There followed a dazzling flash that illuminated the water in a strange, otherworldly way. North peered at the river, his instincts kicking in. He was a betting lad, after all, and he sensed that these moonbeams were coaxing him to trust in the impossible. With a nudge, he urged Petrov forward, and they strode right onto the river. They did not sink but rode atop the water! North’s men dashed after them. It was like that again and again. Lakes, streams, fjords—any body of water that blocked their path would light up and magically support them.

And then, as they climbed high into the mountains, something even more astounding occurred. At the edge of a steep escarpment, the mountain sheared off into nothingness. North pulled on Petrov’s reins; the horse reared back just in time to avoid a plummeting drop. North surveyed the edge—below them was nothing but clouds. If they pressed ahead, they’d fall. There was no telling how far, but it was certain death. Then there it was again—that glowing boy, the burst of light coursing through the clouds! And yet again North laughed out loud. He cracked Petrov’s reins and they raced forward. Before his men could shout for him to stop, he’d hurtled off the edge. North and Petrov fell a few feet, then landed on a cloud. They rode on, North now laughing with a reckless joy.

Stunned, his men soared after him, and they, too, began to laugh at the wild, fantastic folly of what they knew was impossible, and yet there it was happening. On and on they rode through these new cloud mountains and valleys, across the white glistening landscape of the air.

Nicholas Saint North and the Battle of the Nightmare King Chapter 8