impossibly far away,and that snow was a way of life there, though even Eron’s folk had the sense to hide from it in their vast winter holds during what that land called Deep Winter.
The wind was from the south, though—from Ixti—and it carried with it the scents of coming spring. As if sensing that, Obyll snorted with what sounded suspiciously like delight, and of her own will strove to move faster. Zrill let her—cautiously, for stones could lurk beneath that snow. And worse. He’d heard rumors—things babbled by the Eronese woman in one of her torture sessions—that the Prince had lost a mount to a scorpion burrow.
And there were more scorpions here than farther north.
Still, he was young—twenty-five—and strong enough to survive even if he lost a steed. He was also well fed, and had more food in his saddlebags, and weapons, because no one left Lynnz’s camp without them. Finally, he wore more clothing than might be apparent, because he was never certain when he might be marooned out here.
But for the moment, all was well, and so he and Obyll kept going.
He was still riding when midnight rose overhead. Desert still surrounded him, but it was flatter now, and comprised of sand interspersed with stone. One moon had set and two risen to replace it, washing the place with a strange admixture of shadows. But what drew Zrill’s attention was a dark crescent in the landscape straight ahead, as though some vast
thing
had taken a bite from the earth—a crescent that a finger’s farther riding revealed to be a declivity in the land. It was in fact the rim of the Pit, as the escarpment-edged depression that occupied most of the Flat’s western half was called. And except for a few odd streams below that rim, it made the desolation of the Flat resemble a garden.
It was also Zrill’s goal. He reined Obyll to a walk and nudged her north. He’d missed a minor landmark—the spires of wind-worked sandstone hereabouts looked too much alike in the dark—and had arrived south of his goal.Not that it was a problem. It was simply that he prided himself on not making such fundamental errors.
Mistakes got you killed; they got you found out and distrusted. Trust was very important to Zrill—and not only Lord Lynnz’s.
He’d reached the rim now, and dared to peer over the cliff. It was fairly low here—only a dozen spans—and was marked and fissured with any number of depressions that looked like the start of a way down. Only one was, however, and he found it with little trouble a hand later, though he had to dismount to guide a frightened Obyll part of the way. The trail was narrow, and the moonlight too faint to show a clear way to the bottom. He therefore felt a certain comfort when, halfway down, a black-clad figure melted from the rocks to his right to block his path, face veiled by a black-sylk mouth-mask, but with a sword clearly visible.
“Zrill min Bizz,” Zrill announced. “The scorpion stings its own kind.”
“The sting is the child of the sword,” came the reply.
The figure—he couldn’t guess its sex—merged back into the shadows. Zrill exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and edged past.
A second figure intercepted him where the trail issued into a flat sand field at the foot of the cliff. The Pit swept away to the west, a featureless, dark-sanded abomination as anonymous as a waveless ocean.
“The sting is the child of the sword,” he intoned.
“A child with a sword should be stung,” came the reply.
And once again Zrill moved on.
The cliff to the right was pocked with caves at various levels, all of which he ignored until he rounded a certain head-high outcrop and turned sharp right, which put him face-to-face with one from which issued a furtive light. So little light, in fact, and so precisely located, that only one seeking it would notice.
He followed it into the cliff. Turned left, and relaxed as that light washed out to meet him, becoming brighter and
The wind was from the south, though—from Ixti—and it carried with it the scents of coming spring. As if sensing that, Obyll snorted with what sounded suspiciously like delight, and of her own will strove to move faster. Zrill let her—cautiously, for stones could lurk beneath that snow. And worse. He’d heard rumors—things babbled by the Eronese woman in one of her torture sessions—that the Prince had lost a mount to a scorpion burrow.
And there were more scorpions here than farther north.
Still, he was young—twenty-five—and strong enough to survive even if he lost a steed. He was also well fed, and had more food in his saddlebags, and weapons, because no one left Lynnz’s camp without them. Finally, he wore more clothing than might be apparent, because he was never certain when he might be marooned out here.
But for the moment, all was well, and so he and Obyll kept going.
He was still riding when midnight rose overhead. Desert still surrounded him, but it was flatter now, and comprised of sand interspersed with stone. One moon had set and two risen to replace it, washing the place with a strange admixture of shadows. But what drew Zrill’s attention was a dark crescent in the landscape straight ahead, as though some vast
thing
had taken a bite from the earth—a crescent that a finger’s farther riding revealed to be a declivity in the land. It was in fact the rim of the Pit, as the escarpment-edged depression that occupied most of the Flat’s western half was called. And except for a few odd streams below that rim, it made the desolation of the Flat resemble a garden.
It was also Zrill’s goal. He reined Obyll to a walk and nudged her north. He’d missed a minor landmark—the spires of wind-worked sandstone hereabouts looked too much alike in the dark—and had arrived south of his goal.Not that it was a problem. It was simply that he prided himself on not making such fundamental errors.
Mistakes got you killed; they got you found out and distrusted. Trust was very important to Zrill—and not only Lord Lynnz’s.
He’d reached the rim now, and dared to peer over the cliff. It was fairly low here—only a dozen spans—and was marked and fissured with any number of depressions that looked like the start of a way down. Only one was, however, and he found it with little trouble a hand later, though he had to dismount to guide a frightened Obyll part of the way. The trail was narrow, and the moonlight too faint to show a clear way to the bottom. He therefore felt a certain comfort when, halfway down, a black-clad figure melted from the rocks to his right to block his path, face veiled by a black-sylk mouth-mask, but with a sword clearly visible.
“Zrill min Bizz,” Zrill announced. “The scorpion stings its own kind.”
“The sting is the child of the sword,” came the reply.
The figure—he couldn’t guess its sex—merged back into the shadows. Zrill exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and edged past.
A second figure intercepted him where the trail issued into a flat sand field at the foot of the cliff. The Pit swept away to the west, a featureless, dark-sanded abomination as anonymous as a waveless ocean.
“The sting is the child of the sword,” he intoned.
“A child with a sword should be stung,” came the reply.
And once again Zrill moved on.
The cliff to the right was pocked with caves at various levels, all of which he ignored until he rounded a certain head-high outcrop and turned sharp right, which put him face-to-face with one from which issued a furtive light. So little light, in fact, and so precisely located, that only one seeking it would notice.
He followed it into the cliff. Turned left, and relaxed as that light washed out to meet him, becoming brighter and
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