“Hoy?” Simna sat up straight and gripped the tiller and control lines tightly in his fingers. So entranced had he been by his friend’s structural renascence that his attention had wandered from their heading. In the interim, they had run out of road.
The windwagon hit the water hard, sending up a fan-shaped shower of water that sprayed higher than the mast. Instantly, the boxy vehicle slowed. Caught by the sluggish current but still powered by the wind out of the east, it began to drift with agonizing slowness across the broad, flat expanse of the unnamed river.
Lying in the rear of the vehicle, the black litah lifted its ebony head and yawned, trying to work up an interest in the proceedings. “They’re still coming. Better get a move on.”
“We’re making as much speed as we can! This is no pinnace.” Glancing down, Simna saw water beginning to filter up between the slats, threatening to submerge his sandaled feet. The wagon was caulked against the weather, but it was never the intention of its builders to make it watertight. How long the seals would hold against the pressure of the river its hopeful passengers could only guess.
The army of the Brotherhood reached the bank where the wagon had driven into the languid flow. Many halted there, pulling up and reining in their mounts. Dozens of the more determined dead, driven by anger and fury at the deceitful betrayal of the living and his promised contribution to their ranks, did not. Urging their ashen mounts onward, they plunged headfirst into the current.