“Salt pan,” he informed his companions. “There was once a lake at the foot of those peaks, but the water all dried up long, long ago. Now there is nothing, and because of the salt not even a weed can grow there. They are terrible places.” From his elevated vantage point on the edge of the grassy plateau he surveyed the land that had to be crossed. “So long as we have enough water, we should be able to cross the salt flat in two nights and a day.” He indicated the beckoning, snow-capped peaks. “We should find springs at the base of the mountains.”
“Should find.” Simna’s tone was flat. “And if we don’t?”
The tall herdsman looked down at him. “Then we will get very thirsty. We will have to find water somewhere because we will not be able to carry enough to make a return crossing. I do not know what sources might lie between here and the pan. If we can find any it will be a great help.”
Behind him, the black litah growled impatiently. “Naked veldt.” Padding past the two humans, he started down the loose, scree-laden slope. “We waste water standing here.”
As they descended from the ridge, the temperature rose perceptibly. Beneath their feet, the unstable surface made for poor walking. Except for the sure-footed cat, each of them slipped on more than one occasion. Conscious of the danger, however, no one suffered any injury. Everyone realized it would be an especially bad place to incur a twisted ankle or broken bone.
“This must remind you of home, Etjole.” Pebbles sliding and bouncing away from beneath his sandals, Simna picked his way carefully down the slope.