“Fair enough.” The back of a scaly red arm wiped thick, blubbery red lips. “I’m a prospector, plying my trade. It is by nature a solitary business, only rarely rewarding, but it suits me.”
This was something Simna ibn Sind felt he could relate to. Stepping out from behind Ehomba, he essayed his most comradely smile. “What is it you’re prospecting for out in this desolation? Gold, I would imagine. Or silver, or another of the precious metals? Gems, perhaps, or the rare ingredients for arcane powders and potions?”
The horned skull shook slowly from side to side. “I am digging for lost souls.” Once again extending an elastic arm farther than was natural, the demon fumbled at its pack. “Exhumations have been meager these past few weeks, but there’s a little color in the pouch. Care to have a look?” From a small, tightly fastened, intricately inscribed leather bag there arose a faltering chorus of moans.
“That’s all right.” Making motions of demurral, the momentarily confident swordsman once more hastily took refuge alongside his lean companion.
With a shrug, the demon retracted his arm. “I understand. There’s really not much to look at. Fair size, decent opacity. Impure, of course, or they wouldn’t be here.” Perking up, he smiled horribly. “I’ve been following traces for some time, hoping to hit a vein.”
Not mine, Simna hoped feelingly. Despite the veneer of civility that overlay the ongoing exchange of pleasantries, he could not escape the feeling that if Etjole Ehomba were not standing between him and the eager phantasm, he and the others would already be staked out on the searing sand with their body cavities ripped open and their entrails exposed to the sun. Why this should be he could not have said. The herdsman had evinced no special protection, had thrown up no obvious defenses. But Simna was certain their continued salvation was due solely to the herdsman’s presence among them. In this he believed as firmly as he believed in his own existence. Perhaps more so.