XVIII
“What an awful place!” His stride measurably reduced, Simna ibn Sind struggled to keep pace with his long-legged companion. Nearby, the black litah padded silently onward, head drooping low, long black tongue lolling over the left side of its lower jaw like a piece of overlooked meat.
“Hunkapa not like.” Though the big hulk was suffering visibly beneath his thick coat of silver-gray hair, he plodded along determinedly, his head hung down and his arms almost dragging the ground.
Ehomba was in better shape than any of them, but took no credit for it. He was used to spending long days standing out in the merciless sun, watching over the village herds. Now he squinted at the sky. They had awakened early from the day-sleep and had been marching for more than two hours westward into the advancing evening.
“Take heart. The sun will be down soon.” He nodded toward the mountains. They loomed massively before the weary travelers, but the foothills still lay more than a day’s hike distant. Or rather, a night’s. To avoid the worst of the heat, they had opted to sleep during the day and trek after dark. “It will grow cooler, and walking will become easier.”
“Hoy, you mean it will become less hot.” The swordsman wiped perspiration from his brow and neck. “Not in any way, shape, or form does the word ‘cool’ apply to this place.”
In the course of their travels they had encountered many strange life-forms surviving in equally strange environments. From the blizzard-cocooned crests of mountains to the high dunes of the desert, from swamps shallow and deep to the vast open reaches of the Semordria itself, there had always been life, be it nothing more than a limpet or a leaf. Until now, until this tormented, perfectly flat plain of desiccated salts. There was not even, a panting Ahlitah pointed out, a warm worm to tickle a cat’s taste buds.