The Dark of the Angry Sand

[Brodon Windriver]

20th of Spring, 513

Brodon rode guard on this run. He had been provided bow and arrow. His iron staff was slipped through loops in the saddle bags also provided him. He knew it was a good thing he had learned both saddle and yvas, yet it seemed that he was getting further from his cultural icons. He wondered if there was anything truly recognizable about him as a Drykas rider anymore.

When he eventually returned home to the Sea of Grass, would he be regarded as an outsider? His mood reflected this concern frequently. It was not as though he'd be rejected, foreigners were not treated with disdain in Endrykas. Not as they were in Ahnatep. He had personal experience with that. Yet, in Yahebah he had been made to feel welcome. He wondered which of the two was the exception to the rule, world-wide.

Well, now was not the time for such worries. Now was the time for scouting. He had a second staff through loops in his saddle bags, a normal wooden staff. This was the perch for his sparrowhawk, "Arrow". He had had opportunities, too many of them, to teach Arrow the difference between calls indicating bestial threats and humanoid threats.

He made a trilling chirp with the narrow command of Nari bird-speak he had learned from a falconer a couple of years ago. Arrow flew from the staff and shot into the air, soon reaching the height of the mesas standing like the tombstones of gods in the deceptively restful wastes of the Burning Lands.

Arrow overflew a mesa to the northeast and circled its circumference twice. Brodon pulled a small strip of meat, tied to a stone, from his bag as he watched Arrow return. He threw it to the side, giving a short, sharp whistle to indicate "treat". Arrow diverted his trajectory to swoop upon it as Brodon notched a real arrow to his bowstring.

He tracked his hawk and fired the arrow, shouting "DUCK" as he did. He knew his voice would reach the bird before the arrow. Not by much, perhaps, but this defensive training had reached the point where it needed to be close. he had, of course, deliberately fired high this time. He often shot low or led too much.

Over-leading his bird always sent a shudder of apprehension through him. What if he was more on target, by ineptitude, than he thought? He had spent weeks with Madrial's help, back in Yahebah, using beanbags first, then stones, to introduce Arrow to the concept of being fired upon and having to dodge incoming projectiles. He sent the bird back and forth, from himself, to Madrial, to himself, again and again. each time the target he approached would shout "DUCK" and throw the thing at him and he would dodge in whatever direction suited him.

They did this, at times, in alleyways to inhibit side to side movement, so he would not get in a rut of always dodging to the side. It was nothing that tricky for a sharp archer to judge a messenger bird's tendencies and adjust to make the hit. And this same talent would bring a hawk down just as well. Brodon knew he was not that sharp an archer, by any means, but the thought of a "lucky" shot caused him to wince frequently.

Arrow shrieked his displeasure at, once again, having to dodge for his treat. But it did not diminish his appetite any. Brodon sent him off again, pointing at a larger, lower mesa to the south and Arrow flew off to scout it. Brodon, in the meantime, rode his way west, seeing a point where gaps in two distant ridges allowed him a look at something that caught his interest.

It puzzled him greatly to see sand rather than sky above the point where he thought the horizon should be. He rode a little further to see if there were any landmarks to indicate a change in the desert-scape that he may have forgotten. He was startled suddenly to hear Arrow's call of alarm. It did not follow any of their established patterns of communication.

Brodon give the whistle and pointed in the direction of the curiosity, but Arrow only flew about fifty feet before repeating the odd alarm and returning to his perch. Brodon spoke calmly to him and tried once more to send him. This time, the hawk refused to leave his perch. Brodon's uneasiness began to intensify. He swallowed and started to ride slowly in the direction of the sand colored sky.

It seemed that there was a new mountain in the distance, a mountain of sand! Rising hundreds of feet into the air. As he got closer, he noticed some odd fluctuation in the near slope of this "mountain". It had all the appearances of a sand dune, its surfaced whipped by the wind.

He saw smoke rising from the tops of the mesas between himself and the distant oddity. LOTS of smoke. he noticed that Arrow was shrieking the strange "alarm" call endlessly. His horse began to dance nervously and whinny with fear. The smoke from the tops of the mesas now seem to be rising from the entire top surface. It was thick and all rising in his direction, though skyward.

All at once, he realized what he was looking at. The "smoke" was now pouring around the sides of the distant mesas. He noticed it was not the usual color of smoke. It was the color of sand!

[Brodon Windriver]

Brodon whirled Lovaak around, he was more than willing, and bolted back towards the caravan. One of the other outriders approached him, seeing the crisis in his face and Lovaak's gait.

"Brodon. What is wrong? Are we under attack?" he called, his voice straining against the suddenly rising wind.

Brodon slowed to come alongside the man. "Illisam, I have never being in a sandstorm." he pointed back the way he had come. "Is that what is being approached to us there?"

The man turned in his saddle even as his horse began to whinny nervously and stamped anxiously. "Mercy of Yahal!" he gasped, as a flash of lightning streaked to the sandy floor between two mesas. "It is the Great Scouring Wall of Zulrav! You ride back and warn the caravan to brace for it. I will gather up the other scouts."

Brodon felt a moment of resentment for the seeming disrespect for one of the chief gods of his people and paused with an angry look on his face. Illisam looked abashed as he realized his error. "Forgive me, Brodon, I forget sometimes that you are of the Horse clans originally, so like the Benshira you have become. I meant no disrespect to the Storm god. It is an acknowledgement of his power. And 'scouring' means 'cleansing', though, I admit, the suggestion is one of destruction. But we must focus. I know not what has angered Zulrav, and am sure it is just, but we must trust to Yahal for protection. That, and common sense, now RIDE!"

Brodon nodded with a look of apology and gave Lovaak a slap and a yell and they sped towards the caravan, hoping to arrive with enough time to make whatever preparations he would be instructed to see to.

When he arrived, several of the men were already standing about, looking at the sky in his direction, conversing among themselves. Brodon swung his leg over the saddle and slid from Lovaak at a run, giving another slap to his mount's flank. Lovaak headed towards the hitched train of horses as Brodon reached the men. "Illisam says A Great...uh...Scoring?..." he began, his own miscommunication adding to his stuttering panic.

The men burst into anxious cries, one of them completing his warning, "A 'Scouring wall of Zulrav'? We must unhitch and clothe the horses. Julem, break out the hoods and the stockings. Ansales, loose the windbreak and the extensions. Pulareb, you and Traswe batten down the stock after you get the braces out. Carligro, get the hammers and the nails." He took another look around, pondering. "Brodon, There is barrel with cracks. it will give your hawk air while shielding him. And you must get rid of that staff of yours. Set it apart from the camp while you go and see if Illisam has found the scouts. We will not need them...in...this...What is it?"

Brodon's look was of horrified betrayal. He backed up a couple of steps, holding the staff protectively. "No! I cannot did this. This is being my father's staff! You know how imported this is with me."

As if to emphasize the leader's coming demand, the distant air was torn by another shaft of blinding light, the deafening crack following in mere seconds. "There is 'Zulrav's Fury' in the Scouring Wall! It will seek out the metal of the staff!" He was starting to have to yell to be heard. "Surely your father would not wish you to DIE to honor his heirloom. And you owe Eldarab to aid his caravan in any way you can!"

Brodon's young face was bitter with anguish. "Then I will go...ing from here, on my Lovaak. I will taken the staff with me. Zulrav is the god of my people, he will not be striking me with his fury." He sounded as though he was struggling to convince himself of his words as he spoke them.

Mashiffa, the caravan leader, was already shaking his head, angry at Brodon's refusal. "You young idiot! For all your devotion, do not forget this is YAHAL'S land! You must look to HIM for deliverance. Do not test the gods' tolerance for stupidity! Drykas or not, Zulrav will not love a fool! Be rid of the staff."

Brodon struck a defiant pose, "I can not do...this." he hesitated, unsure of his wording, accidentally getting it right.

Mashiffa's face tensed in anger. He snorted in frustrated acceptance of his young charge's suicidal stubbornness. He started to walk away to see to the others' preparations. He suddenly stopped and turned back. "Very well. I would not have it said that I did not respect a man's decision when it affects only himself. But if you are willing, climb that mesa and plant the staff upon its top. If you insist on staying near it, that is your choice. It is less likely to be buried beyond recovery up there, and you will be aiding us. By raising it above us you are more likely to draw Zulrav's Fury to it, and away from us." He gripped Brodon by the shoulders and gave him look of hard respect. "Do you understand what I am asking of you?"

Brodon looked at the nearby mesa, back at Mashiffa, and swallowed hard, nodding. "Yes. It will be done as you say." He held his chin high.

Mashiffa paused, trying to think of words suitable to be the last he spoke to the brave young man before him. "Then I pray you are right about the love of your god for his devoted children. For my part, may Yahal's Mercy go with you as well."

[Brodon Windriver]

Brodon ran as best he could, amid the swirling wind and binding sand, towards the nearby mesa. He pulled his rope and hook free, seeing what appeared to be several outcroppings of rock near the ground level. Though the howling wind now battered his ears and eyes to near inability to take in any details of his surroundings beyond a few feet, he felt sure that the roughness of the rock wall would be consistent.

On his third attempt the grapple caught and held. He tested it several times, deciding it was sound enough to climb. He secured the Iron staff as best he could just as another bolt of white fire seared the ground with a deafening crash a mere hundred yards away. 'Zulrav bids me hurry.' he thought with a fatalistic grin as he doubled his effort to scale a wall he could barely see.

It occurred to him right then that he had not prayed to Zulrav in earnest recently, and had, in fact, been less than devoted in his last prayer. He had been respectful, but had basically spoken his intent to embrace Yahal instead. He qualified the action on the grounds that he was living then in Yahebah, well known as Yahal's worldly domain. But still, he could not but wonder if Zulrav was going to make him regret it. Mashiffa's words came back to him in grim retrospect.

He shrugged off his apprehension. There was nothing for it but to make the attempt and climb. If Zulrav was angry with him, indecisive groveling was not going to change His mind. He felt that there was less and less play in the rope and found himself coming to the grapple. Normally, he would find a place to brace the staff for a solid bar of footing to make another toss with the hook and rope, but he was now completely blind, his face numb from the hundreds of thousands of tiny lashings by grains of sand. His ears were stopped full of it, but even muffled, the roar of the wind distorted and pained his eardrums near to bursting.

But this was expected, and he could largely slide it to an dismissible part of his awareness. What surprised and daunted him was the absolute blackness of it. He recalled that the wall had been the color of sand and it had been only passed midday. He had no way of knowing how high up he had climbed, but he remembered that the sand had topped the other mesas by hundreds of feet! Now it seemed to pick at his hold, worming slippery wedges of dissolving sand under his grip.

A foot suddenly slipped free from a gust and his elbow caught his weight in a nook with a painful wrench. He kept hold of the staff but lost his rope! He instinctively opened his eyes to find it and realized that the absolute darkness still prevailed. He had assumed that the veil his desert hood provided had contributed to this darkness. He was dismayed to discover that the wind had torn his hood from his head unnoticed already. He was also dismayed to feel what seemed like a swarm of bees fly into his eye sockets with the force of hurricane winds.

He cried out in wretched, eyeball scouring agony and immediately got a mouth full of sand for his trouble. He tucked his head down into his collar and coughed enough out to avoid gagging. He knew there was nothing he could do about his eyes, and took a moment to feel around for the rope. After a chime or two, he gave up on finding it and simply pulled himself up to take the weight off his elbow before it popped.

In desperation he swung the iron staff up and managed to lock it into a pair of gaps in the stone and pulled himself up further. He found a pair of toe-sized ledges to set his feet against and repeated the maneuver. A dislodged shrub in the rock wall blew loose and caught the end of the staff, nearly tearing it from his grip. He held on at the expense of a heart-stopping drop of what turned out to only be a foot before his knee wedged painfully into a niche. He stabbed the staff like a spear and pulled his weight off his knee.

By now, there were newly exposed spots on his legs where the cloth of his pants had been shredded and blasted by the sandy assault and he could feel that the skin was on the verge of following suit. He had long since lost feeling in his arms, but imagined they were even worse. Still, the darkness pressed upon him mercilessly and brought with it another aspect he had never expected...cold.

[Brodon Windriver]

His hands were numb with cold and effort before he finally reached the top. It seemed surreal to him to be so completely engulfed in darkness and cold in the midst of "The Burning Lands". He no longer could truly perceive that he was "hearing" the howling wind so much as "feeling" it through his skin, muscle and bone. It was as if he'd become a part of it. A morbid joke came to mind that perhaps this sand-blasted treatment might scour away the tan that had built upon his deep, original sunburn, acquired on his near fatal stumble through this same desert seasons ago. Maybe he'd look like a Drykas again.

Of course, it truly wasn't so much the tan that had lent him a Benshiran look as the clothes and the lifestyle, and even his new found devotion to Yahal. Many a Benshiran back in Yahebah thought him one of them until they spoke to him in Shibur and found him completely lacking in comprehension of their native tongue. His common left much to be desired as well, but with effort he could always make himself understood. He wondered if any of them would know what to do in his position now.

All he could do was keep climbing, keep gripping, despite his near inability to feel anything with his hands. He'd found a niche in the rock to take a brief respite and get feeling back in his hands, or he might not have made it at all. But he did eventually reach for a hand hold, only to find that the wall extended further back than he could feel. He pressed down hard for what purchase he could find and raised himself up on his higher foot to try again.

He noticed mainly that the wind had a different feel suddenly, It was no a longer a close-pressed swirling dervish of scouring backlash. Now it blew past him with force enough to nearly press him on his face. It did just that as he raised himself by yet one more foothold, to find himself folded at the waist and laid across a flat surface that extended back further than any shelf he'd yet encountered on his way up.

He flashed a brief thanks to Yahal for the change in his situation. With the wind blowing by him in one direction, he could adjust himself to be less of a target for its direct impact. He leaned sideways a bit and looked up to see the lay of the rock face before him, but could see nothing but darkness. He tucked his legs up to the next foothold and was beginning to reposition his arms for another push.

Until another, unbearably loud, flash of Zulrav's power brightened his surroundings for an instant, bringing with it a strange surge of pain and sizzling power. He couldn't seem to stop his arms and legs from extending fully and he lost his hold on the staff as he launched himself. There was the strangest sensation of slow motion and quiet as he flopped onto his back, his memory of what he'd been doing was suddenly unimportant as his deafened disorientation took on a sense of falling, floating, spinning and rolling all at once in a bubble of low ringing. It seemed he had reached the top, but it had slipped out from under him. He wasn't sure of anything as the darkness embraced him with a strange warmth and relief from the battering wind. There was only a low hum in his ears, as he felt the world turning around the axis point where he lay.

[Brodon Windriver]

He awoke, uncertain of the day or time. The wind was still howling, but was strangely muffled and had an odd tone. Another lance of Zulrav's fury stabbed the ground with a deafening crash. He felt another surge of the tingling energy surge through him, but it was nowhere near as strong as that first one. The memory of flying from the top of the mesa came rushing back and for a moment his heart nearly stopped with the thought that he was still falling.

Logic reasserted itself though, with the sense of rock beneath his legs. He realized that the muffled sound was partly due to the fact that he was tucked into a down-angled shelf of rock invisible from above or below. He recalled Mashiffa's disbelief that Zulrav would extend any sort of mercy to him, just because he was a Drykas. But the amount of luck it must have taken for him to launch himself back from the top with the surge of irresistible energy and land on this narrow and protected shelf proved just that, in his opinion.

Another bolt of energy slamming the top of the mesa revealed the other cause of the sound growing increasingly muffled. His ears were ringing furiously. He wondered how many of Zulrav's spears of wrath had wracked the clifftop while he lay there, each crash numbing his hearing in steady increments.

He had no idea where his rope and grapple were, relative to his current position. So he dared not try to climb down. The several bolts of sizzling light striking the top of the mesa in the last bell made it clear that climbing back up was no smarter. The rock shelf's angle gave him reasonable protection from the ravages of the scouring sand as well, so he decided to wait it out.

Strangely, he found that facing the open air made it easier to breathe. The wind was striking the back or the shelf first and whipping back, so facing out actually turned him away from the wind. He tucked himself as well as he could in the narrow niche in an effort to stay warm. It still astounded him how cold and dark it was in the middle of a mid-day desert sandstorm.

Eventually though, the storm passed and Brodon saw that the dark remained, although the heat began to return. He found his grapple, but could see the rope had been frayed horribly in several spots. He gathered it up, nonetheless and draped it over his shoulder. He found that what he thought was a mesa was more of a plateau top and there was a more gentle slope down to the floor a mile or so back.

Two bells later he was at the bottom of the cliff, where he had originally ascended it. He began to look around for signs of the caravan. He found them quickly enough in the moon and star light, there was a fair amount of scattered goods. There wasn't much that was of use to him in this situation, but a few tattered square yards of silk allowed him to replace his hood and sections of his leggings to halt the progress of the sunburns he could feel developing.

Water was, as always the first concern, both the finding and the carrying of it. The finding was something he now had decent experience with, but he had nothing to carry it in. His water skin was lost and his back-up was on his yvas, still strapped to Lovaak. In addition to his clothing repairs, he found a pair of suitable short poles and another square of silk to rig an impromptu shade frame. He didn't need it now, of course, but with the dawn he'd be spending the day under it.

He came to some barely discernible tracks and assumed them to be the caravan returning to Yahebah. The direction and the degree of fill-in by the sand looked about right. He started to follow, not knowing how far ahead they'd be, given his need to traverse the top of the plateau before descending and looping back to his starting location. But for now, he trailed after it while the night gave respite from the heat.

[Brodon Windriver]

Brodon remembered well his lessons from a few seasons ago. The surface temperature was well above what it was just a foot above ground. So as he traveled the night before, he gathered a few stout scrubs, running a rope through their midst to form a bundle on his back. He would lay himself atop them to sleep the day, sparing himself a good fifteen or twenty degrees of the desert heat. He also dug where they grew to find a few more gulps worth of water.

He considered waiting there, knowing the water would continue to trickle in. But he thought, if he could find the caravan, it would be worth the risk of the cramps and semi-delirium of heat exhaustion and mild dehydration. Also, the concern that the tracks would be smoothed out by the ever-present wind drove him to make progress while there was a possibility of rescue.

His ears still rang from the crashes of the lightning the day before. He knew the caravan would be resting the day so he did what he would normally not do, he traveled during the day as well. It was only for this all-important first day where tracks would remain that he did this. He had his shade rig and most important, he knew how to find water and, just as important, not to panic and get in a hurry. That was how you upset the balance between the water the body would sweat away and the water you could gather by taking your time and not trying to dig for it too fast.

He found a dry wash and dug into the concave bend at the base of the eroded rut in the stony ground. His effort was rewarded by some pooling mud that gave up water reluctantly, but traded patience for generosity. He thought about a device he'd seen in Yahebah as he dug. It allowed you to "recycle" your water for several days. He'd had the same sour initial reaction as the other onlookers had had at the thought of getting drinkable water out of your waste, but right now, he'd have gladly set aside his dignity for one. Setting it over the mud would have netted half again his gain in water.

It was a cone of glass raised from a flat sheet all in one piece. You dug a small pit, Did your business in it as one would expect. But then you placed a pot or can in the bottom of the pit and placed the glass sheet over the hole, cone pointing down. According to the demonstration he'd seen, only the water evaporated, none of the filth. The water vapor then condensed on the glass and dripped down the cone into the pot to be collected.

The man that gave the lesson did not mention that the pot tended to absorb the "aroma" of the source, which made the drinking a less than savory experience to someone not dying of dehydration in the desert. He chuckled a bit at the memory. No, he had enough experience in the desert now to make do without such measures. But it was very convenient when you were sitting out the day avoiding the heat. The pit you dug only needed to be as far away as your sense of smell required. He chuckled again.

He kept activity to a minimum and felt that he'd traded hydration pretty well with the sand for this first day. When darkness approached, he re-roped his "bedding" and started out, knowing the caravan would be doing likewise. But halfway through the day, his strategy, and indeed his entire life, was altered irrevocably. There appeared a small sand bouy, a marker that desert dwellers used to leave messages for those they expected to travel certain paths. It was knocked over and looked to have been ransacked, but his name, and the message, still remained. And that was all that truly mattered to him.

"Brodon,
If you follow, know that were are returning to Yahebah at half speed on the Tri-column Trail. We found sign of your mount heading east. We regret we can not take time to pursue, as Julem and Carligro both sustained injuries. We have Arrow and will release him along this corridor every morning to find you. The bewit will contain charcoal and a blank note page for any response you wish to send us when he finds you. Good luck and the gods speed your journey. Both Yahal AND Zulrav.
Mashiffa"

[Brodon Windriver]

Brodon's emotions twisted. His mount? His beloved Lovaak? Run off in the opposite direction? No...he read the note again. They'd "found sign" of him. So he was not with the caravan when they left to return. His heart sank with the thought that Lovaak had gotten separated by coming looking for him when he'd climbed the mesa. He hadn't thought to put him with the others. He'd have followed the crowd if he had.

Brodon knew what he had to do. He had to go and find his horse. But the note didn't say exactly where they had found sign of his trail east. It had to have been back the other way. But he hadn't seen it the first time passed. And it would have only more obliterated by the wind now. Well, he knew how to handle himself in the desert now. But a slow steady pace was a key element of that, and he had no idea what state of mind Lovaak might be in now, or how close to dehydration. His mind was made up in a heartbeat. He turned east and made for that end of the Tri-column Trail.

He made what speed he dared, knowing he'd need to replenish his water before long. He believed he had enough for the day, but he would need another source before enduring another full day. He would never forget the day he pushed his luck in that fashion. Unless he happened to find himself by another source at the end of the coming night, he'd be wasting travel time looking for water.

Luck was with him though, as he came across the remains of some 'Hik Fruit', a unique fungal type growth that absorbed water from nearby foliage and stored it in a flesh remarkably resistant to the heat. He ate these to save his stored water. The rank smell this "fruit" carried was gone, so he knew whoever had been at it originally had been gone for at least five bells. It must have been someone that didn't know much about this flora. When first ruptured or disturbed, the flesh gave off a terrible smell, but the bulbous body stored a delicious fluid that assuaged both thirst and hunger equally. But the flesh was among the greatest types of traveling desert food, not only for satisfying the bodies nutrition and replenishing needs, but also for the way the flesh retained moisture for future days of travel. Whoever had broken these bulbs open had only been after the fluid and had ignored the flesh.

Then a more important discovery came to light. A hoof print! Somehow Brodon just knew it was Lovaak. There were no indications of any human tracks, so it was a lone horse. Plus it was on the bearing the note had indicated, and looking for water. Brodon quickly discarded the last point as irrelevant. ANYone in the desert would be looking for water. But Lovaak would not know that the flesh of the Hik Fruit would lose the foul odor after a few bells. And now Brodon had reason to hope that his equine friend would be restored enough to be out of danger for some time.

But Brodon was no great tracker and the hoof prints were soon lost to him in the stone and the wind. All he could do was head in the direction they indicated and trust to luck and intuition.

[Brodon Windriver]

He gave his usual priority to travel at night and searching for water. This slowed him down but was essential to survival. He reached the Tri-column Trail and continued east. He really didn't know why the caravans called it that. Every established trail had columns of stone and other rock formations along their length somewhere. He didn't particularly wish to follow this path as it headed more south east, swinging beneath the prison city of Hai, to swing near some of the nameless settlements along the coast.

But if that's where Lovaak was heading, then that's the way he would go. It certainly seemed that way, given the occasional glimpse of a hoof print. As he made camp, he prayed again to Yahal, asking only for resolve to continue and to keep Lovaak safe. The dawn quickly raised the temperature to an uncomfortable, but tolerable, degree. He wondered, with a grim chuckle, if he'd ever have a chance to wander the Burning Sands in the winter.

His heart leapt suddenly at the sound of a shrieking hawk. The note had said they'd release Arrow every morning to fly the Tri-column trail in search of him. He ran out into the sun to wave and call "GREET" in his poor, but serviceable Nari. Arrow darted down to land on his bare arm, digging in for stability and bringing a welcome wince of pain to Brodon's broad smile.

He saw the bewit on Arrow's leg, securing a message tube with a blank note strip and a charcoal stick. He was about to write a note confirming his survival and saying he was going after Lovaak before returning, when he realized Arrow would be a great boon to his search. He gave Arrow the task to "Hunt - Man "Brodon" Ride - Perch" then "Find - Return" and sent him out. Arrow had spent many leisurely bells atop a small wooden shield strapped to the yvas bags on Lovaak. It was his "man "Brodon" ride - perch" and Brodon was sure that this would lead to Arrow finding Lovaak if it was possible.

Two days passed without success and Brodon began to despair of Lovaak's survival. He went ahead and wrote the note he'd been holding off on and added that they should send Arrow back again, as he had been staying put. He had done enough hunting to keep Arrow fed, which he was more concerned about than himself at the moment. Arrow was doing considerable work searching, and he needed to be properly fed. Brodon wished he had facilities to bathe him.

Two days later, and fairly late in the day, Arrow returned. In addition to the blank strip there was a note announcing the caravan's great relief to see that he had survived and that they were pushing on to Yahebah now with no further delay. Brodon's heart was heavy though. He could not imagine Lovaak having any more luck stumbling across Hik Fruit now and feared the worst. He prayed daily to Yahal, almost exclusively on Lovaak's behalf.

He wondered if Mashiffa and the rest of the caravan had taken his note to mean that he knew where Lovaak was and felt assured of finding him. They said they were pushing on to Yahebah now. Without Lovaak, Brodon did not relish the thought of another season long trek across the Burning Lands on foot. Maybe, he thought, this was a new sign from Yahal to move on from the temple city of the Benshira.

Brodon pondered this. Perhaps the finding of Madrial and his son, and the realization of the significance of the two dates, and the fact that his father was not the only one afflicted by the odd symbol, was all that he was supposed to find out there. But where would he go? He felt no intuitive sign to go any particular direction.

Then it hit him,with a resurgence of his ever present optimism. He was to go after Lovaak and he would find his sign there! The day after Arrow's return, he sent him out to search again. He'd sent him north and west the other two days, expecting they would be most likely. This time he sent him south. Within three bells, Arrow returned with a triumphant shriek. Brodon tried not to let his emotions carry him away. After all, it could simply mean that Arrow had found the body...

[Brodon Windriver]

Once again, Brodon sent Arrow in search of Lovaak to the south. Telling him to "Hunt - Man "Brodon" Ride - Perch" then "Find - Return" He followed as best he could, but quickly lost sight of his bird. But he kept on in the general direction until Arrow returned. When he sent him the second time, he made additional progress before losing sight. And Arrow's return, from the approximate direction he expected, assured him he was moving in the right direction.

On the fourth release of Arrow, he did not lose sight before seeing the hawk circle far ahead before beginning his return. He moved quickly ahead, knowing it may be bandits. They had been the cause of his last separation from his horse, and it was at their camp that he'd been reunited with him. He was concerned that there may not be sufficient cover for him to observe and plan before daybreak came and his need to find shade became a priority.

But as he inched along a near rock formation and chanced a look, he saw only a simple adobe hut with a crudely fenced division of land. It looked as though it was meant to be a farm, or had BEEN a farm but was now abandoned and fallow in every plot. There were withered signs of past crops that ought to have been plowed under. There was an additional outbuilding, badly in need of repair, that had the look of a tool shed. He supposed it was there that he would find plow and harness. If not for the horse, milling lethargically in the shade of the outbuilding and its barely sufficient overhang, he'd have thought it truly abandoned.

Then he saw Lovaak! And even more incredible, he saw a pump gadget of some sort, with obvious signs of dried mud at its base! But the most surprising of all, and disturbing, was the fact that there was a trough of water, and a metal pail, by the side of the hut, but Lovaak would not approach it! His anxiety and near mad desire for the water kept him pacing back and forth, in and out of the bounds of the falling fence rails, neighing in odd desperation.

Even when Brodon revealed his presence, Lovaak maintained his distressed attitude. If anything, it increased it, as the parameters of his pacing now included moves in Brodon's direction. Brodon felt a cold uneasiness begin to settle along his spine as he slowly approached the hut. Lovaak grew quiet, but not relaxed, as though he feared to give away his master's intent. Brodon looked up, when he noticed that it got darker, rather than lighter with the approaching dawn.

There was no sign of clouds or blown sand to account for any loss of ambient light. The wind did seem to pick up though. By the time he was halfway across the property, he was beginning to lean into it. It was not so hard that it would have given a thirsty horse any trouble. He could not shake the feeling that there was opposition of some sort to his progress.

He wondered how Lovaak had survived if he had not been able to reach this water in all this time. No, he was not convinced yet. He made his way another twenty yards and his skin began to crawl. There was sound in the wind now that spoke to his fears. A Low moan of sadness that cut through his resolve and made him feel as if all the world had died and watched him with sad envy. Guilt assailed him like a physical pull to go back, and he could not resist it.

But as he turned, his sense of self-worth ebbing to feelings of suicidal futility, he saw Lovaak, his eyes wide and panicked as he seemed to be trying to dodge some presence from every direction at once. But that distraction gave Brodon a moment's respite from the mental assault and he raced to the trough and hoisted the nearby pail, scooping up water and heading back the way he'd come.

[Brodon Windriver]

Wind assailed him as he ran, eddies attempting to upset his footing as the following blast tried to drive him to his face. More than once, he went willingly to his knees to forestall a more prone result, and to prevent losing the water in the dusty soil.

Lovaak raced eagerly to the point both Brodon and he could see was a likely rendezvous just beyond the farthest fence rail. For his part, Arrow was splashing in the trough. Brodon was relieved to see this, knowing it had been far too long since he'd been able to see to this need. He took just a couple of swallows from the pail, filled his water skin and gave the rest to Lovaak, who took it gratefully, desperately. It was not long now until dawn. Then they would see what was what.

Lovaak was still extremely skittish, and continued pacing, giving alarmed snorts and nudges to Brodon to move further away. Brodon stood and faced him, patting and stroking his neck, speaking in such quiet easy tones as the noise of the wind would allow. He did not attempt to act as though he did not recognize that some force was at work here, but he repeated his calm, claim of victory, as represented by the now dry and empty pail on the ground at their feet.

"I will see if the wind seeks to prevent my returning the pail to the trough, come daybreak. If it shows no ill will, I will see if it will allow me to take more water." There were no apparent sources of shade just outside of the fenced-in area and Brodon assumed the wind would again rise to batter him if he entered it. So he and Lovaak moved back several hundred yards to the base of an Acacia tree. it would give fair respite from the coming day's heat.

When dawn broke, it swept quickly across the property and Brodon rose to gauge any threat before heading back in with the pail. Seeing nothing, he took a few tentative steps, anticipating the same angry wind rising to resist his passage to the trough. Nothing reacted to his presence in any hostile fashion, but he felt that he was being observed. He steeled his back and walked purposefully to the trough and dragged the pail along the base of the trough to gather a second portion of water.

He turned and his heart battered on his ribs as it tried to escape his chest. His arms twitched in erratic defensiveness, causing him to drop the pail. Most of the water spilled on himself as it fell and it hit in such a way as to propel much of the rest in a long whip that rose from the center to strike Brodon right in the face.

He took several startled, involuntary steps back. A child was not two feet from where he had been standing! Her face wearing an unnaturally mature look of haunted world-weariness that could only be the result of a lifetime of suffering and loneliness. It was disturbingly out-of-place on a girl that could not be more than ten.

Then she laughed, supposedly at the comic display of clumsiness he'd just displayed with the pail, and the look fled her face. But the chill remained, for Brodon could distinctly hear a second voice laughing along with the child's. A womans voice. But it came from the girl as well.