Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“How’re you back there?”
His deep voice cuts through the plodding of the horse’s hooves and the creak of all the tack. And even though he’s asked this with some regularity, I jerk to attention like he’s never addressed me before.
“Ah, yes, fine. You?”
Babble, babble, babble, I think to myself.
“We’ve made good time.” His head cranes up to the persistent blue sky. “We should be arriving at the Outpost by late afternoon.”
Though he seems quite satisfied with our progress, I’m crushed by the idea that I’m going to be on the back of this saddle for what surely will be another four hours at least. I’ve got chafing where a woman would prefer to have absolutely none, I’m hungry and nauseous at the same time, and my tailbone is numb. You’d think that last one would be a benefit, but it isn’t. It’s the precursor to a stunning pain that’s surely going to come when circulation resumes.
Meanwhile, I’m not certain Merc’s fatigued at all. His roaming gaze never stills, his broadsword never dips down, his grip on the reins never relaxes. In this, he’s as hard as this unforgiving landscape we’re trudging through. I’m grateful.
It’s also hard not to resent the strength a little.
As he falls silent once more, I twist around and look over the chestnut’s ample rump. The way behind us is the way ahead is the way off to the east and the west.
Rocks. Rocks. And more … rocks. As far as the eye can see.
I didn’t know there were so many shades of gray, and gone is my previous captivation with the breadth of the vista. Still, the summits of the peaks to the west do gleam like diamonds in all the sunlight, and I tell myself that I can see the dragons circling round their nests. I’m not sure whether that’s an illusion created by the waves of heat, however.
“Anybody riding up on us?” Merc demands some time later.
I search the sharp black shadows thrown by the sunlight hitting the cluster of boulders we just passed. There isn’t enough space to hide in the fissures and crevices—at least, not if you’re bigger than a sheepling. Our only real risk, it seems to me, is an ambush set in the lee of one of these larger groupings, but with our ability to see so far and wide, whatever threat would have to have been in place well before we arrived.
“No one.” I turn back around to look ahead, down the trail of gray sand. “And I can understand why this isn’t a well-traveled route.”
Given what I’m escaping, not crossing paths with a single soul is arguably a good thing, be it beast or man. The isolation is intimidating, though.
As my mind nibbles on whether to worry about how far we are from water and shelter, a familiar tension grips my ribs, and I begin to feel as though I can’t breathe—and maybe it’s a symptom of my weariness, but I’m annoyed at the anxiety. How a wide-open landscape can make me feel so claustrophobic is a new one—
“This used to be a vast lake.”
As I home in on Merc’s voice, I’m beyond grateful he’s talking. “Really?”
“Yes.” Merc points off to the left with the broadsword, then sweeps the horizon up and over the horse’s bobbing head and lolling ears. “This is the Lake of Lost Souls. You can see the old shoreline all around us. And check out the marking toward the tops of these tall rocks we pass by. That’s the old level of the water.”
Even though I’ve been looking around for hours, this is a revelation that now seems too obvious to have been missed. We’ve indeed descended into a massive basin of sorts, the distant edges of which nudge up in every direction. Instantly, my mind recasts the landscape, and I imagine an ocean’s worth of water filling the depression, with boats under sail navigating around the rocky protrusions, far, far above from this stone-filled bottom.
“I didn’t notice,” I murmur.
“A landscape never lies.” His head swivels back and forth as he scans. “The signs of what has come before are written in the topography, the soil, the stones themselves. These clues are a physical manifestation of the passage of centuries.”
I recall him spearing into the soil with his hand, and try once again to picture his life before he learned how to wield that broadsword. Farmers are not fighters, not unless they’re defending their land, I suppose. I don’t think he’ll ever tell me much more about himself, and I crave his secrets like they’re a meal I can consume.
Then again … I also wonder some about my own.
“What will you do after we get to the Outpost?” I ask.
“Whatever comes next.” His laugh has an edge. “There’s always work for a man like me in a place like that.”