Chapter two
Of the testing of a Wizard of LohHunch’s agonized wail floated up at my back.
“He’s mad! Oh, may the good Tryflor save me now!”
The ground felt hard and rocky underfoot. The air tasted sweet. The brightness of the day fell about me.
“Hai! Rasts of the dunghill! Why do you tarry?”
Sharp-edged, brittle, black against the radiance, the swarth riders crowded forward. They saw me, standing clear of the thorn boma. I stood alone. The runnel led directly toward me. The vicious heads of the swarths jerked around, dragged by reins in equally vicious fists.
White dust drifted away downwind. The smell of tiny violet flowers crowning spiky bushes, shyly hiding in crevices along the crumbly sides of the runnel, reached me. The suns shone, the wind blew, the flowers blossomed — and I,
