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his sword and slashed repeatedly at the thin red tendrils that were clutching at his legs. As he cut and
hacked away, handfuls of sand went flying in all directions. What held them together, what made of tiny
individual particles a coherent and persistent entity, he could not imagine. Who would have thought that
unadulterated rant would make so effective a glue?
For every clutching sandy offshoot he scattered, another crept upward to take its place. Noting the
dispersing effect of his methodical, skillful sword strokes, he felt he could eventually cut the Dunawake
down to size. Why, at the rate his sword was strewing sand to left and right, the monster would run out
of granules with which to form grasping tendrils in not less than a couple of million years! Unfortunately,
his arm was already growing tired.
Sorely vexed by the streamers of sand that flogged his heels, Ahlitah whirled repeatedly to bite at the
sinuous red tormentors, pulverizing them within his massive jaws. But biting and spitting were ultimately
no more effective than Simna s sword-work. Furthermore, with each snap the great cat had to spit out a
mouthful of hot, red sand. He would have much preferred to battle an opponent with some taste.
 The sword! Sweating profusely as he struggled up the tenacious incline, Simna yelled at his tall
companion.  Use the sword of sky metal and blow this Dunawake to bits!
Looking back down at his friend, Ehomba shouted above the advancing shriek of animate sand treading
corybantically upon itself.  It will not work! I can fight wind with wind, but rock and soil and sand are a
weightier proposition.
 Try! With an effort more of will than of muscle, the swordsman used some of his rapidly failing strength
to accelerate upward, until he was standing alongside his friend. Wind squeezed forward by the
advancing Dunawake tore at their garments and wilded their hair.  If you can t beat it, maybe enough
wind in its face will discourage it.
They were nearly to the top.  Feeding the wind off a dune face only encourages it. Its strength lies in its
coherence. You have seen how it may be cut and broken on the sword.
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 Hoy! Simna agreed as they reached the crest of the dune together. Ahlitah turned and snarled, mane
streaming backward in the hot, stifling wind, defying the elements both natural and unnatural.  And if
Gupjolpa would give me ten thousand swordsmen we d beat it back as surely as this hot air scours my
flesh. But there are only two, me and thee, and you won t fight.
 I did not say that. Having swung his backpack around to rest against his chest, the herdsman was busy
within its depths.  I suggested that it was futile to use the sword.
Simna looked back and down. Already the raw red sand of the Dunawake was three-quarters of the
way up the side of their inadequate asylum and climbing fast.  Well you had best find something to use,
by Gostoko, or in minutes we ll all the three of us be good and buried, leaving nothing behind but our
memories.
 Ah. Straightening, Ehomba withdrew something from the interior of the pack. Simna s hopefulness was
replaced by disbelieving eyes and lowered jaw. In his right hand his good friend, his resourceful friend,
his knowledgeable friend, held a rotund, stoppered clay flask smaller than his fist. A single thin cord
secured the rubber stopper to a ring carved in the side of the bottle.
The swordsman struggled to remain calm.  Poison? he inquired hopefully.  You re going to poison it?
 Do not be an idiot. Closing up his pack to keep out the swirling sand, Ehomba turned to face the
rising, oncoming hulk of the Dunawake. Absently he juggled the clay bottle up and down in his open
palm.  You cannot poison sand. I told you, to affect it you must impact its integrity.
 With that? Simna gestured at the bottle with his free hand.  Well then, by Gwipta, what s in the
pharking phial if not poison?
Ehomba did not take his eyes off the oncoming Dunawake nor the tide of red granules that would soon
be lapping at their feet. Behind them, more rivers of red sand were creeping up the backside of the dune,
further extirpating any lingering hope of flight.
 Whater, he replied simply.
Striving to retreat farther, Simna found himself slipping down the eastern, back face of their dune.
 Water? he mumbled, more like a drowning man than a moribund one.
 No. Ehomba gestured at the pond remnant Ahlitah had dragged up the dune face with them.  That s
water. This is whater.
Feeling more than a little taste of panic in his mouth, the baffled swordsman looked on as the herdsman
carefully removed the stopper from the clay flask. The crest of the red dune was now very close to
overtopping and swamping the dune on which the travelers stood. The glowing, fiery eyes had slipped up
the face of the oncoming mountain so that they were now nearly level with Ehomba. Sliding farther down
the backside of the crest, Simna bumped into the litah. The big cat snarled at him but held his ground, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]