Tyrant

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Brennan was as hot as he had ever been. Sweat was pouring out of him, and felt like it was boiling off his face. The skin on the nape of his neck had been burned by the sun and hurt every time his collar touched it. He had been bitten in the night by some evil kind of insect. A whole swarm, in fact, since his ankles and the backs of his knees itched and stung almost unbearably. His tongue and lips felt fat and clumsy from want of water. In short, he was suffering.

And yet he was happy. His body might be chest-deep in misery but his heart and mind revelled in every hard moment of it. He was where he wanted to be.

His two companions were not of quite the same mind.

‘My mouth feels like it’s full of sand,’ Manadar complained.

‘Probably is,’ said Lorin. The older man was usually a reassuring, encouraging presence, full of stubborn resilience. Apparently that resilience was at a low ebb.

Brennan glanced down at the bare earth beneath his horse’s hoofs. He did not think it was really sand. More like dust. Ancient, exhausted soil that had forgotten the taste of water. And, if he was honest, he rather liked its colours. Looking out towards the horizon, he could see all the subtle changes of the vast plains in hue and texture. More browns and ochres and faint reds and yellows than he had known dust could be. Somehow, he doubted the other two would be interested in that.

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