day.
A t first he heard nothing but the vast, lonely howl of the wind as it sang its eternal song. Then the harsh, wordless cry of a bird sounded overhead. Heat hammered down and sand blasted him in the face. He paused to pick three landmarks to triangulate his position so he could return to this point if it really was a crossover passageway and the area ended up being his only route back to the house.
He put at his twelve o’clock a sere, squat bluff that rose above the rest of the landscape. That put the silvery glimmer of water at ten o’clock, a little too close to the bluff for the best triangulation, but it would have to do. He looked over his right shoulder, and saw nothing but desert dunes. He picked the tallest dune, at five o’clock. The dune would be useless for long-term navigation, of course, since the wind and the dunes would shift over time, but hopefully it would do for his purposes. He didn’t plan on staying . . . wherever here was . . . for very long.
Then like discarding a suit of clothes, he let his human facade fall away as he shifted into his Wyr form. He stretched massive wings out and crouched, his lion’s tail lashing, and he leaped into the air to fly through the brutal heat toward the bluff. Usually when he flew in an urban area, he cloaked himself to avoid complications with air traffic control systems, but this scene looked rural enough that he didn’t bother.
His flight gave him a bird’s-eye view of the land. The watery shimmer became a great, winding river bordered on either side with lush green vegetation and gold fields of grain that came to an abrupt end at a bordering desert.
Realization battered him. Hells bells. Unless he was very badly mistaken, that had to be the Nile. He had flown the length of the Nile several times in years gone past. He had seen it in all three stages of its ancient flood cycle, before the Aswan Dam in 1970 brought all seasonal flooding to an end. With the fields ripe with rich barley and wheat, this looked like Shemu , the Season of the Harvest, which fell roughly between the months of what would be May and September on a modern calendar.
He banked and flew in a wide circle as he scoured the landscape. With his eagle-sharp eyes, he could see for miles.
He saw no power lines, no satellite dishes, no motored boats on the river, no vehicles, nor any paved or gravel roads. No modern irrigation techniques or machinery. No plumes of smoke from distant refineries. No airplanes.
Simple dwellings made of mud-baked bricks dotted the riverbanks. A plume of dust rose from a group of brownskinned men traveling on horseback along the western bank. They were over a mile away. From what Rune could see, they wore shentis , or loincloths, and were armed with copperheaded spears and wooden shields.
Okay, he was still looking for something to make sense here.
He inclined his eagle’s head to study the land below him.
He saw a tiny upright figure, staring directly up at him with eyes shaded, about five hundred yards away from a cluster of eight buildings. A bundle of grain and a knife lay on the ground at the figure’s feet.
And here he was with no Rand McNally atlas or GPS system. Not only did Rune like chick flicks and women’s fashions, but he also knew how to stop and ask for directions when he was lost. Plus he was secure in his masculinity. He might be one of the world’s only four gryphons, but he figured if you added those qualities up with all the rest, it made him unique as all shit.
Keeping the figure in sight, he slowed into a spiraling descent.
It was either a child or a small adult. Well okay, if he suspended all disbelief and just went on empirical evidence (which was patently impossible, but he was really trying to go with the flow here), any adults he might encounter would also be small, at least smaller than those in the twenty-first century.
The figure wore a shenti as well, and nothing else. The grubby scrap of cloth was wrapped
A t first he heard nothing but the vast, lonely howl of the wind as it sang its eternal song. Then the harsh, wordless cry of a bird sounded overhead. Heat hammered down and sand blasted him in the face. He paused to pick three landmarks to triangulate his position so he could return to this point if it really was a crossover passageway and the area ended up being his only route back to the house.
He put at his twelve o’clock a sere, squat bluff that rose above the rest of the landscape. That put the silvery glimmer of water at ten o’clock, a little too close to the bluff for the best triangulation, but it would have to do. He looked over his right shoulder, and saw nothing but desert dunes. He picked the tallest dune, at five o’clock. The dune would be useless for long-term navigation, of course, since the wind and the dunes would shift over time, but hopefully it would do for his purposes. He didn’t plan on staying . . . wherever here was . . . for very long.
Then like discarding a suit of clothes, he let his human facade fall away as he shifted into his Wyr form. He stretched massive wings out and crouched, his lion’s tail lashing, and he leaped into the air to fly through the brutal heat toward the bluff. Usually when he flew in an urban area, he cloaked himself to avoid complications with air traffic control systems, but this scene looked rural enough that he didn’t bother.
His flight gave him a bird’s-eye view of the land. The watery shimmer became a great, winding river bordered on either side with lush green vegetation and gold fields of grain that came to an abrupt end at a bordering desert.
Realization battered him. Hells bells. Unless he was very badly mistaken, that had to be the Nile. He had flown the length of the Nile several times in years gone past. He had seen it in all three stages of its ancient flood cycle, before the Aswan Dam in 1970 brought all seasonal flooding to an end. With the fields ripe with rich barley and wheat, this looked like Shemu , the Season of the Harvest, which fell roughly between the months of what would be May and September on a modern calendar.
He banked and flew in a wide circle as he scoured the landscape. With his eagle-sharp eyes, he could see for miles.
He saw no power lines, no satellite dishes, no motored boats on the river, no vehicles, nor any paved or gravel roads. No modern irrigation techniques or machinery. No plumes of smoke from distant refineries. No airplanes.
Simple dwellings made of mud-baked bricks dotted the riverbanks. A plume of dust rose from a group of brownskinned men traveling on horseback along the western bank. They were over a mile away. From what Rune could see, they wore shentis , or loincloths, and were armed with copperheaded spears and wooden shields.
Okay, he was still looking for something to make sense here.
He inclined his eagle’s head to study the land below him.
He saw a tiny upright figure, staring directly up at him with eyes shaded, about five hundred yards away from a cluster of eight buildings. A bundle of grain and a knife lay on the ground at the figure’s feet.
And here he was with no Rand McNally atlas or GPS system. Not only did Rune like chick flicks and women’s fashions, but he also knew how to stop and ask for directions when he was lost. Plus he was secure in his masculinity. He might be one of the world’s only four gryphons, but he figured if you added those qualities up with all the rest, it made him unique as all shit.
Keeping the figure in sight, he slowed into a spiraling descent.
It was either a child or a small adult. Well okay, if he suspended all disbelief and just went on empirical evidence (which was patently impossible, but he was really trying to go with the flow here), any adults he might encounter would also be small, at least smaller than those in the twenty-first century.
The figure wore a shenti as well, and nothing else. The grubby scrap of cloth was wrapped
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