desolation of Yinazhin’s Way alone took
a hardness, and it was easier to let the hate burn instead of asking whether it was wrong. Guilt? An Adamantine Man had no use for that. So he walked on alone. Should have left Jasaan to die.
Should have let the dragon have him. Could have been back in the Purple Spur by now. Thoughts like that kept him alive when dragons burned the hills around him, when he cowered in caves or among
stones or sometimes simply huddled out in the open, praying to gods that didn’t exist while lightning rattled the skies, when he dreamed of warm soft bread and warm soft women and cursed
Jasaan for taking them away from him.
Yinazhin’s Way. He’d seen a map once which showed it all around the edge of the moors in a great arc from Bloodsalt to Bazim Crag. Someone had told him that you could see
Samir’s Crossing and the Sapphire valley from the path. Without anything else to go by, he went on, walking the road at night, sheltered away from it in the days. When the road touched the
edge of the cliffs and he looked out over the Hungry Mountain Plain and saw in the distance the glitter of a river and the black smudge of charred earth that had once been a town, he began to climb
down. The cliffs weren’t even cliffs here, easier than he’d expected, more a steep scrabbling scree of loose stones and boulders. Plenty of shelter from dragons.
He had to stop a mile or so away from the edge of what had once been Samir’s Crossing. Stop and take a moment to get himself together. Adamantine Men took what life brought, whatever that
was. They took their pleasures as it suited them when pleasures were there to be had. They didn’t shirk their load or complain or falter when they were set to work. If the weight of their
burden crushed them, then so be it, they got crushed, but they kept going to the end, staggering onwards, never putting it down. Adamantine Men didn’t weep at the thought that there would
finally be rest at the end of the night, and water and perhaps a few strips of dried meat and stale bread and most of all the company of their fellow men after so long alone in the wilderness. So
since Adamantine Men did none of those things, Skjorl took a few moments to be something else where no one would know, and only when he’d done with that did he walk on. Samir’s Crossing
was ash, but there were cellars there, places where others kept watch on the movements of the dragons near the Spur. From Samir’s Crossing there were tunnels to the Spur itself and what
passed for home.
He wrinkled his eyes, trying to see if he could see the Spur in the distance, but it was dark. He didn’t remember seeing it in the day. Couldn’t remember when the Spur had faded out
of sight after they’d left it all those months ago. After Samir’s Crossing and before the Sapphire valley turned north and butted against the cliffs of the moors. Somewhen in between.
Which meant this wasn’t right, and he wasn’t coming up on Samir’s Crossing after all.
Tried not to think about it. Told himself, as he walked among unfamiliar ruined streets, that he must have come in from a different direction. Maybe from the north or the south. Told himself all
that and more, right up until he reached the far edge of whatever town this was and saw the river, immeasurably too big to be the Sapphire, and then the telling stopped.
Not Samir’s Crossing.
He found himself quivering. Trembling. There was a feeling he didn’t know. It might have been despair, but since Adamantine Men didn’t know such things, he grasped each and every
memory
he could reach and crushed them to see if they would bleed, and when he found ones that did, he poured them over this feeling, on and on until he hammered it into something that he
understood.
Rage.
He let out a roar, but that wasn’t enough, not even the start of enough. He pulled his sword out and started walking along the banks of the river, swearing blind that anything,
a hardness, and it was easier to let the hate burn instead of asking whether it was wrong. Guilt? An Adamantine Man had no use for that. So he walked on alone. Should have left Jasaan to die.
Should have let the dragon have him. Could have been back in the Purple Spur by now. Thoughts like that kept him alive when dragons burned the hills around him, when he cowered in caves or among
stones or sometimes simply huddled out in the open, praying to gods that didn’t exist while lightning rattled the skies, when he dreamed of warm soft bread and warm soft women and cursed
Jasaan for taking them away from him.
Yinazhin’s Way. He’d seen a map once which showed it all around the edge of the moors in a great arc from Bloodsalt to Bazim Crag. Someone had told him that you could see
Samir’s Crossing and the Sapphire valley from the path. Without anything else to go by, he went on, walking the road at night, sheltered away from it in the days. When the road touched the
edge of the cliffs and he looked out over the Hungry Mountain Plain and saw in the distance the glitter of a river and the black smudge of charred earth that had once been a town, he began to climb
down. The cliffs weren’t even cliffs here, easier than he’d expected, more a steep scrabbling scree of loose stones and boulders. Plenty of shelter from dragons.
He had to stop a mile or so away from the edge of what had once been Samir’s Crossing. Stop and take a moment to get himself together. Adamantine Men took what life brought, whatever that
was. They took their pleasures as it suited them when pleasures were there to be had. They didn’t shirk their load or complain or falter when they were set to work. If the weight of their
burden crushed them, then so be it, they got crushed, but they kept going to the end, staggering onwards, never putting it down. Adamantine Men didn’t weep at the thought that there would
finally be rest at the end of the night, and water and perhaps a few strips of dried meat and stale bread and most of all the company of their fellow men after so long alone in the wilderness. So
since Adamantine Men did none of those things, Skjorl took a few moments to be something else where no one would know, and only when he’d done with that did he walk on. Samir’s Crossing
was ash, but there were cellars there, places where others kept watch on the movements of the dragons near the Spur. From Samir’s Crossing there were tunnels to the Spur itself and what
passed for home.
He wrinkled his eyes, trying to see if he could see the Spur in the distance, but it was dark. He didn’t remember seeing it in the day. Couldn’t remember when the Spur had faded out
of sight after they’d left it all those months ago. After Samir’s Crossing and before the Sapphire valley turned north and butted against the cliffs of the moors. Somewhen in between.
Which meant this wasn’t right, and he wasn’t coming up on Samir’s Crossing after all.
Tried not to think about it. Told himself, as he walked among unfamiliar ruined streets, that he must have come in from a different direction. Maybe from the north or the south. Told himself all
that and more, right up until he reached the far edge of whatever town this was and saw the river, immeasurably too big to be the Sapphire, and then the telling stopped.
Not Samir’s Crossing.
He found himself quivering. Trembling. There was a feeling he didn’t know. It might have been despair, but since Adamantine Men didn’t know such things, he grasped each and every
memory
he could reach and crushed them to see if they would bleed, and when he found ones that did, he poured them over this feeling, on and on until he hammered it into something that he
understood.
Rage.
He let out a roar, but that wasn’t enough, not even the start of enough. He pulled his sword out and started walking along the banks of the river, swearing blind that anything,
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