Thorvald looked as if he didn't quite believe that, but Shann's
expression must have been convincing, for he laughed shortly.
"Well, there goes one nice neat theory up in smoke!" he commented. "No,
your skull doesn't appear on any of our maps, and so probably my cavern
does not exist either. They may both be smoke screens----"
"What--?" But Shann never finished that query.
A wind was rising in the desert to blow across the slit which held the
river, carrying with it a fine shifting of sand which coasted down into
the water as a gray haze, coating men, animals, and raft, and sighing as
snow sighs when it falls.
Only that did not drown out another cry, a thin cry, diluted by the
miles of land stretching behind them, but yet carrying that long
ululating howl they had heard in the Throg camp. Thorvald grinned
mirthlessly.
"The hound's on trail."
He bent to the pole, using it to aid the pace of the current. Shann,
chilled in spite of the sun's heat, followed his example, wondering if
time had ceased to fight on their side.