Estrada, to my right, had restored enough control to drag her horse to safer ground. Killer, though, was half-mad with fear. He tried to bolt forward. He might as well have tried to run on ice. The burst only propelled him nearer the edge. He whickered in terror. Beyond the precipice beside us, a landscape in miniature span into view, toy trees and rocks an impossible distance below. Killer tried once more to regain the path, drove himself sideways again. His forelegs kicked against nothing.
We lurched into the void.
I could feel the wind tearing at me. I could hear its screech. I felt myself plummeting.
At least, that was what my brain insisted. My eyes told a different story. They were anchored to the ground far, far below. Seconds passed, and for all that my mind was convinced I should be plunging towards it, it drew no closer.
Even when that eye-watering view swung away, even when the path drifted back into focus, I couldn't believe it. I felt a tug on my right leg. Since when did falling involve having your leg pulled? I looked aside. There was Estrada, one hand still on my knee. There was Saltlick beside her, panting with exertion.
'What happened?' I managed, the words thick on my tongue.
'Saltlick caught you.'
'He caught me?'
'Your horse.'
'Nobody's that strong.'
She managed a thin smile. 'Clearly Saltlick is.'
We didn't try to ride again after that. Chips of shale littered the trail, and flowed like water under the slightest pressure. That was what had caused Estrada's mount to slip. Leading the horses was only slightly safer, but it calmed them a little at least. Killer had suffered some sort of nervous collapse, and wouldn't do anything without my guidance. I kept a tight grip on the reins bunched in my hand and whispered outrageous lies I thought might keep his spirits up. 'Almost at the lake of sugar, Killer,' I said, and 'don't worry, your barn's just around the next bend.'
The accident had occupied less than a minute. Still, it was valuable time lost. If Moaradrid's men fared better, if their horses were more familiar with this sort of terrain, then they'd be on us by nightfall.
Rather than think about that, I concentrated on keeping my footing, and on my one-sided conversation with Killer. Neither went well. I couldn't go ten steps without my feet slipping from under me, and there are only so many absurd promises you can make to a horse. My body, already battered from riding, complained more with each step. My legs felt weak and elastic. I found myself remembering that moment of almost plunging to my death, and my head swam. Added to all those discomforts, the light was beginning to fade. The encroaching night played tricks with my eyes, and brought with it a ferocious cold.
I'd half convinced myself that the razor's edge path across the rock face would never end, so that when it did I halted in confusion. Saltlick, who'd been leading, had disappeared, seemingly into the stone itself. Only when Estrada followed did I see the narrow crevasse they'd entered. It was a sheer split in the mountain, reaching down from high above. It was almost like an open doorway, and the sense of boundary made me nervous.
Weariness had just about worn through the last of my courage. I thought seriously of leaving the giantstone there on the path in the hope that one of Moaradrid's men would find it — or perhaps trip over it and break his neck.
'Hurry up,' called Estrada. 'We're out of the wind here.'
'Come on, Killer,' I muttered, 'nearly at the magic castle of hay.'
The region beyond the gap was surprisingly spacious, a wide hollow between two slanting planes that tilted together to almost meet far above. It was like a tent of rock, and as Estrada had said, it cut off the worst of the wind. The change in temperature was dramatic.
Saltlick stood in the gloom at the far end. The chasm narrowed beyond him, and curved steeply upward. That must be the next leg of the path, though it looked even less deserving of the term than the route by which we'd arrived. The idea of attempting it made my legs turn to jelly, from my thighs to the tips of my toes. The still-rational part of my brain reminded me that Moaradrid's men must be less than an hour behind us. The remainder, numb with weariness, pointed out how little I cared.
'We'll have to leave the horses here,' Estrada said.
Leave Killer? Was she serious? 'They can't get down on their own.'
'Of course not. But we can't take them any further. If we make it we'll come back for them.'
'And if we don't?'
Estrada sighed. 'Then it's not going to make any difference, is it?'
It was hard to fault her logic, especially with my brain melting from exhaustion. 'Maybe we should take a minute to think about it.'
'We don't have a minute. Be reasonable, Damasco.'
'Reasonable?' The word came out as a sob. 'What's reasonable? We've been on the run all day and I can't keep going! My legs won't work. I'm not made for heroics, Estrada. Please, just let me rest for a little while.'
I expected her to shout at me, to accuse me of selfishness and cowardice. I expected an argument. What I didn't expect was for Saltlick to reply before she could. 'Saltlick carry.' The words rolled out of the shadows, tolled back and forth between the crevasse walls. 'Go home.'
'What?'
'Saltlick carry.' He stepped into the thin streak of light from the fissure far above. Kneeling, he cupped his arms together, hand locked to hand to form a sort of cradle.
'You're joking.'
'Carry. Not tired. Go home.'
It was as many words as I'd ever heard Saltlick string together. There was a new tone to his voice too; even his monosyllabic grammar couldn't disguise the note of longing. I wanted to tell him it was all right, that I could go on. The truth was, I couldn't. I'd meant what I said. I felt as though the muscles in my calves and thighs were dissolving like ice in a fire.
'All right.'
I moved nearer, let him scoop me off the ground. I thought I'd be embarrassed, but all I could feel as my feet left the earth was relief. I let my eyes slide closed, and soft blackness wrapped around me.
'Damasco, you can't… I mean…'
I felt Saltlick straighten up. He held me as carefully as any mother ever had her baby.
'It's okay,' I murmured. 'Just for a little while. Then it's your turn, promise.'
'It isn't that. You'll wear him out.'
I let my body go loose when he began to move, let myself bounce along with his steps.
'It's really okay.'
'Damasco…'
I woke to a velvet sky splashed with shimmering, fluid stars.
The moon was gibbous, almost full, shining brightly through shreds of cloud. The rock stood out like alabaster beneath its light, glowing faintly, seeming slightly unreal. There was no transition from sleep to wakefulness, and no hint of what had roused me. I had the vague memory of deep, dreamless sleep. My nostrils filled with a musky scent like damp, warm straw, and I breathed in deeply, until I realised it was the smell of unwashed giant.
I remembered where I was.
'Hey, hey… put me down, Saltlick.'
Saltlick lurched to a halt, bent his knees, and set me on my feet.
'Better?'
I thought about it. I ached from head to toe, yet it was almost pleasant compared with the numbing weariness of before.
'I am. I can feel my feet again.'
'Quiet, Damasco. They're close.'
I barely recognised the voice as Estrada's. I stepped around Saltlick, saw her, and gasped. She was skeletal and deathly pale under the moonlight. I fell into step between them and said softly, 'Saltlick, can you carry Estrada?'
