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be denied here. No mere weather, no matter how tenacious, is going to stop me!
There was no reply. Only the continuous moaning, and the persistent, repetitious attempts to restrain his
arms and legs. Occasionally he was forced to pause and hack clutching tentacles of moisture from the
limbs of his friends. But for the most part, now that they once more had room in which to move, they
were able to keep themselves relatively mist free.
He hewed his way forward for more than an hour. If the retentive, obstinate fog thought it could outwait
him, or discourage him, it was more than wrong. It had never encountered anyone like Etjole Ehomba,
whose arms rose and fell methodically, mechanically, as he cut his way forward, dead dew dripping like
transparent blood from his blade of crystallized nickel-iron.
Then, realizing that all its efforts were doomed to failure, the fog began to dissipate. Vast quantities of it
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drew back, rising upward in the direction of the cold mountain peaks from which it drew sustenance,
while isolated pockets fled downslope to evaporate. A few persistent tendrils continued to clutch at the
arms and shoulders of the determined travelers, but these were soon cut away. As they ascended through
the uppermost reaches of the fog bank, the sun returned, warming their damp bodies. The clinging fog
had soaked Ehomba to the skin, but in the thin air the unobstructed sun made quick work of the lingering
moisture.
A last gob of thick mist trailed him at a distance, darting and hiding behind one rocky outcropping after
another. Used to watching for prowling predators while tending to the village herds, he kept track of it for
a while, wondering at its intent. Perhaps it planned to drift down upon him when next he slept, covering
his face, restraining not his arms and legs this time but his heart and lungs. He would not give it the
chance.
Whirling, he rushed past a startled Simna to challenge the compacted cloud. Finding itself discovered, it
immediately attempted to flee upward. The herdsman ran it down, catching up to it and dispatching it with
his blade. Only the faintest hint of a moan rose from the wad of condensation as the meteoric
sword-edge cut through its center, scattering droplets and inducing the rest of the gray blob to suicide
beneath the unyielding rays of the morning sun.
Satisfied that he was no longer a source of interest to the vanished fog, or to any of its component parts,
Ehomba sheathed the weapon and resumed his pace. Grass and soil in equal measure slid away beneath
his sandals.
Free of the constraining, intemperate mist, they once again began to make good time. They had to.
There was an obligation to fulfill, and a family and herd anxiously awaiting his return.
If anything else attempted to stop or slow them, Ehomba found himself musing, he hoped it would do so
more openly and with some substance. He had not enjoyed fighting the fog. Instead of anger, or evil,
there had been about it only an ineffable sadness, and he had found no satisfaction in slaying what was
after all little more than a haunting melancholy.
After all, it had only, to its unfathomable, unknowable way of thinking, been trying to help him.
XXI
It was not long after they had left the inimical fog behind that they encountered the procession of humans
and apes. Trudging along a trail that crossed the river gorge from north to south, the procession was
heavily laden with baggage, from household goods dangling from stout poles supported by two or more
individuals, to blanket-wrapped infants riding on the backs of females.
They shied in terror at the sight of Ahlitah and Hunkapa Aub, and Ehomba had to hasten to reassure
them. Their accent was thick and heavy, but with repetition and gestures each side managed to make
itself understood. These were poor folk, the herdsman decided, simple and unsophisticated. Judging from
the expressions they wore, their burdens were more than physical.
 Ehl-Larimar? he asked of several individuals. After a number of inquiries a long-faced macaque clad in
heavy overcoat and cap finally responded. Raising its long arm, it pointed westward up the canyon and
nodded.
 Good. Thank you. As Ehomba started past him, the ape reached out and grabbed his arm. Simna s
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hand went immediately to the hilt of his sword, while among the column there was an anxious stirring.
Primate hands fumbled for axes and clubs. Ahlitah growled low in his throat, his claws seeking purchase
on the hard ground.
Ehomba hastened to calm his companions.  It is all right. He is not hurting me. Glancing down, he saw
that the macaque s face was fraught with concern, not animosity.  What is wrong, my long-tailed friend?
It was uncertain if the ape comprehended the herdsman s words, but he certainly understood his tone.
Releasing his grasp, he raised a spindly arm and jabbed a finger violently upcanyon.  Khorixas,
Khorixas!
 Hoy, what s a Khorixas? Simna s hand had slid away from his sword, but his fingers remained loose
and easy in its vicinity.  Maybe an outlying town this side of Ehl-Larimar itself?
 Possibly. Smiling reassuringly, Ehomba stepped away from the visibly agitated macaque and retreated
slowly, taking one careful step at a time.  It is all right. My friends and I can take care of ourselves.
Even as he tried to explain he wondered if the ape understood any of what he was saying: These people
spoke a language different from that of old Gomo and the People of the Trees.
Arm rigid and still pointing westward, the aged macaque rumbled  Khorixas! one more time before
lowering his hand. With a sad-eyed shrug, he turned and rejoined his comrades. When he paused briefly
for a last look back at the travelers, it was to shake his head dolefully from side to side.
 Grizzled old fella must not care much for this Khorixas, whatever it is. Striding confidently forward,
Simna kept a careful watch on the steep slopes that walled them in. Nothing he saw or heard as they
continued to hike upward led him to believe they might be walking into some kind of ambush, or a trap.
Silhouetted against the scudding clouds, a few dragonets and condors soared on the updrafts.
Marmosets and pacas scampered over the boulders and talus in search of nuts and berries. Thanks to the
deep canyon, the travelers line of march remained well below the tree line. The temperature dropped at
night, but not precipitously so. When their blankets proved inadequate to the task of warding off the cold,
Ehomba and Simna simply moved their bedding closer to the radiant bulks of Hunkapa Aub and the
black litah.
They had just crossed the crest of the Curridgians, discernable by the fact that all streams now flowed
westward instead of to the east, when they heard the first roll of thunder.
 Hunkapa no see clouds, no see storm. The hirsute hulk had his head tilted back while he squinted at
the sky.
 It does not sound like that kind of thunder. Holding fast to his spear, Ehomba strode along in front,
maintaining the same steady pace as always.
Simna ibn Sind cocked his head sideways as he regarded his tall companion.  There s more than one
kind?
The herdsman smiled down at him.  Many kinds. I myself have been trained to identify dozens of
different varieties.
 Hoy then, if it s not a far-off storm clearing its throat that we re hearing, then what is it?
 I do not know. A brilliant black-and-green spotted beetle landed on the herdsman s shirt, hitching a
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