... beyond the obstinate rising and falling of dusky dunes, swollen with finely ground bones of those who had perished long ago, reddish desert spread and the occasional swath of greenish scrub bloomed beneath precious dawn. Whippets of sand grit against the tall rider's face, stinging his nostrils between layers of linen, his face seared reddish-brown from miles of sun-beaten transportation saddled upon a swift and sturdy desert-pony. The steady gallop had long ago welded his thoughts into a fine skein like beaten metal, the gallop the rhythmic strike of the iron-melding blacksmith. Viro's back straightened as high and sturdy as a date palm erect and proud of carriage. A massive, muscled arm flexed as his huge hands gripped the worn and sturdy pommel of his dagger, his great Kshatriyan battle-axe smithed and hewn from the finest iron in the world ...
