“Hey, hup!” Kenneth Hollard said, tapping his camel on the joint of its foreleg. At the second tap the beast folded itself like an organic leggo set and knelt, front legs first. He stepped off, whacked it on the nose with his riding crop as it considered biting him—it was a skill you acquired quickly if you wanted to keep a whole hide—and looked right and left at the belt of reeds. They were ten feet high and about the thickness of a man’s thumb, their tops feathery and swaying in a breeze that couldn’t be felt here on the mosquito-buzzing edge of the damp ground. The air was heavy with their green, papery smell and the mealy odor of mud. A few paces forward, and the ground began to squish slightly under his boots. Bubbles of decay rose and popped in it, like porridge boiling very slowly. “Reed marsh, then cultivated land, then the river, and the Assyrians on the other side, the scouts report,” Prince Kashtiliash said from his chariot. His silvered chain mail rippled in the harsh sunlight, almost too bright to look at, but he’d sensibly left the helmet off for now.
What do You think about Against The Tide Of Years?
