“That,” Ptosphes said, “will be Harmakros.”
“I hope he knows what he’s shooting at.” He primed the pistol, holstered it, and started on its mate. “Where do you think we could do the most good?”
Ptosphes had his saddle pair loaded, and was starting on one from a boot-top.
“Let’s see if we can find some of our own cavalry, and go looking for Sarrask,” he said. “I’d like to kill or capture him, myself. If I did, it might give me some kind of a claim on the throne of Sask. If this cursed fog would only clear.”
From off to the right, south up the road, came noises like a boiler-shop starting up. There wasn’t much shooting—everybody’s gun was empty and no one had time to reload—just steel, and an indistinguishable waw-waw-wawing of voices. The fog was blowing in wet rags, now, but as fast as
