Bert slumped forward and slept, his fingers clutching the horse’s mane. Hunter clung to the stirrup for support, half asleep himself, the horse leading him as much as he led it. He jerked awake after an hour, struck with panic that the old Refugees might have fallen behind or taken a wrong turn. He looked back and sighed in relief. They were not far behind, their own mount plodding faithfully along. The old people were wrapped in a single cloak and slumped forward. They seemed to be asleep, Dunner’s arms around Veista and her hands clutching the horse’s mane. Hunter watched them for a few paces, wondering.
How long have they loved each other? How many of their years have been happy? Did they have children? Have they lost children? How long has Tarkhan forced them to serve him? What horror
