CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
Merk hiked along the endless rocks of the Devil’s Finger, slipping, struggling to keep his footing, nearly drunk with exhaustion as he headed into the sunset. His eyes were so heavy he could barely keep them open, and he ached from every corner of his body, most of all from the wound left by that crab, still festering on his shin. Yet he knew he was lucky to be alive.
Endless waves of fog rolled in, carried by gusts of wind off the ocean and bay, some strong enough to knock him off balance. All the while he was plagued by the distant sound of the horns of Marda, echoing in the fog, haunting him, keeping the pressure on. After so many days of hiking without another soul in sight, he was beginning to realize why no one else dared this: hiking the Devil’s Finger meant tak
