He had been silent since the noon halt of four days ago. I had not known whether he had survived or not.

Kaiila moved past us.

I heard collars being opened. For the hood I could not see. The silk, which was tied in my collar, was removed. It was tied, by order of Hamid, who rode near, about my left wrist, under the manacle. I felt the silk in the circular wrist sore. A heavy key was then thrust in the lock of my collar. The lock contained sand and salt. In the heat the metal was expanded. The lock resisted. Then the key, forced, with a heavy snap, turned, freeing the lock bolt. The collar was opened. The collar was jerked from my throat, and dropped, with the chain, in the crusts. The man then moved to the next prisoner.

No man fled from the chain.

“We may not take kaiila in,” said a man.

We stood for some minutes. I felt the blood and salt in the split shreds of the leather wrappings on my legs. I took care not to move the manacles and chain.

I felt a key inserted in the lock of the slave hood. To my surprise it was thrust up, and jerked from my head. I cried out in sudden pain, the unbelievable white light, hot, fierce, universal, merciless, shuddering in the scalding air of the encircling, blazing crusts, from horizon to horizon, exploding, stabbing, searing like irons at my face and eyes. “I’m blind,” cried a man. “I’m blind!”

Kaiila moved along the line. It would be long minutes before we could see.

We heard chains being looped and gathered. More kaiila passed me.

My limbs felt weak, and ached. I was dizzy. I could scarcely move. I could scarcely stand.

“Take salt,” said a voice. It was Hassan! “You live!” I cried.

“Take salt,” he said.

He fell to his knees, and thrust his face into the salt. He bit at the crusts.

He licked crystals from them.

I followed his example. We had not had salt in four days.

“Look,” cried one of the guards. We lifted our heads. We struggled to our feet.

We gritted our eyelids, to shut out the heat, the blinding light.

“Water!” cried a voice. “Water!”

It was a man, come from the desert about. He had not been in the chain. He wore no manacles.

“Water!” he cried. He staggered toward us. He wore a bit of cloth. His body moved awkwardly. His fingernails were gone. His mouth and face seemed split, like dried crust.

“It is an escaped slave from the desert,” said Hamid. He unsheathed his scimitar, and loped toward the man. He bent down easily from the saddle, the blade loose, but he did not strike, but returned to the other guards, The man stood in the crusts, looking after the rider, stupidly. “Water…” he said.

“Please, water.”

“Shall we have sport?” asked Hamid of two of his fellows.

“The trek has been long,” grinned one, “and there has been little diversion.”

“The head?” asked one. “The left car?”

“Agreed,” said the other. They loosened their lances.

“Water,” said the man. “Water.”

The first man, kicking the kaiila forward, missed his thrust. The gait of the kaii1a in the crusts was not even. The mark, too, was not an easy one. To strike it would require considerable skill.

The haggard man stood in the crusts, stupidly.

“The right ear,” said the next man, grasping the long, slim lance, eight feet Gorean in length, marked with red and yellow swirling stripes, terminating in an extremely narrow point, razored, steel, some eleven inches in length, and lanceolate, as the leaf of the flahdah tree.

All the time he had not taken his eyes from the target.

“Water!” cried the man. Then he screamed as the lance struck him, turning him about.

The second rider had been skillful. The blade had penetrated below the helix and opened the ear, lifting and parting, in its upward movement, the helix.

The man staggered back in the crusts, he lifted his hand. The first rider cursed. He had charged again. This time, the man, stumbling, trying to turn away, had been struck on the left arm, high, just below the shoulder. I was startled that there was so little blood, for the wound was deep. It was as though the man had no blood to bleed. There was a, ridge of reddish fluid at the cut. I watched through narrowed eyelids, grimacing against the light. To my horror I saw the man press his mouth to the wound, sucking at the bit of blood.

He did not move, but stood in the crusts, sucking at the blood.

Hamid, easily, on the kaiila, his scimitar still light in his hand, rode behind the man. I did not watch, but turned away.

“The point is to Baram,” said Hamid. Clearly the second rider had been the finest.

“We may not take the kaiila in,” said one of the guards.

“We have water sufficient for the return trip,” said another, “moving at an unimpeded pace.”

To my amazement I saw one of the guards unlocking the stomach-chain and manacles of one of the prisoners. Already the man’s slave hood had been removed. And we had, already, been freed of the neck chain.

I looked about, through half-shut eyes. I stood unsteadily. I counted. There were twenty prisoners standing in the crusts. I shuddered.

Hamid rode to my side. He had wiped his blade in the mane of his kaiila. He resheathed the blade. I felt the heat. We stood on a crest, overlooking a broad, shallow valley.

Hamid leaned down. “There,” he said, pointing into the broad valley. “Can you see?”

“Yes,” I said.

In the distance, below, perhaps five pasangs away, in the hot, concave, white salt bleakness, like a vast, white, shallow bowl, pasangs wide, there were compounds, low, white buildings of mud brick, plastered. There were many of them. They were hard to see in the distance, in the light, but I could make them out.

“Klima,” said Hamid.

“I have made the march to Klima,” said one of the prisoners. He cried out, elatedly, “I have made the march to Klima!” It was the man who had, for many of the days, cried out for us to be slain. It was he who had, since the noon halt of four days ago, been silent.

I looked at the prisoners. We looked at one another. Our bodies were burned black by the sun. The flesh, in many places, had cracked. Lighter colored flesh could be seen beneath. There was salt on us, to our thighs. The leather wrappings about our legs were in tatters. Our necks and bodies were abraded, raw from collar and chain. In the last days we had been denied salt. Our bodies were cruel with cramps and weakness. But we stood, all of us, and straight, for we had come to Klima.

Twenty had come to Klima.

The first prisoner, whose bonds had been removed, was thrust in the direction of the compounds. He began to stagger down the slope toward the valley, slipping in the crusts, sometimes sinking in to his knees.

One by one the prisoners were freed. None attempted to flee into the desert.

Each, as he was freed, began to trudge toward Klima. There was nowhere else to go.

The man, who had cried out, “I have made the match to Klima!” was freed. He staggered toward the compounds, running, half falling, down the long slope.

Hassan and I were freed. Together we trudged toward Klima, following the straggling line of men before us.

We came upon a figure, fallen in the salt. It was be who had run ahead, who had cried out, disbelievingly, joyously, “I have made the march to Klima!”

We turned the body over in the salt. “He is dead,” said Hassan.

Together, Hassan and I rose to our feet.

Nineteen had come to Klima.

I looked back once, to see Hamid, he who was in the fee of the Guard of the Dunes, the Salt Ubar, who was supposedly the faithful lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai. He turned his kaiila, and, with a scattering of salt, following the others, disappeared over the crest.

I looked up toward the merciless sun. Its relentless presence seemed to fill the sky.

I looked down.