He got up on his remount and shot, put the ring of the latchet over his pommel, and turned his horse. Most of his people were up, but Daud had been caught too far from his horse and his remount had bolted and was already being pulled over the edge by a crawlie, screaming in shrill horse terror . . .

Favour cantered forward, put down a hand, and swung Daud into his saddle as if they practiced such things every day . . .

. . . which they did.

“Liked that horse,” shouted Daud.

Kriax was up and moving, and the near-side mound of feeding frenzy began to collapse onto the road; six of the things were falling, rolling, their hundreds of limbs unnatural and horrible, their mouths questing . . .

They were nowhere near as fast as men on horses.

The scouts cantered clear. “Holy fuck,” Kriax spat. She was deathly pale, and her hands shook. “Holy fuck,” she said again.

Favour looked over his command and back toward the crawlies. Most of them had already left the road. He had no idea why, but he wasn’t going to waste time on it.

“We could go back,” Wha’hae said. His voice had no tone; no whine. He was in shock. “We should go back.”

“We’re not going back,” Favour said. “We’re scouts, friends. We scout.”

Then he dismounted, giving his remount to Daud, and putting a casual hand on his shoulder, but the glazed look was already leaving the hill man’s eyes.

Daud was praying, his eyes closed.

“We didn’t lose anyone,” Favour continued. “Now let’s get this done.”

He stepped up onto the stirrup of his mare.

Kriax turned to the man who’d gone to the edge to relieve himself. “Pee on the fucking road next time,” she said.

The easterner looked bad. Daud rode to him and looked him over. “You hurt, brother?” he asked.

The man couldn’t talk. He was grey with terror; his cheeks looked splotchy.

Daud put a hand on the man’s shoulder and the easterner flinched.

“Let’s ride,” Favour said.

Now they clumped up near the center of the road. Favour tried not to look over the edge. The lone mountain that seemed to be the destination grew closer, and closer, and—

“Holy fuck,” Kriax said, reining in so hard that her big steppe pony slid on the smooth surface.

There was a cut across the road.

It was forty paces wide and the edges were jagged.

Against his own will, Favour made himself go to the edge and look down.

“Fuck,” he said.

The whole space was full of crawlies. He could see them as they surfaced—legs, a flash of the red sun on a carapace . . .

His hands were shaking as he backed away from the edge.

Kriax looked at him.