Directly beneath him lay the border wall. Several huts ringed an open square where two dozen barbarians sat around a great fire. They sang loudly—low, rough chants in a tongue Prince Sylvian did not understand.
He counted the sentries, gauged the number of men at the fire.
The spider crept onward, unhurried and controlled, close along the stone. He held the reins steady, ready to halt at the slightest tremor.
The noise of the camp drowned the faint scratching of the spider's limbs, allowing him to slip past the wall unseen, hugging the cliff until the camp lay behind him.
Beyond the palisade, barely visible in the darkness, stretched the wide steppes of Thir.
He guided the spider down from the rock face and across open ground through the tall grass swaying in the night wind. Only when he was certain he had passed beyond sight of the camp did he halt, glance back once, and steer the creature into a small stand of tamarisks and robinias to rest.
Within the shelter of the trees, he remained motionless and watchful for the remainder of the night.
― ᛟ ―
At first light, Prince Sylvian mounted again and continued southward.
By midday, the fortified road appeared ahead, and the spider came to a halt.
From this point on, caution was imperative.
Dismounting, he slipped the saddlebag from the spider's back and opened it.
Rags emerged from within; he slipped into them, stowing his fine clothing deep in the bag.
The silver mask came off next.