The stallion was slowing down.

Slone saw him, limping along, not far in advance.

There was a ten-mile stretch of level ground, blown hard as rock, from which the sustenance had been bleached, for not a spear of grass grew there.

And following that was a tortuous passage through a weird region of clay dunes, blue and violet and heliotrope and lavender, all worn smooth by rain and wind.

Wildfire favored the soft ground now.