Mahart tried to summon up energy enough to raise even a finger. Dark—her face was nearly covered with a nasty-smelling slimed rag. She was so thirsty she could have croaked aloud for water, but even that was denied her. The cold flowed about her like fingers of wind tearing at her. Outside—surely she was outside, beyond the maze of ways they had dragged her like a horse pack. Ishbi—he said it— Somehow those words had penetrated through the torments of her inert body to reach her mind. “Sling her over the pack mare an’ let’s get a-goin’, then.” She had been lifted with no gentleness and then had landed hard, facedown across some kind of a frame. However, that maneuver had in a fraction served her a little. The cover on her head had caught on some projection and been jerked free. Those who had left her ignominiously slung over a pack animal had not seemed to notice. The daylight had hurt her eyes. And all she could see was one horse leg lifting up and plopping down again as she was carried jokingly forward.
