The morning sun had barely cleared the limestone bluff. Just then, the rhythmic clatter of galloping hooves sounded from the northern approach track.
Two mounted outriders, their horses lathered with white sweat that crusted like soap in the bitter salt dust, rode into the circle of wagons. The lead rider was young Toran, a wiry nineteen-year-old with a wolfskin vest and a short bow slung across his back. Behind him rode Ren, a veteran wagon driver whose face was wrapped in a greasy linen scarf against the glare.
They swung down from their wooden saddles before the horses had fully stopped, their knees buckling slightly from hours in the stirrups. Camp hands hurried forward with dampened cloths to wipe the horses’ eyes and nostrils, leading the trembling beasts toward the shade of the cliff.
Paxa Sel right away stepped up to the two horses, her medical satchel slung across her shoulder. She bent down, inspecting the animals’ lower legs where the black mud had begun to cake into a grey, powdery cement.
“Bitter salt scald,” Paxa announced, her voice sharp with cold and exact concern. “This mud is high in skin-burning soda. If you leave this paste on their hocks for another hour, the hair will slough off and the skin will blister down to the tendon. Wash their legs with warm vinegar water right away, and grease the coronets with sheep fat.”
