![]() His fur coat was made from the skin of a snow tiger that Meren had slain with a single arrow as it sprang upon him. Meren stopped on the brink of the last sheer cliff. Fortunately it was not the finger of his sword hand, nor one of those that released the arrow from his great bow. Their horses had died in the cold and Meren had lost the tip of one finger, burned black and rotting by the crackling frosts. Then they had entered the mountains, a prodigious chaos of snowy peaks and gaping gorges, where the thin air was hard to breathe. They had encountered strange and dangerous animals and even stranger and more dangerous men. Since leaving Egypt they had crossed seas and lakes and many mighty rivers they had traversed vast plains and forests. ![]() Only the old man who followed close behind him knew that, and he had not yet chosen to enlighten Meren. Although he led, Meren had no inkling where they were, neither was he sure why they had come so far. It had taken a hard and daunting journey to reach this spot. They carried all their meagre possessions upon their backs. ![]() Their beards were untrimmed and their faces weatherbeaten. They were dressed in travel-worn furs and leather helmets with ear-flaps strapped beneath their chins against the cold. ![]() Two lonely figures came down from the high mountains. ![]()
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