You
Thirsty, Dog turds?
“We have to catch him now. He obviously knows where water is here. And I’m going to enjoy every minute of wringing it out of him.” The nasal voice was thick with anger. “Now give us a drink, one of you.”
Nobody moved. “I’ll kill you if don’t give me a drink!” Kemp screamed at the nearest man.
He got his drink. But an hour later, when he desperately needed another, he found that that fellow, and another six who still had waterskins, had slipped off, trying to backtrack the horses.
The moon was high and shining clear and cold through the desert night when Keilin walked quietly up to Beywulf, who was on watch.
“For crying out loud, Keil. I nearly split your bloody brisket. How’s the pursuit? We heard you taunting them.”
Keilin dropped down onto his haunches. “The pursuit is about eight miles away as the crow flies. Phew, I’m tired. Ol’ Marou would have laughed at me, so unfit and water-fat. I had a couple of close shaves out there.”
“Eight miles . . . are they still after you?”
“Yes. Some of them,” said Keilin, taking a long pull from the waterskin.
“Well, that gives us about an hour. The animals are nicely rested anyway. I suppose I’d better rouse everyone. You rest for bit. I’ve left you a bite to eat.”
“Don’t wake anyone. They’re eight miles off, as the crow flies. None of them are