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The sunlight slanted down in cold, comfortless rays while the wind whipped right through the folds of the riders’ clothing. The marsh was always bleak and barren place, but in the mid-winter, it was even worse. Thornden rode silently on, picking a careful path through the boggy pools and the patches of dry, rattling weed-stalks.
Back at the edge of the marsh, he had split his group into five groups, three men riding together. They had fanned out, spreading across the marshes and heading in as many directions as possible.
Thornden’s eyes scanned the trail listlessly. No one knew better than he that Erbrand and Lithor had not come this way, and yet here he was, putting up a most impressive sham of searching for them. The very nature of it disgusted and sickened him. Yet still he rode on, winding farther and farther in. Soon, Scarburg was out of sight and all that surrounded him were cold, half frozen pools of water, and reeds that whispered in the cold wind.
The sun, already at its zenith when they had set out, was far down in its arc to the west. They had to head back, or risk being lost in the marshes at night.
“This is it,” he said to his two companions. “We have searched as long as we can.” He took the horn that he bore at his hip and blew a blast upon it, to signal to the others that they were to head back. Answering horn calls came from his right and left to indicate they had heard and were spreading the message. He and his companions turned the horses’ heads back towards home.
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