Kiteman of Karanga Read Free Page B

drying. As he worked he glanced back at Angastora in the distance. It had been Bron who had told him the trick of flying close to the plume to get lift while being careful to stay out of the deadly smoke. A wave of grief overcame him. Bron was in his every thought and action. He could do nothing that did not recall him. "It was my fault," the great hunter had said. But Karl blamed himself. Knowing that his failure had caused the death of his teacher and friend made him wonder why he was even bothering to make preparations to survive the journey. He should just fly out into the desert!
    But his hunter's training made his hands keep working. He tied the cut-up meat in the skin, folded his kitewing, and began the hike back to his temporary camp. He searched the sky constantly as he walked, for if he were spotted by Garth's wingmen now, he would be vulnerable.
    Outside the cave, Karl made a rack out of brush and hung the strips of antelope meat to dry. In a couple of days the meat would be hard, and it would keep for months. He threw the antelope skin on the ground for a bed and then took out a sheet of terry leather and began sewing a water bag. As he worked he kept one eye on the sky. He would not let Garth catch him unawares again.

3. The Foreboding Desert
    A few days later, Karl climbed to the top of the ridge behind his campsite. He stood in the shade of a boulder and scanned the midmorning sky. At first he felt relieved to see the blue sky clear of any specks, but suddenly a large shadow passed across the rocks. Karl dove under the boulder and peered out.
    Three kitewings flew silently above him and continued on their way. With a stifled gasp of relief, Karl realized that he had not been seen. Across the valley, he spotted another flight of three wings low down, ridge soaring, and searching as the first group was doing. Garth's posse was making a major effort to rout him out and there was not a moment to waste. He raced back to his campsite.
    Karl worked quickly. His preparations for the desert crossing were complete. He gathered up his hunting kit, lashed his water bag to the frame of his kitewing, and got into the straps. Then he forced himself to look at the desert. There was no time to delay; at any moment, one of the hunting parties might reappear. Taking a running start downhill, Karl launched his heavily loaded wing toward the desert, diving down the slope until he had speed enough to move out over the flat expanse and search for thermals.
    Nobody would follow him now.
    All afternoon, Karl flew west. By late in the day, Karanga had fallen beneath the eastern horizon. Yet, as Karl squinted against the lowering sun, he could see no break in the desert, only the immense flatness that seemed to go on forever. The thermals were weakening as the sun sank, and Karl knew he was on his last glide of the day.
    A short while later, Karl's wing flared back and settled. He touched the ground running. Then he slowed down and stopped. He climbed from the straps and rubbed his stiff muscles. The desert was absolutely still. There was no breeze, no chirping of insects, nothing. There was only a quiet as vast as the desert itself. Here and there, the sand had been heaped into little dunes a foot or two high, and in the distance he saw some rocks as big as crouched men.
    As the sun began to set Karl dismantled his wing. When wrapped in its own leather, the wing made a long bundle that he could carry on one shoulder. He rested, sipped some water, and chewed a piece of dried antelope meat. As he ate he sensed that something was lurking in the gathering darkness, but he decided it must be his imagination. As long as he kept moving, no harm would come to him. His plan was to hike west all night and sleep during the hot day. When dawn came, he would have to find shelter. If he had to, he could set up his kitewing and use it to shade himself from the fierce sun.
    Karl hoisted the water sack onto his back and put his arms through the straps.