Hardan Synn reined in his graceful golden-furred maar as he reached the rim of the river's low bluff. He was uncomfortable, for the vurth -padded garments that covered his naked body were growing dry, but tied to his huge hornless saddle were three fat Dryland birds. He would eat well tonight. The rough fare of cereals and preserved fish had palled. Five years of roaming the blistering plains and mountains with sun-hardened prospectors and hunters had given Hardan Synn a taste for Dryland flesh.