"And the prize for the walking race?" Horn looked disappointed.
"Can't walk anymore, don't want it." Frick closed his eyes in resignation.
Gesturing to Chervis in the front to go ahead with the others, Horn crouched down and whispered:
"This walking race is a team competition. If you don't walk, it's as if none of us did."
"How could that be?" Frick panted, "It's not a real race. If we split up, we split up; it doesn't matter."
Horn swallowed back his original words of persuasion.
"What are you saying? I don't understand." Horn forced a smile that looked awkward.
"Your Majesty, stop pretending. We've known for a long time. We old folks have eaten more salt than you've walked miles," an elderly woman said loudly.
The sunlight was harsh, warming the people beneath it, making Horn dizzy.
Frick sat on a big rock by the roadside, like an old man sitting at his doorstep in autumn, his face full of wrinkles, legs crossed, in an artistic yet simple posture.
