First page of my fantasy novel. I'm told my writing is disjointed and jerky, but have no idea in what way! And it's driving me crazy that I don't know where the holes in my boat are so I can't really patch them.
This was a stupid idea. Heh, like all his others. His foes could have tailed and moreover, he was lost. The Far Moon rose and found Ruso scrabbling over the briars, his bow slung over a shoulder. Through a stream he splashed, chasing the wind, whilst the air blew acrid and his hearthsoul tipped. Ever so faintly the land drifted, groaning. It sped him onward until it calmed again, whereupon he searched for the tallest hill. Zaithe paced visibly atop it. She seemed taut and fidgety. Not such a menacing mercenary anymore, eh? Now that the darkness had receded, she no longer blended into the murk; her skin was a deeper brown than his hair, her tunic darker still. Belted at her waist were those assassin pouches. They could save a life, or take one.
It was with some care that Ruso approached. “Found the gem, mate,” he recited.
“No, you didn’t.”
He thanked his luck fairy—it was safe—and climbed over a fallen pine, landing with a scuff. There were few leaves here and a chill nipped the breeze. It meant that the warp must have been south- or westward. Ruso tried to envision which of the three wheels this would involve as he asked, “You got my map?”
“No, curse them gods.”
“Curse your own gods,” he said.
“What do you care. They dumped us anyway.” The mercenary’s breath fogged. She halted to glare at him and he fixed her with one of Echeris’s flat, grey stares. Then she said, “Why weren’t you on vigil?”
EDIT: I changed the first paragraph, hope it's less confusing and the narrative doesn't switch.
This was a stupid idea. Heh, like all his others. His foes could have followed and moreover, he was lost. The Far Moon had set and Ruso was still scrabbling through the darkness, thorns hooking him back, tripping him. He clambered up again and doffed his rabbithide shawl, tightening it around his waist for protection. It snagged on the briars as he scrambled. He was headed downwind towards the warp, until finally the air became sour and torrid.
Then the land groaned, shifting, and sped him along with it.