The Parched Sea

Seventeen

After the Battle of the Fissures, the Bedine army rode straight to Orofin. The warriors did not tarry to let their camels graze upon the heaths of salt brush they passed, and, though they traveled through the finest gazelle country in Anauroch, they wasted no time hunting. Even with the skins they had recovered from the asabis, the fourteen tribes were short of water, and that meant they were short of time. They had to reach Orofin, and then they had to storm it.

It took the army four days of hard travel, stopping only a few hours each night to sleep, before they crested a ridge and Sa’ar pointed into the broad valley below. In the center of the dell, a stand of swarthy foliage stained the tawny ground, its lush color muted by the graying light of dusk.

“Orofin,” Sa’ar said. “If we hurry, I know a good place from which to inspect its battlements.”

The sheikhs ordered their tribes to encircle the fortress with their camps and eat the best meal they could manage. After the orders had been given, Sa’ar led the sheikhs down into the valley, into several acres of ruins, then finally stopped at a two-story bridge that spanned a canal of stagnant water.

Like Anauroch itself, the bridge was at once stark and beautiful. The square pediments were made of granite blocks, now entirely covered with a lush growth of thick green moss. Above the pediments stood two tiers of roadway, consisting of three arcades each. The arches were shaped like horseshoes and crowned by a shallow point, reminding Lander of Sembia’s cottonwood leaves. A colored-stone mosaic of different geometric patterns faced each arcade, save that the central arch on both tiers was decorated with a diamond motif.

Lander forced his camel to kneel. He cast a longing eye at the waterway, but didn’t even consider drinking from the obviously poisoned streams. Twilight was almost upon Anauroch, but the valley was quiet. No raptors welcomed the lengthening shadows with their eerie screeches, no lions roared a challenge to the newcomers, no hyenas betrayed their presence with cowardly yelps. The silent animals all lay within a few yards of the water, their bodies bloated and rank from exposure to the sun. Even the vultures that had come to prey on their carcasses lay dead.

The scene in the water itself was more gruesome. The gentle current had carried dozens of human corpses down the canal and heaped them against the east side of the bridge. They were floating in the murky dark water, bloated and inert and reeking of decay.

Utaiba pointed a finger at the terrible scene. “The Ju’ur Dai,” he said.

“I thought they were the Zhentarim’s allies,” commented Didaji.

“Perhaps they were,” Lander answered, fighting the urge to wretch. “They outlived their usefulness. Yhekal would not want to risk having them change sides in the middle of the battle.”

“They got what they deserved,” Sa’ar grunted, spitting into the canal. “Without the Ju’ur Dai to guide them, the Zhentarim might not have realized the importance of Orofin.”

The stout sheikh led the way up to the second tier of the ancient bridge. As the others followed, the Harper could see why the sheikh had selected this vantage point. From the added height, he could see that Orofin had once been a mighty city, with four canals radiating outward from a fortress guarding the deep well at its heart. Not much remained of the metropolis now. Wind-blown silt covered the foundations of long-fallen buildings, crisscrossed here and there by crooked lines that had once served as avenues and alleys. Thick hedges of green briars, interspersed with acacia and wild apricot trees, lined the four canals that still divided the city into quarters. A grand avenue, connecting this bridge to three others that spanned the other canals, formed a great circle around the entire oasis.

Lander and the sheikhs were more interested in the fortress than in the city. It still stood in the center of the oasis, its crumbling ramparts breached in nine or ten places by man-sized gaps. Dark shadows skulked among the ancient crenelations topping the walls, reminding Lander more of underworld spirits than distant Zhentarim soldiers.

“How should we attack?”

It was Sa’ar who asked the question. The burly sheikh rested an elbow against the arcade wall and did not take his eyes off the fortress when he spoke.

“Under the cover of darkness, tonight,” said Didaji, his face swathed in his red scarf.

“Our men are too tired,” countered Utaiba, kicking a stone off the bridge into the stinking canal. “Besides, the Zhentarim well be alert for an assault tonight.”

“We cannot wait for tomorrow night,” objected Yatagan, the wizened old sheikh of the Shremala. “My men have only swallows of water remaining. If they do not drink from Orofin’s wells by noon tomorrow, they will never fight again.”

“You would rather they died tonight?” retorted Utaiba. “Who among them has the strength left to draw a bow more than a dozen times?”

As they were wont to do, the sheikhs fell to bickering. Lander simply shook his head, then stepped to the next arcade and stared at the fortress in frustrated silence. Apparently Ruha was the only one who noticed his disgust, for she came to his side while the sheikhs continued to argue.

“Now is not the time to quarrel,” the Harper said, looking in the direction of the cacophony.

Ruha shrugged. “They are sheikhs of different tribes,” she said. “They must argue before they reach a decision.”

“There isn’t time for debate,” the Harper said.

“If you have a plan, tell it to them,” Ruha said. “You have earned their respect. They will listen.”

“I don’t have a plan,” Lander sighed, turning back to the fort. The admission made him realize that he was as frustrated with his own dearth of ideas as he was with the bickering of the sheikhs. “Utaiba is right; we’re too tired to attack tonight. But Yatagan is also right. If we wait until tomorrow night, half our men will be dead.”

“We can’t attack in the morning?” Ruha asked.

“It looks like that’s our only choice,” Lander said. “But the Zhentarim arrows will have a much easier time finding our men.”

“Perhaps that is where I will be of help,” Ruha replied, stepping closer to his side.

The sweet odor of frankincense, the Bedine equivalent of perfume, wafted up from her aba, and a familiar longing washed over the Harper. The vision of the young witch’s beautiful face flashed through his mind again, and his thoughts were quickly wandering away from the battle at hand. Lander’s desire for her had become as hot and engulfing as the sands. He often found himself unable to think of anything but the time when the Zhentarim would be destroyed, when he would be free to take Ruha and leave this blistering land.

A muffled hiss drew Lander’s thoughts back to the present. The sound was followed immediately by a quiet splash in the canal, then by another muted hiss and the ping of steel striking rock.

“What was—?”

Lander did not let Ruha finish her question. He pulled her into the shelter of an arcade column. “They’re trying to hit us with arrows fired from longbows,” he explained, peering around the corner toward the fortress. Though the archers were hidden in shadowy crenelations of the wall, the Harper did not doubt that he and Ruha had been good targets, framed as they were by the arch.

For a moment, Lander lingered in the shadow of the column, savoring the closeness of Ruha’s body. To kiss her, all he needed to do was lean toward her. Even with the sheikhs so close, she would willingly slip her veil aside. The young witch had made it clear that she would be his—whenever and wherever he wanted.

Lander wanted her, but, even if the sheikhs would leave them alone for more than a few minutes, he was reluctant to violate the taboo against sleeping with a widow. The Harper was not so much afraid of offending the dead husband’s spirit as he was concerned about upsetting the living Bedine. As superstitious as they were about all things magical, he feared that if they discovered that he and Ruha had made love, they would throw down their weapons and leave the Zhentarim free to roam the desert.

Somewhat belatedly, Sa’ar called a warning. “Lander, Ruha! They are shooting arrows at us! Are you all right?”

Another arrow splashed into the water at the base of the bridge.

“We’re fine,” Lander responded. “Perhaps we should return to camp.”

“An excellent suggestion,” said Utaiba. “We have seen enough to make our plans.”

Lander waited for the next arrow to bounce off the stone bridge, then scurried from the protection of one arcade pillar to another. Ruha followed a few steps behind. After leaving the bridge, they returned to their camels and rode out of arrow range.

“Perhaps we should assemble at my camp to discuss our strategy,” Utaiba suggested to the other sheikhs. “I haven’t much water, but I can offer dried figs and a few drops of camel’s milk.”

The other sheikhs accepted the Raz’hadi’s offer, but Ruha shook her head. “If I am to be of much use tomorrow,” she said, “it would be better for me to return to Sa’ar’s camp and study my spells.”

Utaiba and Sa’ar nodded, but Didaji said, “The gods gave your magic to us for a reason, Ruha. I am certain that whatever plan we develop, it will rely heavily on your spells.”

“Then I will tell you the spells I can use,” the widow countered. “But if I don’t study them before I rest, I will not have them when you are ready to attack.”

“What she says makes sense, Didaji,” Sa’ar noted. “The witch does not sleep in your camp, so you may not have noticed that she spends every evening poring over her book. If Ruha is to be of use to us, we must do our planning without her.”

Didaji nodded, then Ruha spent the next half-hour describing her spells to the sheikhs. They asked her several questions about each one, then assigned one of their number to repeat its capabilities. When they had discussed every spell the widow knew, she listed the ones she intended to memorize and told them to send word to her as soon as possible if they wanted her to learn a different one.

By the time they were done, it was well after dark. The sheikhs went toward Utaiba’s camp to make their plans, leaving it to Lander to escort Ruha back to her tent. In the Mahwa camp, the slow rasp of sharpening stones upon steel was punctuated by an occasional heavy twang as a warrior tested the strength of his bowstring. Some of the men were chanting an eerie, mournful song of war:

Be gone, strangers, be gone!

Leave the grass of our meadows

For the camels of our tribes.

Be gone, strangers, be gone!

We ask Kozah for one of those bloody battles

Where brave men die in pride and glory

And not from some wasting illness.

Ride, young men, ride!

Arrows do not kill

It is only fear that slays.

Ride, young men, ride!

Lander paused to take a burning twig from a campfire, then followed Ruha to the tent that Sa’ar’s men had pitched for her. Inside, it was mostly empty, save for a single sleeping carpet and the widow’s kuerabiches.

Ruha opened one of her bags and set out a simple meal for them to share. It consisted of nothing but water and a plateful of raw tubers that looked like fat, white asparagus stems.

“How soon will we leave for Sembia after capturing Orofin?” Ruha asked.

The Harper thought he detected a melancholy note in her question. “Are you sure you want to go with me?” Lander’s stomach tightened with apprehension even as he voiced the question, but it was one that he had to ask. “The Bedine are growing accustomed to having a sorceress around, and you may not find Sembia to your liking.”

Ruha offered him the plate. “If you are there, I will find it to my liking.”

The Harper smiled. “Then we’ll leave as soon as the battle is won.” Lander took one of the roots and bit into it. It had the powerful taste of an onion, but did not make his eyes water. “Now that you’re safe in your own tent, I should leave you to your studies.”

Ruha shook her head. “I already know most of the spells I’ll use tomorrow—unless they send word to learn new ones.”

“But you said—”

“That I need my rest,” the widow interrupted. “And it’s true. Whether or not I need to learn a lot of new spells, I will need my rest. But there’s no hurry, and for once the sheikhs have too much on their minds to worry about what we’re doing.”

Ruha locked gazes with Lander, leaving him with no doubt about what she meant.

“I should join the sheikhs in their planning,” he said, feeling the heat rise to his face.

“They will argue for another two hours. Join them later.”

“Tonight, of all nights, we should not give the sheikhs anything to worry about,” Lander objected.

“Tonight, of all nights, we should not care,” she countered. Ruha’s dark gaze remained fixed on his face, her unspoken demand unmistakably clear. “Tomorrow, what the sheikhs think will not matter. The Zhentarim will be gone or we will be dead.”

“Then wait a little longer,” Lander said. He could not bring himself to look away, though Ruha’s eyes were doing more to win her argument than her words ever could. “We will not die. I promise that.”

“That promise is not yours to make. Only N’asr knows when we shall die, and he will not tell even an emir.” The young widow uncovered her face, revealing her tattooed cheeks and full lips. “Have you not sacrificed enough for the Bedine?”

“But your husband’s spirit—”

“I knew my husband for three days,” she said. “Certainly his spirit is concerned about a great many things, but I am not one of them.”

The young widow kneeled in front of Lander, then took his face in her hands and drew his lips to hers. When she kissed him, a wave of fire coursed through his body. The Bedine’s superstition, tomorrow’s battle, even the Zhentarim, no longer seemed important. All that mattered was the burning thirst that racked his body. Nothing could quench it except Ruha.

Lander felt the young widow slip the keffiyeh from his head, and then his own hands were clutching at her aba. In an instant, he had pulled it over her head and tossed it aside. Ruha let him run his callused hands over her soft sienna skin, then she unclasped his dagger belt and dropped it at his side. Her hands slipped beneath his robes, soft and caressing and igniting him with desire wherever they touched.

The widow moved closer, and the frankincense odor of her body filled his breath. Lander found her lips, and they kissed again, their desire raging hotter than the rocks of At’ar’s Looking Glass. Ruha tugged the Harper’s aba over his head, plunging him into darkness.

As they drank from each other’s lips, the scorched world outside the tent faded to a mirage, and Ruha became Lander’s cool well. He quenched his thirst with the sweetness of her love, and she took from him the comfort of his strength. Together, they made an oasis in the parched sea and, if only for a time, they held at bay the troubled sands of Anauroch.

Later, Lander lay with Ruha pressed against his side, one of her arms and one of her legs thrown protectively across his body. Like a leopard on the stalk, tomorrow’s battle was creeping back into his thoughts. Instead of being anxious or worried, though, he felt strangely at peace.

Tomorrow there would be a battle, and his task would be completed. If the Bedine won, he and Ruha would depart Anauroch together. They would return to his father’s house in Archenbridge, probably with Ruha still insisting upon wearing her veil in the streets. Behind them they would leave all of the witch’s years of loneliness and, Lander hoped, the shame of his mother’s secret life and the anger caused by her betrayal of his father. He and Ruha would start a new life together.

Unfortunately, there was still one more battle between them and their newfound serenity. If the Bedine were going to win, it was time for him to join the sheikhs and to leave Ruha to study the few spells she needed to learn before morning.

When Lander stirred, Ruha opened her eyes. “What’s wrong? You’re not sorry—”

The Harper put his fingers to the young witch’s lips. “I’m not sorry at all,” he said. “I’m looking forward to spending my life making love to you.” He gently moved her arm off his chest and sat up. “But we both have things to do before morning.”

Lander reached for his aba and slipped it over his head.

“Yes, and I’m still enough of a Bedine that winning this battle is important to me,” Ruha said, reaching for her own aba. “I just pray to Eldath that the sheikhs have made a good plan.”

Lander smiled, then leaned down to kiss Ruha. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Ruha pulled away. “You are very confident of yourself,” she laughed, slipping her robe over her head. “How can you—”

The widow suddenly gasped. “Lander!” she cried, pointing toward the entrance of the tent.

The Harper spun around, expecting the angry face of Sa’ar or Utaiba. Instead, he saw a slight figure wrapped head-to-foot in the black burnoose of a Zhentarim. The yellow eyes of a D’tarig gleamed out from the folds of the black cloth swaddling his head, and he held a gleaming jambiya in his hand.

“Bhadla?” Lander gasped. “How’d you get here?”

“The Zhentarim have ways of bypassing your sentries,” he said. “And the rest of your warriors are either sleeping or staring into their campfires and singing their death songs. Perhaps you have one you would like to sing?”

The Harper laughed, instinctively reaching for his dagger. When he did not find it, he remembered that he had not yet put his belt back on.

“I don’t have much of a voice,” Lander said, unconcerned. If Bhadla was foolish enough to attack, he did not think being weaponless would cause him much trouble. “Surely, you didn’t come here to listen to me sing. Have you come to beg for your—”

Behind him, Lander heard the sound of fabric being cut, and he knew the D’tarig had not come to beg for anything. Realizing that Bhadla was a distraction, the Harper spun around, stooping to reach for his dagger belt.

A black-robed figure, his sabre drawn, was just stepping through a slit in the khreima. Behind the first man, Lander could see another blade gleaming in the moonlight. The Harper did not pause to wonder how the invaders had managed to sneak past the sentries and into the camp. From what he had seen of Yhekal, the Zhentarim leader was a powerful spellcaster. There was little doubt that he could call upon his powers for the necessary spells to help a small band of assassins sneak into the Bedine camp.

Lander pulled his dagger from its scabbard, then started to move toward his scimitar.

“Step back, Lander!” Ruha ordered.

The Harper heard her chant the words to an incantation and did as instructed, realizing that the beautiful witch was better equipped than he to deal with a group of assassins. No sooner had he stepped aside than a fiery blast of air crackled past him, engulfing the intruders in a white blaze.

The Harper took an involuntary step backward, raising his arm to shield his face.

“Now you die!” Bhadla rasped, already directly behind him.

Lander sidestepped quickly, then felt the D’tarig’s blade run along his ribs. The cut began to sting immediately. Groaning, the Harper dropped his raised arm down to clamp the D’tarig’s knife hand.

With his free hand, the Harper grasped Bhadla’s leathery wrist, then brought his knee up against the D’tarig’s forearm and broke it with a loud snap. Bhadla screamed and dropped the dagger. Without setting his leg back down, Lander swept the would-be assassin’s feet from beneath him, at the same time pulling forward on the broken arm. The D’tarig landed flat on his back directly in front of Lander.

Before the Harper could do anything else, Ruha stepped around him. Her jambiya flashed once, opening a six-inch gash across Bhadla’s throat. Blood began pouring onto the same carpet that the Harper and the witch had been lying upon moments before.

“Are there any more?” Lander asked, scanning the sides of the tent.

“Wasn’t that enough?” Ruha responded. “How badly are you hurt?”

Lander felt warm blood running over his fingers and realized that he was holding his wound. He pulled his hand away and looked at the cut. “Not bad,” he said. “It’s not—”

His rib cage erupted into agony, sending fiery fingers of pain shooting through his torso. He let out an involuntary groan, then stumbled backward and dropped into a seated position. The blaze was spreading through his body like a wildfire, and he could feel himself beginning to sweat.

Ruha rushed to his side. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Poison,” the Harper croaked. Already, his mind seemed lost in hot vapors, and the roar of an immense blaze filled his ears. He could think well enough, though, to remember something Florin Falconhand had once told him: Zhentarim assassins often carried counteragents to their own toxins, for they were afraid of accidentally poisoning themselves.

Lander rolled onto his side and pulled himself toward the D’tarig. Ruha’s hands were on his back, and she screamed something at him, but the firestorm in his head muffled her words.

“Antidote!” he gasped, finally latching onto Bhadla’s lifeless arm. His vision had narrowed to a tunnel, and he could see nothing but the D’tarig’s body at the end of his own long arm. He ran his fingers through Bhadla’s robes, searching for a vial or a tin of powder.

“There is no antidote,” said a woman.

Lander felt Ruha’s hands brush his fingers aside, and he knew she was taking over the search. He sank back on his haunches and looked in the direction of the voice. “Who’s there?”

“You know me.” The voice was as sweet as the song of a morning dove.

The tunnel of Lander’s vision closed altogether and became a white light. The light wavered for a moment, then took the shape of a ghostly, unveiled woman. “Mielikki?”

The Lady of the Forest nodded, coming closer. She kneeled at Lander’s side, then wrapped her arms around his body and pulled him into her lap.

“Save me,” he whispered.

“No.”

“But the Zhentarim—we’re not finished.”

“You are,” the goddess answered, stroking his brow.

The agony in Lander’s body began to subside, and he realized that the fire was dying because it was running out of fuel. “I violated the taboo,” he cried. “I slept with Ruha, and now the Bedine will pay.”

The ghostly woman kissed Lander’s forehead. He felt the last of his pain gather in his brow and flow out where her lips had touched his skin. “No, you helped a woman find her place,” she whispered. “Now her people will have a chance at freedom.”