The Parched Sea

by Troy Denning

  Unfortunately, after spending a year locating her father’s khowwan, she discovered that the memories of her tribesmen were long. Less than a week after Ruha had entered camp, half the families threatened to leave if she remained. Although the sheikh had no desire to abandon his child, he was forced to consider the wishes of the malcontents. If he allowed the khowwan to split, both halves would become easy prey for raiders from other tribes.

  He had called Ruha to his side, no doubt to ask her to leave. Before he could force himself to bring up the painful subject, a pair of herdboys burst into the tent to report the presence of an unfamiliar tribe at El Ma’ra oasis. Because El Ma’ra was one of two other oases located within a two-day ride of the Mtair Dhafir, the news would normally have been received with alarm. Unallied Bedine tribes seldom camped so close together, for their camels would compete for pasturage and the close proximity would make raiding a virtual certainty.

  Instead of receiving the news with a frown, however, Ruha’s father had smiled broadly. He sent a messenger to arrange a meeting with the strange tribe, then told Ruha to prepare herself for a new life. Seven days later, Ajaman’s amarat had sounded outside camp as he came to fetch his bride.

  Remembering the short ride back to the Qahtani camp, Ruha smiled. Ajaman had led her camel, while a dozen friends surrounded them with drawn scimitars to discourage anybody from stealing the new bride. Ajaman had dared to speak to her only a half-dozen times, to reassure her that she had no reason to be frightened. When she had finally told him she was not at all scared, he had blushed and looked away. He had hardly looked at her until twilight the next day, when his father had filled their marriage cup with honeyed camel milk.

  Now, as twilight set on her marriage for only the third time, Ruha sat inside her new tent and listened to noises as comforting in the Qahtani camp as they had been in that of the Mtair Dhafir. Loudest was the petulant braying of the camels when they returned from grazing and went to drink at the water hole. With the camels came the sound Ruha found most pleasing, the joyful cries of the children who had been tending the herds. From the rocky outcroppings east of camp came the eerie calls of raptors taking wing for their nightly hunt. More haunting still was the incessant tittering of the desert bats as they swooped low over the oasis pond to scoop up tiny mouthfuls of water.

  Finally dusk faded to night. The camels were tied up, the children called to their parents’ tents, the noisy birds drawn to the hunt, and the bats lured away to distant clouds of insects. The desert again grew as quiet as it had been during the day. In camp, the men plucked their rebabas and sang stories to amuse each other. The women, as always, were more silent than gazelles, but Ruha did not need to hear to know they were serving hot salted coffee to the men.

  After allowing the camp to settle into the comfort of darkness, the young wife tied her belt around her waist, slipping her jambiya into an empty scabbard. The curved, double-edged dagger was Ruha’s prized possession, for Qoha’dar had given it to her on her twelfth birthday. Next, she wrapped herself in a billowing, black robe that would camouflage her in the darkness. It would also keep her warm, for the desert was as cold at night as it was hot during the day.

  Ruha started to leave the khreima, then realized she had forgotten Ajaman’s meal. She returned and put a skin of camel’s milk into a kuerabiche, then filled the rest of the shoulder sack with wild apricots. Carrying supper to her husband would hardly have seemed a valid reason for visiting his post if she forgot the food.

  The young wife returned to the door and paused to study the camp. A hundred feet ahead, the full moon glistened off the oasis pond. As a steady breeze rippled the water, the tiny waves sparkled like white diamonds. The tangled branches of wild apricot trees ringed the pool, perfuming the air with the scent of ripe fruit. Above the apricot trees towered thirty majestic palms, their fernlike fronds splayed like open fingers against the starry sky.

  Scattered amongst the trees were the silhouettes of nearly one-hundred khreimas. Robe-clad figures moved among the tents like specters. Outside the doors, men sat in small groups, singing and drinking salted coffee, yet simultaneously listening for the distant blare of an alarm horn.

  With a bright moon overhead, there were precious few shadows in which to hide. Fortunately, there was wind enough to cast an illusion if need be, so Ruha felt confident of reaching Ajaman undetected. She slipped out of the doorway, then cast a sand-whisper spell that allowed her to move across the desert in complete silence. She circled to the back of her khreima, careful to stay downwind of camp lest a camel or dog catch her scent.

  A few moments later, she left the oasis. The trees gave way to spindly chenopods spaced at such even intervals it almost looked as if men had planted them. Beyond the low-lying bushes, the terrain became completely desolate. Without tree or chenopod roots to hold the soil in place, the wind shaped the sand into an endless sea of towering crescent dunes that stretched to the horizon and beyond.

  Ruha knew that the sand sea spanned more than twenty-five thousand square miles. When the dunes finally waned, they abdicated only to a land of baked earth and wind-scoured bedrock, even more desolate and lifeless than the sands themselves. This bleak expanse stretched, as far as Ruha knew, to the ends of the world itself.

  Of course, she had heard stories of a kingdom beyond the desert, but she had also heard tales of lands beneath the sands and beyond the clouds. To Ruha, who had met only three tribes in a year of riding across the most heavily populated part of Anauroch, tales of ten-thousand people living in a camp that never moved were unthinkable. She could not envision a pasture that would support all of their camels month after month.

  As Ruha stalked toward the dunes, the biting odor of the chenopods stung her nose more sharply, drawing her thoughts back to the desert. She returned her attention to the sand sea.

  The moon shone brightly on the gentle slopes of the dunes’ convex sides, but the steep slip-faces on the concave sides were plunged into darkness as black as Ruha’s robe. Between the crescent-shaped hills ran a gloomy labyrinth of barren and rocky troughs.

  A mile away, El Ma’ra rose a hundred feet over the sands. Ruha knew that Ajaman lay on top of the one-hundred foot pillar, his eyes scouring the shadowy desert for raiders from rival tribes. Several hundred yards to either side of the high rock, more sentries would be crouching on the dark sides of the highest dune crests. Ruha paused to cast a sand-shadow spell on herself. The spell would render her invisible as long as she was in any shadow. To avoid Ajaman’s fellow sentries, all she would have to do was stay on the unlit sides of the dunes. She only hoped that her husband had left the rope dangling on the dark side of the pillar.

  As Ruha studied the desolate scene ahead, a cold sense of dread settled over her. It might have been the night’s cooling air that sent a shiver down her spine, or it might have been the steady drone of the desert wind. The young wife did not know the reason. She only knew that she wanted to be with her husband.

  Ruha slipped into the trough at the base of the first dune. Even taking care to stay in the shadows, the young woman made good progress. Before long, she had traveled half a mile into the barren labyrinth between the hills of sand.

  A distant boom sounded to the south. In the desert, such noises were not uncommon. Sometimes they were caused by faraway thunder, sometimes by a thousand tons of sand sloughing down the slip-face of a high dune. The superstitious Bedine even attributed the roars to the knelling alarms of long-buried fortresses. All those sounds were rumbles, though. Ruha had heard something more like a sharp crack. It had not been a natural noise, and the young wife’s anxiety gave way to panic.

  The shrill whine of an amarat horn rang from the post south of Ajaman’s. Ruha glanced at the top of the sandstone pillar. Her husband’s silhouette rose, then faced south.

  Discarding her shoulder bag, Ruha slipped her jambiya from its scabbard. She started for El Ma’ra at the best pace her heavy robe allowed. The bride felt certain the amarat alarm was rel
ated to her vision. No raiding party would have made the sharp sound that had preceded the siren. Even if a Bedine raider could have created such a noise, he would not have given his enemy time to prepare by announcing his arrival.

  Ruha was within one hundred yards of the high rock when she heard the sonorous tones of Ajaman’s amarat. She looked up in time to see him drop his horn, then nock an arrow and loose it at something near the base of the pillar.

  As she watched her husband attack, Ruha felt guilty for her panic. Ajaman was a Bedine warrior who had grown to manhood in the desert. He had honed his prowess by raiding other tribes and by defending his own camels against those who came to steal from his herds. Doubting his ability to defend himself almost seemed a violation of wifely duty.

  Ajaman nocked a second arrow and fired again. Ruha stopped running, realizing that her presence would only disturb her husband. From the sands just beyond El Ma’ra, a brilliant flash erupted and shot toward the top of the pillar, momentarily blinding the young wife. A thunderous clap crashed over the dunes, nearly sweeping her off her feet.

  Ruha’s vision cleared just as Ajaman’s limp body tumbled off El Ma’ra. It landed in the sand at the base of the pillar, then lay motionless in the moonlight.

  “Ajaman!” Ruha gasped. For a long moment she stood motionless, knowing she had been right to fear for her husband. Ajaman had fallen, not to a raider’s arrow, but to something no Bedine could shoot from his bow—a bolt of light.

  Ruha shook her head and rushed toward her husband, her mind functioning on two tracks at once. Ruha longed to take Ajaman in her arms, to hear him speak her name. Rationally, she knew this would do no good, for if the flash had not killed him, the hundred-foot fall certainly had. Still, she could not—would not—believe it until she kissed his lifeless lips.

  At the same time, Ruha realized the Qahtan were under attack, and not by another khowwan. She felt sure that the blinding flash that had killed Ajaman was magical, for she had once seen Qoha’dar destroy a mad jackal with a similar bolt. Even if he felt compelled to assault another tribe so openly, a Bedine tribesman would never have cast such a magic bolt. His fear of sorcery would not allow it.

  It was this line of thought that made Ruha pause before stepping out of the last trough. The hesitation saved her life. She stopped just in time to see a gruesome creature scramble up the dune upon which Ajaman lay.

  Ruha had never seen anything like it. Though the thing could obviously walk on two legs, it scurried up the moonlit slope on all four, moving as swiftly as a snake. The beast was shaped like a lizard, with sinewy arms and legs that protruded from its body at right angles and moved with quick, ungainly gestures. Its narrow skull had a sloping forehead that ended in a protruding brow, and sat atop a thin, awkward neck that swung from side to side as it clawed at the sand. Despite its brutish appearance, the thing was clearly intelligent. It carried a sword, had a crude crossbow slung across its back, and wore a faded leather corselet.

  When it reached Ajaman, the creature extended a long, forked tongue and touched the body in several places. After inspecting the dead man in this manner for several moments, the thing glanced toward the far side of the high rock, then waved a clawed hand. A moment later, several more of the beasts scurried into view.

  After seeing the ugly creature touch her dead husband, a weighty sorrow settled over Ruha. Realizing that she could do nothing more for Ajaman, the young widow retreated the way she had come. She had spent enough time in the desert to know that, even with her sand-shadow spell, she would be easy to spy if she ran. Ruha did not even consider fleeing ahead of the creatures. Instead, she took shelter in the shadows of the nearest sand dune’s slip-face. She leaned back against the steep slope and pulled a layer of sand over her body, leaving only her dark eyes exposed. The sand could do nothing more than her sand-shadow spell to hide her visually, but she hoped that it would help to mask her scent.

  Clutching her jambiya tightly, Ruha focused her thoughts on calming her pulse and breathing evenly. She did not even consider trying to return to the Qahtani camp, for she knew she would eventually be discovered if she started moving. Besides, she had no doubt that the warriors had heard the amarat warnings and were even now preparing for combat.

  A moment later, the first creature stepped into the trough in front of Ruha, crossbow cocked and ready to fire. It paused to study the terrain, looking directly at Ruha’s hiding place. The young widow summoned a wind-lion spell to mind, hoping she would not have to give away her presence by using it.

  After several seconds of indecisive scrutiny, the lizard-thing finally flicked its tongue and moved on. Ruha let a silent sigh of relief escape, then remained absolutely motionless as a river of similar creatures flowed past. They poured through the trough ahead of her without any pretension of organization. Several times, the beasts passed so close that Ruha could see their yellow, egg-shaped eyes. One even stopped to flick its tongue at the sand next to her. The thing had slit pupils that sat horizontally in the iris. Its skin was rough and pebbly, with narrow gashes where its ears and nose should have been.

  The ugly creature left, then a long line of baggage camels followed. Black-robed men with turban-swathed heads led the caravan. At their belts hung long thin swords with curved blades. The weary procession seemed to continue forever, but the last camel finally passed out of the trough. A handful of humans scattered ten to twenty yards apart came next. This rearguard was composed of fatigued stragglers who could do little more than stare at their own feet as they shuffled through the dark labyrinth, and Ruha dared to hope she would survive the strange group’s passing.

  Then, as one of the last men shuffled within a foot of Ruha’s hiding place, he stumbled. He reached out to catch himself against the steep slope, pressing his hand against Ruha’s sand-covered body. He gasped and jerked himself upright, then peered into the black shadows.

  Ruha did not hesitate. She clamped her free hand over the straggler’s mouth, then thrust her jambiya into his stomach. He uttered an astonished and pained groan, but Ruha’s hand muffled the sound. The young widow drove the blade of her weapon toward his heart, simultaneously pulling him onto the slip-face beside her. She quickly dragged several armfuls of sand over his head and body. In an instant the man was dead and buried.

  Her heart beating madly, Ruha turned her attention back to the trough, fearing that one of the dead man’s compatriots might have witnessed the struggle. The last stragglers were more than fifteen yards away, and they were all as lethargic as ever. Relieved at the carelessness of the strange procession, Ruha again leaned against the dune and covered herself with a thin layer of sand.

  She stayed in hiding for what seemed an eternity, even after the last straggler had gone. She could hardly control her breathing, and found herself alternately struggling to stifle mournful sobs for Ajaman’s death and joyful chortles celebrating her own survival. At the same time, Ruha remained terrified that the dead straggler would be missed or that one last group of attackers would shuffle into view just as she left the shadows.

  Finally Ruha conquered the indecision born by these fears and dared to leave her hiding place. In the same instant, she heard the patter of sand sloughing down the steep slip-face above her. The young woman spun around and looked toward the crest, jambiya poised to strike.

  Fifty feet above her, kneeling atop the dune and silhouetted against the moon, was one last man. His face was turned toward the oasis, and he seemed oblivious to Ruha’s presence. Unlike the men who had passed ahead of him, he wore only a yellowish aba that matched the desert sand. Even in the pale moonlight, it was clear that his face was red, sun-blistered, and peeling. And though he presented only his profile to her, enough of his face was visible that Ruha could see his eyepatch and the pale, golden hair that protruded from beneath his keffiyeh. His features were drawn and haggard, though there was still a certain boyish softness to them.

  Ruha’s heart began to pound like the hooves of a racing camel, and her kne
es grew as weak as those of a suckling calf. The man atop the dune was the one she had seen in her premonition.

  Two

  At’ar the Merciless hung in a deep blue sky, bathing the desert in the fiery radiance of her insufferable passion. Though At’ar’s orb had risen less than three hours ago, the heat already shimmered from the golden sands in skin-blistering waves. To Ruha, crouched atop a dune ninety yards from the oasis, it seemed nothing dared to stir beneath the yellow goddess’s gaze. The wind lay heavy and listless upon the barren ground, and the green fronds of the palm trees dangled motionless and lethargic. Even N’asr’s children, those great white-bearded vultures that ferried spirits to the camp of the dead, hovered overhead without so much as flapping a wing or twitching a tail-feather.

  Ruha envied the vultures their patience, for her own thirst was making her grow desperate. Three hours beneath the morning sun had made her tongue so swollen it occasionally gagged her, her throat so dry she could not swallow, and her mind so muddled she could not keep the events of the previous night separated from what was happening at the moment.

  Ruha recalled that her last drink had come from Ajaman’s waterskin, after she had left her hiding place last night and gone to him. She remembered the despair washing over her as she had taken her dead husband’s head in her lap and, in her mind, she returned to where she had sat in the sand at El Ma’ra’s base.

  In Ajaman’s chest was a charred hole as big as her head, but his face betrayed no fear or sorrow. He held his dark brow furrowed in astonished fury, more angry at being soiled by magic than at being killed. The widow touched her mouth to her dead husband’s, then slipped his jambiya and its sheath off his belt and took the crushed amarat from beneath his body. These would be her only keepsakes.

  Though Ruha had come to like Ajaman during the two days of their marriage, she could not say that she loved him. It was a surprise to her, then, that tears were streaming down her cheeks. It was proper for a widow to grieve her dead husband, but for Ruha to claim that she wept on Ajaman’s account seemed out of place and insincere. The tears, she realized, were for herself. With Ajaman gone, she was likely to spend the rest of her life as Qoha’dar had spent hers—a shunned woman.