by Troy Denning
“If what you say is true,” Lander countered, “why did the tribe at the last oasis perish?”
The D’tarig frowned, then shrugged. “Who can say? But we will do no one any good if we lose our way and die.”
“You really don’t understand what’s at stake here, do you?”
“What is there to understand?” Bhadla asked. “The Zhentarim are trying to cross the desert, and the Bedine are in their way.”
“There’s more to it than that,” Lander replied. “The Zhentarim need the Bedine to open their trade route. Merchants can’t survive in the desert alone, and the Black Robes know that. They need the Bedine for guides and caravan drivers. What the Zhentarim want is to enslave the Bedine.”
Bhadla laughed. “Enslave the Bedine? They would find it easier to cage the wind.”
“The Zhentarim have caged things more powerful than the wind,” Lander noted flatly, then took a sip of water. “If they approach the desert tribes in the same way they have approached villages all over Faerun, this is how the Bedine will fall: The Black Robes will approach the sheikh in the guise of friendship and offer him a treaty. Once he agrees, they’ll find a pretext to invite his family or other important tribe members into their camp. The Zhentarim will not permit these guests to leave and will use them as hostages to guarantee the tribe’s submission. They will send agents, whose job it is to report murmurs of rebellion, to watch over the tribe. Before they know it, the Bedine will be subdued.”
“If the Black Robes want slaves, why did they massacre the Bedine at El Ma’ra?”
“I’m not sure,” Lander said, shaking his head. “Perhaps the sheikh wouldn’t cooperate, or perhaps they wanted an example to use in intimidating other tribes.” He closed his waterskin. “The Zhentarim are usually more subtle than they’ve been in Anauroch—probably because it’s so empty that they think brazen actions won’t be noticed. In any case, the change of style makes it more difficult for me to guess their reasoning.”
Bhadla furrowed his brow, then shrugged. “If you say so,” he sighed. “But what concern of yours is it? What does it matter to you if the Black Robes conquer the Bedine?”
“I’ve come here to help the Bedine retain their freedom,” Lander answered, looking at his saddle and pretending to adjust a strap. Even though he wasn’t lying, he was intentionally dodging the D’tarig’s question; he had often been told that his face was too honest when he was trying to hide something.
“So I have gathered,” the D’tarig replied. “What I want to know is why?”
Lander opened his waterskin again and lifted it to his lips, more to hide his face than to wash the grime from his mouth. Between sips, he said, “Someone had to.”
The little guide shook his head. “Not so. Only a fool strays from his path to search out another man’s trouble. You may be gullible, but you do not strike me as a fool. What is your reason for coming to the desert?”
Realizing it was useless to dodge Bhadla’s inquiries, Lander tried an honest reply. “I can’t tell you why I’m here.”
The D’tarig’s eyes sparkled, and Lander guessed that Bhadla was smiling beneath his mask of white cloth. “I think I know the reason for your discretion,” the guide said.
“Oh?” Lander asked, confident that the D’tarig could not guess his secret.
Black eyes locked on Lander’s, Bhadla said, “The Harpers sent you.”
Lander’s jaw dropped.
Bhadla’s eyes shone with triumph. “You see, nothing escapes my notice.”
From the guide’s manner, Lander realized there was no use in denial. “How do you know?”
Bhadla pointed at Lander’s left breast. “The harp and the moon.”
Lander looked down and saw what had given him away. Beneath his burnoose, he wore a light tunic of cotton. On the left breast of that tunic was pinned the emblem of the Harpers, a silver harp sitting within the crescent of a silver moon. On the exterior of his burnoose, there was a vague, dirty outline of the symbol he wore over his heart.
“Very observant,” Lander noted. “I’m surprised you recognized it.”
“The Black Robes have told us how to identify a Harper. If I had seen your symbol before we entered the desert, it would have meant five hundred gold pieces.”
“I’m glad my robe was not as dirty in your village,” Lander answered, rubbing his palm over the patch of cloth that had given him away. “What else have the Zhentarim told you about the Harpers?”
“That you are a tribe of meddling fools who stand in the path of free commerce and the growth of kingdoms.”
“That’s wrong,” Lander objected, shaking his head sternly. “We’re a confederation of individuals dedicated to preserving the tales of those who have passed before us, to maintaining the balance between the wild and the civilized, and to protecting peaceful and free people everywhere in Faerun.
“The Harpers oppose the Zhentarim because they trade in slaves and because they hope to subvert the free nations of Faerun. We have nothing against peaceful commerce—as long as it doesn’t involve treachery and slavery.”
“Meddlers,” Bhadla concluded gruffly, studying the sky with a manner of preoccupation.
“Perhaps,” Lander conceded, also glancing heavenward. He was glad to see that the dusty haze had disappeared overhead, though the sky was but a turquoise imitation of its usual sapphire blue. “But we are meddlers with a purpose. Without us, all of Faerun would be slaves to the Zhentarim.”
“So you say,” Bhadla replied, returning his gaze to Lander’s face. After a pause, he asked, “If the Harpers truly oppose the Black Robes, why didn’t they send an army?”
“The Harpers don’t have armies. We prefer more subtle methods.”
“You mean you get others to do your work for you,” Bhadla laughed.
Lander frowned. “We use our influence to guide events along the best course.”
“The best course for the Harpers,” the D’tarig insisted, pointing at the pin beneath the Sembian’s robes with a leathery finger. “If you ask me, this time they’ve made a mistake. Sending one man to oppose an army is madness. No one would blame you if you deserted. They’ve ordered you to your death.”
“I wasn’t ordered to come here,” Lander replied, adjusting his robe in a vain effort to cover the emblem’s outline.
Looking confused, Bhadla withdrew his gaunt hand. “Did they send you or not?”
“I volunteered,” Lander replied, remembering the informal meeting in which he had decided he would spy on the Zhentarim in Anauroch. It had been in Shadowdale, a wooded hamlet as different from this dismal wasteland as he could imagine. He had been sitting on the fringes of a comfortable gathering in the Old Skull Inn, staring at a roaring blaze lit to ward off the chill of an icy drizzle falling outside. Little had he known how he would come, in the months ahead, to long for just a few drops of that cold rain.
The company had been impressive. Next to the fire sat the beautiful Storm Silverhand, she of the silvery hair and the steely eyes. Beside her stood the tall man who had suggested Lander join the Harpers, Florin Falconhand. Across from Storm and Florin sat a burly, bearded man called only by his nickname, Urso, and the radiant High Lady of Silverymoon, Alustriel. There were others also—Lord Mourngrym and the ancient sage Elminster—not exactly members of the Harpers, but close enough that they felt more at ease in the distinguished company than Lander.
Over mugs of cool ale and goblets of hot spiced wine, they discussed the most recent item of concern to the Harpers. Zhentarim agents had been seen buying camels and skulking about the edges of the Anauroch, asking too many questions of D’tarig desert-walkers. There was a general consensus that the Zhentarim were making preparations for an expedition into the Great Desert and that someone should go see what they were doing. Whenever one of the elder Harpers said he would take the task upon himself, however, the others had grimly vetoed the suggestion, citing a hundred more important duties that he or she could not neglect.
What happened next surprised Lander. Lord Mourngrym gave him the names and locations of a half-dozen men through whom he could send messages, and Storm Silverhand gave him a sack containing a hundred gold pieces and a half-dozen vials filled with magical healing potions. Observing that the hour had grown late, the ancient Elminster rose, placed a surprisingly firm hand on Lander’s shoulder, and assured him he would do well in Anauroch. The gathering broke up with as little formality as it had convened, each Harper pausing to wish their young comrade the best of luck.
The next morning, Florin saw him off, and Lander undertook his first important assignment as a Harper. Considering the formidable reputation of the secret society, the whole thing seemed incredibly casual and spontaneous, but he could not deny that its operations were efficient and quiet. Lander understood that things were a bit more organized and formal in Berdusk, where the Harpers maintained a secret base at Twilight Hall, but he preferred the less pretentious way of operating practiced in Shadowdale.
The fact that, other than Storm Silverhand’s gift, Lander was expected to pay his own expenses while on assignment had not troubled him at all. One did not become a Harper in order to seek wealth or glory. Of course, Lander told none of this to Bhadla. Considering what the D’tarig had said about earning five hundred gold pieces by informing the Black Robes of a Harper’s presence, the Sembian thought it would be better if Bhadla did not know that there was not much to be gained from his present master.
“Six months ago, the Harpers sent me to spy on the Zhentarim,” Lander offered after a time. “I crossed the Desertsmouth Mountains, then traveled Anauroch’s edge for four months posing as an incense trader. During this time, I saw little that would be of interest to the Harpers.”
“So why didn’t you go home?” Bhadla demanded, casting a watchful eye ahead to make sure that Musalim was not neglecting his duties as scout.
“I was about to,” Lander continued, “but as I was leaving I learned of a group of Zhentarim who were buying whole herds of camels.”
“Naturally, you went to investigate,” Bhadla surmised.
“Yes, and what I found astounded me. The Zhentarim had gathered enough supplies at Tel Badir to equip a small army. At first, I couldn’t imagine why, but I soon learned the reason through a few bribes,” Lander explained.
“So you hired Musalim and me to help you find the Bedine,” Bhadla concluded.
Lander nodded. “There you have it. That’s what I’m doing in Anauroch.”
Bhadla shook his head. “This is foolish business,” he said. “It will probably get you killed.”
“Perhaps,” Lander agreed. “I’ll try not to take you and Musalim with me.”
“Good. For that, we would charge extra,” Bhadla said, urging his camel forward. “I’d better check on Musalim. He will lose the way if I leave him alone too long.”
As the afternoon passed, the wind grew stronger, roaring with a menacing ferocity and carrying with it a pale cloud of blowing sand. This cloud streamed along only a few feet above the dunes, shooting off the crests in great plumes that rolled down the leeward slopes in magnificent, roiling billows.
The trio moved along the troughs between the great dunes, where the sand swept along the desert floor like a flood pouring across a dry creekbed. The heads of the riders and camels protruded above the white stream, but the sand rasped across the robes of the riders and scoured their exposed hands into a state of raw insensitivity.
Lander discretely checked his compass every few miles to make sure they were traveling in the right direction. Bhadla’s knowledge of the desert proved unerring. He never varied more than a few degrees off-course, save when he led the small party around one of the mammoth dunes that periodically blocked their path.
At’ar sank steadily toward the horizon ahead, a great disk of blinding yellow light that turned the sea of dunes ahead into a foreboding labyrinth of silhouettes and dazzling yellow reflections. Finally the sun disappeared behind the dunes, curtaining the western horizon with a stark light of ruby and amber hues. A rosy blanket of ethereal light bloomed on the crests of the sand hills, while velvety shades of ebony and indigo spread through the troughs below.
Lander did not remember witnessing a more spectacular sunset, but he could not honestly call it beautiful. The sight left the Sembian in a bleak and lonely mood, for it only reminded him that he was a stranger in a dangerous and alien place.
Bhadla and Musalim stopped their camels and waited for Lander to catch up. The Harper quickly checked their heading on his compass, then, as his camel came abreast of theirs, he said, “There’s no need to stop. Your course is the same as it has been all day.”
Bhadla furrowed his leathery brow. “Of course,” he said, pointing in the direction they were traveling. “I have been watching El Rahalat for the last hour.”
Directly ahead, a gray triangular cloud the size of Lander’s fingertip rose above the sands and stood silhouetted against the scarlet light of the setting sun.
“At the base of that mountain is a large oasis,” Bhadla said, then he pointed northward. “Over there is a well, but the water is bitter and you must work hard to draw it. If there are any Bedine in the area, they will be at the mountain.”
“That makes sense,” Lander replied. “What are we waiting for?”
Bhadla glanced at the sky. “Not many stars tonight,” he said. “I will lose my way after dark.”
“I’ll let you know if we’re straying,” Lander answered.
“A mistake will cost us our lives,” Musalim warned. “I don’t trust your instincts.”
“I’ll be using something better than instincts,” Lander replied, “but I won’t make a mistake. You just keep your eyes open. If we’re going to beat the Zhentarim to the oasis, we’ll start overtaking stragglers.”
“Yes,” Bhadla agreed, nodding. “We have made good time and could catch them at any moment.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Musalim said, an air of resignation in his voice. “We should wait.” Despite his protests, he urged his camel forward and once more assumed the lead position.
Bhadla watched his assistant for a few moments, then asked, “How will you be certain of your directions? Magic?”
“Yes,” Lander replied, justifying the lie by telling himself that a compass would seem like magic to the D’tarig.
Bhadla nodded, then finally urged his camel forward. “If I sense that we are straying,” he called over his shoulder, “Musalim and I will stop.”
Lander followed twenty yards behind Bhadla, checking his compass every few minutes. At’ar disappeared, and the faint glow of the full moon appeared above the eastern horizon. Overhead, a few stars penetrated the dust cloud, but they were too dim and too few to identify. It became more difficult for Lander to read his compass, but the milky light of the moon was just bright enough to illuminate the needle.
As the night darkened, Lander worried more about the Zhentarim. Trusting his camel to find its own footing, he spent the minutes between compass checks anxiously peering into the torrent of blowing sand, searching for the faintest silhouette or the barest hint of motion. He saw nothing but an endless cataract of sand sweeping over the dunes and across the path ahead.
The wind picked up speed and raised the height of the sandstream, stinging Lander’s one good eye and rubbing his face raw. Unable to see anyway, the Harper covered his face
with his hands, placing his complete faith in his camel to follow Bhadla and Musalim. Every now and then, he would pass close to the lee side of a great dune. Sheltered from the wind and blowing sand, he would quickly read the compass and check to make sure that the dark silhouettes of his guides were still ahead. A few minutes later, he would pass the dune and the driving sand would force him to close his eye again.
The trio followed the troughs northward for what seemed an endless time, and the sandstorm grew worse. Lander finished the last of his water, and then waged a constant battle with himself not to think about drinking. Grit and silt clogged his throat and nose. He could not keep his mind off the oasis ahead.
The storm grew worse. Even when sheltered by a great dune’s leeward side, the sand blew so hard that Lander could only keep his eye open for periods of five and ten seconds. He began to worry about losing sight of his companions and wondered if, even with its protective eyelids, his camel could see well enough to follow its fellows. He urged his mount to move faster, but no matter how hard he prodded the beast, it would do no better than the steady stride into which it had fallen.
Sensing that his mount was too frightened of losing its footing to trot, Lander tried yelling to his companions. “Bhadla! Musalim!” No reply followed. He tried again, but the wind drowned out his screams. He finally gave up when his voice grew hoarse, hoping that the D’tarig would wait for him. Bhadla’s probably noticed how much visibility had decreased already, Lander decided. He’s probably just ahead, trying to catch Musalim.
The hope that his companions were nearby was short-lived. Lander entered the shelter of a dune and peered into the night. In the darkness ahead, there was no sign of Bhadla or Musalim. Turning his back to the blowing sand, he quickly checked his compass and saw that he was still on course.
Lander cursed his guides for leaving their charge behind, then urged his camel forward. As he passed out of the little shelter that the great dune had afforded, he tried to shield his face with his hand and forced himself to keep his eye open.