The Parched Sea

by Troy Denning

  Ruha backed away from the exit, then took her kuerabiche and went to the back side of the tent. She lifted a wall and pushed the bag outside, then started to squirm out herself.

  A pair of dogs started barking on the far side of camp. Cursing the beasts, Ruha left the bag outside and crawled back into the tent. The dogs would awaken every other animal in camp, which would make it much more difficult for her to take a camel without causing a general tumult. Even with the animals alert, the widow could use her magic to move about undetected. Unfortunately, any camel she tried to take would be startled by her silent appearance from the shadows and bellow an alarm. It would be better to wait for the dogs to quiet down, then try again.

  The dogs did not quiet. More joined the chorus, and then the camels began to bray. Soon the voices of sleepy men joined the uproar. Vexed by her bad luck, Ruha wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and waited for the men to put to rest whatever problem it was that had awakened the whole camp. When the tumult only grew worse, Ruha went outside to see the cause.

  The first thing she saw was a stern-faced Nata striding purposefully toward her khreima. Behind him, in the center of the camp, her father and two dozen warriors stood gathered in a circle. They were all shouting at each other in puzzled, shocked voices.

  As Nata approached, he said, “You’d better come with me, witch.”

  Ruha frowned in concern. “What’s wrong? Is Kadumi hurt?”

  The burly warrior shook his head, but before he could answer, a youthful warrior appeared from the other side of her tent. He was carrying the kuerabiche Ruha had packed earlier that night. “I found this behind the witch’s tent, Father.”

  Nata took the shoulder bag from his son, then threw it back inside her khreima. “You won’t be going anywhere tonight, Ruha. Come with me.”

  Frowning in confusion, Ruha followed the burly warrior back to the camp. Nata pushed through the jabbering men and moon-eyed children, keeping the widow close behind him. When they stopped moving, what Ruha saw made her gasp.

  Al’Aif and her father stood in center of the crowd, holding torches. Al’Aif was watching her, but her father was staring at the lifeless and naked body of Zarud. The Zhentarim agent lay spread-eagled on the ground, as if someone had carried his corpse to the center of the camp and dropped him there to be inspected. The dead man had the sinewy build of a warrior, and his torso was blanketed with old scars. Ruha could scarcely believe a man could be wounded so many times and survive.

  The most noticeable thing about the Zhentarim was the gaping gash below his jawline. Somebody had slit his throat from ear to ear, apparently with great relish. The wound was both deep and unnecessarily lengthy, and had left his body covered with blood from the shoulders to the hips. Ruha thought immediately of Lander, for he was clearly an enemy of the Black Robes.

  She rejected the idea as quickly as it came to her. The last time she had seen the stranger, he had barely been able to walk, much less slit a healthy man’s throat. She thought of Al’Aif next, wondering if he had believed murdering Zarud would convince the sheikh to change his mind about sending hostages to the Zhentarim.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a woman’s curious voice. “How come he’s not dressed?”

  The Bedine removed their clothes for only one purpose. Since the Zhentarim had not brought any wives with him, his nakedness seemed peculiar to the tribesmen.

  “Perhaps Ruha knows,” suggested an aged warrior with a mouthful of rotten teeth. “What better way to catch a man off-guard?”

  A flutter of murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  “I can think of a dozen,” she retorted, glaring at the old man. “Any one of which I might use to silence your lecherous tongue.”

  The crowd snickered openly at the widow’s retort, and the old man flushed with embarrassment. He rudely brushed his nose at Ruha, then pushed his way out of the assembly.

  As the man left, Al’Aif spoke. “If Ruha did this, she has performed us a great service.”

  Considering that she suspected Al’Aif of being the murderer, the accusation both astonished and angered Ruha. She stopped short of accusing the scarred warrior openly, however, for she knew it would work against her. Given a choice of believing her or Al’Aif, the crowd would place its faith in the warrior.

  Nata spoke next. “When we went to fetch Ruha, my son found a packed kuerabiche behind her tent.”

  A wave of speculation rolled through the crowd. The widow realized that, aside from herself, the only one who did not believe she had killed Zarud was the real murderer.

  The sheikh shifted his gaze to Ruha and stared at her in dismay for several seconds. Finally he said, “Do you know what you have done, Daughter?”

  “She has saved us,” Al’Aif interrupted. “Now there is no question of placating the Zhentarim. We must fight.”

  The sheikh whirled on Al’Aif. “We’re out-manned thirty-to-one, you idiot!” he snarled. He looked back to Ruha, his ancient eyes welling with tears. “Our only hope is pay the blood price and hope the Zhentarim will accept it.”

  The pronouncement struck Ruha like a club. Her knees buckled, then she felt Nata’s big hands beneath her arms. The burly warrior held her up while she spoke. “Father, you mustn’t do this,” she gasped. “I didn’t murder your guest.”

  The old man dropped his gaze back to the corpse. “If you didn’t kill the Zhentarim, who did?”

  Ruha looked in Al’Aif’s direction, but before she could speak, Kadumi stepped forward and threw his jambiya at the sheikh’s feet. “There is the weapon that cut Zarud’s throat,” he declared.

  “Kadumi’s lying,” Ruha said, pulling free of Nata’s supporting hands. “He’s just trying to protect me. The Zhentarim’s blood is on neither of our jambiyas.”

  The old man picked up the youth’s dagger. “The boy has admitted the crime. You were caught about to sneak from camp. What can you say to make me believe that one of you did not do this?”

  It was Al’Aif who answered. “I say it doesn’t matter who killed Zarud, because we owe the Zhentarim no blood price. They are our enemies, not our allies!”

  “If you were sheikh, Al’Aif, we would be dead in two days,” Ruha’s father retorted. “Fighting is not always the best solution.”

  “Is paying the blood price with the life of your daughter or an innocent boy a braver solution?” demanded Al’Aif.

  “What are you saying?” yelled the sheikh. When Al’Aif did not respond, the old man shoved the warrior, knocking him back into the crowd. “Do you call me a coward?”

  As he regained his balance, the scarred Mtairi grabbed for his jambiya. In the same instant, Nata flashed past Ruha to stand before the sheikh, his hand on the hilt of his own weapon. As the two warriors glared at each other, the crowd backed away in tense silence, scarcely daring to breath lest they touch off a fight that would not stop short of death.

  It was the sheikh who spoke next. Stepping between the two warriors, he said, “No matter what you said, that was wrong of me, Al’Aif. If we start fighting each other, the Zhentarim have taken us already. Nata, take Kadumi and Ruha to her tent. We shall consider this matter again in the morning.”

  When neither Al’Aif or Nata moved to obey, Ruha’s father snapped, “I have spoken!”

  Reluctantly the warriors relaxed, and the sheikh turned to go. As the crowd parted to let him pass, a strange man moved from the edge of the gathering. He wore a yellow aba with a ragged hole in its breast, and a wide strip had been cut off the hem to make the sling in which the man now carried his right arm. In contrast to his dusty clothes, his face and hands were freshly washed, and he appeared remarkably alert for someone who had so recently suffered a serious wound.

  When none of the astonished Bedine said anything, the man nodded to Ruha. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  All the widow could reply was, “Where did you go? What are you doing here?”

  “I thought it wiser to spend the night on the mountain,”
Lander replied, motioning at the craggy slope looming above the camp. “As for the second question, when I saw someone had done away with the Zhentarim, I thought it might be safe to speak with your sheikh.”

  “Who is this man?” asked Kadumi, the sheikh, and Al’Aif simultaneously.

  Shaking her head, Ruha turned to her father. “He calls himself Lander, and he has come to warn us about the Zhentarim,” she said. “He is their enemy.”

  The sheikh raised an eyebrow at her comment. “Is that so?”

  Lander nodded. “As are all the Bedine, whether they know it or not.”

  “That shall be for us to decide,” the sheikh responded curtly. He pointed at Lander’s wound. “How did you come by that?”

  “Zhentarim,” Lander said, as if the word explained everything.

  “That Zhentarim?” he asked, pointing at Zarud.

  Lander studied the dead man for an instant, then said, “If that will save Ruha and the boy, then yes.”

  Ruha’s mouth dropped open at Lander’s reply. She didn’t know whether to thank him for saving her life or point out that she had dressed his wound before Zarud had been killed.

  Her relief was short-lived. Pointing at the blood crusted around the stranger’s bandage, Nata asked, “If you killed the Zhentarim, why is the blood on your wound so old?”

  “A good question, but one that should not be answered tonight,” the sheikh said. “Put the stranger with Kadumi and my daughter. We will sort this out in the morning, after our heads have cleared and our tempers have settled.”

  As the rest of the tribe returned to their beds, Nata supervised the internment of the prisoners. While his son fetched some rope, the burly warrior took the trio to Ruha’s tent. There, he bound their hands in front of their bodies, then tied their feet and carried each one into the tent. Finally he stationed his son at the door as a guard.

  To Ruha’s amazement, the berrani laid down on the carpet, as if he were going to steep. “Don’t say anything you don’t want overheard,” Lander said, closing his eyes. Soon, resting on his uninjured shoulder, he was snoring in great deep roars that would have harried a lion.

  “How can he fall asleep like that?” Kadumi asked, seated with his bound feet stretched straight out in front of him.

  “The berrani is injured,” Ruha answered. “He might sleep until morning. We might do well to join him.”

  Kadumi shook his head and silently mouthed something about Al’Aif, but Ruha could not make out what he was saying. Shrugging to indicate that she did not understand, she stretched out on her side. “Try to get some sleep, Kadumi. You may not have a chance later.”

  The boy nodded, then rolled onto his own side and closed his eyes.

  Through half-closed eyes, Ruha watched Nata’s son. By the way he wearily shifted his weight from one foot to another, she could tell he was tired. That was good, for it would make him easier to catch off-guard.

  The guard continued standing as the camp returned to normal. When, at last, the place fell completely quiet and he could be sure his father had gone to bed, the young man sat down at the tent entrance. Every so often, he glanced over his shoulder to check on his prisoners, but his main concern seemed to be watching the camp so he could be sure that his father would not catch him at less than full attention.

  Eventually the glances grew less frequent. Nata’s son began to doze fitfully. His head would sink slowly until his chin touched his chest, then bob up and stay upright for a few minutes before slowly descending again. The time soon came when the guard’s head did not rise again.

  On her elbows and knees, Ruha crawled to the kuerabiche that Nata’s son had found earlier. Taking care not to make any noise, she pulled the contents from the sack and laid them on the floor beside her: her spare aba, her veils, and, finally, Ajaman’s jambiya.

  As Ruha unsheathed the dagger, Kadumi’s eyes opened and she realized that the boy had not been able to sleep. An instant later, a great smile crossed his face and she feared he would cry out for joy. The widow looked meaningfully toward the door, and the youth nodded that he understood.

  Ruha freed herself first, then crawled to her brother-in-law. As she cut his bonds, she leaned close to his ear and whispered, “Don’t move yet.”

  Kadumi nodded, then looked toward Lander. “When you cut the berrani free, he may stop snoring.”

  Ruha saw the point of the youth’s concern immediately. Though the guard had dozed off, it seemed unlikely that he had fallen into a deep sleep. If Lander’s snoring suddenly changed rhythm or ceased altogether, the guard might wake suddenly. No doubt he would glance inside the tent and realize something was amiss.

  The only way to keep him from sounding the alarm was for Kadumi to silence the guard before he could reach his amarat. Ruha did not doubt that Kadumi could catch the guard unawares and kill the young warrior, but she did not cherish the idea of Nata hunting her with a blood price in mind.

  As she considered the problem, an alarm horn sounded on the far side of the camp. Several men began shouting. The guard woke immediately and jumped to his feet, crying, “What is it? What’s wrong?” Fortunately he sensed the direction of the alarm, and his attention was turned toward the far side of camp.

  Lander’s eyes opened, but he continued to snore exactly as he had done since being interned in the tent. Ruha couldn’t tell whether he had awakened instantly alert or had been pretending to sleep all the time.

  Lander motioned toward his feet, still maintaining his snore. Taking the hint, Ruha cut the ropes with a quick slice. The berrani jumped to his feet and sprang toward the khreima’s entrance as silently as a leopard stalking prey. In an instant, he slipped his bound hands over the guard’s head. Pulling backward so that the rope caught the man across the throat, Lander dragged his victim back into the tent.

  The berrani held his right arm pressed tightly against his side to avoid straining his injured shoulder, but the stranglehold still proved effective. Nata’s son grasped at the arms looped around his neck and kicked at his attacker to no avail, and Lander controlled him easily.

  Finally reacting to Lander’s swift assault, Kadumi leaped to the berrani’s side and pulled the man’s jambiya from its scabbard.

  “Don’t kill him!” Ruha gasped.

  “Never intended to,” Lander replied, tightening the choke.

  Kadumi also did as she asked, though he raised his brow at the request. Among the Bedine, ending a man’s life was not considered much different than killing any other animal—save that a man’s family might try to avenge the death. Ruha feared that Kadumi, as a youth, might not give enough consideration to what this would mean in the case of a son of Nata.

  The guard soon stopped struggling, and his body went limp. Lander quickly tied the guard’s hands and feet, then massaged the unconscious boy’s chest. In instant later, the guard coughed and resumed breathing. Lander took the boy’s keffiyeh and stuffed the scarf into the guard’s mouth as a gag, then bound him to a tent pole.

  Kadumi relieved him of his belt, scimitar, and scabbards, then asked, “What now?”

  Before Ruha could answer, the sound of ripping fabric sounded from the rear of the khreima. The young widow spun around to see the blade of a scimitar slicing through the tent wall. Taking the guard’s scimitar from Kadumi, Lander cautious stepped toward the gash, motioning to Kadumi and Ruha to do likewise.

  An instant later, Al’Aif stepped through the hole he had just created. In one hand he held the scimitar that had opened the khreima, and in the other he held his jambiya. When he saw the trio standing unfettered and the unconscious guard bound to the tent pole, he raised an eyebrow and sheathed his dagger. “You were expecting me, I see.”

  Lander nodded, but Ruha and Kadumi stared at the scarred warrior with their mouths hanging agape.

  “Come on,” Al’Aif said. “Kadumi’s camels are watered and packed.”

  Ruha refused to move. “You killed Zarud and were ready to let me pay the blood price,” she said,
fingering her dagger. “Why should I trust you now?”

  “I do what I do for reasons of my own,” he answered, meeting her gaze squarely. “I never intended to let Sheikh Sabkhat send you—or anyone else—to the Zhentarim. You can trust me.” He turned to the back wall of the tent and spread open the gash he had created, then motioned for Ruha to step through.

  When Ruha still did not move, Lander urged her toward the exit. “We can trust him. For his plan to work, he must help us escape. He killed the Zhentarim to prevent the tribe from allying with the invaders. If we’re gone in the morning, the sheikh will have no choice except to flee.”

  “Or to fight,” Al’Aif said.

  “That would be very foolish,” Lander said. “The Zhentarim have a large army and their commanders are sure to be capable.”

  The scarred Mtairi shrugged. “Fight or flee. It is the same to me—but never enslavement!” He reached toward Ruha to urge her through the slit, but the widow jerked her arm away and stepped outside before he could touch her.

  Outside, the tasselled silhouettes of several qassis bushes perfumed the air with their stringent aromas. Fifty yards to the west, the bushy shadows of ghaf trees and the tinkle of the stream marked the gulch. On the other side of the tent, Rahalat’s dark shape towered high over the moonlit sands, and a heavy sense of impending doom settled over Ruha.

  The others stepped out of the tent, then Al’Aif silently motioned for them to follow him. The scarred warrior led the small group across the gulch, then around the shoulder of the mountain. After perhaps an hour of picking their way past thorny salt-bushes and scrub brush, the scar-faced warrior stopped at the edge of a small draw. In the bottom of the dry wadi were the milky silhouettes of Kadumi’s camels and the darker outline of his brown gelding. The gelding and two of the white camels were fitted with saddles, while the remaining beasts were loaded with baggage.

  Kadumi pointed at the third saddle. “That doesn’t belong to me,” he said. At El Ma’ra, he and Ruha had outfitted their beasts from the possessions of the dead tribesman, but they had only needed two saddles and had not thought to pick up an extra one.