by Troy Denning
As they rode, Lander explained all that had passed in the House of the Moon. At first Ruha refused to accept that Eldath had spoken through her, but she gradually grew accustomed to the idea. Soon the notion gave her a giddy sense of excitement. Even after she and Lander had entered Elah’zad with Qoha’dar’s spellbook, she had not truly believed that the gods favored her magic. After Eldath’s manifestation, however, she could not doubt that fact. At least temporarily, she was no longer an outcast.
Yet the widow was far from happy about all Lander told her. The sheikhs’ concerns over her relationship with the Harper angered Ruha, for she abhorred having her emotions and private life scrutinized by any man. The widow realized that her resentment was due largely to the strong feelings she did have for Lander, but she did not think that what passed between her and the Harper was the concern of the sheikhs. Neither did she believe that her dead husband’s spirit would be offended by her actions; Ruha was certain that there were many things Ajaman had held more dear than her in his life.
Neither the sheikhs nor Ajaman’s spirit seemed concerned over the fact that Lander and Ruha were riding at each other’s side. The pair traveled behind the sheikhs most of the time, periodically joining them when the leaders felt the need of Lander’s advice or wanted to ask Ruha some question regarding magic.
At the end of the second day of riding, the scouts reported that the Zhentarim were camped just ten miles away, at the Well of the Cloven Rock. The sheikhs called a halt and told their men to prepare for an attack the next day. Because they had stopped in a region of small knolls, it was impossible to find a defensible campsite for the entire army. The sheikhs finally decided to let each tribe set up its own camp atop a separate hill, though Lander objected to this plan because the hills they selected were separated by as much as three hundred yards.
The Bedine ignored their advisor and built their camps as they pleased, posting their sentries in a wide perimeter around the entire area. The Harper and the widow went with Sa’ar’s tribe and laid out their sleeping carpets in separate khreimas. While the men eagerly debated battle-plans, Ruha and Lander sat together at the edge of the group, the widow studying Qoha’dar’s spellbook and the Harper quietly sharpening his sword. Occasionally Ruha would catch a curious warrior watching her study. In such instances, she took great pleasure in the fact that she no longer had anything to hide.
When dusk fell and it grew too dark to read or sharpen swords, the widow and Harper put away their preparations. Rather self-consciously, for Sa’ar’s sharp eyes were turned in their direction, they said good night and went to their separate khreimas. Ruha would have liked to go with Lander to discuss the coming battle, but that would not have escaped the warriors’ attentions, and she suspected that they would take it as a bad omen.
Most of the Bedine stayed up late into the night, discussing the camels they would ride into battle and arguing over whether it was better to kill a man with a down or side slash. Judging from their swaggering tones and their easy manner, they were as confident of victory tomorrow as they were of At’ar’s rising.
By morning the tone was different. An alarmed messenger rushed up the hill, calling for Sheikh Sa’ar and waking everyone in the camp. Ruha quickly covered her face and pulled her jellaba over her shoulders, then stuck her head out the door of her khreima.
The gray hues of first light were just creeping over the knoll. Groggy warriors were climbing out of their khreimas, scimitars and bows in hand. Sa’ar himself, as well as Lander, were already standing outside their tents, strapping their scabbard belts onto their waists.
“What is it?” Sa’ar demanded. “Are the Zhentarim on the move?”
The messenger shook his head and pointed eastward, toward the hill upon which Haushi’s tribe was camped. More than a quarter-mile away, the knoll was one of the most distant that the Bedine had selected for a campsite. Still, it was close enough for Ruha to see that a half-dozen vultures were circling its summit, their ravenous heads gazing at some grisly scene below.
“Sheikh Utaiba asks that you join him there,” the messenger explained. “And he asks that you bring the Harper and the witch along.”
Before Sa’ar could turn to summon her, Ruha climbed out of her tent. “I’m ready,” she said.
Ruha, Lander, and Sa’ar walked to the knoll. As they climbed to its summit, they were joined by the sheikhs of the other tribes.
The hill was capped by tangle-branched frankincense trees with gnarled trunks and spiny leaves. A few scrub bushes, stripped bare by hungry camels, also dotted the stony ground, but it was otherwise barren of vegetation.
It was not the Ruwaldi custom to arrange their khreimas in a circle, as was the case with most other tribes. Instead, they pitched their tents in a series of parallel rows, the mouths facing each other across narrow corridors of open ground. The Ruwald claimed that, because their arrangement was more orderly, it was more secure.
What Ruha saw now suggested otherwise. Before each Ruwaldi tent, six heads were set out in neat rows. Though N’asr’s children had already plucked out the eyes and tore the ends of the noses away, enough of each man’s face remained for the young witch to see they had died in their sleep. Their jaws were not set in determination. Neither were their mouths agape in horror. Sometimes the heads’ lips were turned down in drowsy frowns, sometimes they were smirking at some dream, but their expressions remained uniformly sedate.
Ruha was not the only one to notice this disconcerting serenity. “In the name of Eldath!” Sa’ar gasped, slowing running his eyes up the row of tents. “How could the Zhentarim kill them all in their sleep? Wouldn’t at least one man wake and scream before the steel was drawn across his throat?”
Utaiba glanced accusingly at Ruha, then scowled at Lander. “Have you slept with the widow, Lander?” he asked. “Only N’asr’s curse could cause this.”
The Harper, staring at the heads in anger and shock, did not seem to hear the question.
Ruha answered for him. “Our sleeping arrangements are not your concern, Sheikh, but you may rest assured that this is not N’asr’s curse.”
When Utaiba frowned at Ruha’s reply, Sa’ar said, “The widow and the Harper slept in my camp last night, and I swear they did nothing to anger her husband’s spirit.”
“I would not doubt the word of a brother sheikh,” said Didaji. He was a tall, gaunt man swathed in a brown turban, and a crimson scarf was pulled across his face. In his tribe, it was the men who covered their mouths and the women who went without veils. “But if this is not N’asr’s doing, how did it happen?”
“Zhentarim magic,” Lander answered, his attention still fixed on the heads.
Utaiba walked to one of the heads and picked it up by the hair. Pointing at the stump of the neck, he said, “This was cut by a sword, not by a magic charm.”
“A dozen asabis could have killed every man here,” Lander said, waving his hand at the camp.
“I don’t see how,” objected Sa’ar. “Even if a dozen men could sneak past our sentries, someone would have seen or heard the attack.”
“Not if you didn’t know what to look for,” Ruha said. When the sheikhs looked at her with curious expressions, she continued, “I can show you how they did it.”
“Please do,” requested Didaji.
Ruha pointed at the khreima closest to the group. “Sheikh Sa’ar, would you take your sword and begin striking a tent pole?”
The burly sheikh raised an eyebrow, but went to the entrance and did as asked. As his blade began to bite into the wood, hollow thuds throbbed across the hilltop.
“That is something like the sound a beheading would make, is it not?” Ruha asked.
“Close,” Utaiba replied, tossing the head in his hand aside and rejoining the others.
The widow removed a pinch of clay from her pocket and cast it into the breeze, at the same time speaking her incantation. The sound of Sa’ar’s blade striking the tent pole faded to silence, but everyone could see t
he sheikh swing several more times.
The Mahwai stopped and frowned at Ruha, angrily asking a question that no one could hear. Several of the sheikhs chuckled.
“This is all very funny,” said Didaji, “and I can see why no one was awakened by sounds of struggle. But there is still the matter of sight. Even in the night, the asabis would not be invisible.”
“They might be,” Lander said. “Remember the ring I brought to Elah’zad.”
Utaiba brow rose in alarm. “How many of those could they have?”
“Not many,” the Harper replied. “But there are spells that do the same thing for a short time.”
Utaiba looked at Ruha with renewed respect. “Can you do that?” he asked.
“I cannot make people invisible,” she replied, “but I can conceal them in the darkness.”
The sheikh nodded thoughtfully. “Then I am glad the gods have blessed you with their favor,” he said. “We shall have to make a list of your other talents.”
The comment sent a wave of contentment through Ruha’s veins, and she was surprised at how good it felt to be needed.
Sa’ar interrupted her satisfaction by stepping to her side. “What did you do to—?” The burly sheikh stopped speaking in midsentence, astounded to hear his own voice again.
Ruha chuckled at his astonishment. “I didn’t do anything to you,” she said. “I did it to the pole you were hitting. It was a spell that absorbs sound from everything within a few feet of its target.”
Flushing with embarrassment, Sa’ar sheathed his scimitar and turned to his companions. “What are we waiting for?” he asked, waving at the campsite. “This changes nothing. Let us go to battle.”
“No,” Lander replied, walking toward one of the Ruwaldi tents. “That’s what the Zhentarim want, so we’d better come up with another plan.”
“What do you mean?” asked Yatagan, a toothless man with a wizened face. In contrast to the abas of the other Bedine, he wore billowing, brightly colored trousers and a loose shirt covered by a green vest.
“The Zhentarim’s leader is trying to be sure that we attack, otherwise he wouldn’t have sent his mercenaries to commit this atrocity,” the Harper explained. “To me, that suggests that he’s picked his ground carefully and prepared a few surprises. I think we’d be wiser to change our plans.” He peered into a tent and made a disgusted face, then withdrew his head and looked toward the sheikhs. “That’s only a suggestion, of course.”
Utaiba nodded, then said, “There is truth to the Harper’s words. Let us discuss them in my camp.”
“After we send someone to wash and bury the dead,” Yatagan added.
Sa’ar and several others grumbled at the delay, but they were outnumbered and had no choice but to agree to the council. They descended the hill without inviting either Lander or Ruha to join them. It was, the widow realized, a diplomatic omission. With the warriors anxious for battle, it would be better if it appeared that neither she nor Lander were responsible for delaying the fight.
Once the sheikhs were gone, Lander began moving from tent to tent, repeating the peculiar warning that Ruha heard him speak to any dead he encountered. “Dead ones, you will meet N’asr’s denizens everywhere. Remember your gods and keep their faith, or you will suffer as surely as the wicked.”
Ruha followed a few steps behind, peering into the khreimas as Lander spoke to the corpses. The scene was always similar. In the back of the tent was a large gash, apparently cut by the attackers. Six sleeping carpets lay in a rough circle in the center of the tent. At the head of each carpet lay the kuerabiche that had been serving as the warrior’s pillow when he was decapitated. In some of the tents, the six headless corpses had each been dragged into a corner, as if by a greedy dog, and the soft parts of the body had been devoured.
When she could stand looking at the grisly scenes no longer, Ruha took the Harper’s arm and stopped him. “I have seen enough of Yhekal’s work,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what it is that you’re doing?”
“The camp of the dead is filled with N’asr’s evil servants. They hunt the spirits of those who lose their faith or those who never had any,” he explained. “So I’m warning the dead to remember their gods. As long as they don’t lose conviction in their gods, they’ll be safe.”
“How do you know all this?”
The Harper flushed, but he did not look away. “My mother worshiped Cyric, who is N’asr to the Bedine,” the Harper explained. “This is what she learned from her priests.”
“And you really think the dead will remember what you say?” Ruha asked.
Lander shrugged. “I’m not even sure they can hear me,” he said. “The warning can’t do any harm, though.”
Ruha nodded. “That’s true,” she said. “Go ahead and finish.”
As the Harper returned to his task, the first of the burial detail arrived. The widow allowed them a few minutes of disgust and outrage, then directed them toward the dead to whom Lander had already spoken.
By the time the Harper had finished his task, At’ar was two spans above the horizon and the day was already beginning to grow warm. Realizing that neither she nor Lander had eaten anything since last night, Ruha suggested they return to her khreima for breakfast.
As they walked toward Sa’ar’s camp, Lander’s face seemed vacant and weary. Recalling the effect that viewing even a few of the tents had had upon her, the widow decided that the Harper might not want to eat. Her own emotions were torn between elation at the feeling of acceptance she had experienced that morning and revulsion at what the Zhentarim had done to the Ruwald.
“Perhaps you’re not hungry,” she suggested. “Maybe you would prefer to find someplace to graze our camels.”
Lander smiled gratefully, but he said, “I’m not very hungry, but we should try to eat anyway. If the sheikhs decide to attack after all, it could be a long time before our next meal.”
“You seem to know a lot about fighting battles,” she observed.
Lander shook his head. “Not any more than any other Harper,” he said. “I think we have more of them in the rest of the world than here in Anauroch.”
“That wouldn’t be hard,” the widow replied. “This is the first true war the Bedine have had since the Scattering.”
Lander’s gaze dropped to the ground. “I’m afraid it won’t be the last. Even if we defeat Yhekal’s army, the Zhentarim will send another.”
The pair reached a gnarled frankincense tree at the base of Sa’ar’s knoll. Before starting up the hill, Lander paused and looked into Ruha’s eyes. “When the next army comes, the Bedine will need your magic as much as they need it now, perhaps even more. Are you sure you want to go to Sembia?”
The widow’s heart sank, and she felt as though the Harper had struck her. “You don’t want me to go to Sembia, do you?” Before he could answer, she turned away and climbed the hill.
Lander scrambled after her. “Wait!”
Ruha ignored him and rushed past a group of astonished warriors, then went into her tent. The Harper’s question had hurt her more than she cared to admit, for she did want to go to Sembia—though now she had a different reason than at first.
Lander rushed into the tent two steps behind her. “Let me finish—”
“Leave me!” the widow snapped, turning away to hide the tears welling in her eyes.
The Harper kneeled at her side and grabbed her shoulders. The touch of his firm grip sent Ruha’s blood racing. She could not stop herself from throwing her arms around his neck and burying her head in his shoulder.
“I didn’t mean that I want you to stay,” he whispered, “only that now there is a place for you with the Bedine. After the war, surely Utaiba or Sa’ar—”
Ruha touched her hand to his lips. “After the war, my place is with you.”
Lander gently pried her arms from his neck, then held her a few inches from his body and stared directly into her eyes. His touch sent waves of passion through her body. Ruha knew th
en that she had never wanted anything as much as she wanted to fold herself into his embrace.
“And what of your vision? What if I die?”
As he asked his question, a feeling of horror crept over the widow. The vision flashed through her memory again, and she closed her arms around the Harper. Placing her face next to his ear, Ruha reached up and removed her veil. “We cannot know what my vision means, so there is nothing to be gained by thinking of it,” the widow whispered. “I want to share whatever the future brings you.”
The Harper grabbed her shoulders and held them tightly, drinking in the nakedness of her face. His hands were trembling, and he seemed on the brink of yielding to the desire burning in his blue eye.
Lander leaned down to kiss her, then someone shuffled into the entrance of the khreima. “Pack your things!” commanded a warrior’s voice. “The sheikhs have decided that it is a bad time to fight.”
Sixteen
The young witch sat in her saddle, impatiently squinting at the cracked ground beneath her camel’s feet. The sun reflected off the white clay, as blinding and as hot as the merciless goddess herself, and Ruha felt as though she were sitting in a kiln.
Along with rest of the Bedine, she was in the bottom of a tiny mamlahah no more than two miles across. The small, flat-bottomed valley was surrounded by a cluster of low mountains. The canyons running out of the peaks were steep and short, with walls as sheer as ramparts. Within the last century, Kozah had raged mightily in the mountains, and the gorges had poured torrents of water into the mamlahah and created a shallow lake. Over the decades, At’ar had undone her husband’s work, drying up the lake, baking the moisture from the clay-rich soil, and leaving in its place a plain of irregular, alabaster pentagons fired to ceramic hardness. In the middle of the plain sat all that remained of the lake, a muddy pond surrounded by a copse of acacia trees.
The area around the pond was dotted with black scars from Zhentarim cooking fires. Hundreds of shallow pits had been scratched into the hard ground where asabis had dug the holes in which they hid from the punishing heat of the day. In a circle around the pond, at distances ranging from two hundred to three hundred yards, lay the bodies of thirty Zhentarim sentries.