The Parched sea h-1

by Troy Denning

  "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.

  It was Lander himself, sitting quietly on the edges of the crowd, who proposed the solution. He would go to Anauroch as the Harper's spy. The others protested that he did not have enough experience with the Zhentarim and that he was too young for such a dangerous assignment. Lander, tenacious and unyielding in his determination to prove his worth, insisted that he was capable of the task and pointed out that no one else could go. In the end, it was Florin's support that decided the issue. The lanky ranger simply place a hand on Lander's shoulder and nodded his head. As if at a signal, the others stopped arguing. The matter was decided.

  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 shortlived. 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.

  Blowing sand and darkness was all he saw.

  At last Lander closed his eye and stopped to consider his options. At the most, he knew, his companions could only be a hundred yards away. In the dark and the storm, the distance might as well have been a hundred miles. Trying to track them would be as useless as trying to out-scream the blustering wind.

  With his compass, he could easily continue toward the oasis, but that would not help him locate his companions. They might have lost their bearings and be riding in a completely different direction. In that case, his own movement would simply put more distance between them.

  The best thing I can do, Lander realized, is wait as close as possible to the point where we separated. Perhaps Bhadla will be able to retrace his steps when he realizes that I've disappeared.

  As the Harper turned his camel toward the shelter of the great dune behind him, he heard a camel's bellow to his right. Though the roar was faint and muted by the wind, Lander cringed. There was a note of urgency and terror to the bray that no storm could muffle.

  He started forward in what he guessed to be the general direction of the sound. In the howling wind, one roar alone would hardly be enough to lead him to his companions, but it was all Lander had to follow. Besides, it occurred to him that his guides might be tormenting the beast so that its cries would lead him to them.

  Lander rode a hundred steps forward and stopped. No bellows sounded. He turned his head to and fro, trying catch a glimpse of a silhouette or the hint of some sound other than the interminable wind. There was nothing.

  Finally the Sembian glimpsed a bulky shadow stumbling toward him. He urged his mount forward when he saw that it was a limping camel. When he came closer still, Lander recognized the beast as Musalim's and went forward to grasp its reins. The saddle was empty, and the camel seemed dazed and weak.

  Lander inspected the beast from his own camel. There were no wounds, but a dark blotch stained the saddle. He touched the stain and found it warm and sticky. Musalim's blood, he guessed. Lander dropped the dazed beast's reins and drew his sword.

  When he turned back toward the place from which Musalim's camel had come, the Harper glimpsed a shadow rising out of the sand. It was about the size of a man, but the legs and arms seemed to stick from the body at peculiar angles, like a reptile's.

  Lander needed to see no more to know that Musalim, and probably Bhadla too, had ridden into an ambush. The Sembian slapped the flat of his sword against his camel's shoulder, but the sluggish beast refused to charge. The shadow raised a crossbow and a pair of yellow, egg-shaped eyes flashed in the dark night.

  The bolt took Lander below the right collarbone, nearly knocking him from his saddle. His arm went numb, and the sword dropped from his hand. Grasping the reins with his left hand, the Sembian jerked his camel around. The beast reacted slowly, resentful of Lander's harsh manipulations. Two more shadows rose out of the blowing sand.

  "Turn, you stubborn scion of Malar!"

  A bolt struck the camel's flank, and Lander felt the beast quiver. It decided to obey and sprang away with the proper sense of urgency.

  The wounded Harper dropped the reins and slumped forward, sprawling face-down over the beast's hump. Agony assaulted him in crashing waves, but Lander hardly realized it. He was only dimly aware of his knees squeezing h
is mount's hump and the fingers of his good hand clutching its coat. Lander could not tell how long the camel continued to gallop. He knew only the agony in his chest, the warm wetness trickling down his arm, and the black waves assaulting his mind.

  Eventually, the camel slowed to a trot. It could have been hours after the ambush or just minutes. Lander could not tell. He tried to sit upright and realized the effort would leave him unconscious. He settled for holding on.

  At last the camel collapsed. It did not lie down or even stop moving. The beast just belched forth a plaintive moan, stumbled once on its buckling legs, then, in midstride, it pitched Lander face-first into the sand.

  They lay together in a twisted heap, the camel wheezing in shallow gasps and Lander moaning in disjointed pain. The sand worked its way into their wounds and welled up against their windward sides, but neither the man nor the beast showed any sign of caring. Soon, the camel stopped panting, and Lander was alone in the storm.

  Four

  By dawn the god of tempests, Kozah, had vented his wrath. The storm died, leaving a hot, dreary calm in its place. The heavy, wind-borne sand dropped back to the ground, but a pall of silt lingered high in the heavens, diffusing At'ar's morning radiance and setting the eastern horizon ablaze with crimson light. Ruha knew it would be many more days before the dust returned to the ground and Kozah's mark disappeared from the morning sky.

  The widow went to the oasis pond and knelt at its edge, then rinsed the night's grit from her mouth. She and Kadumi had spent the night huddled under the remnants of her khreima, but the wind had worked its way under the heavy camel-hair tarp, covering her aba with sand and coating her nose and mouth with dust. More than once during the night, she had awakened with the feeling of being suffocated and found herself spitting out a mouthful of powdery silt.

  Kadumi came and stood behind Ruha until she put her veil back in place, then kneeled beside her and splashed water over his grimy face. "Kozah must be angry with At'ar again," the boy said. "Maybe he saw the faithless harlot entering N'asr's tent. I have not seen such a storm in a year." He looked toward the camp.