The Parched Sea

Three

From beneath a fallen tent, Lander heard his guides approaching. Pitched on the southern end of the oasis pond, about a hundred feet from the camp, this tent was the first in which he had found no bodies. It was also a stark contrast to the clutter of the other tents, for there was nothing inside except a ground-loom, three cooking pots, a dozen shoulder bags of woven camel hair, and a few other household items. Apparently the inhabitants of this household had escaped the massacre. Lander wondered how.

“Lord, there are camels out in the sands!” called Bhadla, the elder of his two guides.

“I’m not a lord,” Lander responded wearily, correcting the solicitous servant for the thousandth time. He found a twelve-inch tube made of a dried lizard skin and sniffed the greasy substance inside. It was foul-smelling butter.

“Whatever it is you wish to be called,” Bhadla said, “I hope you have finished whatever you are doing with those dead people. We must go.”

“Go?” Lander asked, crawling toward the voice. “What for?”

Like his guides, he had heard the camels roaring outside the oasis, but he had no intention of leaving. He had come to this wretched desert to find the Bedine, not flee from them.

Lander reached the edge of the tent and pushed his head and shoulders out from beneath it. The blazing sunlight reflected off the golden sands and stabbed painfully at his one good eye. “What’s this about going?”

“Someone is coming,” the short guide repeated. “We shouldn’t be here when they arrive.”

“They’ll think we did this,” offered Musalim, Bhadla’s scrawny assistant.

Like all D’tarig, Bhadla and Musalim stood barely four feet tall. Each kept himself swaddled in a white burnoose and turban from head to foot. Lander wondered what they looked like beneath their cloaks and masks, but knew he would probably never find out. He had met dozens of the diminutive humanoids over the last few months, and he had yet to glimpse anything more than a leathery brow set over a pair of dark eyes and a black, puggish nose.

“I doubt anyone will think the three of us murdered an entire tribe,” Lander said.

“The Bedine might,” Bhadla said. He brushed the back of his fingers against his forehead in a disparaging gesture Lander did not understand. “They have very bad tempers.”

“When I hired you, you assured me you were very popular with the people of the desert,” Lander said, crawling the rest of the way from beneath the tent.

As he stood, he noticed that a gray haze was spreading northward from the southern horizon. In Sembia, his home, such a cloud signaled the approach of a storm. He hoped it meant the same thing in the desert, for a little rain might break the oppressive heat.

Turning his attention back to his guide, he said, “Are you telling me you lied, Bhadla?”

Bhadla shrugged and looked away. “No one can say what the Bedine will do.”

“I can,” Lander countered.

Musalim scoffed. “How could you? Bhadla cannot even tell which tribe this—”

Bhadla cuffed his assistant for this indiscrete admission. In the language of his people, the D’tarig said, “Watch your tongue, fool!”

Though he wore a magical amulet that allowed him to comprehend and speak D’tarig, Lander feigned ignorance. Since both of his guides spoke Common, the universal trade language of Toril, he had seen no reason to let them know he could understand their private conversations.

“I do not need to know the name of this tribe to know they will kill those who loot their dead,” Lander said, looking pointedly from one D’tarig to the other.

The hands of both guides unconsciously brushed the pockets hidden deep within their burnooses. “What do you mean, Lord?” Musalim asked suspiciously.

Lander smiled grimly. “Nothing, of course,” he replied. “But if I had taken anything off the bodies of the dead—rings off their fingers or jewels from their scabbards, for example—I would also be anxious to leave.”

Musalim furrowed his barely visible brow, but Bhadla seemed unimpressed. “Bah!” the older D’tarig said. “The survivors will think the raiders took these things.”

Lander looked toward the sand dunes. “I don’t think so,” he said. The figure that had been watching them all morning was gone—but not far, he suspected. “They’ve seen with their own eyes who looted the dead.”

Musalim’s eyes opened wide. “No, Lord!”

“I’m no lord,” Lander snapped. “Don’t address me as if I were.”

Bhadla’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lying.”

“Not at all,” Lander replied. “My father was a wealthy but untitled merchant of Archenbridge, and my mother was … well, there’s no need to discuss her. Let’s just say I’m no lord.”

Bhadla shook his turbaned head angrily. “I don’t care if your mother was a goat who gave milk of silver and urine of gold!” he yelled. “Were the Bedine watching or not?”

Lander flashed a conciliatory smile. “I never lie.”

The D’tarig uttered a curse in his own throaty language, then began pulling jewels and rings out of his pockets. Laying the booty on the camel-wool tent at Lander’s side, he hissed, “You should have told us!”

“You shouldn’t have taken it,” Lander replied.

“It’s not our fault,” Musalim complained, also emptying his pockets. “Those who attack should take the plunder, not leave it to tempt us. Who razes an entire camp and steals nothing but camels?”

Studying the devastated oasis with a grim expression, Lander answered, “The Zhentarim.”

“Black Robes?” Bhadla echoed. “They couldn’t have done this. They’re just traders.”

Lander could understand Bhadla’s misconception. The D’tarig lived on the fringes of Anauroch. They survived by goat herding, but the most adventurous and greedy ventured into the Great Desert. These “desert walkers” collected resin from cassia, myrrh, and frankincense trees, then sold it to merchants sponsored by Zhentil Keep. The Zhentarim resold it to temples all over the realms for use as incense. As far as the D’tarig knew, the Black Robes were nothing more than good merchants.

“The Zhentarim are much more than traders,” Lander explained, turning to face Bhadla. “They’re an evil network of thieves, slave-takers, and murderers motivated by power, lust, and greed. They rule hundreds of towns and villages, control the governments of a dozen cities, and have placed spies in the elite circle of practically every nation in Faerûn.”

Musalim shrugged. “So?”

“The Zhentarim want to monopolize trade and control politics over all of Faerûn,” Lander said. “They want to make slaves of an entire continent.”

Dumping his last ring onto the collapsed tent, Bhadla said doubtfully, “I don’t believe that. Wealth is one thing, but who would want the trouble of so many slaves?”

The Sembian shook his head. “I don’t know why the Zhentarim want what they want, Bhadla,” he said. “Maybe they’re working on Cyric’s behalf.”

“What is this Cyric?” interrupted Musalim, still searching the hidden pockets of his robe.

“He was once a man, but now he’s a god—the god of death, murder, and tyranny,” Lander answered.

“In the desert, he is called N’asr,” Bhadla explained.

Musalim nodded thoughtfully, as if the god’s involvement explained everything.

“The Bedine claim N’asr is the sun’s lover,” Bhadla continued. “The sun, At’ar, forsakes her lawful husband every night to sleep in N’asr’s tent.”

Lander ran his fingers over the blisters on his sunburned face. “I don’t doubt it,” he said, squinting up at the sky. “She certainly seems brutal enough to be Cyric’s lover.”

“Perhaps N’asr, er, Cyric has sent the Zhentarim into the desert to kill At’ar’s husband,” Musalim suggested. “Jealously has caused many murders.”

Lander chuckled. “I don’t think so, Musalim. In this case, I think they’re after gold.”

“Gold?” Bhadla queried, perking up. “There’s none of that in Anauroch, is there?”

“They’re not looking for gold in the desert,” Lander explained. “They’re going to carry it across the desert.” He pointed westward. “Over there, two thousand miles beyond the horizon, lies Waterdeep, one of many cities of great riches.” Next, he pointed eastward. “Over there, five hundred miles from the edge of the desert, are Zhentil Keep, Mulmaster, and the other ports of the Moonsea. They serve as the gateways to the ancient nations of the Heartlands and to the slave-hungry lands of the South.”

The two D’tarig frowned skeptically, and Lander guessed that the desert-walkers were having trouble imagining a world of such scope. “In the center of all these cities are six-hundred miles of parched, burning sands that fewer than a dozen civilized men have ever crossed.”

Musalim picked up a handful of sand and let it slip through his fingers. “You mean these sands?”

“Yes,” Lander confirmed. “And whoever forges a trail through this desert controls the trade routes linking the eastern and western sides of Faerûn.”

“There you are mistaken,” Bhadla said, his eyes sparkling with faintly kindled avarice. “The land surrounding the desert belongs to the D’tarig, so we will control this trade.”

“If you think the Zhentarim will honor your territorial rights, you are the one who is mistaken,” Lander said. “When the time comes, they will find a way to steal your land.”

“You underestimate us, Lord,” Bhadla said. “The Zhentarim may have cheated many in your land, but they cannot beguile the D’tarig.” As if he had said all that needed to be said on the matter, the guide turned to Musalim. In D’tarig, he asked, “Have you returned all you took from the Bedine?”

“Yes,” Musalim answered, a note of melancholy in his voice.

Bhadla turned back to Lander, then took the Sembian’s arm and tugged him toward their camels. “Come, it is time for us to ride.”

Lander refused to budge. “I’m waiting for the Bedine.”

“If they have not come by now, they are not going to,” Musalim said. “They are a shy people, and the survivors of what happened here are certain to be more so.”

“There are two more oases within two days’ ride,” Bhadla added. “Perhaps another tribe will be camped at one of them.”

Lander’s stomach tightened in alarm. “Where are these oases?”

Bhadla pointed in the direction the Zhentarim had taken after destroying the camp last night.

Without speaking a word, Lander started toward the oasis pond, where the camels were tethered. Previously he had been puzzled by the Zhentarim’s quick departure last night. Now he realized they were trying to reach the next tribe before it learned of the slaughter at this oasis.

When Bhadla and Musalim caught up to him, Lander glared at the guides. “Why didn’t you tell me about the other oases earlier?”

Bhadla shrugged. “I would have, if you had told me we were being watched.”

Irritated by the D’tarig’s reply, Lander quickened his pace. “Don’t fill more than three waterskins,” he snapped. “We’ll have to ride hard to beat the Zhentarim to the next oasis, and the extra weight will only slow us down.”

Musalim pointed at the haze on the southern horizon. “But, Lord, we may need a lot of water. That storm could force us to stop for several days!”

“We’re not going to stop because of a little rain.”

Bhadla snickered. “Rain? In Anauroch?”

“That’s a sandstorm!” added Musalim.

The trio reached the camels a moment later, and the beasts lowered their heads to the water for one last drink. Lander undid the tethers of his mount, then paused to look southward. The haze was creeping steadily forward, streaking the sapphire sky with gray, fingerlike tendrils.

“I don’t care if it’s a firestorm,” the Sembian said. “It’s not going to stop us.”

In the end, the D’tarig insisted upon filling six waterskins, but at Lander’s direction, they agreed to push their camels along at a trot. The trio covered more than a dozen miles by early afternoon, and the sands paled to the color of bleached bones. The dunes changed orientation so that they ran east-west and towered as high as five hundred feet. Lander was glad their path ran parallel to the great dunes rather than across them. The Sembian felt sure that scaling one of the steep, shifting slopes would have been as hard on the camels as trotting for an entire day.

The dunes’ great size did not make them any less barren. The only sign of vegetation was an occasional parched bush that had been reduced to a bundle of sticks by an untold number of drought years. Even the camels, which usually tried to eat every stray plant they happened upon, showed no interest in the desiccated shrubs.

The storm crept closer, obscuring the sky with a haze that did nothing to lessen the day’s heat. The blistering wind, blowing harder with each passing hour, felt as though it had been born in a swordsmith’s forge. On its breath, it carried a fine silt that coated the trio’s robes with gray dust and filled Lander’s mouth with a gritty thirst that he found unbearable. Soon he was glad his guides had insisted upon filling extra skins, for he found himself sipping water nearly constantly.

Bhadla slowed his camel and guided it to Lander’s side, leaving Musalim fifty yards ahead in the lead position. The D’tarig always insisted upon riding a short distance ahead to scout. Lander did not argue, for it spared him their constant, inane chatter.

“This is going to be a very bad storm, Lord,” Bhadla said. “I fear that, when it grows dark, we will have to stop or lose our way. There will be no stars to guide us.”

“Don’t worry. I will always know which direction we are traveling.” He purposely did not tell his guide about the compass he carried, for he suspected the D’tarig would steal such a useful device at the first opportunity.

Bhadla shook his head at his employer’s stubbornness. “It may not be as important to beat the Zhentarim to the next oasis as you think,” he said. “Bedine scouts range far. They probably know of the Black Robes already.”

“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 Faerûn, 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 Faerûn.

“The Harpers oppose the Zhentarim because they trade in slaves and because they hope to subvert the free nations of Faerûn. 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 Faerûn 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 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.

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, resentftil 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 his 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.