The boy’s camels were couched near where he and Ruha had slept, though so much sand had gathered against their windward sides that they looked more like a string of miniature dunes than a line of dromedaries. Beyond the half-buried beasts, the fallen tents of the Qahtani were covered by small knolls of sand. The only clue to what lay beneath the drifts were protruding bits of dyed cloth. Mounds of yellow sand buried even the stone-covered graves Ruha and Kadumi had dug for Ajaman and his father’s family.
“I don’t think Kozah is angry with At’ar,” Ruha said, astounded by how tranquil the oasis looked compared to the gruesome scene she and Kadumi had found yesterday. “I think he is offended by the sight of the massacre.”
Kadumi’s mouth tightened, and he surveyed the oasis with narrowed eyes. “Then let us hope we can reach your father’s tribe before this caravan of fork-tongued monsters,” he said. “It would not be good if they made Kozah angry again.”
The boy glanced at the sky for several moments, then looked back to Ruha and said, “With the dust from yesterday’s storm still hanging in the sky, at least it will be a cool day. We’ll trot our mounts. With luck, we won’t lose them.”
Ruha caught his arm, concerned. Pushing camels hard over long distances dehydrated them, which could be fatal for both animal and rider if they happened to collapse too far from water.
“Do you think it’s wise to take such a risk?” she asked. “Even with favorable weather and extra mounts, we’re a day and a half behind the caravan. If the drivers know where they’re going and want to get there fast, we can ride all your camels to death only to find more corpses at Rahalat.”
“The Mtair Dhafir are allies of the Qahtan. It would be dishonorable not to alert them to the danger,” Kadumi said, freeing his arm. “Besides, I thought you’d want to warn your father’s tribe.”
“I do, but I don’t want to die trying—especially since the strangers could already be there.”.
“The caravan might have reached Rahalat already,” Kadumi conceded, “but I don’t think so. Whoever they are, they’re not from Anauroch, so I don’t think it’ll be easy for them to find the shunned mountain.”
“They found El Ma’ra easily enough,” Ruha pointed out.
Kadumi scowled. “Is there some reason you don’t want to go to the Mtair Dhafir?”
Behind her veil, Ruha bit her lip. Her brother-in-law was right, she realized. She was not anxious to return to the Mtair Dhafir because of the reception she would receive. Forcing herself to put aside her anxiety, the widow shook her head. “No, we must warn my father’s tribe. I just don’t want to risk our lives for no reason.”
“The caravan might be slower than you think,” he said, “or it might not know about Rahalat. We can’t tell about these things. The only thing we can do is get there as fast as we can.”
Kadumi turned toward his camels again. This time Ruha followed, feeling a little foolish at being lectured by a thirteen-year-old boy.
They wasted little time preparing to leave. While Kadumi watered his animals and filled half-a-dozen waterskins, Ruha packed some food and their belongings into a pair of kuerabiches. After tying the sacks onto a saddle, the pair mounted and, ignoring the bellowed protests of the camels, started westward at a trot.
The storm had spread a deep layer of shifting sand over the ground, but the unsteady footing did not bother their mounts. With the broad, fleshy pads of their feet, the camels sank less than two inches with each step and barely slowed their pace. Ruha and Kadumi rode all day, changing mounts every hour to avoid exhausting them. Other than these brief pauses, they did not stop. By midday, they had reached the region of the great white dunes, and by dusk Rahalat was poking its gray crown above the horizon.
They stopped long enough to eat a meal of camel’s milk and sun-dried fruits in weary silence, then continued their bone-jarring ride in the dark. They circled a few miles north, just to be sure that they did not overtake either the caravan or the one-eyed stranger. The pair did not stop or allow themselves any rest until the moon’s milky light began to fade and their sore backs felt like they would crack with the next step. When they did lie down, covering themselves only with their night cloaks, they did not even notice the bone-chilling cold.
They rose with At’ar and continued westward in the dawn’s ruddy light. Rahalat now loomed directly ahead, its gray crags obscuring the largest part of the western horizon. Ruha could even see the shunned mountain’s familiar slopes of loose rock and the boulders strewn about its base. Remembering that they had been nearly seventy miles away at this time the previous morning, the widow found it difficult to believe they had come so far so quickly.
Ruha and Kadumi rode for several more hours, and the sand gave way to stony ridges. As they started up the first rise at the base of the mountain, an amarat sounded. The pair stopped their camels side-by-side and waited for someone to challenge them.
“We made it,” Kadumi announced. “If guards are posted, there’s still a tribe.”
As he spoke, a short, gaunt sentry appeared from the other side of the ridge. He waved Ruha and Kadumi the last hundred yards up the hill, then awaited them with his hands on his hips.
As the widow and her brother-in-law reached the summit, Ruha recognized the sentry as Al’Aif, a ferocious warrior who had killed more men than anyone else in the tribe. The left side of his face was marred by four red scars where a lion had mauled him, and a sentry’s dagger had left his right eyelid folded over at the corner. Al’Aif was also one of the men who had insisted that Ruha be banished from the tribe.
For the moment, Al’Aif seemed content to ignore Ruha. He eyed Kadumi’s string of white camels appreciatively. “A fine string of goouds,” he commented to the boy, using the special term that applied to mature camels. “I have heard that the sheikh of the Bordjias lost ten white camels.”
Kadumi smiled proudly. “He did not lose them. Kadumi of the Qahtan took them,” the boy bragged.
The frank admission elicited an appreciative smile. “The Bordjias are our allies,” Al’Aif said. “I hope you did not kill many men when you stole them.”
Kadumi shrugged. “No, not many.”
Al’Aif chuckled at the boy’s swagger, then eyed Ruha. “I thought the Mtair Dhafir rid of you.”
“And I of them,” she answered, lifting her chin. “But I return out of duty, not desire, Al’Aif.”
Kadumi frowned at the apparent enmity between the two. “We are all that remains of the Qahtan. We have come to warn your sheikh of the danger that destroyed our tribe.”
Al’Aif raised an eyebrow. “Does this danger have to do with black-robed men and a caravan larger than ten tribes?”
“How did you know?” Ruha and Kadumi asked together.
Al’Aif pointed to the south. “They are camped at the Bitter Well. They have sent two jackals with tongues of sugared water to speak of alliances.” The Mtair gestured at one of Kadumi’s camels, then said, “If you’ll lend me a ride, I’ll take you to camp. I want the sheikh to speak with you as soon as possible.”
Al’Aif led the party to a gulch filled with the drooping, twiggy branches of ghaf trees and lined with tasseled sedges of qassis bushes. The tinkle of a tiny stream rang from the bottom of the draw, and the camels, thirsty from yesterday’s hard ride, bellowed angrily at not being allowed to stop and drink.
As the trio rode into camp, the old women and the children gathered outside their tents. When Ruha passed, many of them hissed and trilled disapprovingly. One little boy even yelled at her to go away.
Kadumi’s outrage showed on his scowling face. “This is a disgrace,” he uttered, addressing Al’Aif. “Do the Mtair Dhafir treat all their guests so wretchedly?”