“I hope you’re right,” he said, crouching behind the ridge crest. “If I know the Zhentarim, they won’t stop searching until they’ve scoured every inch of the oasis. Let’s take care not to let them see us up here.”
Lander motioned for the other two to conceal themselves in the rocks, and they did as asked. Their hiding places overlooked not only the camp, but the approach up the ridge as well. Even if Rahalat did not keep the Zhentarim off the mountain, the Sembian felt confident that they would see the enemy in plenty of time to flee.
The trio crouched on the ridge for most of the morning, watching the specks below scurry about their business. Soon, the Zhentarim began butchering the Mtair Dhafir’s camels, and the breeze carried the smell of roasting meat up to them. Lander’s mouth began to water, bringing back the memory of the special feasts he and his father had once shared.
As a merchant, Lander’s father often ventured up the Arkhen River to purchase fruits, farm produce, and freshwater crabs. The people of the valley were haughty and arrogant, so Lander had often gone along on these trips to keep his father company. He and his father would sit in country taverns until late at night, eating roasted mutton and discussing the highest price they would pay for the next day’s goods. Even then, Lander had never believed his advice was truly needed, but he had looked forward to the trips eagerly. For the son of a traveling merchant, any opportunity to spend time with his father had been precious.
Unfortunately, the meat making Lander’s mouth water was camel instead of sheep, and Rahalat’s barren shoulder was a poor substitute for the humid valley of ferns and lilies. Now Archendale’s abundant orchards and sweet waters seemed a distant and fantastic mirage, much as Anauroch’s empty wastes and scorched mountains would have seemed a bad dream to him then.
The Sembian opened his waterskin and took a long drink, trying to wash the recollection away before it became distressing. It didn’t help. He was hungry and the smell of roasting meat automatically triggered memories of every feast he had ever eaten, especially memories he had thought long forgotten.
Trying to keep his mind focused on stopping the enemy’s plans in Anauroch, Lander began to count the specks in the camp below. Sooner or later, he knew, the Bedine would fight the Zhentarim. When they did, it would be useful for them to know just what they were up against.
It was not an easy task, for invaders kept moving from fire to fire. Occasionally, one patrol returned to camp and scattered to a dozen different fires to eat, while another group left to take its place. Lander found that he had to keep track of the Zhentarim by scratching a grid in the ground and moving pebbles from one place to another to represent every ten specks that moved.
As Lander was finishing his count, Kadumi crawled to his side and peered over the Sembian’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Counting the Zhentarim,” Lander replied.
“And how many are there?” asked Ruha, turning to face the pair.
Lander looked at the grid, then added the figures in his head. “I would guess about fifteen hundred.”
“Impossible!” Kadumi objected.
“At least we know why they’re so hungry,” Ruha said, studying the cooking fires down in the camp. “The largest khowwan I’ve ever heard of numbers only three hundred. The invaders will never find enough grazing to keep all their camels in milk.”
“Or enough game to fill their stewpots,” Kadumi added.
“They don’t need to,” Lander replied. “The Zhentarim don’t intend to be in the desert long. They’re carrying all the food they need on their camels.”
“You mean they’ll go away in a few months?” Ruha asked, her voice growing hopeful.
Lander shook his head. “No. A few months are all the Zhentarim need to complete their task. They’ll subdue a dozen khowwans, then use hostages, bribery, and violence to enslave the tribesmen. Once their powerbase is secure, they’ll take their army away and use the tribes they control to overpower the others. Before the Bedine realize what’s happened, the entire desert will belong to the Black Robes. The only way to stop them is to drive the Zhentarim from the desert.”
“Then the Bedine are doomed,” Kadumi said, pointing at the specks in the camp. “No tribe can stand against so many.”
Lander frowned and pulled the boy’s arm down. “Of course not. Any tribe that fights the Zhentarim alone will meet the same fate as the Mtair Dhafir and the Qahtan. We’ll need a hundred tribes.”
Ruha and Kadumi looked skeptical. “That’s impossible,” Kadumi said. “No tribe has that many allies.”
Lander shook his head. “Kadumi, this isn’t a matter of traditional alliances. Tribes that have never heard of each other must ride and fight under the same banner. They’re all battling a common enemy.”
“It will never—”
Ruha interrupted Kadumi’s reply with an alarmed gasp. Pointing over Lander’s back, she cried, “Look out!”
Lander reached for the jambiya at his waist with one hand and for his sword with the other. The effort made his wounded shoulder burn with agony. He clenched his teeth, then pulled the blades from their sheathes and spun around on his knees to meet the unseen attacker.
There was no one there. Fearing his enemy to be cloaked by invisibility, Lander jumped to his feet. He sliced through the air in front of him with the scimitar, then crossed the pattern with a slash from his dagger. Neither blade hit a target. Groaning with pain, Lander took one step backward and repeated the pattern first to his right and then to his left. Still nothing.
The Sembian backed away one more step. Kadumi moved next to him, scimitar drawn but held in a confused and tentative low guard.
“Where is it, Ruha?” Lander demanded.
There was no answer.
“Ruha, I can’t see it,” the Harper repeated.
When there was still no response, Lander hazarded a glance over his shoulder.
Ruha was staring at him as if he were ghost. Her eyes were glassy, and she had a confused, distant expression on her brow.
“Is something wrong?” the Harper asked, beginning to suspect that the cause for her alarm had not been an attacker. “Are you sick?”
The widow did not respond to the question. Instead, she looked him over from head to toe, then took the material of his filthy robe between her fingers. “Blessings to Rahalat,” Ruha said. “You’re alive.”
“Of course he is,” Kadumi said, scowling. “So am I. What made you think otherwise?”
Ruha shook her head, then said, “I saw a Black Robe behind Lander—or at least I thought I did. He had a dagger.” She squinted toward the sun, then shook her head. “It must have been At’ar.”
Kadumi sheathed his dagger and took his sister-in-law by the arm. “You’re getting sun-sick again,” he said. “Let’s find some shade and get you a drink of water.”
Ruha started to protest, then seemed to think better of it and allowed Kadumi to lead her off the ridge.
Lander crouched back down and peered over the rocky slope to the camp. To his relief, he saw no sign that the Zhentarim had not noticed their excitement. The flea-sized spots were still milling calmly about camp.
After assuring himself that they remained undetected, the Sembian found a hiding place on the shady side of a boulder. Gently rubbing his wounded shoulder, he drank down one of the healing potions Florin had given him, then followed it with a long swallow from his waterskin.
For the next few hours, Lander remained on watch while Kadumi tended Ruha. Nothing happened, save that a dozen vultures came to hover over the camp. With their red-rimmed eyes, nude heads, and snakelike necks, the birds normally appeared grotesque and repulsive to Lander. Watching them from above, as they circled a few yards below the ridge, was almost enough to change the Sembian’s opinion. Their magnificent wingspan, gleaming black feathers, and keen ebony eyes gave a proud, almost noble streak to their character.