The prisoner shrugged. “Somebody will have to run the caravans. I thought it might as well be me.”
A Bedine warrior stopped near their campfire to cut the throats of two unconscious Zhentarim. The prisoner watched the death of his comrades, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He looked to Lander with an unspoken question.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” the Harper replied. “The Bedine don’t take prisoners. If they don’t kill you tonight, you’ll die a worse death tomorrow. Perhaps if you help us …”
The fat man’s eyes grew angry. “Why should I tell you anything?”
“That’s up to you,” Lander shrugged. The best way to make a prisoner talk, he knew, was to make him think you did not need the information he was giving you. “I already know you number about fifteen hundred, you’re all hungry, you have fifteen hundred asabis—”
“Asabis?” the prisoner asked, grimacing at a wave of pain from his injured leg.
Lander pointed toward the canyon mouth. “The reptile mercenaries clearing the canyon.”
The merchant nodded. “They call themselves ‘laertis.’ ”
“Gruesome creatures,” Lander commented. “I thought they only lived in the middle of the desert.”
The Zhentarim moaned, then held his leg with his hands. “The laertis have tunnels everywhere. We picked those up a hundred miles outside Addas Babar. They crawled out of a deep well.”
Lander nodded, noting the similarity between the prisoner’s report and what Sa’ar had told him.
The prisoner licked his lips. “Do you have any water?”
“Of course,” Lander answered. He went to his camel and returned with a waterskin, then offered it to the portly man. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to die thirsty.”
The prisoner nodded his thanks, then opened the waterskin and began pouring the contents down his throat. The fat man drank so greedily that water spilled out of his mouth and ran down his grimy cheeks in waves.
Lander grimaced at the thought of wasting so much precious liquid on a dead man, then felt ashamed for being so hard-hearted.
When the man lowered the waterskin from his lips, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said, “I shall die a happy man. What do you want to know?”
Twenty minutes later, the Harper knew everything that the prisoner did about Yhekal’s plan. Lander had correctly guessed the Zhentarim’s intent to enslave the Bedine and even the size of their army. He also confirmed that the invaders were traveling at night because of their mercenaries.
The Harper learned two new things, as well. First, the asabis had to spend the day burrowed underground, either a few feet beneath the sand, in a cave, or sometimes huddled in a rock crevice. Second, when the Mahwa attacked, Yhekal had been in the camp and presumably fled with the rest of the Zhentarim. Unfortunately, he had sent a wizard, along with fifty human officers, into the canyon to lead the reptiles in the attack on the Raz’hadi.
After the prisoner had drunk the last of Lander’s water, his wounded leg sent a violent shudder of pain through his body and he cried out. The fat man waited for the wave to pass, then turned to Lander. “I’ve told you all I know of the Zhentarim,” he said, handing the empty skin back to the Harper. “If you are going to kill me, do it now. This leg is beginning to throb.”
Lander accepted the skin, saying, “I suppose that’s fair.”
The Harper took the waterskin back to his mount and hung it on the saddle, then drew his dagger and crept up behind the prisoner. Lander tried to move as quietly as possible, but he saw the Zhentarim flinch. The doomed man had sensed his presence. Nevertheless, the fat man continued to stare into the desert night.
Lander killed the Zhentarim merchant as quickly and painlessly as he could, plunging the straight blade of his dagger into the man’s heart from behind. Afterward he kneeled beside the body until the desert night began to chill him.
At last, the Harper cleaned his dagger on the dead prisoner’s robe, scoured the blood off his aba with a handful of sandy earth, then took his jellaba off his camel and put it on. When he felt ready to join Sa’ar, Lander urged his camel to its feet and led it to the campfire where the sheikh and his elder warriors had gathered.
As the Harper approached, Sa’ar turned with a broad smile. Lander saw that Kadumi stood in the middle of the sheikh’s entourage.
“Kadumi killed three men!” the sheikh announced.
“Good for him,” Lander replied, forcing a smile. “Let us hope he lives to kill many more.”
“My warriors counted just over five hundred dead,” Sa’ar reported proudly. “We lost only fifteen.”
“That means nearly a thousand Zhentarim escaped,” Lander said, turning his thoughts to the task at hand. “We’ll have to be careful that they don’t rally and return unexpectedly.”
Sa’ar frowned. “Do all your people look only at the bad side, Lander?”
“Five hundred dead is five hundred dead,” he said without emotion. “We’ll have to kill many more before we chase the Zhentarim from the desert. Now, how are we going to get your allies out of the canyon? There are fifteen hundred asabis and a powerful wizard in that canyon.” He pointed at a narrow crack leading to the Well of the Chasm.
Sa’ar turned his attention to the canyon. “If we could wait until morning, our task would be simple.”
“That, we cannot do,” said a gray-haired warrior with rotten teeth. “I sent my sons to scout along the rim of the canyon. From what they report, our allies are meeting the asabis in the canyon as we expected. My sons think the Raz’hadi will not last more than a few hours.”
“And in the morning light, the surviving Zhentarim will see our true number,” added another warrior. “If they returned, we would not survive long.”
Everyone nodded and muttered their agreement.
“Then we must attack tonight,” Sa’ar responded. “Gather your sons.”
“Wait,” Lander interrupted. “The canyon is too narrow for everyone to fight in at once, is it not?”
The old man with rotten teeth nodded. “That is so, berrani.”
“Then we lose nothing by leaving half of our warriors behind to defend our rear in case the Zhentarim return,” the Harper said. “It will do the Raz’hadi no good if we allow ourselves to be trapped in the canyon with them.”
The old man nodded. “This is a good plan.”
“Perhaps we can send some of them up to the canyon rim to fire arrows down at the asabis,” suggested another warrior.
Sa’ar paused and considered this plan, but it was Lander who said, “The canyon is very deep, and it will be very dark. How will your warriors tell their friends from the Zhentarim?”
“Amarats,” responded Kadumi, smiling. “When we blow our horns, the Raz’hadi will certainly respond. The warriors on the rim can fire between the horns.”
“And my horn will be the signal to stop,” Sa’ar said, grinning at the boy. “It is a good thing you are so young, my friend. When you are old enough, my warriors will want to make you sheikh.”
There was no mockery to the laughter that followed.
Sa’ar issued the necessary orders to his elder warriors, and they scattered to make their preparations. Realizing that Ruha’s magic might prove as useful in the battle to come as it already had tonight, Lander mounted his camel and returned to where he had left her. The widow was still staring at the dust cloud.
“How long can you keep that dust cloud going?” he asked. When Ruha did not respond, the Harper waved his hand at her face. “The battle’s over. You can let it down.”
Ruha looked away from the dark curtain, and the breeze died immediately. “To answer your question, the dust wall lasts as long as I can concentrate on it,” she said, rubbing her temples. “Which would not have been much longer.”