“They’re going to cut us off!” the Harper said.
A concerned murmur rustled through the knot of warriors near Lander. The asabis were moving fast enough to overtake the camels, and trying to shoot so many before they passed would be hopeless.
Sheathing her weapons, Ruha said, “I can stop them.”
Without another word, the widow picked up two handfuls of sand and raised them high over her head. The warriors who had joined Lander in repulsing the asabi charge regarded her with suspicious expressions, but Ruha ignored them. She closed her eyes and recited her incantation, then began to hum in a steady, mournful note.
A soft hiss filled the canyon. By the light of the silver-white moon, Lander could see the sand piled on the ledges and shelves of the cliffs running down the rocks like the waterfalls of Archendale. Cursing and crying out in their guttural language, the asabis began dropping from the cliff-sides in tens and twenties.
The warriors began backing up the canyon, their eyes wide with disbelief and trepidation. Only one dared to say anything, and then a single word: “Witch!”
Twelve
In At’ar’s early radiance, the rocky minarets outside the Mouth of the Abyss showed the hue of dried blood. The spires cast long, midnight-colored stripes over the tawny hollow, plunging the first battlefield of the previous night into an eerie contrast of murky shadow and fervid color. A pall of silvery smoke hung over the campfires Sa’ar’s rearguard had kept burning all night, and the ghostly silhouettes of men and camels were just now taking on a more earthly form.
The Zhentarim had not returned during the night, and the asabis were still in the canyon. After Ruha’s spell had knocked the reptilian mercenaries from the cliff walls, the Raz’hadi and Mahwa had fled the chasm together. Only a handful of warriors from each tribe had been required to stay behind to keep the enemy from escaping.
With her brother-in-law and the Harper, Ruha sat in the middle of a circle formed by the sheikhs of the two victorious tribes and twenty of their blood-spattered warriors. Kadumi wore a bandage around his head, and the minor gashes on his arms and legs were still oozing a little blood. If Lander had not poured one of his healing potions down the boy’s throat earlier, Ruha doubted that the youth would even be conscious.
Despite last night’s triumph, a somber mood hung over the gathering. Sa’ar was conversing solemnly with his Raz’hadi counterpart, Sheikh Utaiba, regarding what should be done about Ruha and her companions. The warriors of both tribes sat without speaking, their eyes cast on the ground to avoid looking at the trio under discussion.
Ruha knew as well as the warriors did that when the sheikhs’ finished their discussion, she would be banished from the Raz’hadi and the Mahwa. Last night, dozens of warriors had witnessed her use a spell to knock the asabis from the canyon walls. Though her action had saved the two tribes, when it came to magic, Bedine tradition was universally clear. Witches and sorcerers were to be outcasts.
The only question in Ruha’s mind was whether or not Lander and Kadumi would be exiled with her. After all, her brother-in-law had been at the head of the column when it rode into the canyon, and the Harper had spearheaded the countercharge against the asabis. The widow thought that simple gratitude would dictate that their association with her be overlooked. For Kadumi’s sake, she hoped the sheikhs would agree—though it might mean that she would be separated from the Harper, at least until he was ready to return to Sembia.
Sa’ar cleared his throat, indicating that he and Utaiba were ready to announce their decision. “Last night, our warriors killed five hundred Zhentarim and five hundred of their asabis,” the sheikh began, wisely preceding what everyone knew would be a difficult decision with a positive statement.
Utaiba, a wiry man with a graying beard and piercing black eyes, nodded. “It was a great victory for our tribes, Sa’ar. Your warriors fought splendidly, and we Raz’hadi have reason to be glad they did.”
The warriors remained silent, a formality Lander did not observe. “The Mahwa and the Raz’hadi fought like lions,” he said, pausing to smile at the assembly of warriors. After allowing the warriors an opportunity to accept his praise, he continued, “Yet the Zhentarim still outnumber your warriors by ten-to-one.”
“This is true,” agreed Sa’ar, frowning at being drawn into a conversation when he had intended only to announce his decision. “But we lost less than two hundred warriors between both our tribes. It shall not be long before the odds are more to our liking.”
Lander shook his head. “Sheikh, you know that I wish it were so, but I must speak my heart in this matter. Last night you caught the Zhentarim unprepared. They will be ready for you the next time, and they will have magic.”
“What are you saying?” demanded Utaiba, squinting at Lander from beneath his coarse eyebrows. “Should we give them the run of the desert and stay out of the way? Is that what you would have us do?”
“No,” Lander answered calmly, turning his one good eye to meet the sheikh’s hard gaze. “I want you to drive them out of Anauroch. If you do not, more Zhentarim will follow these. Soon the sands will be crawling with black burnooses, and there will be no place left to graze your camels or fill your waterskins.”
“We intend to fight,” Sa’ar said, clenching his fist and holding it proudly in front of him. “If that is what you want from us, you can go home, berrani.”
From the sheikh’s sharp tone, Ruha guessed that home was exactly where he and Utaiba had intended to send Lander. She was impressed by the Harper’s diplomacy, for he had neatly turned what was to be a pronouncement of doom into a discussion of strategy. The widow did not think that his plan would work, of course, but she admired him for trying.
“I want the desert tribes to fight,” Lander said, pausing to gaze into the eyes of several nearby warriors. “But more than that, I want the Bedine to win!”
Several of the men murmured their agreement. As a man who had carried himself well in battle, Lander was entitled to a certain amount of respect, and he was making the most of it.
The warrior’s support was not lost on the sheikhs, who gave each other concerned glances before turning back to the Harper. Sa’ar said, “We have no intention of losing—”
“You may lose no matter what your intentions are,” Lander interrupted, laying a hand on Ruha’s shoulder, “unless you accept the magic that this woman can provide.”
Ruha saw the Harper’s influence slipping away as the jaw of warrior after warrior went slack in shock.
“You can’t win this argument,” she hissed. “Don’t even try.”
Lander ignored her and continued to address the assembly. “With their magic, the Zhentarim have an overpowering advantage.”
Ruha angrily shrugged his hand off her shoulder, then angrily shook her head. “What makes you think I want to help these tribes?” Her words were sharp, for she did not like being ignored—especially when it was her life that being discussed.
Lander faced her, not fazed. “Your people need magic, all they can get.”
“They are not my people,” Ruha retorted, glaring at Sa’ar and Utaiba. “They wouldn’t have me and I wouldn’t have them!”
“That is unfortunate—” the Harper began.
“And it is irrelevant,” interrupted Sa’ar, trying to retake control of the conversation. “Utaiba and I have a plan for defeating the Zhentarim that will not offend the gods. You may take Ruha and leave.” The sheikh glanced at Kadumi, then added, “This fine young warrior will be welcome in either of our tribes.”
“I go with Ruha,” Kadumi declared, starting to rise.
Without looking away from Sa’ar, Lander caught the youth’s wrist and gently restrained him. “As you know, I have come far and risked my life to warn the Bedine of their danger,” he said in a reasonable tone. “Would it be too much to ask in return to know the nature of your plan?”