The widow suddenly gasped. "Lander!" she cried, pointing toward the entrance of the tent.
The Harper spun around, expecting the angry face of Sa'ar or Utaiba. Instead, he saw a slight figure wrapped head-to-foot in the black burnoose of a Zhentarim. The yellow eyes of a D'tarig gleamed out from the folds of the black cloth swaddling his head, and he held a gleaming jambiya in his hand.
"Bhadla?" Lander gasped. "How'd you get here?"
"The Zhentarim have ways of bypassing your sentries," he said. "And the rest of your warriors are either sleeping or staring into their campfires and singing their death songs. Perhaps you have one you would like to sing?"
The Harper laughed, instinctively reaching for his dagger. When he did not find it, he remembered that he had not yet put his belt back on.
"I don't have much of a voice," Lander said, unconcerned. If Bhadla was foolish enough to attack, he did not think being weaponless would cause him much trouble. "Surely, you didn't come here to listen to me sing. Have you come to beg for your-"
Behind him, Lander heard the sound of fabric being cut, and he knew the D'tarig had not come to beg for anything. Realizing that Bhadla was a distraction, the Harper spun around, stooping to reach for his dagger belt.
A black-robed figure, his sabre drawn, was just stepping through a slit in the khreima. Behind the first man, Lander could see another blade gleaming in the moonlight. The Harper did not pause to wonder how the invaders had managed to sneak past the sentries and into the camp. From what he had seen of Yhekal, the Zhentarim leader was a powerful spellcaster. There was little doubt that he could call upon his powers for the necessary spells to help a small band of assassins sneak into the Bedine camp.
Lander pulled his dagger from its scabbard, then started to move toward his scimitar.
"Step back, Lander!" Ruha ordered.
The Harper heard her chant the words to an incantation and did as instructed, realizing that the beautiful witch was better equipped than he to deal with a group of assassins. No sooner had he stepped aside than a fiery blast of air crackled past him, engulfing the intruders in a white blaze.
The Harper took an involuntary step backward, raising his arm to shield his face.
"Now you die!" Bhadla rasped, already directly behind him.
Lander sidestepped quickly, then felt the D'tarig's blade run along his ribs. The cut began to sting immediately. Groaning, the Harper dropped his raised arm down to clamp the D'tarig's knife hand.
With his free hand, the Harper grasped Bhadla's leathery wrist, then brought his knee up against the D'tarig's forearm and broke it with a loud snap. Bhadla screamed and dropped the dagger. Without setting his leg back down, Lander swept the would-be assassin's feet from beneath him, at the same time pulling forward on the broken arm. The D'tarig landed flat on his back directly in front of Lander.
Before the Harper could do anything else, Ruha stepped around him. Her jambiya flashed once, opening a six-inch gash across Bhadla's throat. Blood began pouring onto the same carpet that the Harper and the witch had been lying upon moments before.
"Are there any more?" Lander asked, scanning the sides of the tent.
"Wasn't that enough?" Ruha responded. "How badly are you hurt?"
Lander felt warm blood running over his fingers and realized that he was holding his wound. He pulled his hand away and looked at the cut. "Not bad," he said. "It's not-"
His rib cage erupted into agony, sending fiery fingers of pain shooting through his torso. He let out an involuntary groan, then stumbled backward and dropped into a seated position. The blaze was spreading through his body like a wildfire, and he could feel himself beginning to sweat.
Ruha rushed to his side. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Poison," the Harper croaked. Already, his mind seemed lost in hot vapors, and the roar of an immense blaze filled his ears. He could think well enough, though, to remember something Florin Falconhand had once told him: Zhentarim assassins often carried counteragents to their own toxins, for they were afraid of accidentally poisoning themselves.
Lander rolled onto his side and pulled himself toward the D'tarig. Ruha's hands were on his back, and she screamed something at him, but the firestorm in his head muffled her words.
"Antidote!" he gasped, finally latching onto Bhadla's lifeless arm. His vision had narrowed to a tunnel, and he could see nothing but the D'tarig's body at the end of his own long arm. He ran his fingers through Bhadla's robes, searching for a vial or a tin of powder.
"There is no antidote," said a woman.
Lander felt Ruha's hands brush his fingers aside, and he knew she was taking over the search. He sank back on his haunches and looked in the direction of the voice. "Who's there?"
"You know me." The voice was as sweet as the song of a morning dove.
The tunnel of Lander's vision closed altogether and became a white light. The light wavered for a moment, then took the shape of a ghostly, unveiled woman. "Mielikki?"
The Lady of the Forest nodded, coming closer. She kneeled at Lander's side, then wrapped her arms around his body and pulled him into her lap.
"Save me," he whispered.
"No."
"But the Zhentarim-we're not finished."
"You are," the goddess answered, stroking his brow.
The agony in Lander's body began to subside, and he realized that the fire was dying because it was running out of fuel. "I violated the taboo," he cried. "I slept with Ruha, and now the Bedine will pay."
The ghostly woman kissed Lander's forehead. He felt the last of his pain gather in his brow and flow out where her lips had touched his skin. "No, you helped a woman find her place," she whispered. "Now her people will have a chance at freedom."
Eighteen
Ruha heard two warriors rush through the entrance of the khreima. The young witch did not wait for them to ask what had happened. "Leave!" she ordered, hoping to hide the tears streaking down her bare face.
They did not obey. "What of the assassins?"
"All the Zhentarim are dead" Ruha answered, barely able to keep the grief out of her voice. "We have no need of help."
There was a silence as the two sentries studied the scene in the khreima.
"Go!" Ruha ordered. "Or must I use magic to ensure my privacy?"
The warriors withdrew, and Ruha finally felt free to cry. Her tears fell on Lander's brow, for she was kneeling on the bloody carpet where he had fallen. His lifeless head was cradled in her lap.
The fatal attack had come so suddenly that Lander was cut and Bhadla lying on the ground before the widow realized she had seen it happen once before. She had reached for her jambiya with a disjointed feeling of being a helpless spectator, and when she had cut the D'tarig open it had seemed as if she were watching someone else kill him. There had been an eerie quality to the whole fight that made it seem like a recurring dream, but, just as in a bad dream, she had not been able to change the outcome.
Looking toward the roof of the tent, Ruha let out an agonized sob. "If I can do nothing to change them, why do you torture me with mirages from tomorrow?" she cried. "If I knew where this loathsome sight came from, I would tear out the organ and fling it to the vultures!"
The gods did not answer, though Ruha had no doubt that they were watching her with cruel amusement. She sat staring at the khreima's roof for a thousand pained heartbeats, looking past it in her mind's eye to the starry sky above. "How much longer must I endure your curse?"
Again the gods remained silent, and the young widow dropped her eyes from the impassive roof. Her gaze fell on Bhadla's jambiya and then rested on the glistening blade. She remembered that Lander's death had been quick. No matter how painful the poison, it could not hurt any more than the grief she now felt. The widow reached for the dagger, still talking to the gods, "You always destroy those beloved to me and leave me with nothing. Why?"