Troy Denning - The Harpers 1 - The Parched Sea

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The Parched Sea

Book 1 of The Harpers

A Forgotten Realms novel by Troy Denning

Formatted and proof-read by BW-SciFi

Ebook version 1.0

Release Date: November, 14th, 2003

Lander glimpsed a dark figure rising out of the sand. It was about the size of a man, but its legs and

arms seemed to stick from its body at peculiar angles, like a reptile's.

The Harper needed to see no more to know that Musa-lim, and probably Bhadla, too, had ridden into an

ambush. He slapped the flat of his sword against his camel's shoul-der, but the sluggish beast refused to

charge. The shadow raised a crossbow, and a pair of yellow, egg-shaped eyes flashed in the dark night.

The bolt took Lander below the right collarbone, nearly knocking him from his saddle. His arm went

numb, and the sword dropped from his hand. Two more shadows rose out of the blowing sand.

THE HARPERS

A semi-secret organization for Good, the Harpers fight for freedom and justice in a world populated by

tyrants, evil mages, and dread creatures beyond imagination.

Each novel in the Harpers Series is a complete story in itself, detailing some of the most unusual and

compelling tales in the magical world known as the Forgotten Realms.

Also by Troy Denning

WATERDEEP

(As Richard Awlinson)

DRAGONWALL

THE PARCHED SEA

Troy Denning

THE PARCHED SEA

All flights Reserved.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely

coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other

unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written

permission of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the book trade in the United States by Random House, Inc., and in Canada by Random

House of Canada, Ltd.

Distributed in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.

Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.

Distributed to the book trade in the United Kingdom by Random Century Group.

Cover Art by Fred Fields

DRAGONLANCE and FORGOTTEN REALMS are registered trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

The TSR logo is a trademark owned by TSR, Inc.

First Printing: July, 1991

Printed in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-71500

987654321

ISBN: 1-56076-087-2

TSR, Inc. TSR Ltd.

P.O. Box 756 120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

Lake Geneva, Cambridge CB1 3LB

WI 53147 U.S.A. United Kingdom

For Barry, who's always been a great brother.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Jon Pickens for burying me beneath a mountain of research material, all of

which proved crucial; Jim Lowder for being so courteous with his scalpel; Lloyd Holden of AKF

Martial Arts in Janesville, WI for recognizing the techniques in the fight scenes; and most

especially Andria Hayday, for not killing me in my sleep when the words wouldn't come.

One

Ruha woke abruptly, unsure of what had disturbed her languorous nap. The young woman lay next to

her sleeping husband, their bodies touching at the hip and shoulder. She turned to look at his weathered

face. Ajaman had the rough skin and thick mustache of a mature man, but his hairless chest was young,

lean, and muscular. He was the only man Ruha had ever seen undressed.

As the young wife gazed at her husband, her vision suddenly blurred. An instant later, it cleared and the

face of another man appeared in place of Ajaman's. She gasped in astonishment, but did not cry out.

The stranger's visage was unlike any she had ever known. His skin was red and sun-blistered, with a

creamy white underlayer showing through where he had peeled. A black patch covered his right eye, and

his left eye was as blue as the desert sky. Though his fea-tures were drawn and haggard, they were not so

care-worn that he could have been more than twenty-five.

Any other bride would have run screaming from her new home, concluding that her father had married

her to a djinn—but not Ruha. She had been suffering visions since before she could walk, so she recognized

the image for what it was: a mirage from tomorrow. Sometime soon, the stranger would appear. What

would happen then, Ruha could not say, though she knew it would be some mishap or catastrophe. She

lacked the talent to interpret the mi-rages, but nothing good had ever followed one.

Her first vision had been of thousands of butterflies. The butterflies had turned out to be moths, and

within two months every yard of cloth in the tribe was full of holes. Another time, during a terrible drought,

she had seen a vast green meadow to the south of the tribe. Her father, the sheikh, had taken the herds in

search of the fresh pas-turage. After a week of thirsty riding, they had finally found the meadow. It was on

the edge of a contaminated pool, and half of their camels had died from drinking poisoned water.

Not surprisingly, Ruha had come to regard her premoni-tions as more of an affliction than a gift. Without

giving the vision further thought, the young wife shut her eyes tightly and hoped it would pass.

Ajaman stirred beside her. "Is something troubling you, my wife?"

The heat rose to Ruha's cheeks, for being addressed as "wife" gave her a capricious feeling that she

found embar-rassing.

Opening her eyes, she was relieved to see Ajaman in-stead of the one-eyed man. The young bride

smiled and answered, "Nothing we should worry about."

She said nothing of her vision, for she did not want Aja-man to blame her for whatever misfortune the

one-eyed stranger was bringing. Besides, the desert tribes were wary of magic, and if her new husband

suspected her of being a witch, he would cast her from his tent.

Abruptly Ajaman glanced at his nude body, then blushed. He reached for his aba, the loose-fitting robe

of the Bedine tribes, and pulled it over his head. The couple had only been married for two days, and the

bride knew it would be many weeks before they felt completely comfortable to-gether.

Ruha sat up and pulled her own aba over her nakedness, then studied her new khreima with a warm

feeling of satis-faction. The dimly lit tent was nearly empty, for she and her husband had not yet acquired

many possessions. A dozen cushions lay scattered over the ground carpet, her loom and cooking pots rested

in one corner, and Ajaman's weapons dangled from hooks on the wooden tentpoles.

The afternoon breeze drummed gently at the khreima, and Ruha heard feet scuffling outside. Several

men began whispering to each other in jocular tones, probably specu-lating as to why the tent was closed on

such a hot day. Irri-tated by the men's presence, Ruha lifted her chin toward the entrance.

"We have visitors," she said. By the custom of her peo-ple, only her husband could welcome guests to

their khreima.

Ajaman nodded. "I hear them." Turning to the entrance, he called the host's traditional greeting, "Has

somebody come to my khreima in need of help?"

"Time for the watch," came the reply. Ruha didn't rec-ognize the deep voice, but that was to be

expected. She had not been a member of the Qahtan tribe until her mar-riage.

Ajaman scowled. "It can't be dusk so soon."

"You have the night watch?" Ruha asked, frowning at the memory of her premonition. "We've only been

married two days. Let someone else take the duty."

"And shame our family so soon?" Ajaman replied, rising from the carpet.

Given her husband's reply, Ruha knew arguing the point would do no good. If Ajaman considered the

watch a matter of family integrity, even the certain knowledge of impend-ing death would not have stopped

him from going. Like all Bedine, he considered honor more important than his life.

"Besides," Ajaman added, "there is danger of raiding to-night. The Mtair Dhafir is not the only khowwan

within rid-ing distance, you know."

The Mtair Dhafir was the tribe of Ruha's father. Her marriage to Ajaman had sealed an alliance

between their tribes. There would be no raiding between the two khowwans while both Ajaman and Ruha

lived. Unfortu-nately, there were many other tribes with whom the Qahtan had no such ties.

It was not raiding that worried Ruha, however. By his pale skin, she knew that the one-eyed foreigner

did not be-long to any Bedine tribe. Whatever his reason for coming to the camp of the Qahtan, it was not

intertribal raiding.

"Come, Ajaman," grumbled the deep voice outside. "We're due at our posts."

Ajaman took his keffiyeh off its hook and slipped the white head-cloth over his hair. Ruha stood and

straightened it so the long apron hung square across his shoulders. "Stay alert, Ajaman," she said. "I would

be disappointed if you let some boy cut your throat."

Ajaman grinned. "Have no fear of that, Ruha," he re-plied, reaching for his scimitar. "I watch from El

Ma'ra's crown. I'll see our enemies from miles away."

Ruha knew the place to which her husband referred. A mile outside the oasis, a lonely spire of yellow

sandstone towered more than one hundred feet over the desert. That pinnacle was El Ma'ra Dat-ur Ojhogo,

the tall god who lets men sit upon his head.

Keeping her voice low so she would not be overheard, she said, "After dark, I'll bring you apricots and

milk."

Ajaman nearly dropped his scabbard belt. "You can't do that!"

"Why not?" the young bride demanded. "Is there any shame in a wife bringing food to her husband?"

Ajaman scowled at the challenge to his authority. "There is enough shame in violating your purdah," he

countered.

"The purdah is to keep frightened young brides from re-turning to their father's khowwan," Ruha said.

"I am hardly frightened, and I have no desire to go back to the Mtair Dhafir. You have no need to isolate

me."

"I know," Ajaman whispered, his tone losing its earlier sternness. "But if someone should see you—"

"I'll say you told me to bring you supper," Ruha respond-ed slyly.

Seeing that his wife would not be denied, Ajaman sighed. "If all women of the Mtair Dhafir are this

willful, perhaps they are the ones who should pay camels the next time they send us a bride."

Ruha smiled, pleased that her new husband was not the type to bully his wife. The young bride had no

idea how she could safeguard Ajaman from whatever the vision pres-aged, but at least she would be with

him to watch for omi-nous signs.

As Ajaman fastened his scabbard belt, Ruha kissed him. "How much supper should I bring?"

"What you can carry easily," Ajaman answered, still whispering.

Outside the tent, the deep-voiced man called, "Ajaman, quit your bed games and come to the watch!"

The exhorta-tion brought laughter from a dozen throats.

"How many men does it require to fetch you, my hus-band?" the bride asked, irritated by the intrusive

gathering outside the khreima. Though Ruha had addressed Ajaman, she had intentionally spoken loud

enough for the men to hear. They tried to pretend they had not heard her com-plaint, as it was forbidden for

a bride in purdah to speak directly to any man except her husband. Despite their ef-forts, several men

could not stifle snickers.

Ajaman raised an eyebrow, but did not seem upset by Ruha's audacity. He covered the appearance of

impropriety by repeating her question, "My wife wishes to know how many men are required to summon

me."

"More than we have brought, apparently," the deep-voiced man returned. "To keep you from your duty,

she must truly be as beautiful as her father promised."

Ruha smiled at the man's comment. Her father had also promised her that she would be pleased with

Ajaman. So far, it appeared that her sire was as skilled at matchmaking as at camel herding.

Picking up his quiver and bow, Ajaman beamed at his new bride. "Indeed, my wife's father comes from

an hon-orable family," he called. "It is a pity you cannot see how well he keeps his promises, Dawasir. My

words cannot de-scribe her."

Ruha's smile vanished with her husband's words. The comment made her feel as if she were on display.

Like all Bedine women, Ruha reserved her beauty for her hus-band's eyes alone. Outside her home, the

curves of her firm body would always remain concealed beneath her bag-gy aba. A shawl and veil would

hide her sable hair, her proud nose, and the strong features of her statuesque face. All Dawasir or his

comrades would ever see of Ruha were her sultry eyes and, perhaps, the crossed hash marks tat-tooed on

her regal cheeks. She could not help feeling be-trayed by Ajaman's boasting.

Ruha caught her spouse by his sleeve and pulled his ear close to her mouth. "If you don't watch your

tongue, my husband," she whispered, "your friend Dawasir is not the only one who won't see how well my

father keeps his promises." Her tone was serious enough to make Ajaman heed her words, but also light

enough not to sound like an insult or challenge.

Ajaman clutched at his breast, feigning a wound. "Your words have pierced me deeper than a raider's

arrow," he responded, his mouth upturned in a roguish smile. "I shall die with your name upon my lips."

Laughing, the bride pressed her mouth to her husband's. "I'd rather you die with my kiss on your lips

than my name."

Ruha retrieved Ajaman's amarat from its hook. Before giving it to him, she stopped to run her hand

along its hand-carved curves. The horn was already the source of her fon-dest memory, for when Ajaman

had come to claim her as his bride, he had announced his arrival by sounding the amarat a mile outside the

Mtair Dhafir's camp. Its brazen tones had been Ruha's first hint that she would like her new husband, for

she had not even met him before he came to take her away.

Their marriage had been arranged by fate, or so her fa-ther claimed. A waterless summer in the north

had driven Ajaman's tribe, the Qahtan, into the sands traveled by the Mtair Dhafir. Instead of chasing the

strangers away, Ruha's father had proposed an alliance. In return for the Qahtan's promise to return north

at summer's end, the Mtair Dhafir would share their territory for a few months. The bargain had been

sealed by Ruha's marriage to Ajaman, the son of the Qahtan's sheikh by his second wife.

What the Qahtan had not realized was that they were solving another problem for their new allies.

Witches were no more welcome in the Mtair Dhafir than any other Be-dine khowwan, and Ruha had

always been a problem for her father. When the strangers wandered into Mtair terri-tory, the sheikh seized

the opportunity to marry his daugh-ter into a tribe that had no way of knowing about the visions she

suffered. Of course, her father was risking a blood feud if the Qahtan ever found out that she was a witch.

Since it was in the best interest of everyone involved in the decep-tion to keep the matter hidden, he was

willing to make the gamble. It was a risk that Ruha intended to see that he never regretted.

As she hung her husband's horn around his neck, Ruha pushed him toward the khreima exit. "You'd

better go be-fore Dawasir comes in to get you," she whispered. "I'll join you after dark."

"Don't let anyone see you," Ajaman said, turning to leave. "It might not dishonor our family, but it would

em-barrass me."

Ruha shook her head at his unnecessary concern. Aja-man had no need to worry, but could not be

blamed for his apprehension. He did not realize that his wife could shroud herself in the shadow of a dune,

or that an owl would envy the silence with which she slipped through the desert night. The young husband

could not have known these things, for he did not know of the magic that made them possible or of the old

woman who had taught Ruha how to use the spells.

Ruha's marriage to Ajaman was not the first time her fa-ther had tried to find another place for her to

live. Her mother had died when she was only five. Because of her premonitions, none of the sheikh's other

wives would agree to raise her. Her father was left with no choice but to give up the young girl. He led the

tribe to a remote water-ing hole where an old witch lived in exile.

Like most "shunned women," the witch was lonely, so she gladly agreed to take the child as her own.

With a pecu-liar blend of love and forgetful indifference, Qoha'dar set about teaching Ruha how to survive

alone in the desert—a talent that relied heavily on the use of magic. By the time Ruha reached the age

between childhood and womanhood, she could conjure sand lions, summon wind dragons, and scorch her

enemies with the heat of the desert.

In Ruha's sixteenth year, Qoha'dar passed away. For several months, the lonely girl pored over

Qoha'dar's books. Without the old woman to explain the runes and act as a guide, however, most of the

effort was wasted. In all that time, Ruha learned only how to make a wall from wind and dust.

After accidentally enlarging a scorpion to the size of a camel and spending twenty-four hours hiding

from it in a rock crevice, Ruha realized that sand magic was no substi-tute for companionship. She decided

to return to the Mtair Dhafir, pretending that her premonitions had stopped.

Ruha made copies of her favorite spells by sewing them inside her aba, then hid her mentor's books in

the founda-tion of an ancient ruin. As much as she hated to abandon tomes of such value, there was no

other choice. If she brought the books along, her tribe would never believe her curse was gone.

Unfortunately, after spending a year locating her father's khowwan, she discovered that the memories

of her tribes-men were long. Less than a week after Ruha had entered camp, half the families threatened

to leave if she remained. Although the sheikh had no desire to abandon his child, he was forced to consider

the wishes of the malcontents. If he allowed the khowwan to split, both halves would become easy prey for

raiders from other tribes.

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TheParchedSeaBook1ofTheHarpersAForgottenRealmsnovelbyTroyDenningFormattedandproof-readbyBW-SciFiEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:November,14th,2003Landerglimpsedadarkfigurerisingoutofthesand.Itwasaboutthesizeofaman,butitslegsandarmsseemedtostickfromitsbodyatpeculiarangles,likeareptile's.TheHarperneededtos...

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Troy Denning - The Harpers 1 - The Parched Sea

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