85 The Great Desert

The expanse of dunes was an open ocean, marred by few landmarks. As Imir's pursuit party rode on and on for days, rationing food and water, the former soldan-shah wondered how the bandits could have disappeared. Where could they possibly hide out here? He assumed they must have split up into smaller groups, but he doggedly pressed on, following the main concentration of hoofprints.

The shifting winds stirred up small dust devils that blurred the traces of Norgo's passage. The desert men had gotten too great a head start, but Imir did not give up. Stinging grains of sand caught in his teeth, scoured his cheeks, made his eyes burn. When he stared toward the horizon, a golden glare reflected off the undulating dunes, but he saw no sign of hope.

The horses were all weary. Even the hardy desert breed could not go on indefinitely; by necessity, their water rations had been cut as well.

Riding alongside him, Soldan Xivir remained grim and quiet. Several times he had started to speak, but stopped himself. Imir knew what the man intended to say, but he didn't want to think about it, didn't want to give up. At last, Xivir pointed out, “Even if we turn around now, we will be sore pressed to make it back to Desert Harbor. Our supplies and water are almost gone. Our horses will die. We will die.”

Imir looked at his brother-in-law, narrowing dust-reddened eyes. “Once we find the bandit camp and rescue Adreala, we will take our supplies back along with their supplies. We'll have all we need.” It was their only hope.

Xivir fell silent, and they rode on into the dusk as the dunes grew higher, like shifting mountain ranges. Unstable surfaces yanked at the horses' hooves. Imir didn't want to stop and camp for the night, but the men were exhausted. One of the horses had already died, leaving its rider stranded so that he had to share another mount. Very soon, Imir knew, they would all begin to drop.

He hardened his heart and made a difficult decision. They would ride all night and continue to search, but once the sun rose he would have no choice but to turn around and hope that most of them survived the return journey.

Even though Adreala was still out there.

At midnight, under sharp starlight that silvered the dunes, they topped a rise and saw, unbelievably, an orange glow in the distance. Imir pulled his horse to a halt and stared. “By the Eye of Urec, we've found them!”

Soldan Xivir was nearly asleep in his saddle, but he perked up at the sight. “They're still a long way off, but if we get there before sunrise, we'll surprise them in the darkness.” He looked at Imir, and a decision flashed between them. They knew what a gamble this was—a gamble they had to take, and win.

The former soldan-shah spoke. “All right, men. Drink the last of your water, give your horses as much as you can. We need our strength right now, and the bandits will give us all we need for the trip back home.” Imir could only pray that the bandits were not as short of supplies as their hunters.

Feeling stronger from the water and food, as well as from the surge of hope, they picked up their pace and closed the distance. Norgo and his bandits had grown careless. After so many days, they must have convinced themselves that their pursuers had given up—and most men would have given up.

But Adreala was Imir's granddaughter. He had promised to keep her safe.

The campfire was small, just a few embers of dried horse dung, but in the utter emptiness it burned as bright as the blazing eye of a demon. Not far from the camp, the pursuers pulled their horses to a halt and whispered together. Imir let Soldan Xivir command his men. They would spread out, encircle, then converge upon the camp, striking simultaneously from several directions.

“Our most important goal is to save the girl,” Imir said. “Kill every one of the bandits if you can, but if there is any choice as to what you must do, Adreala is your priority. She is the daughter of your soldan-shah.”

The men muttered their agreement and drew curved swords, ready to charge. Imir raised his own blade in front of him. With his heart pounding and blood boiling, he was ready.

They approached quietly. The riders prepared to move in from several directions as soon as they heard the bandits' animals snorting and shifting. One of the groggy rogues rose to see what was troubling their mounts. Before the man could sound an alarm, Imir yelled, “Adreala! We're coming!”

Taking advantage of their surprise, the Missinian horsemen pounded forward to the tiny camp. As he rode into the hollow in the dunes, Imir saw a few rocks and a small seep of water that reflected the weak flames. Black soot marks of old campfires suggested that the bandits used this oasis often, though the spring wasn't enough to support more than a few scrawny weeds and a bit of algae.

The astonished bandits leaped up from the sands, grabbing for their weapons. Imir enjoyed the ironic turnabout. Now they were the bold raiders sweeping down on unsuspecting sleepers in a desert encampment. The pursuers closed in, swords flashing, and struck down several of the bandits within the first few seconds. One of Soldan Xivir's men had the presence of mind to yank loose the picket line that tied the bandits' horses and began leading them off so the desert men would have no easy means of escape.

With a burst of joy, Imir spotted his granddaughter lying against a soft dune face, propped up, bound but not gagged. The girl looked gaunt, frightened, and exhausted—but alive and uninjured. She struggled against her bonds and shouted with savage glee, “I told you they would come!”

The bandits tried to rally, and Imir identified ugly Norgo by the remnants of paint on his face. When he saw the former soldan-shah coming, the rogue leader flashed a crooked grin, then scrambled up the soft side of the dunes behind him. He fled into the night, leaving his men to fight for themselves.

Though Imir wanted to skewer the bandit leader on the tip of his scimitar, his priority was to free his granddaughter. Slipping off his horse, Imir raced to the girl. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”

Adreala had already managed to loosen her bonds, slickening them with the blood that oozed from scrapes on her wrists. “He tried to, Grandfather—but I gave him a few bruises and a cracked rib.”

“Thank Ondun!” Imir finished cutting her ropes and lifted her to her feet.

Adreala swayed, her legs weak from excitement and privation, but her gaze seemed to burn. Her eyes suddenly widened. “Look out!”

A bandit lunged toward him, brandishing a dagger; Imir knocked the girl out of the way and struck with his scimitar. Before he knew what he was doing, Imir severed the man's hand at the wrist. The bandit continued to thrust his bleeding stump forward, then saw that he had lost not only his dagger, but his hand. Shrieking, he collapsed, and Imir neatly dealt him a finishing blow.

Adreala struggled back to her feet. “Norgo's getting away!”

Convinced that his granddaughter was safe, Imir peeled the dagger from the limp fingers of the bandit's severed hand on the ground. He handed her the weapon. “Take this, use it if you have to. Stay with the soldan's men—I'm going after Norgo.”

Imir slogged up to the dune top at the edge of the bowl. When he finally crested the rise, he saw the man's dark shape several ridges away, racing across the peaks and slipping down into the valleys between dunes. Norgo was nimble, able to dance across the shifting sand before ascending another line in a sidelong, zigzag motion.

Panting hard, Imir ran after him, but his throat and lungs were burning. Still weak from reduced rations and lack of water, he tumbled down a dune face and saw the bandit leader's footprints leading off into the emptiness. His heart sank with the realization that he would not be able to capture the man. He cursed himself for not having taken his horse, but he wasn't thinking clearly.

Still, he nodded to himself with bittersweet satisfaction. Without a horse or rations, the bandit leader would not last long. He could never survive out here.

Far behind, Imir could still hear the remnants of fighting, and with a heavy heart, he decided to go back to Adreala. That was most important to him.

By the time he made his way to the pitiful oasis, the bandits had been slain, their horses captured by Xivir's men. The exhausted Missinian soldiers were sharing out the food supplies they had seized. Some filled waterskins from the seeping spring, nudging aside the horses that were trying to drink.

Soldan Xivir looked at the dead bodies sprawled on the sand. Every one of the bandits was dead, either killed in battle or executed afterward. With a pragmatic shrug, he said, “We didn't have the wherewithal to take prisoners back to Desert Harbor.”

Imir wasn't concerned. “Why waste time? I would have ordered their execution anyway.” He regarded the small spring, the old campfires. “Before we go, I want this water blocked, the seep plugged up and buried so that bandits can no longer take advantage of it.” Imir looked over his shoulder and comforted himself with the fact that Norgo would perish from hunger and thirst, a long and lingering death out there in the sands.

As he fled into the vast wasteland, abandoning his camp and his men, the bandit leader laughed. The arrogant Missinians had surprised him, and his comrades had fought well, though not well enough.

Norgo had seen the old man chasing him, but no civilized man would ever catch him out here. Those soft people didn't know anything about surviving in the wasteland, about the resources there, or the dangers, the mysteries, the stories. He knew he could always gather another group of like-minded men. The desert belonged to him.

The night was silent, all sounds drowned out by the emptiness as Norgo kept running. Far away, he could still discern the secret spring where he and his men had camped, but he could no longer hear the cries of pain, the clash of swords. By now, all of his comrades would be dead or captured. He no longer concerned himself with them.

Ahead, Norgo heard whispers, even laughter. Voices… female voices! He had never heard such a thing before, especially not out here. He wondered if it could be another camp, an oasis. He grinned. They would give him food and water. That was all he needed.

The laughter sounded like music, the voices like song, and a chill ran down his back. Maybe the women had husbands, warriors he could recruit. Or maybe they had no husbands at all and he would have them all to himself. Norgo wasn't sure which he would prefer.

He kept plodding. Each footstep seemed to take longer, and the sand sucked him down, but he pushed forward, attracted by the thought of soft company. He didn't recognize the language, but the voices were seductive. He had to get to the dune crest so he could see.

The wind picked up, and small dust devils skirled across the dune face. Finally, he climbed to the top of the rise from which he could stare down into the dell… but he saw no camp, no women, no sign of habitation.

The night had fallen silent again, and he turned in a slow circle. From this high ground he should have been able to see anything. There were no fires, no structures, no people. “Hello!”

The tinkling laughter began again, carried on the wind. He looked behind him, saw nothing. Another dust devil whipped through the valley below and vanished, losing its energy. Confused, even a little angry, Norgo turned once more, still seeking the source of the sounds.

The voices seemed to be coming from the sand itself.

The dunes stirred beneath his feet, crumbling, and he began to slip down the slope. Around him, the eerie female voices grew louder, the music more intense, giving him new reassurance. He heard so much loneliness behind the sounds that his heart lifted. They were so happy to see him!

Through a dust-fog in his brain, he vaguely remembered frightening tales that superstitious men told each other on desert nights when the storms whipped up. Sand dervishes, spirits that haunted the dunes… forlorn demons seeking company for all eternity, lovers that would never let go.

He had always laughed at those tales.

A desiccated hand reached up from the soft sand and clutched his ankle. Norgo ripped it away and looked down, startled to see other figures stirring, vaguely human shapes rising from beneath the dunes. The winds picked up and swirled around him now. As the voices grew louder, their songs reached a higher note, a hypnotic spell, and his fear was smothered, leaving only a fuzzy wonder and desire in his mind.

Norgo no longer saw the blackened, leathery skin or the mummified remains—he heard only love. As the whirlwind encircled him, it felt like soft fingertips caressing his face, his hands. He barely even felt his flesh being scoured away.

Ethereal bodies climbed out of the dunes, angelic spirits clothed in diaphanous veils… skeins of dust. The hands embraced him, the winds tightened.

Giddy, Norgo opened his arms and invited them. He could not refuse the call when they promised to love him forever. When he tried to express his own love, though, he coughed and choked—his mouth filled with dust. When he inhaled he drew in no air, only sand.

He felt a glimmer of fear, but the music and voices soothed him again. Norgo was beyond struggling when the dervishes sucked him down into the sands.