Sayyed and Rafnir watched the oasis from a vantage point on a nearby rise. The caravan’s setup was quick and organized in spite of the confusion from the additional oasis people, but the two clansmen were pleased to see the Turics set few guards around the perimeter of the camp. Only the Shar-Ja’s tent was under a very tight and heavily armed guard.
Just as the sun touched the tops of the distant range of mountains, the clouds opened a window in the west, and slanting rays of golden light swept across the basin and gilded the trees of the oasis. At that instant a horn sounded a long, sonorous call to prayer.
To Rafnir’s astonishment, the entire bustling population of the Shar-Ja’s camp, the oasis, and the village fell silent, turned to the south, and stood motionless, their heads bowed in prayer. Some kneeled, and a few lay prostrate on the ground. The young sorcerer stared, awed at the scene. He felt his father kneel beside him and heard him murmur the evening prayer. Slowly Rafnir sank down beside him and turned his thoughts to the gods in a wordless supplication for strength and wisdom.
The sun dipped lower; the golden light faded. A moment later the horn blew again, and the Turics bustled back into activity. Rafnir rose, feeling strangely comforted.
“Let’s go,” Sayyed said softly. They turned to the Hunnuli and removed their saddles and bridles. “I don’t want to take the chance of leaving you two in the picket lines tonight. You’ll be safer with the herds or on your own,” he informed the stallions.
Thank, you, Afer sent, granting with relief as the tight cinch was unbuckled.
“But,” Sayyed said, pulling two leather halters from his saddle pack, “you’d better wear these.”
Why! snorted Tibor. Those are humiliating.
“Exactly. Even the Turic know Hunnuli will not wear tack. If you are seen, no one will suspect you are Hunnuli if you are wearing a halter.”
Afer sighed gustily. He is right, Tibor. Be grateful he did not suggest hobbles.
Chuckling, Sayyed buckled the halters on their heads and sent them out to graze with the caravan herds; then he and Rafnir shouldered their saddles and gear. They decided to make their way down the back side of the hill and work their way around the base to the outskirts of the camp through a shallow gully lined with shrubs and high weeds.
They had covered barely half the distance through the gully when the first small sounds reached them through the quiet backdrop of evening noises. The two men halted and stood listening intently. One sound came again, a single metallic clink, like a blade hitting a rock, then a rustle of bushes, and the unmistakable mutter of subdued voices from somewhere in front of them.
Sayyed nodded to Rafnir and eased his load to the ground. They padded forward as quietly as possible through the undergrowth to the edge of an open space between several tall clumps of brush. Sayyed froze, his hand raised to warn Rafnir.
Dusk pooled in the shadows of the gully, but there was still enough daylight left in the clearing to see five men hunched together, speaking softly among themselves. They were dressed in the dark robes, high boots, and warm wool knee-length coats the tribesmen preferred for travel, and they were heavily armed with tulwars, knives, and hand axes. One man was busy sewing something to the front of his coat.
Sayyed jerked his hand back, and he and Rafnir retreated up the hillside where they could watch the clearing undetected.
“Now why were five tribesmen lurking in the bushes?” Rafnir whispered.
“Look!” Sayyed hissed in reply, and he pointed to the gully they had just left. One by one, the five men slipped out of their hiding place and split off in five different directions. In just a few minutes, all five had nonchalantly disappeared into the crowded camp.
“Who were they?” wondered Rafnir.
“Of that I’m not certain, but did you see the man sewing? He was tacking a tribal patch on his robe.” Sayyed pointed to the embroidered lion of the Raid on his own chest. “Every tribesman wears his emblem on his clothes, so why was that man adding one at the last minute?”
Neither man had an answer to that puzzle, so they put it aside for the time being and proceeded back down the hill to the borders of the camp. Following the lead of the others, the two men casually walked out of the deepening twilight and into the Shar-Ja’s camp. They left their gear beside a pile of other saddles near the picket lines where some of the horses were kept close by for quick use. The smell of roasting meat led them to a cook tent, where they got a meal of bread, cheese, meat, and dates.
When they were finished, they meandered around the enormous camp to see what they could find. They stopped to chat now and then with other tribesmen, shared a cup of wine beside a fire with some villagers from the settlement, and exchanged pleasantries with them. They stopped to admire the Shar-Ja’s elaborate wagon, and they paid their respects to the dead Shar-Yon in his draped coffin. When they tried to get close to the Shar-Ja’s tent, however, several guards blocked their path and suggested forcefully they go elsewhere. They caught a brief glimpse of the Shar-Ja’s son, Tassilio, playing with his dog, and once they saw Zukhara striding purposefully through the camp.
They had heard the counselor had taken charge of the caravan in place of the Shar-Ja and that no one had seen the Turic overlord since the debacle at Council Rock. A few rumors circulating the camp whispered the Shar-Ja was dead, but nothing had happened to confirm that.
Sayyed observed how people fell back from Zukhara and how all but the royal guards warily saluted him. To Rafnir’s shock, Sayyed called out a greeting and saluted, but the counselor barely acknowledged him and continued on his way, his tall form lance-straight, his face dark and resolute.
By dawn the clansmen were weary and disappointed. They had found nothing to indicate Kelene and Gabria were in the caravan, nor had they heard anything even remotely connected to sorcery or the kidnapped women. All the talk in the camp had been about the religious zealots in the north, the Shar-Ja’s ill-health, and the growing unrest in various areas of the realm.
At sunrise, after the morning prayers to the Living God, the Turics broke camp to continue the journey to Cangora. Sayyed and Rafnir retrieved their saddles and whistled in the Hunnuli. Afer and Tibor reported they had been unable to scent or even sense the presence of the mares. Unhappily the sorcerers and the Hunnuli joined the groups of tribesmen riding in the caravan. No one commented on their presence or questioned their right to be there. A few eyebrows were raised at the size of the black stallions, but Sayyed explained they were crossbreeds from a certain breed of plowhorse. He suppressed a laugh when Afer whipped his head around to snap at a fly on Sayyed’s leg.
The caravan wound onward at the slow pace of the funeral cortège toward the next oasis on the trail. The Spice Road ran due south for a few leagues, then curved southwest toward the high foothills of the Absarotan Mountains.
Although Rafnir was not familiar with this territory, Sayyed had traveled this road several times in his youth with his father, the Raid-Ja, and he saw with deep misgivings that the tales he’d heard of the drought were painfully true. The area they rode through was still open range and usually rich enough to support sheep, cattle, goats, and the Turics’- tough desert horses. In most years, spring rains refreshed this land, replenishing the stock ponds, bringing wildflowers to bloom, and enriching the tall, thin grass that would cure to a golden brown by summer.
But this year the green that should have carpeted the broad hills had already faded to a dull, wilted tan. The grass was sparse, and the stock ponds, man-made ponds dug to catch the spring rains, were mere mud holes. The herds Sayyed spotted were thin and far between.
When he mentioned this to a man riding beside him, the man’s expression turned mournful. “Aye, we’ve had to sell or eat almost everything. My family has only our breeding stock left. If we don’t get rain soon, we will have famine by the Feast of the Prophets.”