The Parched Sea by Troy Denning Read Free Book Online Page A

three waterskins;’ he snapped. “We’ll have to ride hard to beat the Zhentarim to the next oasis, and the extra weight will only slow us down:”
    Musalim pointed at the haze on the southern horizon. “But, Lord, we may need a lot of water. That storm could force us to stop for several days!”
    “We’re not going to stop because of a little rain:’ Bhadla snickered. “Rain? In ,Anauroch?” “That’s a sandstorm!” added Musalim.
    The trio reached the camels a moment later, and the beasts lowered their heads to the water for one last drink. Lander undid the tethers of his mount, then paused to look southward. The haze was creeping steadily forward, streaking the sapphire sky with gray, fingerlike tendrils.
    “I don’t care if it’s a firestorm;” the Sembian said. “It’s not going to stop us:”
    In the end, the D’tarig insisted upon filling six waterskins, but at Lander’s direction, they agreed to push their camels along at a trot. The trio covered more than a dozen miles by early afternoon, and the sands paled to the color of bleached bones. The dunes changed orientation so that they ran east-west and towered as high as five hundred feet. Lander was glad their path ran parallel to the great dunes rather than across .them. The Sembian felt sure that scaling one of the steep, shifting slopes would have been as hard on the camels as trotting for an entire day.
    The dunes’ great size did not make them any less barren. The only sign of vegetation was an occasional parched bush that had been reduced to a bundle of sticks by an untold number of drought years. Even the camels, which usually tried to eat every stray plant they happened upon, showed no interest in the desiccated shrubs.
    The storm crept closer, obscuring the sky with a haze that did nothing to lessen the day’s heat. The blistering wind, blowing harder with each passing hour, felt as though it had been born in a swordsmith’s forge. On its breath, it carried a fine silt that coated the trio’s robes with gray dust and filled Lander’s mouth with a gritty thirst that he found unbearable. Soon he was glad his guides had insisted upon filling extra skins, for he found himself sipping water nearly constantly.
    Bhadla slowed his camel and guided it to Lander’s side, leaving Musalim fifty yards ahead in the lead position. The D’tarig always insisted upon riding a short distance ahead to scout. Lander did not argue, for it spared him their constant, inane chatter.
    “This is going to be a very bad storm, Lord;” Bhadla said. “I fear that, when it grows dark, we will have to stop or lose our way. There will be no stars to guide us:’
    “Don’t worry. I will always know which direction we are traveling:’ He purposely did not tell his guide about the compass he carried, for he suspected the D’tarig would steal such a useful device at the first opportunity.
    Bhadla shook his head at his employer’s stubbornness. “It may not be as important to beat the Zhentarim to the next oasis as you think;’ he said. “Bedine scouts range far. They probably know of the Black Robes already.”
    “If what you say is true;’ Lander countered, “why did the tribe at the last oasis perish?”
    The D’tarig frowned, then shrugged. “Who can say? But we will do no one any good if we lose our way and die:” “You really don’t understand what’s at stake here, do you?”
    “What is there to understand?” Bhadla asked. “The Zhentarim are trying to cross the desert, and the Bedine are in their way:”
    “There’s more to it than that,” Lander replied. “The Zhentarim need the Bedine to open their trade route. Merchants can’t survive in the desert alone, and the Black Robes know that. They need the Bedine for guides and caravan drivers. What the Zhentarim want is to enslave the Bedine:”
    Bhadla laughed. “Enslave the Bedine? They would find it easier to cage the wind:’
    “The Zhentarim have caged things more powerful than the