Authors: Troy Denning
“Where Lander is at the moment is not important,” she said, meeting the warrior’s gaze directly. “What is important is destroying the Zhentarim. Tell your men to prepare for a charge:’
The Binwabi would not be sidetracked so easily. “Have you hidden the berrani from the Black Robes?”
Before Ruha had to answer, an amarat sounded from the other side of the courtyard and a Bedine voice cried, “Death to the invaders!”
Ruha’s heart leaped for joy. She peered over the edge at the ruins and saw a mass of warriors charging out d the same cellar from which Yhekal had entered the courtyard. It could only be the two, tribes that had been assigned to come through the tunnel. The sheikhs’ plan had. worked; Soon there would be three hundred Bedine warriors inside Orofin, and the invaders would be caught between the hammer and the anvil.
The Zhentarim who had been pinning Ruha and the Binwabi in the ruins turned to meet the charge. They fired their crossbows once, then threw them aside to draw their sabers. Ruha drew her jambiya and stood. Ignoring the warrior at her side, she looked to the other Bedine lurking in the ruins and pouring through the breach.
“Death to the Black Robes!” she cried, turning toward the fight.
“Death to the invaders!” cried dozens of voices.
Ruha led the Binwabi rush. The courtyard began to ring with the chime of steel-on-steel, and the shrill cries of the wounded and the dying echoed off the ancient bricks. The Zhentarim at the walls joined the desperate battle in the courtyard. When they left their posts, more Bedine tribes broke through the breaches and poured into the fort. Some entered the fight in the courtyard. Others rushed to the gaps that the Black Robes still controlled. Soon, there was not a corner of the ancient fort that did not resound with the clang of clashing swords and not a square yard of ground that was not stained by blood.
For Ruha, the battle became a hazy maelstrom of confused violence. She stabbed anyone wearing a black robe and sliced at any throat swaddled by a black turban. Twice, she was nearly slain. The first time, as she sidestepped a clumsy lunge-, the Zhentarim grabbed her throat with his free hand and nearly crushed her larynx. She escaped only by driving her jambiya deep into the man’s midsection and slicing his belly open with sharp curve of her blade. The second time, the invader took her by surprise, and his saber flashed toward her head almost before she realized he was there. She threw herself to the ground and slashed his legs as she rolled away. Screaming, the man dropped his sword and fell. Ruha finished him by opening a vein in his throat, then returned to her feet.
Everywhere the witch looked, steel blades were ringing against each other, men were lying on the ground clutching their wounds, Bedine and Zhentarim were cursing, slashing, stabbing, even kicking and wrestling. Ruha helped when she could, but most often she was too busy dodging wild swings or parrying blades herself to do much for anyone else.
At last the fighting began to grow less desperate. The angry screams of the Zhentarim changed to cries of panic and appeals for mercy. The maelstrom in the square thinned as the Bedine warriors trapped the Black Robes in the crumbling corners of collapsed buildings or followed them out of the gaps in the wall.
When their were no more Zhentarim to kill, the widow
stood in a daze, barely hearing the moans of the wounded and only half-aware of Lander’s blood-soaked aba hanging so heavily on her shoulders. The heat of battle slowly drained from her body, leaving her legs numb and weak, her hands trembling with nervous exhaustion. So many corpses littered the square that a camel could not have picked its way from one side to the other without stumbling, and the dusty ground had been turned to mud by all the blood spilled upon it.
“Here you are,” said a familiar voice. “I was afraid something had happened to you:”
Ruha looked up and saw Sa’ar’s burly form approaching from the direction of the fountain. In one hand he held a full waterskin and in the other a scimitar
dripping He gestured at Ruha’s bloody robe. ” I hope none of that is yours:’
The widow shook her head, “I am unhurt “Good. I fear the gods would not forgive me lowed anything to happen to their gift.” . Ruha felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Coming from
the comment almost seemed like flattery. She wondered if he meant it that way, or if the exhilaration of victory was loosening his tongue.
Sa’ar passed the waterskin to the witch, paying no regard to her uncovered face. “Drink:’
Ruha accepted the skin. She had not realized how thirsty the battle had left her, and the water tasted as sweet as honey and as cool as a night rain. She swallowed a few long gulps, then said, “That’s the best water I’ve ever tasted:’
“You don’t realize how precious something is until you fight for it,” Sa’ar agreed. He studied the ground for several moments, then lifted his gaze and looked into Ruha’s eyes. “If the Black Robes come back to the desert, I’d like to think you’ll be with my tribe to show them that this place is not for their kind:’ Ruha returned the sheikh’s waterskin. “I will;’ she answered, giving him a melancholy but sincere smile. The dreamlike images of lush, green Sembia that haunted the back of her mind faded like a mirage under At’ar’s burning brilliance. “Where else do I have to go?”