CHAPTER XX: Flight into the Desert

"Civil wars ripped Tsin-Quinqan to shreds," Greagoir mused indignantly, "and step by bloody step it was shattered into a mosaic of petty-princedoms and khanates -- fractious fractions of the five realms the empire originally encompassed. Only the newly-risen city-state of Bajazet maintained with any constancy an effective and long-lived rule, but even the Hierophants of that desert land wielded power more through influence than acreage."

With a certainty that only comes with years of familiarity, Tatya knew his master had finished his recitation, and so the young apprentice quickly scanned what he had written with the efficiency of one already well versed in the scrivener's trade. The sad epic was disquieting, and the plight of poor Aislin bothered him most of all. She was an innocent drawn inexorably from one tragedy to the next by powers beyond her control. He had little sympathy for Cui-Baili, save that he lost his only son, another innocent victim of the wicked world.

"Cui-Baili's son," Tatya blurted as he considered the mysterious kidnapping, "was he ever found?"

Greagoir shook his head. "In the intervening years between Cui-Baili's passing and the dismemberment of Tsin-Quinqan, there were a few instances of unscrupulous lords intent on usurping the imperial crown, who would miraculously produce a claimant to the throne. A boy or young man would be brought forth who perhaps bore a striking resemblance to the emperor and was of the requisite age; but ever were these princelings found to be frauds -- merely ill fated peasant boys or deluded stable hands -- naïve pawns who eventually followed their greedy mentors to the executioner's block. Nay, Tatya, Cui-Baili's infant heir was most certainly murdered within hours of his abduction. The kidnapping served only one purpose: to destroy Cui-Baili and his line in one savage swipe. Horribly cruel, but shrewdly efficient: as were all of Sauron's more successful gambits."

Tatya frowned at Greagoir's apparent admiration of incarnate evil. The apprentice disliked the cynical aspects of the master's nature, wrought through years of deceitful diplomacy. "And what of the realm of Geas-Geata?" he asked, gently broaching a subject nearer to Greagoir's troubled heart.

"Hmmm? What? Geas-Geata?" Greagoir croaked as if the question disturbed his thoughts. "It shares literally nothing geographically with the great Khanate of Geata of the Second Age, if that's what you mean; in fact, it is roughly within the boundaries of what was once Tsin, only smaller. The only similarity that Geas-Geata shares with its namesake is that the ruling family claimed descent from the line of Baothan through some convoluted genealogy that borders on pure fantasy. Why one would wish to be associated with that line of murderers, thieves and incompetents baffles me in the first place, and in the second, the magical leaps chroniclers took to connect the dots over thousands of years is more farcical than logical. One might as well claim descent from Elrond and call himself a Half-Elf!"

Tatya had no idea who this Elrond person was, but he pretended to be enthused. "So…Princess Leannan is a descendant of Cui-Baili's enemies?"

Greagoir grabbed a tuft of his beard and began chewing on it in exasperation; then, as if he had to restrain every tensing fiber of his being from exploding, he said very slowly, through gritted teeth, "Tatya, is there anything I have said within the last few moments which you actually paid attention to?"

Tatya opened his mouth to reply, but thought better of it. This type of question was fraught with pitfalls, as there was no good answer (for he obviously hadn't been paying attention). In a valiant effort to extricate himself, Tatya said the unexpected, "Forgive me, master, I merely wished to hear more of Princess Leannan."

Greagoir's mood softened considerably, and Tatya breathed a sigh of relief. "It is said that curiosity killed the cat," Greagoir sighed, "but in this case, your questions shall be the death of an old Tom."

Greagoir fidgeted uneasily, but plodded ahead nonetheless:

"As the bleak half-light of dawn mingled with the shadows of my cell, Princess Leannan bade me a farewell for the last time; for certainly it seemed that way at the time: I was being dragged off a slave by my mortal enemy, and against her will Leannan was to wed an addled fop on the orders of her arch-nemesis. And although the situation seemed desperate, Leannan's words of encouragement (coupled with a sublime parting kiss, moistened with salty tears) buoyed my spirit for whatever trials would befall me.

With a punctuality that could only mark the moment of an impending dread's arrival, Marfach-Suil appeared precisely at the appointed time, and I was hauled enchained from the dungeon. As I stumbled out into the courtyard, I searched in vain up at the windows and porticos of the palace, striving for one, last fleeting glimpse of Leannan; but all was dark and desolate. Marfach-Suil eyed my discomfort with glee and tugged my chain so hard that I nearly fell.

'No Dark Elves to save you now, scribe,' he taunted me with relish, 'you are mine!'

A noose was placed firmly around my neck and I was tethered to one of the pack animals. Marfach and his tribal henchmen mounted their desert ponies and cantered off at a brisk clip, leaving me no alternative but to jog after them or be forcibly dragged if I slowed my gait. Behind me, I could only snatch short glances of the imposing walls of the palace, but there was no movement upon the parapets, and it eventually faded from view. After a few miles, and when my limits of bodily exertion had been nearly reached, Marfach-Suil dismounted and appraised my condition, much like he would a valuable beast being sent to the market for slaughter.

'We are far enough from palace to rest, I think,' he thought aloud. 'No more prying eyes to hound us.' He then glared at me with those beastly amber eyes and growled, 'But we must not slay you yet, scribe. Mharu-muc, he worry that p'raps your master, the pirate Kiryatin, would suffer insult if his servant is killed within Geas-Geata. Mharu-muc wants no trouble before wedding of princess.'

I wondered how much gold the obese eunuch had lavished on Marfach to make him withhold the revenge he so obviously hungered for. It then came to my mind that perhaps the greedy Marfach was so corrupt that he might forego his vengeance altogether if the price were right. After all, this was a man who would sell himself if he could gain a tidy profit.

With nothing to lose, I ventured to test my theory: 'Yes, Kiryatin would surely attack Geas-Geata if I were murdered here. The information I hold is worth a fortune to the corsair. He seeks for it at any price.'

I then handed him the great black pearl Leannan had given me.

Marfach's hooded yellow eyes grew wide in wonder and glinted in the sunlight. He turned as if to leave, his eyes still trained on the magnificent pearl; but then he glanced back with a calculating look that deceitful men get when they are attempting to be shrewd. 'At any price, eh?' he said with a knowing smirk and then he quickly pocketed the treasure before his men caught sight of it.

By the next day we had left the Khanate of Geas-Geata proper, heading ever westward toward the great desert, which was still a journey of several weeks. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so, the murderer's blade remained sheathed, and the tender cords of my throat remained intact. Huddled about their campfire that night, Marfach-Suil and his tribesmen debated long into the darkness; but I, unfortunately, was tied to a tree and out of earshot of their discussion (Marfach had at least remembered that I could translate his guttural speech). Come the morning, Marfach-Suil kicked me awake and knelt close to me. The man still stank of fetid peas.

'We keep you alive, for now,' he hissed in my ear, the stench of his rotten teeth almost unbearable, 'but only till I see how much you fetch in ransom.'

The weeks that groaned ahead of me were ones of relentless hardship. I walked as if one lost in an unending nightmare, trudging painfully for mile after bitter mile with only water and some stale crusts of bread to sustain me. If I were to be sent back to Kiryatin alive (which seemed highly implausible) I did not relish the condition I would be left in. Time passed slowly -- achingly so -- but eventually woodlands and hills gave way to flat expanses of grassy prairies which finally turned a parched brown, arid and inhospitable. The wind became dry and the ground betrayed patches of sand beneath the pale roots of straw-like grass that clung tenaciously to what remained of the eroding soil. Before us lay the forbidding Roaring Waste, a trackless desert of sunburnt dunes and rock formations carved into tortured sculptures -- minarets, marred cenotaphs and massive honeycombed hives -- eaten away over time by the ravaging bite of the caustic wind.

But even these sere, seemingly dead lands retained an unexpected vitality hidden during the high heat of the day: roving tribes of nomads made their homes there, eking out their meager existence, continually warring with their neighbors for control of oases; merchant caravans made there way tenuously through the desert, the shortest east-west route between Altan dul Anoir, the great mountain pass of the Orocarnis, and the thriving and luxury-laden Gold Coast (otherwise, one must pass hundreds of miles south to Hildorien, then east, and then north in a vast semi-circle to reach their goal); and then, of course, there was the city-state of Bajazet, perched like a fabulous mirage on a promontory of rock jutting from the desert waste. Bajazet, made enormously wealthy by the caravan trade, slavery and the natural defenses of its position -- for the desert itself was the main deterrent for an invading army -- this was to be our destination.

Before we entered the desert, another debate arose among Marfach-Suil's men, this one heated and full of insult and anger; and I caught the general drift of their conversation as they spat and cursed at one another in their horrid tongue. It seemed the easiest way to reach Bajazet was to take the well-trodden caravan route directly to the city; however, some of the tribesmen expressed dire concerns for their very lives, wanting nothing to do with the armed patrols from Bajazet that regularly scoured the route with ruthless efficiency, ensuring the safety of the caravans that were the life's blood of the city (the tribesmen -- murderers and thieves to a man -- were obviously all wanted in Bajazet for one crime or another). The rest of Marfach's men seemed to fear the alternative more than dodging the zealous patrols, and that was to risk journeying in the open desert. Some nameless fear crouched in the shadows of the dunes, stalking the sands for unwary prey blinded by sun and the relentless wind.

Marfach-Suil remained aloof to the argument. I watched him intently as he scanned the limitless sands, seemingly ignoring his fellow tribesmen's turmoil. I was certain then he had made up his mind, and his actions did not disappoint me. Snarling like some feral animal, Marfach silenced his men and began bellowing orders. We were to head into the open desert and bypass the trade route. I smiled inwardly at Marfach's choice and understood his reasoning, which seemed painfully obvious too anyone with common sense (which unfortunately precluded Marfach's men): visions of untold wealth swam in Marfach's head, and his greedy nature had now consumed him utterly. He would in no way risk the prospect of losing me to the patrols. He had lost one fortune on the high plains of Hildorien; he would not lose another here.

With his men still grumbling beneath their breath, and making the sign against the evil eye (perhaps as a preventative measure for whatever evil lurked out in the Roaring Waste), Marfach led his troop in a northwesterly direction into the all-consuming desert. They made their way slowly about the dunes, which suited me fine, as I could not long endure a torrid pace in that sweltering inferno. The first day of the journey was uneventful. There was the sun above and sand below, two plains of intense heat separated by an oppressive, ever-present wind Marfach's men named a sirocco, which parched rather than refreshed, and stung like needles when it gusted. Sand capered and danced in the sirocco, swirling in small vortexes like the waterspouts I had witnessed ever and anon in the Straits of Enegaer. The persistent drone of the winds, which gave the Roaring Waste its name, howled and sighed, bellowed and whined, and was the only sound that could be discerned in this miserable and moribund desert.

The night proved remarkably cold, for without the sun to heat the sand, the dunes quickly surrendered whatever warmth they retained and became frigid. Marfach's tribesmen maintained a small cook-fire that proved woefully inadequate against the chill, and the entire camp quickly fell into bundled lethargy hard-by a sheltering dune, seeking to escape the bitter bite of the sirocco. I laid awake for hours, unable to sleep even though I was exhausted. Sleep at last did take me, but it was a restless slumber full of tossing and turnings. When the morning came, I was abruptly rousted and drowsily endured another dreary forced march.

How many miles we had passed into the Roaring Waste, I could not say; there was nothing to mark the distance -- no change in terrain, no landmarks -- only the burning blue sky and the simmering sand. By early evening we had come at last to guideposts of some significance to Marfach and his men. In the shimmering heat to the southwest rose a series of wind-shorn columns of stratified rock and beyond a series of low-lying hills made of the same dark, layered stone. For the first time our journey turned more southerly, as Marfach-Suil headed straight for the formation. Obviously eager to reach the hills before nightfall, the troops' pace quickened, and I was dragged along, reeling from heat and thirst. Thankfully, the last rush towards this goal had taken place late in the day, when the heat was not so unbearable and the sun had decided it had punished us enough for the time being.

But our arrival at these nameless hills did not relieve the sense of unease that permeated the band of shiftless tribesmen. Their eyes twitched about nervously and they spoke together in low whispers. For reasons beyond my comprehension they were scared witless. Even Marfach-Suil found his orders were being disobeyed, and he resorted to threats and drew his blade on one poor soul who had refused to take his appointed duties as sentry. The night passed much the same as the night previous, with my listless mind refusing to abandon itself to sleep. I had only just nodded off when I was startled awake by the confused cries of the sentry.

He came running and blubbering from the direction of the rock pillars, where the pack animals and ponies had been tethered. I gazed down from my perch in the hills and saw the animals were in a state of wild agitation as well, bucking and whinnying with great fear, although I could not see what caused the commotion. The sentry fell at Marfach-Suil's feet -- crying and huffing and sniffling -- all the while speaking in bursts of muffled gibberish while attempting to be understood buried in the folds of Marfach's robe. Marfach kicked the gibbering fool, but he, too, could make no sense of the man's babble. Grabbing his sword and barking orders to his men, Marfach led his troop hurriedly down the hill. Having been forgotten in the chaos, I considered escaping, but deemed the exercise to be futile (seeing as my hands were bound securely behind my back and I had no clear destination to run towards). So, with the confounded curiosity that has plagued me my entire life, I joined Marfach's men at the foot of the hill.

The grisly sight we came upon was one of unremitting horror: one of the ponies had been bitten completely in half; and even more troubling, the entire rear of the animal -- from its back haunches clear up to its crushed ribs -- was missing. I could not clearly translate the fearful mumblings of Marfach's men, but over and over I caught a term of dread punctuating their hissing whispers: were-worm. Suddenly it became clear to me the reason for their abject fear. Previously, I had thought the existence of were-worms to be mere fable, but it was obvious these venomous cousins of the Great Worms of the Orocarnis and the Withered Heath did indeed lurk in the sands of the Roaring Waste. The evidence was clear, and no creature I had ever witnessed could fit a horse into its gaping maw and snap it clear in two, but this behemoth had done so in relative silence and had left quickly with a sizable meal. Marfach-Suil spent little time considering his options. With grim determination he demanded his men drive the pack animals and ponies up into the hills for safekeeping. No one slept the remainder of that dreadful night, and before the first light of dawn, we were on our way again.

Driven by a sense of fear and urgency, Marfach abandoned his original plan and headed due south towards the caravan route. He was now concerned less about patrols from Bajazet, and more for sudden attacks by were-worms and the growing alienation of his own men; for among them angry grumbling had already begun. 'It is Marfach's greed that has led us to this turn!' one spat in his rough speech (though well out of earshot of his leader). 'Did I not say he was treacherous?' remarked another. 'Mark my words, we shall all die to meet his ends!' exclaimed a third. I merely smiled in satisfaction and with some relief, as I was no longer forced to march behind the troop. In his need for speed, Marfach had me now sitting atop one of the pack-mules. It was a rough, jostling ride, but far better than stumbling across the searing desert sand, in any event.

Marfach-Suil's frustration grew as the daylight hours faded. He wanted to continue the journey into the night, but the horses were limping and close to collapse from heat prostration. Yet there was no protection here in this part of the desert -- no hills to offer sanctuary -- and his men were growing more rebellious with each passing hour. One unsavory fellow, missing an eye and with a long, livid scar snaking down his swarthy face, actually called his leader out, and Marfach was obliged to reply. I supposed rightly that sorting out leadership in Marfach's tribe did not include a well-reasoned dialogue followed by a simple majority vote, for daggers were immediately drawn and Marfach and the one-eyed brigand began stalking each other within a tight circle of their cheering and jeering comrades. But Marfach-Suil was no man to be trifled with; I knew from my previous experience with him that he reveled in violence and murder. Within moments the fight was over, and Marfach's blade jutted obscenely out of his adversary's gullet.

But even as Marfach withdrew his dagger from the dead man, the ponies at the edge of camp began shrieking in terror. I had been sitting watching the duel, but managed to struggle to my feet at the first sign of danger. There among the pack animals a monstrous serpent, with a great hooded cowl bulging about its neck and maw drawn back in a horrific grin, reared high above the panicking ponies. The were-worm had a mottled pattern on its scales that mimicked the drab hues of sand and shade, rendering it near invisible in these desert environs -- only its eyes blazed red and incarnadine. The tribesmen scattered in every direction, and Marfach was unable to regain command of the frightened lot, cursing them as cowards and fools as he ran this way and that in an effort to make them stand and fight.

I stood there dumbly for a moment, amazed at the sheer size of the worm that even now was gorging unconcernedly on a pony, apparently oblivious to the furor surrounding him. Regaining my wits, I noticed the dagger of the man slain in the duel laying unclaimed next to his limp body. Dropping again to the ground, I fumbled clumsily with the blade behind my back and managed to cut my bonds. My mind raced in desperation as I turned to flee from the were-worm (even if it was busy with its dinner at the moment), but in my unwary haste I ran straight into Marfach-Suil with such force that he tumbled backwards onto the sand, and I fell hard on top of him. I pushed away from him quickly, expecting him to attack, but he did not rise. He gasped and sputtered and then fell silent. To my endless amazement, the dagger I had been carrying was somehow sticking from his belly. In the collision I had accidentally stabbed Marfach-Suil!

Not wishing to press my luck (nor congratulate myself overmuch on my battle prowess!), I scrambled up to leave, but a sudden thought stopped me. I bent over the lifeless man and rifled through his cloak until I found Leannan's black pearl; but as I rose to go, Marfach clutched my wrist with surprising strength, his ghastly amber eyes full of hate and anger.

'I…I will kill you!' he hissed.

'Yes, you just might,' I said with a fierce grin, 'but not today, you foul-smelling bastard!'

I forcibly wrenched my arm from his grasp, and hurried off into the gathering darkness. Fortune remained with me, as one of the equally fortunate stray ponies wandered aimlessly towards me (obviously as lost as I was). Knowing that the poor beast was exhausted, I did not mount him, but gently guided him by the reins as quickly as possible away from the embattled camp. Behind me I could hear the shrieks and screams of Marfach's tribesmen. It would seem the were-worm had polished off its main course and was now seeking an appetizer.

My relief at escaping both slavery and serpent was short-lived, however, as the enormity of my situation became evident. I was lost in the vastness of the Roaring Waste with only the vaguest notion of direction or destination. Knowing that Marfach-Suil had been seeking for less hostile regions to the south, I set my bearings by familiar constellations and headed on what I hoped was to be the proper course. But all the while my thoughts strayed to Leannan. She would have been married by now, but what mattered that if her love remained true to me? I vowed that whatever the dangers I must face, or however long the journey, I would return to her. I would steal her away, and together we would seek for the sheltering harbors of my island, Marannan-astair; or perhaps we would journey farther, leaving the East completely and arriving eventually at the white-towered citadel of Minas Tirith, where the wisdom of the ages lay.

I laughed to myself and shook my head. But first I must find my way out of this damned desert."