“Beliar be with you!”
Raschid looked up from his desk. Standing in the shop doorway, beneath his great-grandfather’s sword, was a man in a simple kaftan, his hair slightly greasy under his fez from the sweat of a long day. Setting aside the brown desert scavenger feather, he hurried behind the counter. His son should have been there, attending to the customers. But now, he had to manage without Machmud.
“Greetings, greetings, son of far travels! What can I do for you?”
“Something to fortify me, father of hospitality. I’ve only just arrived in the mother of all cities. The journey was arduous.”
“I believe it. You’re late.” Outside, darkness had already fallen. The oil lamp on Raschid’s desk cast flickering light over the shop, making the furniture and the figures of the two men appear as grotesquely distorted, dancing shadows on the walls. He hadn’t expected any more customers and had thought he could dedicate himself to inventory in peace.
While he served the guest what was left of rice, lentils, and veal, and also brought him a bowl of dates, the man made himself comfortable.
“Our caravan leader made a detour. But it should be a good omen for me to reach the holiest of cities under Beliar’s cooling veil and not under the scorching curse of Innos’ light.”
“You come from the north?” The dialect gave away his guest.
“From Braga. I’ve had a long journey. And a dangerous one. We took the detour to avoid the raiders, traveling not directly from Ben Sala but first venturing into the desert.”
“That might not have been necessary. Orbasan usually targets trade caravans, not pilgrim groups.”
“No, no, not this Orbasan. I’ve heard of him—a dangerous bandit, they call him the Lord of the Desert in Ben Hasha. But our caravan leader said the same as you.”
The pilgrim broke off a piece of flatbread that Raschid had now laid on the table and used it to scoop up some rice and lentils. His gaze rested on the sword hanging on the wall above the door.
“Nomads. Nomads are causing trouble along the route.”
Raschid squinted and furrowed his brow. “Nomads wouldn’t dare come so close to Bakaresh. Once you’ve made it past the path from Lago to Ben Sala, you have nothing to fear from them. It’s just a few raiders. Outcasts from their own clans. Driven by their hatred for Beliar and his servants. They flee deep into the desert as soon as Bakaresh’s assassins approach. Even the slavers fear and avoid them.”
But his guest shook his head. “No, it’s not just a few raiders. It’s an entire clan of nomads! Dozens of warriors. The Beni Sinikar, our caravan leader called them. They’re at war!”
“He said that to scare you into paying more gold for the detour. Be wary, son of naivety; in Bakaresh, there are many who prey on unsuspecting pilgrims.” The nomads had been hunted again since Zuben’s return and the assassins had driven out their Myrtanian occupiers. In recent years, they had been forced deeper and deeper into the desert’s interior. And yet, they hadn’t fought back. And how could they? They were few in number, armed with poor, stolen weapons, their water mages never having returned from the north. They wouldn’t dare approach Lago, let alone the mighty Bakaresh.
The pilgrim continued to stare at the sword as he ate. His curiosity soon loosened his tongue:
“I’ve never seen a weapon like that before, father of wonders.”
Raschid’s chest immediately swelled, and his lips spread into a smile. His great-grandfather’s blade was his pride and joy. Everyone in Bakaresh surely knew of his heirloom. It was precisely why he enjoyed hosting pilgrims, merchants, and other travelers—he never tired of telling its story.
“That is a sword from Nordmar,” he whispered.
“By Beliar! A barbarian weapon?” Now the stranger gazed at the artifact with double the interest.
Raschid nodded proudly. “A weapon forged from magical ore! Even in Ben Sala, you won’t find craftsmen as skilled as those in the mountains of Nordmar. See that?” He pointed to the round shield on the wall. “That shield also comes from the Northmen. Imagine the snow that covers the winter peaks of Ben Hasha—in Nordmar, it blankets the entire land, all year round.”
“Have you been there, son of far travels?”
“No, but my great-grandfather did. His name was Fadlan. He was a well-traveled, learned man. He fought alongside the Nordmarers, the strongest and bravest warriors in the world.”
“Who did they fight?”
“Oh, against a great evil.” Raschid lowered his voice. “There was a clan among the Nordmarers who worshipped vile djinn. Raiders, worse than any nomads. They built ships and sailed far, far south from their coast. Even here to Bakaresh, they came and plundered.”
“By Beliar! The holy city!”
“That was before the Caliph began preaching the faith. In the time of the old, weak Sultan. They came like a desert wind, descending upon the city, killing many men, stealing gold and women, and vanishing again as swiftly as they arrived. These men were such vile raiders that they incurred the wrath of their own people. But in the end, they were defeated—by my great-grandfather and his companions.”
“An Ore Blade…,” the guest murmured. “This sword must be worth a fortune!”
Raschid laughed. “Oh yes, I bet there’s not another like it in all of Varant. Aschnu, the wealthiest merchant in the city, offered me a fortune for my sword. Even the temple has shown interest in it. But my modest business has been thriving since the city started seeing more pilgrims and trade has blossomed again. I’m waiting for the port to finally be rebuilt in a few years. Surely, ships from the Southern Isles will return then. I won’t part with my heirloom anytime soon!”
Raschid felt a bit weary the next morning as he made his way toward the old city gate. The conversation with his guest had delayed his inventory work, so he had gone to bed later than planned. Nevertheless, he had risen at dawn and dressed himself.
It was wise in Varant to run errands in the morning or evening. Innos’ all-seeing eye had yet to rise high, and a cool breeze still blew from the sea across Bakaresh, accompanied by the gentle, monotonous sound of the waves. But it wasn’t just the looming midday heat that drove him—it was also the thought of his customers. He needed to open the shop soon. He would’ve liked to open it already, but he couldn’t be in two places at once. Machmud’s absence was felt daily. He comforted himself with the hope that his son, now joined with the Assassins and stationed in Ishtar, would soon send money. Maybe then Raschid could afford a slave to help run the shop.
Something felt different this morning. The streets seemed more crowded. True, in Bakaresh, the city of the great temple, there was always bustling activity in the morning—merchants from Mora Sul, pilgrims from all over the land, locals, and adepts from the temple all thronged to the market early. But today, the chatter was more frantic, the faces marked with confusion or worry. With every corner he turned, with every new group of agitated people he passed, Raschid felt his tension rising. Unconsciously, he quickened his pace.
As he passed the Tower of the Throne and approached the city’s exit, he stopped short: ahead, a chaotic throng of people jostled and shouted over one another. The city guard and even the temple guard were holding the crowd back with their spears, trying to restore order.
Soon Raschid found himself caught in the middle of the crowd. Snatches of words reached his ears without making much sense. People bumped into him. An old woman clutched a chicken in her arms that flapped and squawked, shedding feathers in its struggle to escape.
Suddenly, Raschid came face to face with Burak, one of his trade partners. He was among those Raschid had planned to meet that morning at the oasis outside the city to purchase new supplies for his shop.
“What are you doing here in the city?” he exclaimed in surprise.
“Raschid, by Beliar!” Burak grabbed him by the arms and shook him. “The nomads! The nomads!”
“I don’t understand…”
“They attacked the oasis!”
“Raiders dared to approach the oasis?”
“Not just a few raiders! The Beni Sinikar! The whole clan! They came from the desert before dawn. And there were warriors from the north with them. And a mage! They had a mage with them! A water mage! They’ve taken the oasis. War, war—the nomads are at war with us!”
It took Raschid a moment to fully grasp what Burak was saying, to understand the significance of his words. The fertile oasis, the lifeblood of Bakaresh, from which the city and even his business depended. The nomads had struck with a single blow, targeting the city where it was most vulnerable. And suddenly, Raschid wasn’t so certain if he wouldn’t have to take back the words he had spoken the night before.