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 red.

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 if I had allowed anything to happen to their gift."

Ruha felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Coming from Sa'ar, 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?"