The Endless Wastes One moment thick sleep bound Amira. Instant awareness slapped her awake. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Something pressed hard upon her mouth and nose, just shy of pain. She let out a small cry and struck out, but a hand caught her wrist.

"Shh!" A deep voice whispered.

Gyaidun. He brought his hand away, and she took a deep breath.

"We have company," he said.

"What?" Amira sat up. "Who?"

"Don't know. Durja heard them. They're sneaking in quiet. Your spells ready?"

Before sleep last night she'd spent a good while bent over the reeking fire and poring over her spellbook.

"Some," she said, keeping her voice low. "But I was preparing for a journey, not a fight."

"You're in the Wastes, girl," said Gyaidun. "Always be ready for a fight. Start a fire. Be seen. And be ready."

With that, he turned away. The sky was gathering what little light it could from the oncoming sun, but there were no clouds, and the air was thin. Darkness still held the land, and in the time it took Amira to sit up, Gyaidun had disappeared into the shadows. She heard one rustle-the big man passing through the grass-then nothing. She was alone.

"I am not a girl!" she whispered after him, but she had no idea if he heard or not.

Annoyed at being ordered about like a lowly apprentice, her every muscle stiff and sore from running all day yesterday, and more than a little frightened, Amira kicked away her blankets and stood. She didn't move, didn't even breathe, but strained her ears to catch every sound. Thunder muttered far off to the south, and she saw little flickers of light. The Lake of Mists and Firepeaks gathered thunderstorms this time of year like summer caravans gathered flies.

The slightest hint of a breeze whispered out of the north. She shuddered and only then realized how cold it was. As she bent to the firebed, hands trembling, her breath came out in a thick white fog.

Last night's fire had fallen to a bed of ash, but she could feel warmth coming off it. She took a stick from their small pile of kindling, stirred the ashes, and blew the coals into embers. She added a bit of dry grass, which smoked at once. She blew again, and tiny flames caught and grew. Adding larger twigs and finally several sticks-she would not touch the dried dung no matter what Gyaidun said-she soon had a healthy blaze going.

Light was finally beginning to gather in the grass and tussocks above the little gully, but Amira knew the first sliver of sun would not pass over the horizon for some time yet.

A caw shattered the silence. Amira looked up. Durja was circling the camp in low, erratic sweeps. Every third pass or so he let out a harsh cry.

Amira was about to bend down to add more fuel to the fire when a lump of shadow she'd taken for a tussock or bush moved. She froze, watching it. Whoever it was must have seen her watching, for after a moment it moved again, standing up. It was a man, much shorter than Gyaidun, but stocky with muscle. Another about an easy stone's throw to the man's left stood up, then another just behind them. They started walking toward her, other shapes rising from the grass and behind bushes.

She turned. Four others approached from the other side of the gully. Nine in all.

Where had Gyaidun gone? Damn the man. She knew she could probably manage all nine if she could keep them at a distance-and if none of them had bows. But their build and swagger told her they were Tuigan-she couldn't make out enough details to discern the tribe-and the Tuigan always had bows.

Amira retrieved her staff and climbed out of the gully on the east side, putting the wide gash in the earth between her and the four coming in from the west. They'd have to cross it to get at her, and if the sun peaked over the horizon in time, they'd be staring into the sun.

The men kept coming at an easy pace, not hurrying, obviously sizing her up. Tuigan were a superstitious lot, and even if these were nothing more than bandits outcast from their clans, even if they'd forsaken all vows of honor and hospitality, they'd still be wary of anything unknown. Especially a woman alone on the steppe. If she played this right, she might be able to scare them off.

The nearest was only a few dozen paces away.

Amira raised her staff and shouted, "Stop!" in the Khassidi dialect.

The men stopped. They stood in stark silhouette against the brightening horizon. The two on the outside held bows with arrows on the strings. The three in the middle kept their hands on the swords sheathed at their waists.

"You are not Khassidi," said the one in the middle.

"No." She lowered her staff. "I'm not."

"We are not Khassidi."

Amira sifted his words, his accent. The slight roll in his r's and his broad vowels gave him away as a southerner. Commani, perhaps?

Maybe raiding into Khassidi territory, if they were clanless bandits.

"Who you are does not concern me," she said. "What do you want?"

"We saw your fire and hoped you might offer us hospitality."

Amira risked a quick glance over her shoulder. The other four had stopped at the opposite edge of the gully. Three of them had bows.

Damn, she thought. She prayed for the sun to hurry. Direct sunlight in their faces might give her an added edge. If Gyaidun didn't return soon, she'd need it. Where had he gone?

Durja landed several paces behind the leader and cawed, but the men ignored him.

"Let me gather my things," Amira said, "and you can have the fire to yourselves. I have a long way to go."

"Where is a fine woman like yourself going all alone in these hard lands?"

"I am not alone."

The leader chuckled and looked to his men. "Ah, yes. The big one.

We saw him as we came in."

"Skulked in, more like."

The leader shrugged. "One must take care. You might have been bandits trying to lure us in by your fire."

"As I said, let me leave and the fire is yours. There's enough fuel there to last a while."

"Your friend, the big one, where has he gone?"

Durja cawed several times, loud and harsh. It gave her an idea.

"That was my slave," she said. "He displeased me, so I turned him into a raven. That raven." She pointed at Durja with her staff and gave it a theatrical shake.

The men didn't move, but she saw them go stiff and still. The bowmen's fingers tightened round the nocks of their arrows.

"You are a witch?" said the leader. "A Rashemi witch, then?"

"No. I am a War Wizard of Cormyr. Our apprentices practice on the Rashemi witches."

The men made the Tuigan sign to ward off evil, and two of them exchanged nervous glances.

"My father was a powerful shaman," said the leader. "His cloak shadows me. I do not fear you."

"What about your men? I think that one there would make a fine donkey." She shook her staff in his direction, and he started backward, staring nervously at his leader. "I could ride him out of here. Save my feet the journey."

Durja cawed again and flapped his wings. The two men flanking the leader spared the raven a nervous glance, but the bowmen kept their gaze fixed on Amira.

"We wish you no trouble," said the leader. "Nor trouble on us.

Give us some hospitality and we will be on our way."

"Hospitality?"

"A drink. Maybe a bite or two and some gold if you have it."

"You are robbing me?" Amira put every ounce of steel she could muster into her voice, stood straight and tall, and readied her staff.

Rise, rise, rise, she called to the sun. Come up now!

The leader feigned shock. "Rob? Curse the notion, holy one! You are a guest in these lands and so do not know our ways. We offer you the gift of our protection. It is custom that you offer us a gift in return. Some food, drink, and maybe a little gold to trade in the caravans would warm our hearts."