"Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman - Rose of the Prophet 01 - The Will of the Wanderer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Weis Margaret)

You are sorry not to have seen any of these fierce spahi — the nomadic desert horse
riders—for you have heard many tales of their daring and courage. When you mention this
to your guide, he coolly replies that though you do not see them, they see you, for this is their
oasis and they know who comes to its banks and who goes.

"You have paid well for the privilege of using their water, Effendi ." Your guide gestures to
where the servants are spreading out a fine blanket upon the sand near the banks of the lake,
heaping it with gold and semiprecious gems, baskets of dates and melons brought from the
cool lands to the north. "There," he says in a low voice, pointing. "You see?"

You turn swiftly. A tall sand dune to the east marks the beginning of the Sun's Anvil.
Standing upon that dune, silhouetted against the emptiness of the sky behind them, are four
figures. They ride horses—even from this distance you can appreciate the magnificence of
their animals. Theü haiks —or head cloths—are black, their faces are shrouded ir black masks.
You wave to them, but they neither move nor respond.

"What would have happened had we not paid their tribute?" you ask.

"Ah, Effendi , instead of you drinking the blood of the desert, it is the desert who would be
drinking your blood."

Nodding, you look back, only to see the dune is once more barren and empty. The nomads
have vanished.

Your guide hurries off, shouting at the servants, the sight obviously having disquieted him.
Your eyes—aching from the glare of the sun off the sand—turn westward to find rest.

Here a line of red rock hills thrusts abruptly out of the desert, looking as if some gigantic
hand had reached down and dragged them up out of the ground. This is country you left two
days ago and you think back on it fondly. Icy-cold streams meander through the hills, to
finally lose their way in the hot sand. Grass grows in abundance on the hillsides, as do juniper
trees, tall pines, cedar, willows, and bushes and shrubs of all description. Entering the hills
was, at first, a welcome relief after traversing the desert land that lies between these foothills
and the mountains of Kich. But you soon found that the hills are—in their way—every bit as
eerie and forbidding as the desert.

Jagged cliffs of red rock, whose very redness is enhanced by the contrasting green of the trees,
soar into the overcast skies. Gray-white clouds hang over them, trailing long wisps of rain
that drag across the hilltops. The wind howls among the crags and crevices, the chill streams
rush wildly over smooth rocks as though they know their destination is the desert and are
trying in vain to escape their destiny. Occasionally, upon a hillside, you can see a patch of
white that moves across the green grass in an odd, undulating, flowing motion—a flock of
sheep being driven to new pasture by the sheepherding nomads who dwell in this region;
nomads who— you understand—are distantly related to those you have just seen.

Your guide hastens back with word that all is ready. You cast a final look about your
surroundings and notice—not for the first time—the most unusual phenomenon in this
strange landscape. Immediately behind you stands a small hill. It has no business being in the
desert; it is sadly out of place and appears to have been left behind when the bigger hills ran
off to play in the west. As if to further emphasize the hill's incongruity, your guide has told