Now was Omar a warrior and he was ready to seek his revenge. We turned to the south-east and went through the region that the men of Haradwaith call the Uchinebi, crossed the oasis by the hills that lay north of Hayabêth.
The city had fallen entirely into the hands of the patriarch of Umber, a terrible man known as Tar-Kônak, who in his blinded proud dared to name himself 'King' in the old tongue of my people, as had done the rulers of Nûmenôr, ere the shadow befell it.
But the patriarch and generel had gone and with him the host. Three days were the news old when we stood shortly before our destination, that the armies of the eye that sought to overthrow the last free tribes of the desert, were heading towards Mherwed.
- From the diary of Tarnairë
»For this lie I will cut out your tongue!« Omar had grabbed the fat merchant by the throat and sought with the other hand for his dagger.
»To help! So let me free! What have I done to you ...?« The merchant gasped in despair and his head was glowing like the evening sun.
»Let him, you damn fool!« Tarnairë took Omar by the shoulders to drag him away. But the young warrior did not think to loosen his grasp.
»You shall have the opportunity to die a honorful death. I await you before the gates, by the stables.«
The merchant wanted to reply something, but nothing but a hoarse groan came over his lips.
»To the void, Omar, what did he do to you? Do you not see how the guards beneath the palms are looking over to us? He is not worth the trouble that you get us into if you kill him.«
The young warrior finally loosened his grasp. Tarnairë was right and yet could the words of the merchant not remain unpunished. He had called Mawdliyah the leman of the servants of Mordor. His defamation was a flaw upon the name of the most perfect of all women that had ever lived beneath the gaze of Rastullah. Only blood could cleanse the name of his love.
»Let him already in peace, you fool!«, hissed the Elf, linked her arm with that of Omar and pushed him into the direction of the next alley. »My friend sadly drank too much of the delicious date-wine with which travelers are welcomed here!«, the veiled woman called over to the guards. »I will keep an better eye on him in the future!«
The merchant leaned gasping on the wall and stroked over the dark strangulation marks on his throat.
»Do not deem yourself save from my wrath! My blade will find your heart before the sun kisses the horizon«, Omar bickered in a new tantrum, while Tarnairë dragged him quickly into the entrance of a stable.
»Do you really want to get in trouble with the people here, you cursed fool? Have we made the long way through the Uchinebi only to start fights here with the thralls of Umbar? I thought you intended to go mainly unnoticed to Hayabêth.«
Slowly did Omar's anger disperse and he became aware of what he had done. »The moneybags has insulted Mawdliyah. What would you do if someone unknown to you would call the one you loved a harlot?«
»I would ask him for his name and homestead and would visit him some day in surprise to have with him in all calmness a final conversation about lies and their consequences. But I would not risk the rescue of my love, just because I cannot keep my feelings in control.«
Omar looked bashful to the ceiling. Of course, Tarnairë was right and yet ...
The veiled woman coughed quietly.
Omar observed her secretly. In the last days a strange cough had befallen her and Tarnairë's condition had become worse. The ride through the Uchinebi, the bad water and the hunger had obviously gnawed more on her powers than she was ready to admit. His friend required rest! They should find somewhere a remote well or an oasis where they could rest for a few days.
»What are you staring like so?« Tarnairë had overcome the dose and looked challenging at Omar. »Do you think I need pity? I am here, because I wish it so and if you further hold value on my presence about you, then do not look at me as if you would gaze into an open grave. Do you hear? I am alive!«
»Are you coming now?« The veiled woman had gotten up and had stepped before the gate and waved to him. »We should look for the owner of the stables, although I doubt that the food is good enough to strengthen my mare so far that it could carry my cadaver to Hayabêth.« The Elf laughed, but the laughter sounded so insincere that it could not scatter Omar's worries.
Almost two hours they had haggled with the stable-master until they had come into chord of the price for an additional mount, blankets, new saddles and bridles. Throughout the conversation, the small and wiry man did not tire to emphasize ever again that they would ruin him and that in their greed they would not even pay him as much as he himself had given for the horse and equipment. Yes, he even came to the claim that his family would have to hunger now for the next months, so bad would be the trade that they had come to close. But as Tarnairë drew her purse and instead of giving him coins, pressed three pigeon-egg large opals into the hand, there lay a glimmer in his eyes, as if he would have seen the lands of Rastullah for a moment. He even insisted that he would take Omar and Tarnairë into his home to drink date-wine with them until the hostler would have prepared the horse.
The home was revealed as a small whitewashed clay hut that stood immediately next to the stables. There was no sign of hungering children or a wife. In a corner stood a rough timbered bed on which lay an old horse-blanket and amidst the room stood a number of stools around an unsteady table.
The merchant let them have a seat and took from beneath the bed three cups and a pitcher that was crowned with a dirty piece of cloth, probably for a hindrance to the flies, so that they would find no opportunity to fly in from the stables and drown their lives in the wine.
»Where are you traveling to?« The horse-merchant had a satisfied grin on his face as he poured the wine for his guests.
»To Selem«, Tarnairë lied. »We have some family-business there.«
»Family-business?« The small man nodded meaningfully. »Then you are not the first.«
A moment the three were quiet and hung after their thoughts. Omar fought an inner battle whether he should ask the merchant after Mawdliyah or not. Certainly it would be revealed that the fat one from this morning had told him nothing but lies! Finally he decided not to ask too directly.
»Are there news from Hayabêth?«
The trader filled his cup another time and scratched thoughtfully his chin. »News? That depends on, what you have last heard from Hayabêth. That Tar-Kônak has left and marches now upon Mherwed, you surely know already?«
Omar nodded. Their knowledge about what had happened in the last weeks was still quite filled with gaps, but as much they did know. The horse-merchant peeked to the door and to the window, then he bend over the table and whispered in a traitorous manner: »If you ask me, then the tin-god fanatic has made a mistake as he went past Achad and went to march to the city of our caliph. The wise men will gather an army and fall into his back. I am sure, yet before the next time of the great rain begins, will also the last servant of Mordor be driven out of our lands. The desert-riders will come over them, as the storm wind that drives the sand out till over the sea.« The merchant looked meaningfully into the round and took a long sip from his cup.
»When I was earlier this year in Hayabêth«, Omar said casually, »they told me of a beautiful Sharisad. Do you know what befell her? Have the conquerors taken her to slavery?«
The small man laughed. »You speak probably of Mawdliyah, the daughter of Feisal, the Magnificent, who left his life at the Poros.«
Omar nodded, eager to finally news from the fate of his beloved. The worried looks of Tarnairë he did not regard. The warrioress would have to understand how great his desire was to finally hear something of her!
»Mawdliyah had everything to become the most proud and desired daughter of Hayabêth. Her father had already prepared a grand wedding, as the dancer fled out of ungraspable reasons with a slave into the desert. Feisal was struck with anger and send almost hundred riders after them. After a long hunt, Mawdliyah was found beyond the Uchinebi and as her father had ordered it, all men who had been riding with her were executed, so that no slave could ever claim that he would have possessed his master's daughter. But Feisal never saw Mawdliyah again: Yet before his men had returned her to Hayabêth, it came to the devastating battle at the Poros, in which Feisal died. So Mawdliyah was now the mistress of the palace and it seemed as if the paramour with the slave would have clouded her senses. As Hayabêth was taken by the servants of Mordor, she was the only one who had opened the gates of the palace by her free will for them. Tar-Kônak himself is supposed to have visited her one night in order to web with her a plan for the demise of the upright men. But not only the patriarch, also to the generals of his army she gave herself willingly and in her palace was a coming and going, worse than in the nastiest houses of pleasure in all of Haradwaith.«
The words hit Omar like a strike to his face. The horse-merchant had repeated almost with the same words the story that he had heard from the fat trader this morning. Could it be true what these two bastards were telling about Mawdliyah? What use would they have to tell him such terrible lies? He thought of their first night together in the hidden oasis. Her soft kisses and her oath, to never love someone else. Nothing of what he had heard matched the woman that he loved.
The conversation of the two others who were talking now again about the war hardly reached his ear and it seemed to him, as if an evil spirit would have robbed him of all his strength.
»What will you do now?« Tarnairë sat exhausted next to the fire of the small encampment that they had set up in the near of the caravan of Bir-es-Soltan. Her coughing became worse with every day that passed. She had cast the veil aside to drink a bit tea. The face of the warrioress was snow-white and a drop of dried blood hung in the corner of her lips. Tarnairë's hand was shaking as she took up the cup with the hot beverage. Annoyed she took the second hand as aid, to hold the cup calmly.
»Now? What do you think?« The Elf stared at Omar over the edge of her drinking vessel. In her eyes lay a feverish shimmer.
»I cannot believe what they say about Nedime.«
»But if it is the truth ...«
Omar gulped. Over and over again he told himself that the merchant and the horse-trader had been lying. But in the end, he knew that was fooling himself. He had to go to Hayabêth and seek out the palace. Only the dancer could tell him what of these rumors were true. If it would really be true ... He did not want to think this thought to an end. If she had betrayed their love, he would kill her and then throw himself into the sword. Yes, so it should be!
Tarnairë seemed to have given up to further speak with Omar about the dancer. A while she looked at the young man over the flames. At the end, she took her blanket and rolled into it to catch some sleep. He just had to wait a little further, Omar thought. In about an hour he could sneak away unnoticed. Tarnairë would understand him. At least he hoped, she would.
Omar crouched behind a bush and observed the window to Mawdliyah's chambers. How often had he looked there in the past years. The other slaves had laughed about him as they noticed how reckless he dreamed, when he was looking up to the window of the dancer.
Nothing had changed since that night in which Omar and Mawdliyah had sought to flee. Only the litter that was adorned with red silk, standing before the stables, from which the young man had stolen back then the horses, was not known to him. Maybe Mawdliyah had an umbarian guest whom the litter belonged? Attentively did Omar examine the garden. If the rumors were true that he had heard, then he had to be aware of the guards of the officers that were supposed to come in and out of the palace. But everything remained quiet. The servants of Mordor seemed to feel completely save within the walls of Hayabêth. Omar had taken the greatest challenge already: He had climbed up the steep cliff on which the upper city stood. After that he had overcome the city walls with the help of an kedge and it seemed as if Rastullah would hold his guarding hand over him, for not one guard had been on the wall when he climbed over it.
Testing, he was weighing the kedge in his hand. Tarnairë had made it one afternoon for him from two roots. Tarnairë was a strange woman, Omar thought. Although his friend was so sick, that she had problems to hold herself on her feet at times, her only thoughts were dedicated to the rescue of Mawdliyah. The young man was depressed, when he thought of his mentor: He had left her behind in Bir-es-Soltan. But the warrioress had followed him, although the ride would have almost killed her.
Omar, shook his head, as if he could let the feelings of guilt disperse. He mustn't hold himself up with remorse. If everything went well he would be back at their encampment by noon. He would do well alone, and when Mawdliyah was rescued, they could care together for the sick warrioress. Maybe they could defeat with united efforts the demons that seemed to have taken possession of Tarnairë's body and slowly drew the life out of her.
While all that went through Omar's head, he looked over the confusing garden. It seemed to him as if he was sitting since an eternity already in his hide-out.
Not the smallest sign of a posted guard he had noticed. Around him, everything was calm, that it was almost frightening. Not even a grunt from the horse stables was disturbing the silence.
You cannot hesitate any longer, Omar reprimanded himself in his thoughts. That it was so quiet, surely did not mean anything. Who should be awake now, three hours before the dawn would break? Even the birds in the garden had to rest some time. It was the best of any time to get into the palace unseen.
Ducked, using every bush on his way as cover, did Omar run and stopped only, as he stood beneath the window of the dancer. There he remained and listened. Should Mawdliyah really have become the leman of the servants of Mordor, so would a lustful groan or a word in the tongue of the conquerors reveal her betrayal. But everything remained quiet. Relieved, Omar breathed out. She had certainly not betrayed him! Mawdliyah would never break her oath to him.
How much he desired to see her again. Soon she would lie in his arms once more!
In a hurry, he unwrapped the tow that he had slung around his middle, so that it would not hinder him while he was moving, then he looked up to the balustrade before the window of his love. Mawdliyah's balcony was made from shimmering marble and must give everyone, who stepped on it to look down on the wonderful garden, the feeling of levitating.
One last time did Omar check his surroundings, then he hurled the kedge up. Right by the first attempt, it was caught behind the balustrade. Omar smiled satisfied. He felt like one of the heroes from the tales of the story-tellers on the bazaars, who through stealth overcame the guards in the palace of the tyrann and finally made it to the tower to rescue their love.
Without much effort did Omar climb up the balcony. It was to him as if he possessed nine times his usual strength, so strong was desire for his love. And yet there was the voice within him that told him to be carefully nonetheless. And so he was gliding loudless to the ground, snuck with held breath into the chamber of Mawdliyah.
The bed of the dancer stood only a few steps away from the window, so that the pale light of the moon was shining upon it. Mawdliyah had buried her face deeply into the pillows. Like water from a black well did her hair flow over the precious white silk, beneath which he could see the shoulders and hips of his love like soft hills.
Lost in his thoughts did Omar let his eyes wander over the rest of the chambers, which splendor he would never share with her. Although this time there would be no angered father to drive them out, he did not want to live in a city where heathens were reigning. Rather would Omar stride poor but free through the desert and he was sure, that was the same what Mawdliyah thought.
Already did the young man bow down to wake her with a kiss, as his look fell on a table, that was half hidden by spider-web like curtains and stood close to the bed.
Someone had placed there a helmet with a flowing panache as the generals of Tar-Kônak wore them. So it was true what the merchants had told him! Omar was like turned to stone. His lips quivered and his heart pained him as if a blood-hungering dragon would have grasped it with its claws. Mawdliyah had betrayed him! How could she have done so? Had all her loving words and the hot kisses been nothing more but a treacherous game?
With a faint noise was Omar's weapon out of its sheath. He mustn't think any longer of what he had to do. He had to proceed with the punishment. He would put himself to death for that he would murder Mawdliyah in her sleep. Silently he mumbled a prayer in which he was asking Rastullah for mercy for his love. Then he raised the blade, ready to commit the blood-deed.
But just so as if the sleeping one would have possessed the fine senses of a viper, did she sit up on the bed before the sword could have descended in a deadly blow. The silk that had engulfed the woman's body like a second skin, was gliding down from the pale, smooth limbs and one moment did Omar believe that he'd see in the shadow that her head and the flowing, black hair was throwing, the head of a giant cobra. It was not the dancer. Someone else was lying in Mawdliyah's bed!
Her skin was a lot brighter than that of his love and in the unknown face lay a coldness and cruelty that was uncovering all beauty as treacherous mask. Again did Omar have to think of a viper, whose poison was able to fell even the most powerful warrior.
The young man retreated one step. Who was this woman? With investigative looks did she observe him. She did not seem to be frightened, although he was standing with his blank sword before her.
»Who sends you?« The voice sounded calm. She spoke his tongue so flawless as if it would be her mother tongue, and yet it seemed to Omar as if the way she emphasized the words to be wrong. Somehow eerie.
To his surprise did the woman quote one of Tarnairë's tenets: »When you once drew your sword, you should not first think about using it.« The woman smiled coldly. Her hand was sliding beneath the pillow and in the next moment did she hold a curved dagger in her hand.
»Let the weapon fall, woman!« Whoever she might be, Omar had not come to kill her. If she would lay down the knife and would remain quiet, then he might be able to retreat without that the guards were alarmed, Omar thought. »Do not do anything foolish, I am not after your life.«
»So you are after the dancer?« The woman made no move to lower her weapon.
Omar shook his head. She had to be confused in her mind if she thought to avail a sword-fighter with a knife. Omar lowered the blade and stepped closer to the bed.
»Be quiet and lay down the weapon, then I will not harm you.«
»You are right. My life lies within your hands.« Die black-haired lowered her head and cast the silken blanket away. She was filigree and petite. Over her right thigh went a long scar, probably an old sword-wound. »Please, spare me! Remember that I am not the one you seek to kill!«
The woman had now come closer to the edge of the bed. Still she held her head lowered. Suddenly she made a jump forward and sought to ram her weapon into Omar's middle. The young man jumped to the side and raised at the same time his sword. With a shrill sound, the blades met. Before Omar had the chance to disarm her, she rolled herself over the bed, tore the helmet from the table and threw it after Omar.
Cursing he ducked. With a loud clamor the heavy helmet hit against the marble balustrade. By now the guards would be alarmed.
The unknown woman had now reached the doors, that led out of the chamber. »We will see one another again, rascal!«, she hissed and disappeared.
Omar cursed quietly. He had let him be fooled. For short he thought about following her.
Somewhere in the palace voices became loud and he also believed to hear steps in the corridor before the chamber. Then it became clear to him: To remain longer in the house of Feisal would mean to enhance his first mistake with a second. He hurried unto the balcony and let himself glide down the rope. Having reached the ground, he took hold of it, loosened the kedge and ran towards a group of bushes. Behind him in the house, lights were lit. It would not take long anymore until the first guards would appear with torches in the garden.
Breathless, the young man ran on. Somewhere by the stables sounded the barking of hounds. Omar cursed. Feisal hated dogs. Not even on the hunt for fleeing slaves he had made use of them. Though maybe he had just been too much merchant to risk that his property would be torn apart by powerful jaws.
Omar reached a small forest of palms. He hesitated and thought in what direction he should make his way. If he would make it to the high wall that surrounded the palace-garden, then at least the hounds would not be able to follow him anymore. He decided to run south. There did the garden border to the city walls. If he would be able to reach it, he could escape on the quickest way.
Ever louder sounded the barking of the hounds behind him, as Omar looked finally on the city hall. Gasping he had made a stop in a high bush, that would maybe be ten steps away from the wall. Obviously did the thralls of Umbar fear also attackers from the inner even as much as those that would wait for them outside of Hayabêth. They had razed every plant that was closer than ten steps to the wall. A bit to the left rose a small tower. Till there, Omar had to overcome a distance of good one hundred steps. In the inner of the building was hopefully leading a staircase up the wall. The windows of the tower were dark, It seemed as if no guards were stationed within it. Then this way! Omar had hardly required two breaths. Still gasping he jumped out of his hide-out and ran towards the tower.
The hounds came ever closer. Someone called in the strange tongue of the conquerors after him and then there was the sound of hooves. In a hurry did Omar look over his shoulder while he ran. Swinging a heavy sabre, a rider came up the distance to him.
Omar tried desperately to run even faster. Again he threw a look back. Now also the group of hounds broke out of the thicket. If he would stop to face the rider, then the hounds would have caught up with him in no time. Would he run on, then he would offer his unprotected back to the rider. The situation was hopeless!
Omar's throat was burning with every breath he took. He bit the teeth on each other. He had to make it. It were only a few steps to the tower. Like a drum-whirl were the hooves thundering in his ears. Soon the rider would have him!
Again he looked over his shoulder, as something wrapped itself around his left foot and he was thrown to the ground. A root! He was caught in the loop of a root. Now he was done for! The rider was at him. He tore on his bridles and bend down from the saddle to deal the deadly strike to Omar. The young man grasped desperate after his Tuzak-knife on his back.
In that moment, a shadow loosened itself from the crown of the city walls and fell down on the attacker. The impact tore horse and rider to the ground. The wraith-like figure took the power of the hit through a roll away and stood again in the very same moment. Tarnairë!
»Cover my back, Omar!«, gasped the warrioress and turned towards the closing hounds. With a sword-strike did the young man cut the root that still had held his foot and jumped up.
Also the fallen horse was back on its legs and galloped away under a shrill neighing sound. The rider however was lying still. As Omar reached his companion, Tarnairë had struck down already two the powerful hounds. The others retreated with barred teeth from the reach of the deadly blade of the veiled woman.
»Let us ... go backwards ... to the tower.« A cough shook Tarnairë and she stumbled shortly, but then she had caught herself again.
»It is good to see you«, Omar mumbled quietly.
»I cannot say the same, you fool.« The Elf threw an evil look to the young man. »Why did you leave the encampment?«
»I ...« Like hearing on an unsaid command, the hounds jumped forward again and Omar did not have the chance to end his sentence anymore. He was glad that he did not need to justify himself before his companion. With a quick strike he hit one of the beasts, while he gave a second a kick, but then the darkest terrors broke in over them. Omar had the feeling as if the world would only be made of drooling snouts and blinking teeth. One of the hounds had bitten into his arm. Even as the others retreated, the growling beast did not want to let go.
Cursing did Omar strike the hound over and over again, but even in death, the powerful jaws did not want to open themselves. Tarnairë had to force them open, to free Omar. The pain in his arm drove tears into his eyes and as he tried to form a fist with his left, he had trouble to move his fingers.
»Soon the dance will begin truly.« Tarnairë pointed with her sword to the group of palms, where a small troup of armed men had gathered.
»Run up the wall!«
»But you are ...«
»Just do for once what I say, curses! I will handle the hounds. I can see how your arm fares. You will have to go first over the wall. Right to the tower you will find a rope, bind it around a post ... Now pack off!«
Omar obeyed. To the tower it were only a few steps. Gasping he was climbing up the staircase to the wall. At the entrance that led to the wall, he hesitated and looked to his right and left. He could not see any guards. The luck seemed to be on his side. Without troubles he found the rope at the described place.
Omar threw a look over the edge. More then twenty steps it went into the deep. Different than at the spot where the young man had climbed up, the cliff appeared here like an addition to the wall. Smooth, without cracks or protrusions did it raise up in the first morning light over the grey shimmering sand of the desert.
Omar examined skeptical the kedge. If one of the woods would just slide apart a bit, it would be over. Wall and cliff offered no halt. He looked to the tower. The Elf had reached by now the entrance to the wall. There she remained and defended the stairs against the horde of hounds.
In haste did Omar loosen the rope from the kedge and formed in feverish hurry a noose. An arrow hit sharply next to him the wall, but he did not dare to look back at the archer.
Blood ran down on Omar's arm and made rough rope slippery. An eternity it seemed to take, until he had formed the noose and laid it around a near-by wooden post.
»I would be utterly glad, if you would consider to climb down before first morning prayer. Otherwise you would have me doubt my tolerance towards your belief.« Tarnairë's voice sounded so overbearing, that Omar looked up surprised.
The veiled woman leaned still at the entrance to the tower. Her left she pressed against her thigh, from which protruded an arrow-shaft. In her right she held her Tuzak-knife, ready to face even the last foe.
»I am ready! Come with me!« Omar waved to her, but his friend was shaking her head.
»As long as you are not gone from the wall, I will not move from the spot. With a wounded arm, you will need a small eternity, until you are down. In the meanwhile, I do not want to help the thralls of Umbar for some target practice. So hurry already to get down!«
Without hesitating for long, Omar climbed over the wall. At the sight of the abyss, he felt dizzy for a moment. Again he tested the rope with a slight pull. Then he swung himself down. A tearing pain flooded his left arm and he had hardly the power to hold himself on the tow. Ever again he was scratching over the coarse rock, until his entire body seemed to him as if it was a single bundle of pain.
Blood dropped from the wound and unto his face, blinded him so that he could not see how far it would go down still. The hands were burning on the rough rope. At the end, he had lost every feeling in his left arm and it fell down robbed of its power. That was the end. Omar send a prayer to the skies and let go off of the rope. Instead of being shattered on hard rock, as he had expected, he landed in the soft sand that had been gathered by the wind behind a rock.
A bit dazed he looked up to the crown of the wall. Between castellations, he could make out the face of Tarnairë, then she was sliding down. Her hurt leg hung helplessly, but still the veiled woman was quicker than anyone else he had seen.
»Everything alright?«
The veil of the Elf was disarranged. Tarnairë forced a smile. »I fear I will need to ask you for a favor, my devouted friend. I think, I am not in the condition to run away from the arrows of our foes. That is why I would like to ask you to go and get my horse. I have bound it to a bush behind the dune over there. You cannot miss it.«
Omar worried on the bloodied trousers of Tarnairë.
The Elf laughed pained. »It is nothing but a scratch. Now run and sidestep like a rabbit that feels the breath of the fox in its neck. If you run in a straight line away from the wall, you make it too easy for the archers. Good luck!«
Omar looked doubting up. Some of the umbarians had taken their position on the wall already. But they did not seem as if they were armed with bows or crossbows.
»Mawdliyah!« With the name of his love on his lips did the young man storm ahead. Shortly before him, a javelin screwed itself into the sand and Omar sidestepped. He run as if chased by demons.
The horse of the Elf stood bound to low scrub. Silently did the animal gnaw a few dried leaves.
With his shaking, numb hands it took agonizingly long until he had managed to loosen the bridles. Points of light danced before his eyes and he felt dizzy. Groaning he pulled himself up into the saddle and pressed his heels into the flanks of the steed.
On the ridge of the dune, the young man hesitated and looked towards Hayabêth. Here and there the black armored warriors showed themselves on the wall. Also before the gate in the west gathered soldiers, but there was far and wide no rider to be seen. Hence there was still hope, to escape the servants of Mordor. With echoing calls he drove the steed down the dune and headed straight for the wall.
Tarnairë was still waiting for him crouched in the cover of the rock at the foot of the cliff. A few badly aimed arrow were hitting the sand around Omar. Challenging the young warrior was waving to the archers. It were still about fifty steps towards Tarnairë.
The Elf had gotten up and stumbled towards Omar. Again did he look up to the wall. A figure with waving black hair had climbed the casteling. It was the warrioress, that he had held for Mawdliyah. She wore now a short, white attire and held an almost man-tall bow. Slowly, almost so, as if she would perform a ritual, she drew an arrow from her quiver and set the tendon under tension and aimed for him. Omar ducked behind the steed.
Who was this accursed woman? Again he looked up to the wall. The warrioress had not fired. She still was aiming for him. Gasping did Tarnairë reach the horse. Omar reached out his hand and pulled her into the saddle.
»I think we should leave this inhospitable city.«
Omar nodded and tore the steed rough around by its bridles. As if a silent voice would have called for him, he turned one last time around to look to the wall and saw how the black-haired woman released the arrow from the bow.
»No!« Loud sounded Tarnairë's voice in Omar's ears. The Elf grasped him by his shoulders and pulled him in the saddle to the side. Omar heard the whistling of the arrow, so close did it miss him. The projectile penetrated the sleeve of his kaftan and hit the sand behind them. Only by the breadth of an hair it had missed Omar's heart.
»Who is that?«, Tarnairë whispered quietly.
Omar shook his head. »I do not know.« The he hit his heels into the sides of the horse.
