Arabesque

Munif

Pavanan Munif looked up from the map. He'd stared at it long enough. It wasn't going to change or reveal the string of unanswered questions. In the half-light of the small cabin, a lantern swayed and flickered above his head. He felt a long, heavy swell roll beneath the hull as the dhow sailed deeper into the storm. Wind and rain-squalls buffeted the mast. Waves of green water crashed over the bow and poured across the empty deck. The ship climbed the face of a massive wave until it reached the crest and then plunged down, disappearing into the trough. Munif could hear the sound of timbers creaking, the popping of canvas and rigging as the dhow surged upward again.

The ship had been taking a beating for six hours.

The journey was taking a heavy toll. It had begun seven weeks before when he followed the two summoners out of Riyyal and hundreds of miles across the desert to the city of Janeirah.

Bending back down to the map in front of him, he traced his finger along the route both predator and prey had navigated to get here. They'd trekked northwest first into the Rab'al-Dourif and the sands of the Rim al-Sarab, which bordered the southern edge of Nahkeel. Passage across the Rab'al-Dourif was only possible through a string of oases, the largest of which was Waha al-Nurai.

In addition to battling the unrelenting desert, the men also managed to elude the Slen Thek, bounty hunters who had been tracking them from the onset. Naturally, they had no interest in the Carac other than the reward they would collect for their capture. Had the summoners been caught, Munif would never have known the true reason for their journey.

Fortune favored them however, as a sandstorm swept in, preventing the Slen Thek from making it to Waha al-Nurai. The Carac managed to slip away without being seen by the bounty hunters, but not without Munif. 

An even greater threat lay ahead for them in Janeirah. Other, more dangerous foes were ready and waiting for them to arrive. The White Palm badawh—fierce desert nomads—passionately despised the people of Carac. They were prepared for a fight, but they were not interested in shedding blood. The White Palm wanted only the secrets the summoners carried with them.

Beyond the broken lands of the Rab'al-Dourif, the air was heavy with moisture from Zaraniz, carried inland over the green, fertile lowlands of the delta. This area provided abundant food for the kingdom of Nahkeel. The proud city of Janeirah stood here, at the mouth of the Dafna River. A place of burgeoning activity and of tremendous wealth, Janeirah was a waypoint to lands beyond the realms of Qatana.

Once in the city, the summoners sought passage across the Ras Mansour in one of the many merchant ships that sailed back and forth across the turbulent waters to Tivisis.

Ras Mansour was a treacherous shipping lane fraught with fierce corsairs, violent weather, and unseen shoals. Many voyages ended with cargo lost and travelers drowned. However, the allure of treasure and adventure incited many to gamble with their lives. As Munif knew, the two Carac he followed were determined to make the crossing with no thought for the riches to be made. They would not give up, and neither would he.

The dhow creaked once more, bringing Munif back into the moment. He tapped on the map, his finger finding Tivisis.

It was good to know where they were headed.

But it would have been better had he already discovered if this was indeed their final destination, or merely another waypoint to somewhere beyond.

What lies ahead? Munif thought.

His resolve chased away any lingering doubt.

Quitting was the farthest thing from his mind.