After four days of travel on Mar’s Looking Glass, half the Mahwa were riding lame beasts. With the merciless goddess blazing down on the wind-burnished stones, the searing heat blistered even the tough pads of the camels’ feet. In order to reach his allies as quickly as possible, Sa’ar was pushing his tribe through the worst part of the day. Heat rose off the desert floor in rippling waves that gave the Looking Glass the appearance of a huge lake of molten rack. On the horizon, a line of tiny spires danced in the shimmering air. Though still so distant they looked like billows of violet smoke rather than minarets of desert rock, the obelisks were a welcome sight to Ruha’s aching eyes. The stony towers marked the edge of Mar’s Looking Glass, and not far beyond lay the Mahwa’s destination. Upon sighting the spires, Sheikh Sa’ar had declared that the Mahwa would not sleep until they reached the Well of the Chasm. The declaration had delighted Lander, who was eager to reach the next tribe before the Zhentarim enslaved or destroyed it.
