The relentless sun beats down on the vast, unending expanse of the Kamoklopr desert, its rays merciless as they scorch the sand and everything above it. Dukar's feet sink into the hot sand with every step, the weight of Puripal on his shoulders growing heavier by the minute. Beside him, Arban trudges on, his face set in a grimace of determination and exhaustion.
They had debated long into the previous night, weighing their dire options. Going back meant certain death at the hands of the Moukopl as deserters, and they lacked the water to make such a journey anyway. Their only choice, born of desperation more than hope, was to continue northward, praying to stumble upon a source of water or some sign of life.
"We've walked so much, this stupid desert can't stretch infinitely, right?" Dukar had said, trying to infuse a hint of optimism into their grim situation. But now, as he plods forward, the vastness of the desert mocks his earlier confidence. Every direction looks the same – endless dunes of sand, stretching to the horizon, devoid of any sign of life or relief.
The heat is oppressive, a tangible force that seems to push down on them, making each breath a laborious task. Dukar's throat is parched, his tongue feels like sandpaper, and his lips are cracked and bleeding. The small sips of water they ration do little to quench their thirst.
Dukar shifts the weight on his shoulder, trying to find a less painful position, but there is none. He can feel Puripal's labored breathing, the heat of his feverish body even through his clothes.
Arban, his eyes squinting against the sun, glances at Dukar. "How much longer do you think he has?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dukar doesn't answer. He doesn't know. The truth is, they are all on borrowed time, walking a thin line between life and a slow, agonizing death in this desolate wasteland.
As they walk, Dukar's mind wanders, haunted by doubts and fears. What if the desert truly is infinite? What if their northward march is just leading them deeper into this arid hell? The endless sand, the unchanging landscape, it all seems to feed into this growing fear. The desert, with its vastness and hostility, feels like a living entity, intent on swallowing them whole.
Their water supply dwindles with each passing hour, each drop as precious as gold. They ration it strictly, knowing that once it's gone, their fate is sealed. Dukar's gaze often drifts to the horizon, searching for any change, any anomaly in the monotonous landscape that might signal salvation.
But the horizon remains unyielding, a harsh line separating the burning sand from the blistering sky. The sun, a relentless tormentor, continues its arc across the sky, indifferent to the plight of the three souls lost beneath its gaze.
As the day wears on, their steps become slower, more labored. Despair begins to set in, a heavy cloak that threatens to smother their dwindling hope. Dukar's thoughts turn bleak, the idea of an endless desert no longer a mere speculation, but a terrifying possibility.
…
The sun sets on the second day of their endless trek across the Kamoklopr Desert, painting the sky in hues of orange and red, a beautiful yet mocking display against the backdrop of their dire situation. Dukar's footsteps grow heavier, each one sinking into the sand as if the desert itself is trying to claim him. The last drops of water in their canteen had been consumed hours ago, leaving their throats parched and their bodies weak.
As he trudges forward, Dukar's mind begins to drift, thoughts of his family piercing through the haze of exhaustion and despair. He thinks of his role as the heir of the Jabliu tribe, a responsibility now seemingly insignificant in the vastness of the desert. A faint smile touches his cracked lips as he thinks of Naci, his sister. "At least she's married," he muses silently. "She doesn't need me anymore."
Images of his parents flash before his eyes, and a pang of sorrow grips his heart. He had always wanted to make them proud. But now, those dreams seemed like distant echoes, lost in the winds of the desert.
In this moment of weakness, a surprising sense of relief washes over Dukar. The crushing weight of responsibility, the constant pressure of being an heir, it all seems so trivial now. "Dying isn't so bad," he whispers to himself, the words barely audible over the sound of the wind. The thought of all the duties he can now ignore brings a twisted comfort.
Shame creeps into his heart as he realizes his own cowardice. Deep down, he had always harbored a secret wish for a miracle, something that would free him from the expectations that came with his birthright. But he never imagined it would be like this - a slow march towards death in an unforgiving desert.
His mind wanders back to his childhood, to the days of innocence and freedom. He remembers the playful teasing with Naci, their laughter echoing through the grasslands of their home. Those were the moments he cherished the most, moments of carefree joy, unburdened by the weight of the future.
He recalls the hours spent poring over his father's books and scrolls, his young mind eager to absorb the knowledge contained within. Those were the days when learning was an adventure, a journey through worlds beyond his imagination.
But those days are long gone, replaced by the harsh reality of his current predicament. Now, each step he takes is a struggle, a battle against the overwhelming desire to just lie down and surrender to the endless sand.
As the night falls, the temperature drops, bringing a cold that seeps into his bones. Dukar huddles close to Arban, sharing their meager warmth, while Puripal lies between them, his breathing shallow and uneven.
In the darkness of the desert night, under the vast canopy of stars, Dukar contemplates his life, the choices he made, and the paths he never took. The desert, in its cruel indifference, offers no answers, only the echoing silence of a world indifferent to the struggles of one man.
The relentless sun beats down on the third day, its rays unforgiving as they scorch the endless expanse of the Kamoklopr Desert. Dukar, Arban, and the barely conscious Puripal trudge forward, their movements sluggish, their minds clouded by the unrelenting heat.
Dehydration grips Dukar tightly, his body screaming for relief. In the grip of desperation, he recalls a survival tactic – drinking one's own bodily fluid. Yet when he attempts it, only a few painful droplets emerge, offering no respite from his parched throat.
As the day wears on, the boundary between reality and delusion begins to blur for Dukar. The heat, the exhaustion, and the lack of water twist his thoughts into dark fantasies. A gruesome idea takes root in his mind: the prospect of slitting Puripal's throat to drink his blood. In his delirium, he imagines the blood as a life-saving elixir, a way to quench his unbearable thirst.
Hallucinations dance before his eyes. He sees Naci, his sister, her expression scornful. "Coward," she whispers, her voice echoing in the emptiness of the desert. The accusation stings, feeding the turmoil within him.
Then, amidst the waves of heat rising from the sand, appears General Tun Zol Bazhin, lounging leisurely, a goblet of wine in his hand. The wine seems to glisten invitingly, a cruel mirage in the heart of the desert.
Dukar's sanity slips further away as he fixates on the imaginary wine. With a surge of delirious energy, he lunges forward, his hands reaching for the general's throat. He imagines snapping it, seizing the wine for himself.
But before his hands can close around the hallucinated neck, Arban's firm grip pulls him back to reality. "Dukar! Stop! It's not real!" Arban shouts, shaking him vigorously.
Dukar blinks, his vision clearing slowly as Arban's worried face comes into focus. He finds himself standing over Puripal, whose ragged breath is lower than ever.
Dukar blinks, his vision clearing, and the desert returns to its merciless reality. There is no Naci, no Bazhin, no wine – only the endless expanse of burning sand and the two companions who share his plight.
He looks at Arban, his eyes wide with shock and shame. "I... I thought..." he stammers, unable to articulate the horror of his own thoughts.
The sudden whoosh of an arrow cutting through the air startles Dukar and Arban, snapping them out. The arrow embeds itself in the sand just ahead of them. They exchange a quick, wordless glance, understanding the gravity of the situation.
In the distance, a growing rumble of thousands of footsteps vibrates through the ground. As Dukar and Arban squint towards the horizon, they see a massive formation of soldiers moving rapidly, a cloud of dust billowing behind them.
Dukar and Arban know they have a critical decision to make. They could avoid the approaching army, but that would mean continuing their hopeless journey through the merciless desert. On the other hand, approaching the army could lead to their execution, should they be perceived as enemies. But the thought of a swift death under the blade is more appealing than the slow, agonizing demise the desert promises.
With a silent nod of agreement, they make their decision. Dukar hoists Puripal onto his shoulders, the man's body limp and heavy. With Arban leading the way, they start running towards the oncoming army, their last hope for survival.
As they draw closer, the distinct banners and armor of the Moukopl army become visible. Dukar's heart pounds with a mix of fear and hope. In the midst of the chaotic retreat, he spots two familiar figures: General Tun Zol Bazhin, his face etched with worry, and the Crown Prince, his expression unreadable, on top of his chariot.
Dukar and Arban wave their arms frantically, trying to catch the attention of the soldiers. The general, upon noticing them, spurs his horse in their direction. As he approaches, recognition flashes in his eyes.
Without a word, General Bazhin reaches into his saddlebag and pulls out a gourd. He tosses it towards their feet. Dukar bends down to pick it up, his hands trembling with thirst and exhaustion.
The urge to guzzle down the water is overwhelming. But as he unscrews the cap, he feels the weight of Puripal's unconscious form on his shoulders and the expectant gaze of Arban. With every ounce of self-control he possesses, Dukar takes only a few measured sips before passing the gourd to Arban.
Arban's hand pauses mid-air, the gourd halfway to his lips, as Dukar's question cuts through the tense air. "Why are we retreating?" Dukar asks, his voice hoarse with thirst and fatigue.
General Tun Zol Bazhin's eyes, cold and calculating, scan the horizon briefly before landing on Dukar. He dismounts with a fluid grace, his attention shifting to the limp figure on the ground. Recognition dawns in his eyes. "The Yohazatz prisoner? I thought he was dead," he mutters, more to himself than to Dukar.
The general strides towards them, his boots kicking up clouds of sand. He grabs Dukar by the collar, yanking him forward. His face is inches from Dukar's, his breath hot and heavy. "Why did you save this worthless man? Is this why you fell behind, carrying dead weight?"
Dukar, his eyes blazing with defiance, pushes the general away. "I saved him because I wanted to. It's not your business," he retorts, his voice steady despite his weakening body.
Bazhin's face contorts with rage. He snatches the gourd from Arban's grasp and takes a step back. "You Tepr... imbeciles. I regret giving you even a drop of water." He unsheathes his sword, the blade glinting ominously in the fading light.
Puripal lies motionless on the sand, unaware of the danger looming over him. Bazhin steps towards him, but Dukar and Arban position themselves between the general and their fallen companion.
"Move away," Bazhin orders, his voice laced with venom. "I'll rid us of this dead weight."
"We won't let you," Dukar declares firmly, his body tense, ready to defend Puripal with everything he has left.
The general's eyes narrow, his disdain for the Tepr men evident. "Foolish barbarians. The Crown Prince will demand your heads for this."
Dukar meets Bazhin's gaze unflinchingly. "I'm glad. It started weighting too heavily on my shoulders."
Bazhin raises his sword, the blade inches from Dukar's throat. The tension is palpable, the air thick with the threat of violence.
Suddenly, an officer rides up to them, urgency in his voice. "General! The enemy is gaining ground. We must continue the retreat."
Bazhin's gaze lingers on Dukar for a moment longer, his anger simmering just below the surface. He spits out his final words to Dukar, "Waste your breath on a dead man all you want." With that, he turns, remounts his horse, and rides back towards the heart of the formation.
Dukar exhales deeply, the tension in his muscles easing slightly. He looks down at Puripal, then at Arban. Without a word, they both understand what they must do. Dukar lifts Puripal onto his shoulders once more, his body screaming in protest.
Together, Dukar and Arban begin to run, trailing behind the retreating Moukopl army. The desert stretches out before them, an endless expanse of sand and sky, as they move forward, step by painful step.
…
As the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the makeshift camp comes to life with the weary movements of the retreating Moukopl army. Dukar and Arban, relieved to find familiar faces among their kinsmen from Tepr, gather around a small fire. The air is filled with the smell of scant rations cooking and the quiet murmur of exhausted soldiers.
Dukar, his concern for Puripal evident, brings water to the unconscious man's lips, but it just trickles down his chin, unused. The sight deepens the worry etched on Dukar's face.
Arban, meanwhile, seeks answers from their comrades. He huddles close to a young man named Copan, who recounts the events leading to their current predicament. "We were chasing the Yohazatz for days," Copan begins, his voice tinged with exhaustion and disbelief. "But it was a trap. They led us deep into the desert, wearing us down. Then, when we were at our weakest, they turned and attacked."
The firelight flickers across the faces of the gathered men, casting long shadows as Copan describes the devastating charge of the Yohazatz archer cavalry. "They cut through our ranks like a scythe. We had no choice but to retreat."
Copan's voice lowers, a hint of fear creeping in. "At first, we only took a few steps back. Noticing that they weren't chasing us, we planned to gather our strengths and head back the next day… But then they switched tactics. They brought in these... creatures. Not horses, something else." He struggles to find the words to describe the unfamiliar animals.
Dukar listens intently, images from his father's books surfacing in his mind. Copan continues, "They were massive, with long necks and legs, and humps on their backs. They moved effortlessly through the sand, as if the desert was their home."
Dukar interjects, "Camels, they must be camels. I've heard of them, but never seen one. They can travel long distances without water, perfect for desert warfare. They're built for the desert, able to endure conditions that would cripple a horse."
The realization that they are being pursued by such formidable adversaries sends a chill through the group. The threat of the Yohazatz, now mounted on camels, looms large in their minds.
…
The abrupt blare of the horn shatters the fragile peace of the night, jolting the exhausted soldiers from their fitful slumber. Confusion and panic spread like wildfire as the men scramble to their feet, their hearts pounding in their chests. The once orderly camp descends into chaos, the air thick with fear and the sounds of hurried movements.
Dukar's eyes snap open, and he quickly stands, his gaze drawn to the ominous sight of torches flickering on the surrounding dunes. The torches move in a sinister dance, weaving patterns of light and shadow across the desert. The Yohazatz, their presence now revealed, have encircled them, trapping the Moukopl army in a deadly embrace.
Another blast of the horn pierces the night, followed by the desperate cries of soldiers as they struggle to form a defensive perimeter. The general's voice cuts through the din, commanding and authoritative, as he orders the troops into a square formation. "Protect the Crown Prince! Make use of your worthless lives!" he bellows, his words a rallying cry in the midst of uncertainty.
In the heart of the formation, the Crown Prince stands, his usual composure replaced by a visible tension. The flickering torchlight casts shadows across his androgynous features, highlighting the worry that now mars his usually serene expression. Dukar, catching a glimpse of the heir's face, thinks to himself, "He fears death like any other mortal." It's a sobering realization, a reminder of the fragility of life, even for those born from Heaven.
As the Yohazatz camel cavalry descends upon them, the night erupts into violence. The sound of thundering hooves mixes with the whistle of arrows slicing through the air. The soldiers brace themselves, shields raised, as volleys of arrows rain down upon them.
The fear is palpable, a living entity that wraps around each man, squeezing the breath from their lungs. Soldiers cry out as arrows find their mark, their bodies crumpling to the ground in silent finality.
The camels, agile and swift, navigate the dunes with ease, their riders expertly launching arrows into the heart of the Moukopl formation. The soldiers, weary and unprepared for such an onslaught, struggle to maintain their defensive stance. Each arrow that pierces the formation chips away at their resolve, the knowledge of their impending doom growing with every fallen comrade.
In the chaos, Dukar fights with a desperate energy, his mind focused on survival. Each arrow that whizzes past his head, each scream of a wounded soldier, fuels his determination to live. The night sky, once a canopy of stars, now watches silently as men fight and die on the sands below.
The square formation, once a symbol of their strength, begins to falter under the relentless assault. The cries of the dying mingle with the shouts of the living, a symphony of despair that echoes across the desert.
The clashing of steel and the cries of the wounded fill the air as the sun begins its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Amidst the chaos, Dukar fights with every ounce of strength he has left, his mind a whirlwind of desperation and fear. General Tun Zol Bazhin, astride his horse, fights with a ferocity that seems fueled by something beyond mere survival.
In a moment of terrifying clarity, an arrow cuts through the air towards Dukar. Time seems to slow as Dukar braces for impact, but before the arrow can find its mark, Bazhin intervenes with a swift movement of his lance, splitting the arrow in two. Dukar's heart pounds in his chest, a mixture of shock and gratitude flooding him.
"Thank you," Dukar manages to gasp out, his voice hoarse from the desert air and shouting.
Bazhin, his face a mask of concentration and resolve, glances briefly at Dukar. "Don't thank me," he responds gruffly, "I did not want to save you."
The fighting rages on, the sands of the Kamoklopr Desert stained with the blood of Moukopl and Yohazatz alike. As the sun sets, casting long shadows across the dunes, the outcome of the battle becomes painfully clear. The Moukopl army, their numbers greatly diminished, is on the brink of defeat.
Exhaustion weighs heavily on the soldiers, their morale shattered. Orders from the general and officers fall on deaf ears as the men stand, defeated and broken, unwilling to continue or flee.
In a moment of dramatic resignation, the Crown Prince raises his hands, signaling surrender. His gesture, though silent, speaks volumes, echoing the despair of his army.
General Bazhin, witnessing this act of surrender, is consumed with anger. "NO!" he bellows, his voice reverberating across the battlefield. "YOU ARE NOT DEFEATED! ONLY WE ARE!" His proclamation is a testament to his loyalty and devotion to the Crown Prince.
Stepping down from his horse, Bazhin bows deeply to the Prince, acknowledging his failure. "We did not deserve to fight under your majesty," he declares, his voice heavy with the weight of his words.
Then, turning to face the Yohazatz, Bazhin raises his lance towards the sky, his stance defiant and unyielding. "I will not allow any more lives to be lost under my command," he proclaims, his gaze sweeping across the enemy lines. "Let us settle this with a duel. I challenge your most worthy warrior."
The Yohazatz warrior who steps forward is a formidable sight. His tall, muscular frame is adorned with armor that bears the intricate designs of his people. His eyes, sharp and focused, convey a warrior's resolve. He introduces himself with a voice that carries across the silent desert: "Nommloz, son of Kazhonol."
General Tun Zol Bazhin, standing opposite him, responds with a steely gaze. "I am Tun Zol Bazhin, and my father is not worth mentioning."
Their duel is a dance of death, a whirlwind of steel and skill. Nommloz moves with the grace and agility of a seasoned warrior, but Bazhin matches him, move for move. The clash of their weapons rings out. With a series of swift, calculated maneuvers, Bazhin finds an opening and drives his blade into Nommloz's chest. The Yohazatz warrior falls, defeated, his lifeblood seeping into the sands.
A murmur ripples through the Yohazatz ranks, while the Moukopl soldiers, initially stunned, erupt into cheers. But their celebration is cut short as a volley of arrows arcs towards the Crown Prince. Bazhin's reaction is almost supernatural. He leaps into the air, his blade a blur as it slices through the deadly projectiles. One arrow finds its mark in his armor, but Bazhin lands with a heavy thud, unharmed.
Turning towards the Yohazatz, Bazhin roars, "I SAID, NO-ONE ELSE WILL DIE UNDER MY ORDERS!" His challenge echoes across the battlefield, a defiance in the face of overwhelming odds. "Bring another one. Bring two. Bring three. I will take all of you barbarians at once if I must."
Two Yohazatz warriors, laughing at his bravado, charge towards him on their horses. The clash is fierce, a maelstrom of metal and motion. Bazhin's blade finds its mark again, felling one of the riders. In a fluid motion, he leaps onto the fallen warrior's horse, turning the animal towards his remaining opponent.
Arrows fly towards Bazhin, only to be deflected by his helmet or lodged in his armor. With unyielding determination, he closes the distance and, with a single, decisive stroke, beheads the second.
The Yohazatz ranks stir with unease, a growing sense that this man might indeed be unbeatable in single combat. In a desperate attempt to end his onslaught, they unleash a rain of arrows towards him. Bazhin, his movements a blur, slices through the air, cutting down the arrows as they come. Those that pierce his armor and flesh seem to have no effect; he stands, a colossus on the battlefield, seemingly invincible.
His defiance and prowess send a wave of fear through the Yohazatz. They witness a man who, despite the odds, despite the wounds that should have felled any ordinary warrior, continues to fight with a ferocity that borders on the inhuman. The general stands amidst the storm of arrows, a lone figure defying an entire army, his will unbroken.
The battlefield falls into a tense hush as General Tun Zol Bazhin, weakened and bleeding, begins to succumb to his wounds. Arrows thud into the sand around him, each one a harbinger of his impending defeat. His movements, once precise and lethal, now slow under the weight of his injuries. An arrow strikes true, forcing him to one knee, his breath ragged, his body on the brink of collapse.
Amidst the tense standoff, a frail but resolute voice pierces the silence, emanating from the dunes bordering the battlefield. All eyes turn to the source: Puripal, the Yohazatz prince, limping painfully but with an air of authority that commands attention.
"That's enough," Puripal declares, his gaze sweeping over his kinsmen. "We won. Make them prisoners for the Khan."
A Yohazatz warrior quickly rides up to Puripal, offering support. "Prince Puripal, we are glad to see you back," he says, his voice laden with respect.
Puripal's response is edged with a mix of pain and amusement. "Wait till I find the one who shot me," he grinds out through clenched teeth. "He did the right thing, he deserves a reward."
The Yohazatz who claimed responsibility for the shot steps forward with a proud stance. "That was me, Prince Puripal."
A faint smile plays on Puripal's lips. "Good job," he says, and without warning, delivers a punch to the man's face.
It's a weak blow, but the warrior winces in a playful exaggeration, rubbing his cheek. "Ouch," he teases.
Puripal adds, half-jokingly, "Even though it was the right thing, it fucking hurts."
The tension of the battlefield shifts as the Yohazatz warriors begin to corral the Moukopl soldiers, ordering them to lay down their weapons. The Moukopl, defeated and disoriented, comply, their numbers dwindling and morale shattered.
As the Yohazatz secure the area, Puripal gestures towards Dukar, who stands amidst the chaos, his concern for Puripal evident in his expression. "This one saved me," Puripal announces loudly. "He's not a prisoner but a guest of honor. Treat him like my dearest friend."
The Yohazatz warrior who had taken the playful punch from Puripal grins at Dukar. In a move that's as mischievous as it is startling, he draws his bow and aims at Dukar. For a heart-stopping moment, tension grips the air, but then, with a flick of his wrist, the warrior sends an arrow skimming to land harmlessly at Dukar's feet.