Dukar's curiosity lingers as he trudges behind General Tun Zol Bazhin back to his tent. The question burns in his mind, an itch he can't ignore. "General, why is the Crown Prince here, so close to the front line?" he ventures, his voice cautious yet insistent.
Bazhin, without turning, replies in a tone that brooks no argument, "It's not your place to question the motives of royalty, Tepr. Focus on your duties." His dismissal is curt, a clear end to the conversation.
The day drags on, filled with endless tasks that keep Dukar's hands and mind occupied, but his thoughts continually drift back to the heir's unexpected presence.
The next morning, the camp is alive with a sense of urgency. Soldiers line up in neat rows, their armor clinking softly as they shift their weight. The air is thick with anticipation, whispers of an impending battle buzzing among the ranks.
The Moukopl officers stride through the ranks, their voices commanding silence. The soldiers fall quiet, the only sound the distant call of a bird overhead. Tension mounts as the Crown Prince appears, his war attire a stark contrast to the regal elegance Dukar had witnessed the day before. The heir's presence commands attention, his demeanor now that of a warrior poised for battle.
At a signal from the officers, the Moukopl soldiers immediately kneel, heads bowed in reverence. The foreign soldiers, many from Tepr, stand uncertainly, unsure of the protocol. Confusion ripples through their ranks until the officers bark orders, their tone harsh and unforgiving.
A few soldiers, slower to react, receive harsh blows from the officers' batons. Dukar, witnessing the brutality, quickly turns to his kinsmen, translating the orders in their native tongue. "Kneel," he urges, "before they turn their anger on you."
Reluctantly, the foreign soldiers kneel, their movements awkward and uncoordinated. The heir, observing this display, lets out a soft chuckle, the sound unexpectedly light in the tense atmosphere. His amusement seems genuine, a flicker of humanity amidst the rigid formality of the occasion.
Dukar's gaze lingers on the heir, noticing the androgynous beauty of his features. In the morning light, the prince's face seems almost ethereal, his eyes bright and piercing. There's a grace to his movements, a fluidity that belies the armor he wears. His hair, usually styled immaculately, is now pulled back in a practical manner, yet it does nothing to diminish his striking appearance.
In this moment, the Crown Prince seems less like a figure of power and more like a being from another world, his presence otherworldly amidst the dirt and grime of the military camp. The soldiers, now kneeling in unison, watch as the heir begins to address the army, his voice clear and resonant.
The Crown Prince stands before the assembled soldiers, his gaze sweeping over them with an air of regal confidence. The troops, a mix of Moukopl and foreign conscripts, wait in silent anticipation. As he greets them, a chorus of responses echoes through the ranks, though the men from Tepr lag slightly behind, their voices joining in with a noticeable delay.
"My brave soldiers," the heir begins, his voice carrying across the assembly, "we stand at the brink of a great and noble endeavor. The northern barbarians, the Yohazatz, defy the will of the Son of Heaven. They refuse to kneel before the might of the Moukopl Empire. But their insolence will not go unpunished."
The soldiers listen, some with rapt attention, others with a sense of duty-bound respect. Dukar, standing amongst them, watches the Crown Prince, noting the calculated charisma with which he speaks.
"Today, we march not just as an army, but as agents of karmic justice. Our cause is righteous, our purpose clear. The Yohazatz’s refusal to submit is an affront to the natural order, a challenge to the celestial mandate that guides our empire. In restoring this balance, we fulfill a sacred duty."
As the Crown Prince speaks, his words seem to kindle a fire in the hearts of many soldiers. Their faces light up with a sense of purpose, a belief in the cause they are about to fight for. Dukar, however, remains unconvinced, seeing the manipulation behind the words, the bending of ideals to serve the empire's agenda.
"The treacherous sands of the Kamokor Desert shall not deter us," the heir continues, mispronouncing 'Kamoklopr'. Dukar stifles a snort at the mispronunciation, drawing a few glances from his officers.
"Our elite scouts have braved its depths and emerged victorious, charting a path that will lead us to swift victory. And they bring with them a prize, a key to ensuring our triumph."
With a gesture from the Crown Prince, General Tun Zol Bazhin steps forward, leading a figure in chains. Dukar's eyes widen in recognition – it's Puripal of Qixi-Lo, the Yohazatz prisoner he shared his time in the cell with.
"This man," the Crown Prince announces, gesturing towards Puripal, "is a scion of the Yohazatz, a valuable asset in our campaign. With his presence, our victory is assured. We will break the spirit of the Yohazatz, and they too will kneel before the might of the Moukopl."
As the Crown Prince concludes his rousing speech with the promise of personal leadership, the air vibrates with the renewed fervor of the soldiers. Their cheers and shouts of loyalty fill the morning air, a stark contrast to the quiet introspection within Dukar. His thoughts remain anchored on Puripal, the Yohazatz prisoner, and the cruel twist of fate that has turned a man of wisdom into a tool of war.
The army begins its march, a seemingly endless column of men and horses stretching out towards the horizon. The landscape around them slowly transforms as they progress – the lush greenery giving way to the sparse, rugged terrain that heralds the approach of the Kamoklopr Desert. Dukar, walking beside General Tun Zol Bazhin, keeps his gaze fixed ahead, his mind a tumult of thoughts and emotions.
Behind them, the Crown Prince rides atop his royal chariot, a figure of regal command. His personal guard, an elite cadre of soldiers, flanks him closely. They move with disciplined precision, their eyes ever watchful, ever alert.
In front of this entourage, chained and subdued, walks Puripal. His head is bowed, the proud son of Qaloron Khan reduced to a mere shadow of his former self. Dukar can't help but feel a pang of sorrow for his former cellmate, a man caught in the merciless gears of the empire's ambitions.
As the day wears on, the sun climbs higher, its rays beating down upon the marching army. The heat is relentless, a contrast to the chill of the night that awaits them. Soldiers adjust their armor and shields to ward off the harsh sunlight, their faces set in grim determination.
By evening, as the sun begins its descent, the landscape around them is a vast expanse of muted colors – the first signs of the desert's edge. The army halts, and the process of setting up camp begins. Tents spring up like mushrooms after rain, and fires are lit to ward off the impending cold of the desert night.
The camp is a hive of activity, with soldiers tending to their equipment, preparing meals, and sharing stories to lift their spirits. Dukar assists the general with his tasks, his mind still preoccupied with the day’s events and the road ahead.
In the flickering light of the campfires, the Crown Prince's tent stands apart, a hub of hushed conversations and strategic planning.
Puripal, now a solitary figure in the camp's periphery, remains chained and guarded.
As the night deepens and the cold sets in, wrapping the camp in its icy embrace, Dukar settles down for the night. Wrapped in his cloak, he stares at the stars above, their light dimmed by the rising sands on the horizon.
As dawn breaks over the Kamoklopr Desert, the rising sun paints the sky in a kaleidoscope of reds and oranges. The vast desert unfurls before the soldiers, an endless sea of sand and stone that stretches to the horizon. The beauty of the sunrise is a contrast to the harshness of the terrain beneath their feet.
The desert is a landscape of extremes – the heat of the day is relentless, beating down upon the soldiers, sapping their strength and morale. The sand, fine and shifting, makes every step a struggle. The vast emptiness of the desert, with its rolling dunes and sparse vegetation, evokes a sense of isolation and vulnerability among the men. Whispers of unease ripple through the ranks as they traverse this inhospitable land, each soldier battling his own sense of foreboding and exhaustion.
In the midst of their march, the monotony is broken by the sound of a horn from the front. Moments later, an officer rides back towards where General Tun Zol Bazhin is located. The officer’s face is drawn, etched with urgency as he relays the message. “Bandits spotted a few leaps to the west, General.”
The news travels quickly to the Crown Prince, who, upon hearing it, lets out a soft chuckle. His effeminate voice, quiet yet carrying a chilling undertone of cruelty, cuts through the air. “Detour and execute them,” he orders, his words devoid of any hesitation. “Before they cross the border and claim the right to a trial.”
The army, now redirected, moves towards the location of the bandits. Dukar, marching alongside the general, feels a sense of dread building within him. The idea of attacking bandits, already outmatched by the sheer size of the Moukopl army, sits uneasily with him.
As they approach the bandits' location, the disparity in numbers becomes glaringly apparent. The bandits, a ragtag group barely numbering in the hundreds, are hopelessly outnumbered. The Moukopl army descends upon them like a wave, their numbers overwhelming, their might crushing.
From Dukar's perspective, the battle is more a massacre than a fair fight. The bandits, armed with little more than makeshift weapons and worn-out armor, stand no chance against the well-equipped and disciplined Moukopl soldiers. The air is filled with the sound of clashing steel, cries of the dying, and the merciless commands of Moukopl officers.
Dukar watches, his heart heavy, as the bandits are cut down one after another. The sand, once a pristine canvas, is now marred with the crimson of spilled blood..
The Crown Prince, observing from a distance, appears almost bored by the proceedings. His detachment from the carnage unfolding before him is a chilling sight. The soldiers, following his lead, show no mercy, no hesitation.
As the last of the bandits fall, the desert falls silent once more, save for the mournful whistle of the wind. The Moukopl soldiers regroup, leaving behind the bodies of the fallen bandits to be claimed by the desert.
Dukar, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions, continues marching with the army. The desert, with its endless dunes and unforgiving sun, seems to mirror the desolation he feels inside.
…
The camp is shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the scattered fires that flicker like ghostly sentinels in the night. Dukar, restless and unable to find solace in sleep, wanders aimlessly among the tents. The soft sounds of slumbering soldiers are a contrast to the turmoil churning within him. He deftly avoids the watchful eyes of the few guards on duty, moving like a shadow through the sleeping camp.
Drawn by an inexplicable urge, Dukar finds himself at the outskirts of the camp, where Puripal is chained. The prisoner, a lone figure in the moonlit night, sits with his back against a makeshift post. His eyes, reflecting the faint light, flicker with a hint of surprise as he notices Dukar.
"Why aren't you asleep?" Puripal asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dukar crouches beside him, keeping his voice low. "No sane person can sleep in such a place," he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the chains that bind Puripal.
Puripal's response is a bitter spit into the sand. "This 'place' is my home you're talking about," he says with a heavy sigh. "The world should have left the people of the desert in their desert and the people of the mountain in their mountain."
Dukar nods in agreement, his hands reaching for the chains. "Then let me give a man of the desert back to his desert," he says, fingers fumbling with the lock.
Puripal’s reaction is immediate and forceful. He pushes Dukar away with a swift kick. "What are you doing?" he hisses, anger flaring in his eyes.
"I want to free you," Dukar insists, undeterred.
Puripal's voice rises, laced with aggression. "Fuck off! I'm a man who failed to die once; you won't make me fail to die twice!"
The sudden loudness of Puripal's voice catches Dukar off guard. Footsteps crunch on the sand nearby, signaling the approach of a watchful soldier. Puripal glares at Dukar, urgency etched on his face. "Leave, now, before you get caught!"
Dukar, frustration and confusion swirling within him, stands abruptly. He can't comprehend Puripal's refusal, his willingness to embrace a fate he seems to despise. With a last look at the chained man, Dukar slips back into the shadows, each step heavy with unanswered questions and a sense of helplessness.
As he retraces his steps through the camp, the darkness feels more oppressive, the night air colder. The encounter with Puripal weighs heavily on his mind. Even in the midst of despair, there lies a stubborn resilience, a clinging to fate that Dukar cannot fully understand.
The night continues its silent vigil, the camp wrapped in a deceptive peace. Dukar finds his way back to his own quarters, the frustration of the failed attempt at liberation lingering in his heart.
The relentless march across the Kamoklopr Desert weighs heavily on the soldiers. Their bodies, already pushed to the brink of endurance, are now sapped by the unrelenting heat and the scarcity of water. Their minds, clouded by exhaustion, cling to the thought of the impending battle with dread. The once steady rhythm of their steps has become a sluggish, dragging motion.
In contrast to the soldiers' plight, the Crown Prince remains a picture of regal indifference. Seated in his luxurious chariot, shielded from the merciless sun by a canopy of umbrellas, his jade skin remains untouched by the harsh desert conditions. He exudes an air of boredom, his eyes occasionally scanning the endless sea of sand that stretches out before him.
The tedium is abruptly broken when Puripal, chained and weakened, collapses onto the scorching sand. His fall stirs a brief commotion. An officer, callous and impatient, delivers a harsh kick to the fallen man, barking at him to stand up. Puripal, however, remains motionless, his body overwhelmed by the relentless desert heat.
Dukar, witnessing the scene, rushes towards Puripal, concern etched on his face. But before he can reach him, Tun Zol Bazhin's stern voice halts him. "Stay away from him," the general commands.
The sudden sound of horns disrupts the moment, their blaring notes cutting through the oppressive silence of the desert. War drums cease abruptly, and a sense of urgency grips the soldiers. An officer, his face etched with concern, gallops towards the general, his horse kicking up plumes of sand.
"They've encountered the Yohazatz army," the officer reports breathlessly.
Tun Zol Bazhin's expression hardens. He orders another officer to lift Puripal onto his horse, ensuring the prisoner remains visible. With a sense of purpose, the general, Dukar, and the mounted prisoner make their way to the front lines.
As they arrive, the soldiers are gathered around a lone arrow embedded in the sand. The mood is tense, a palpable sense of anticipation hanging in the air.
Dukar's gaze shifts towards the horizon. The dunes, once mere contours in the landscape, now seem to come alive with the presence of the Yohazatz army. Ominous shadows, draped in tame orange and brown camouflage veils, encircle them. The veils flutter in the desert wind, creating an eerie, almost spectral display.
The Yohazatz, hidden by the dunes and their clever disguises, remain motionless, their presence felt but not seen. The soldiers, standing in a formation now disrupted by the unexpected encounter, grip their weapons tighter, their eyes darting across the dunes, trying to gauge the number and position of their hidden foes.
General Tun Zol Bazhin, mounted on his steed, slowly advances toward the Yohazatz. Puripal, bound and weary, sits vulnerably before him. The general's voice, carrying across the sandy expanse, seeks to grasp the Yohazatz's attention with an offer of negotiation.
"Your last opportunity for a peaceful resolution is upon you," he declares, his voice echoing in the still desert air. "We hold Puripal of Qixi-Lo, the fourth son of Khaloron Khan. His life, in exchange for your submission to the will of Heaven."
The general's words, meant to sway, hang in the desert air, but they are met with an unsettling silence from the Yohazatz. Soldiers from both sides hold their breath, waiting for a response, any sign of concession from the veiled figures on the dunes.
Abruptly, the fragile silence shatters. A lone arrow, swift and unerring, cuts through the air. With a sickening thud, it finds its mark, burying itself in Puripal's body. A collective gasp rises from the ranks of the soldiers as they witness the unexpected act of violence.
Chaos erupts in the brief moments that follow. Soldiers scramble, their formations shaken by the sudden turn of events. Puripal, struck by the arrow, slumps forward, his body wracked with pain, a grimace etched on his face.
The Crown Prince, having made his way to the front amidst the unfolding drama, gazes upon the scene with a mix of disdain and morbid fascination. "These barbarians," he comments, his voice tinged with an unsettling calmness, "have no regard for the lives of their kin, nor any respect for royalty."
His androgynous features are illuminated by the harsh desert sun. There's a haunting beauty to his appearance.
With a soft, yet eerily commanding voice, the Crown Prince raises his hand, signaling the onset of battle. "Charge," he orders, his feminine tone belying the violence of his command.
The command reverberates through the ranks like a spark igniting dry grass. Soldiers, their momentary shock giving way to battle-hardened instincts, surge forward. The drums of war thunder once more, echoing the Crown Prince's command, as the Moukopl-led forces descend upon the Yohazatz.
The desert becomes a blur of motion as the Moukopl army, spurred by the Crown Prince's words, surges forward. Dukar, his gaze fixated on the fallen Puripal, acts on impulse. He hoists the wounded man onto his shoulders, his muscles straining under the added weight. The general, too preoccupied with leading the charge, fails to notice Dukar's detour.
As Dukar labors forward, the shifting sands of the Kamoklopr desert seem to swallow every step he takes. The sun beats down mercilessly, its rays like a relentless foe, sapping the strength from his body. Each breath he draws is heavy with the heat and dust of the desert.
The Moukopl forces crest the dunes, their eyes scanning the horizon for the Yohazatz. But the shadows they had been chasing dissolve into the vastness of the desert, revealing thousands of Yohazatz horses waiting in the distance. In a synchronized movement, the Yohazatz leap onto their mounts and disappear into the mirage-laden horizon.
From atop his chariot, the Crown Prince observes the scene unfold. "Like beasts," he remarks, his voice carrying a tone of disdain. "Killing instinctively, fleeing at the sight of a mightier adversary. Irritating, yet inherently weak."
The ensuing chase becomes a grueling test of endurance. The Moukopl army, burdened by their heavy armor and supplies, struggles to keep pace with the elusive Yohazatz. The vast, unforgiving expanse of the Kamoklopr becomes their adversary, each day blending into the next in a relentless pursuit under the scorching sun.
Soldiers begin to falter, collapsing under the oppressive heat. Desperation etches itself onto the faces of the men as they witness their comrades fall, too exhausted to offer aid. The desert claims those left behind, their bodies sinking into the sands, abandoned and forgotten.
Dukar, his resolve waning under the dual burden of carrying Puripal and keeping up with the army, feels his strength ebbing away. The weight on his shoulders grows heavier with each step, Puripal's labored breaths a constant reminder of the life he struggles to save.
The endless chase, a seemingly futile pursuit of shadows, drains the last vestiges of hope from Dukar's heart. His legs buckle beneath him, and he collapses to the ground, the desert heat enveloping him like a shroud.
Puripal, barely clinging to life, slips from Dukar's grasp, his body rolling onto the hot sand. Dukar's eyes flutter, the world around him fading into a hazy blur. The cries of the army, the distant sound of horses, and the relentless beating of the sun become distant echoes in his ears.
Lying there, on the brink of consciousness, Dukar's mind drifts between reality and delirium. The desert, with its endless dunes and scorching heat, seems to merge with his own despair, creating a landscape as barren and desolate as his fading will to live.
In the heart of the Kamoklopr desert, under a sky now sprinkled with stars, the rhythmic sound of footsteps disturbs the quiet of the night. Dukar's eyelids flutter open, his mind emerging from the depths of unconsciousness. Beside him, the silhouette of a figure becomes clearer against the backdrop of the night sky. The familiar voice of Arban, his childhood friend from Jabliu, reaches his ears.
"Dukar!" Arban calls out, his voice a blend of relief and worry. "I thought we’d never meet again."
Dukar tries to speak, but his throat is parched, his voice barely a whisper. Arban kneels beside him, offering a water skin. Dukar drinks greedily, the cool water bringing a semblance of life back into his body.
They sit there for a moment, the vast desert around them silent save for the soft howl of the wind. Puripal, still unconscious, lies nearby, his breathing shallow but steady.
"Is there anybody else?" Arban asks, his eyes scanning the dark horizon. "The prisoner? You carried him all the way here? We need to take care of him," he nods towards Puripal.
Together, they set about tending to Puripal's wound. The arrow had been removed, but the wound is deep, the risk of infection high in these conditions. Using their limited supplies, they clean and bandage it as best they can.
Once Puripal is as comfortable as they can make him, Dukar and Arban sit back, the weight of their situation settling over them. The cold of the desert night creeps in, contrasting sharply with the day's scorching heat.
"What now?" Arban asks, breaking the silence. His voice carries a mix of exhaustion and uncertainty.
Dukar looks out into the darkness, his mind racing with possibilities and dangers. "We can't go back, and we can't go forward. We're stuck in the middle of this damned desert," he says, his frustration evident. “If only he could wake up and tell us where to go!” He gestures at the dying man.
Silence falls between them again, each lost in their own thoughts. The night air is cool, but the situation burns hot in their minds. Abandoned by the Moukopl army, miles from any semblance of civilization, with an injured man in their care – the path ahead is fraught with peril.
Dukar's curiosity lingers as he trudges behind General Tun Zol Bazhin back to his tent. The question burns in his mind, an itch he can't ignore. "General, why is the Crown Prince here, so close to the front line?" he ventures, his voice cautious yet insistent.
Bazhin, without turning, replies in a tone that brooks no argument, "It's not your place to question the motives of royalty, Tepr. Focus on your duties." His dismissal is curt, a clear end to the conversation.
The day drags on, filled with endless tasks that keep Dukar's hands and mind occupied, but his thoughts continually drift back to the heir's unexpected presence.
The next morning, the camp is alive with a sense of urgency. Soldiers line up in neat rows, their armor clinking softly as they shift their weight. The air is thick with anticipation, whispers of an impending battle buzzing among the ranks.
The Moukopl officers stride through the ranks, their voices commanding silence. The soldiers fall quiet, the only sound the distant call of a bird overhead. Tension mounts as the Crown Prince appears, his war attire a stark contrast to the regal elegance Dukar had witnessed the day before. The heir's presence commands attention, his demeanor now that of a warrior poised for battle.
At a signal from the officers, the Moukopl soldiers immediately kneel, heads bowed in reverence. The foreign soldiers, many from Tepr, stand uncertainly, unsure of the protocol. Confusion ripples through their ranks until the officers bark orders, their tone harsh and unforgiving.
A few soldiers, slower to react, receive harsh blows from the officers' batons. Dukar, witnessing the brutality, quickly turns to his kinsmen, translating the orders in their native tongue. "Kneel," he urges, "before they turn their anger on you."
Reluctantly, the foreign soldiers kneel, their movements awkward and uncoordinated. The heir, observing this display, lets out a soft chuckle, the sound unexpectedly light in the tense atmosphere. His amusement seems genuine, a flicker of humanity amidst the rigid formality of the occasion.
Dukar's gaze lingers on the heir, noticing the androgynous beauty of his features. In the morning light, the prince's face seems almost ethereal, his eyes bright and piercing. There's a grace to his movements, a fluidity that belies the armor he wears. His hair, usually styled immaculately, is now pulled back in a practical manner, yet it does nothing to diminish his striking appearance.
In this moment, the Crown Prince seems less like a figure of power and more like a being from another world, his presence otherworldly amidst the dirt and grime of the military camp. The soldiers, now kneeling in unison, watch as the heir begins to address the army, his voice clear and resonant.
The Crown Prince stands before the assembled soldiers, his gaze sweeping over them with an air of regal confidence. The troops, a mix of Moukopl and foreign conscripts, wait in silent anticipation. As he greets them, a chorus of responses echoes through the ranks, though the men from Tepr lag slightly behind, their voices joining in with a noticeable delay.
"My brave soldiers," the heir begins, his voice carrying across the assembly, "we stand at the brink of a great and noble endeavor. The northern barbarians, the Yohazatz, defy the will of the Son of Heaven. They refuse to kneel before the might of the Moukopl Empire. But their insolence will not go unpunished."
The soldiers listen, some with rapt attention, others with a sense of duty-bound respect. Dukar, standing amongst them, watches the Crown Prince, noting the calculated charisma with which he speaks.
"Today, we march not just as an army, but as agents of karmic justice. Our cause is righteous, our purpose clear. The Yohazatz’s refusal to submit is an affront to the natural order, a challenge to the celestial mandate that guides our empire. In restoring this balance, we fulfill a sacred duty."
As the Crown Prince speaks, his words seem to kindle a fire in the hearts of many soldiers. Their faces light up with a sense of purpose, a belief in the cause they are about to fight for. Dukar, however, remains unconvinced, seeing the manipulation behind the words, the bending of ideals to serve the empire's agenda.
"The treacherous sands of the Kamokor Desert shall not deter us," the heir continues, mispronouncing 'Kamoklopr'. Dukar stifles a snort at the mispronunciation, drawing a few glances from his officers.
"Our elite scouts have braved its depths and emerged victorious, charting a path that will lead us to swift victory. And they bring with them a prize, a key to ensuring our triumph."
With a gesture from the Crown Prince, General Tun Zol Bazhin steps forward, leading a figure in chains. Dukar's eyes widen in recognition – it's Puripal of Qixi-Lo, the Yohazatz prisoner he shared his time in the cell with.
"This man," the Crown Prince announces, gesturing towards Puripal, "is a scion of the Yohazatz, a valuable asset in our campaign. With his presence, our victory is assured. We will break the spirit of the Yohazatz, and they too will kneel before the might of the Moukopl."
As the Crown Prince concludes his rousing speech with the promise of personal leadership, the air vibrates with the renewed fervor of the soldiers. Their cheers and shouts of loyalty fill the morning air, a stark contrast to the quiet introspection within Dukar. His thoughts remain anchored on Puripal, the Yohazatz prisoner, and the cruel twist of fate that has turned a man of wisdom into a tool of war.
The army begins its march, a seemingly endless column of men and horses stretching out towards the horizon. The landscape around them slowly transforms as they progress – the lush greenery giving way to the sparse, rugged terrain that heralds the approach of the Kamoklopr Desert. Dukar, walking beside General Tun Zol Bazhin, keeps his gaze fixed ahead, his mind a tumult of thoughts and emotions.
Behind them, the Crown Prince rides atop his royal chariot, a figure of regal command. His personal guard, an elite cadre of soldiers, flanks him closely. They move with disciplined precision, their eyes ever watchful, ever alert.
In front of this entourage, chained and subdued, walks Puripal. His head is bowed, the proud son of Qaloron Khan reduced to a mere shadow of his former self. Dukar can't help but feel a pang of sorrow for his former cellmate, a man caught in the merciless gears of the empire's ambitions.
As the day wears on, the sun climbs higher, its rays beating down upon the marching army. The heat is relentless, a contrast to the chill of the night that awaits them. Soldiers adjust their armor and shields to ward off the harsh sunlight, their faces set in grim determination.
By evening, as the sun begins its descent, the landscape around them is a vast expanse of muted colors – the first signs of the desert's edge. The army halts, and the process of setting up camp begins. Tents spring up like mushrooms after rain, and fires are lit to ward off the impending cold of the desert night.
The camp is a hive of activity, with soldiers tending to their equipment, preparing meals, and sharing stories to lift their spirits. Dukar assists the general with his tasks, his mind still preoccupied with the day’s events and the road ahead.
In the flickering light of the campfires, the Crown Prince's tent stands apart, a hub of hushed conversations and strategic planning.
Puripal, now a solitary figure in the camp's periphery, remains chained and guarded.
As the night deepens and the cold sets in, wrapping the camp in its icy embrace, Dukar settles down for the night. Wrapped in his cloak, he stares at the stars above, their light dimmed by the rising sands on the horizon.
As dawn breaks over the Kamoklopr Desert, the rising sun paints the sky in a kaleidoscope of reds and oranges. The vast desert unfurls before the soldiers, an endless sea of sand and stone that stretches to the horizon. The beauty of the sunrise is a contrast to the harshness of the terrain beneath their feet.
The desert is a landscape of extremes – the heat of the day is relentless, beating down upon the soldiers, sapping their strength and morale. The sand, fine and shifting, makes every step a struggle. The vast emptiness of the desert, with its rolling dunes and sparse vegetation, evokes a sense of isolation and vulnerability among the men. Whispers of unease ripple through the ranks as they traverse this inhospitable land, each soldier battling his own sense of foreboding and exhaustion.
In the midst of their march, the monotony is broken by the sound of a horn from the front. Moments later, an officer rides back towards where General Tun Zol Bazhin is located. The officer’s face is drawn, etched with urgency as he relays the message. “Bandits spotted a few leaps to the west, General.”
The news travels quickly to the Crown Prince, who, upon hearing it, lets out a soft chuckle. His effeminate voice, quiet yet carrying a chilling undertone of cruelty, cuts through the air. “Detour and execute them,” he orders, his words devoid of any hesitation. “Before they cross the border and claim the right to a trial.”
The army, now redirected, moves towards the location of the bandits. Dukar, marching alongside the general, feels a sense of dread building within him. The idea of attacking bandits, already outmatched by the sheer size of the Moukopl army, sits uneasily with him.
As they approach the bandits' location, the disparity in numbers becomes glaringly apparent. The bandits, a ragtag group barely numbering in the hundreds, are hopelessly outnumbered. The Moukopl army descends upon them like a wave, their numbers overwhelming, their might crushing.
From Dukar's perspective, the battle is more a massacre than a fair fight. The bandits, armed with little more than makeshift weapons and worn-out armor, stand no chance against the well-equipped and disciplined Moukopl soldiers. The air is filled with the sound of clashing steel, cries of the dying, and the merciless commands of Moukopl officers.
Dukar watches, his heart heavy, as the bandits are cut down one after another. The sand, once a pristine canvas, is now marred with the crimson of spilled blood..
The Crown Prince, observing from a distance, appears almost bored by the proceedings. His detachment from the carnage unfolding before him is a chilling sight. The soldiers, following his lead, show no mercy, no hesitation.
As the last of the bandits fall, the desert falls silent once more, save for the mournful whistle of the wind. The Moukopl soldiers regroup, leaving behind the bodies of the fallen bandits to be claimed by the desert.
Dukar, his thoughts a whirlwind of emotions, continues marching with the army. The desert, with its endless dunes and unforgiving sun, seems to mirror the desolation he feels inside.
…
The camp is shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the scattered fires that flicker like ghostly sentinels in the night. Dukar, restless and unable to find solace in sleep, wanders aimlessly among the tents. The soft sounds of slumbering soldiers are a contrast to the turmoil churning within him. He deftly avoids the watchful eyes of the few guards on duty, moving like a shadow through the sleeping camp.
Drawn by an inexplicable urge, Dukar finds himself at the outskirts of the camp, where Puripal is chained. The prisoner, a lone figure in the moonlit night, sits with his back against a makeshift post. His eyes, reflecting the faint light, flicker with a hint of surprise as he notices Dukar.
"Why aren't you asleep?" Puripal asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dukar crouches beside him, keeping his voice low. "No sane person can sleep in such a place," he murmurs, his gaze fixed on the chains that bind Puripal.
Puripal's response is a bitter spit into the sand. "This 'place' is my home you're talking about," he says with a heavy sigh. "The world should have left the people of the desert in their desert and the people of the mountain in their mountain."
Dukar nods in agreement, his hands reaching for the chains. "Then let me give a man of the desert back to his desert," he says, fingers fumbling with the lock.
Puripal’s reaction is immediate and forceful. He pushes Dukar away with a swift kick. "What are you doing?" he hisses, anger flaring in his eyes.
"I want to free you," Dukar insists, undeterred.
Puripal's voice rises, laced with aggression. "Fuck off! I'm a man who failed to die once; you won't make me fail to die twice!"
The sudden loudness of Puripal's voice catches Dukar off guard. Footsteps crunch on the sand nearby, signaling the approach of a watchful soldier. Puripal glares at Dukar, urgency etched on his face. "Leave, now, before you get caught!"
Dukar, frustration and confusion swirling within him, stands abruptly. He can't comprehend Puripal's refusal, his willingness to embrace a fate he seems to despise. With a last look at the chained man, Dukar slips back into the shadows, each step heavy with unanswered questions and a sense of helplessness.
As he retraces his steps through the camp, the darkness feels more oppressive, the night air colder. The encounter with Puripal weighs heavily on his mind. Even in the midst of despair, there lies a stubborn resilience, a clinging to fate that Dukar cannot fully understand.
The night continues its silent vigil, the camp wrapped in a deceptive peace. Dukar finds his way back to his own quarters, the frustration of the failed attempt at liberation lingering in his heart.
The relentless march across the Kamoklopr Desert weighs heavily on the soldiers. Their bodies, already pushed to the brink of endurance, are now sapped by the unrelenting heat and the scarcity of water. Their minds, clouded by exhaustion, cling to the thought of the impending battle with dread. The once steady rhythm of their steps has become a sluggish, dragging motion.
In contrast to the soldiers' plight, the Crown Prince remains a picture of regal indifference. Seated in his luxurious chariot, shielded from the merciless sun by a canopy of umbrellas, his jade skin remains untouched by the harsh desert conditions. He exudes an air of boredom, his eyes occasionally scanning the endless sea of sand that stretches out before him.
The tedium is abruptly broken when Puripal, chained and weakened, collapses onto the scorching sand. His fall stirs a brief commotion. An officer, callous and impatient, delivers a harsh kick to the fallen man, barking at him to stand up. Puripal, however, remains motionless, his body overwhelmed by the relentless desert heat.
Dukar, witnessing the scene, rushes towards Puripal, concern etched on his face. But before he can reach him, Tun Zol Bazhin's stern voice halts him. "Stay away from him," the general commands.
The sudden sound of horns disrupts the moment, their blaring notes cutting through the oppressive silence of the desert. War drums cease abruptly, and a sense of urgency grips the soldiers. An officer, his face etched with concern, gallops towards the general, his horse kicking up plumes of sand.
"They've encountered the Yohazatz army," the officer reports breathlessly.
Tun Zol Bazhin's expression hardens. He orders another officer to lift Puripal onto his horse, ensuring the prisoner remains visible. With a sense of purpose, the general, Dukar, and the mounted prisoner make their way to the front lines.
As they arrive, the soldiers are gathered around a lone arrow embedded in the sand. The mood is tense, a palpable sense of anticipation hanging in the air.
Dukar's gaze shifts towards the horizon. The dunes, once mere contours in the landscape, now seem to come alive with the presence of the Yohazatz army. Ominous shadows, draped in tame orange and brown camouflage veils, encircle them. The veils flutter in the desert wind, creating an eerie, almost spectral display.
The Yohazatz, hidden by the dunes and their clever disguises, remain motionless, their presence felt but not seen. The soldiers, standing in a formation now disrupted by the unexpected encounter, grip their weapons tighter, their eyes darting across the dunes, trying to gauge the number and position of their hidden foes.
General Tun Zol Bazhin, mounted on his steed, slowly advances toward the Yohazatz. Puripal, bound and weary, sits vulnerably before him. The general's voice, carrying across the sandy expanse, seeks to grasp the Yohazatz's attention with an offer of negotiation.
"Your last opportunity for a peaceful resolution is upon you," he declares, his voice echoing in the still desert air. "We hold Puripal of Qixi-Lo, the fourth son of Khaloron Khan. His life, in exchange for your submission to the will of Heaven."
The general's words, meant to sway, hang in the desert air, but they are met with an unsettling silence from the Yohazatz. Soldiers from both sides hold their breath, waiting for a response, any sign of concession from the veiled figures on the dunes.
Abruptly, the fragile silence shatters. A lone arrow, swift and unerring, cuts through the air. With a sickening thud, it finds its mark, burying itself in Puripal's body. A collective gasp rises from the ranks of the soldiers as they witness the unexpected act of violence.
Chaos erupts in the brief moments that follow. Soldiers scramble, their formations shaken by the sudden turn of events. Puripal, struck by the arrow, slumps forward, his body wracked with pain, a grimace etched on his face.
The Crown Prince, having made his way to the front amidst the unfolding drama, gazes upon the scene with a mix of disdain and morbid fascination. "These barbarians," he comments, his voice tinged with an unsettling calmness, "have no regard for the lives of their kin, nor any respect for royalty."
His androgynous features are illuminated by the harsh desert sun. There's a haunting beauty to his appearance.
With a soft, yet eerily commanding voice, the Crown Prince raises his hand, signaling the onset of battle. "Charge," he orders, his feminine tone belying the violence of his command.
The command reverberates through the ranks like a spark igniting dry grass. Soldiers, their momentary shock giving way to battle-hardened instincts, surge forward. The drums of war thunder once more, echoing the Crown Prince's command, as the Moukopl-led forces descend upon the Yohazatz.
The desert becomes a blur of motion as the Moukopl army, spurred by the Crown Prince's words, surges forward. Dukar, his gaze fixated on the fallen Puripal, acts on impulse. He hoists the wounded man onto his shoulders, his muscles straining under the added weight. The general, too preoccupied with leading the charge, fails to notice Dukar's detour.
As Dukar labors forward, the shifting sands of the Kamoklopr desert seem to swallow every step he takes. The sun beats down mercilessly, its rays like a relentless foe, sapping the strength from his body. Each breath he draws is heavy with the heat and dust of the desert.
The Moukopl forces crest the dunes, their eyes scanning the horizon for the Yohazatz. But the shadows they had been chasing dissolve into the vastness of the desert, revealing thousands of Yohazatz horses waiting in the distance. In a synchronized movement, the Yohazatz leap onto their mounts and disappear into the mirage-laden horizon.
From atop his chariot, the Crown Prince observes the scene unfold. "Like beasts," he remarks, his voice carrying a tone of disdain. "Killing instinctively, fleeing at the sight of a mightier adversary. Irritating, yet inherently weak."
The ensuing chase becomes a grueling test of endurance. The Moukopl army, burdened by their heavy armor and supplies, struggles to keep pace with the elusive Yohazatz. The vast, unforgiving expanse of the Kamoklopr becomes their adversary, each day blending into the next in a relentless pursuit under the scorching sun.
Soldiers begin to falter, collapsing under the oppressive heat. Desperation etches itself onto the faces of the men as they witness their comrades fall, too exhausted to offer aid. The desert claims those left behind, their bodies sinking into the sands, abandoned and forgotten.
Dukar, his resolve waning under the dual burden of carrying Puripal and keeping up with the army, feels his strength ebbing away. The weight on his shoulders grows heavier with each step, Puripal's labored breaths a constant reminder of the life he struggles to save.
The endless chase, a seemingly futile pursuit of shadows, drains the last vestiges of hope from Dukar's heart. His legs buckle beneath him, and he collapses to the ground, the desert heat enveloping him like a shroud.
Puripal, barely clinging to life, slips from Dukar's grasp, his body rolling onto the hot sand. Dukar's eyes flutter, the world around him fading into a hazy blur. The cries of the army, the distant sound of horses, and the relentless beating of the sun become distant echoes in his ears.
Lying there, on the brink of consciousness, Dukar's mind drifts between reality and delirium. The desert, with its endless dunes and scorching heat, seems to merge with his own despair, creating a landscape as barren and desolate as his fading will to live.
In the heart of the Kamoklopr desert, under a sky now sprinkled with stars, the rhythmic sound of footsteps disturbs the quiet of the night. Dukar's eyelids flutter open, his mind emerging from the depths of unconsciousness. Beside him, the silhouette of a figure becomes clearer against the backdrop of the night sky. The familiar voice of Arban, his childhood friend from Jabliu, reaches his ears.
"Dukar!" Arban calls out, his voice a blend of relief and worry. "I thought we’d never meet again."
Dukar tries to speak, but his throat is parched, his voice barely a whisper. Arban kneels beside him, offering a water skin. Dukar drinks greedily, the cool water bringing a semblance of life back into his body.
They sit there for a moment, the vast desert around them silent save for the soft howl of the wind. Puripal, still unconscious, lies nearby, his breathing shallow but steady.
"Is there anybody else?" Arban asks, his eyes scanning the dark horizon. "The prisoner? You carried him all the way here? We need to take care of him," he nods towards Puripal.
Together, they set about tending to Puripal's wound. The arrow had been removed, but the wound is deep, the risk of infection high in these conditions. Using their limited supplies, they clean and bandage it as best they can.
Once Puripal is as comfortable as they can make him, Dukar and Arban sit back, the weight of their situation settling over them. The cold of the desert night creeps in, contrasting sharply with the day's scorching heat.
"What now?" Arban asks, breaking the silence. His voice carries a mix of exhaustion and uncertainty.
Dukar looks out into the darkness, his mind racing with possibilities and dangers. "We can't go back, and we can't go forward. We're stuck in the middle of this damned desert," he says, his frustration evident. “If only he could wake up and tell us where to go!” He gestures at the dying man.
Silence falls between them again, each lost in their own thoughts. The night air is cool, but the situation burns hot in their minds. Abandoned by the Moukopl army, miles from any semblance of civilization, with an injured man in their care – the path ahead is fraught with peril.
