Haboob

Something wet was pressed to Zaid's lips. He gulped at the moisture only to find he had drunk it already. A hand delivered more in a small earthenware cup. They were little sips designed to keep a thirsty man from swallowing more than he could handle. When he tried to move he realized his hands were tied and struggled against the bonds on reflex. The thrashing hurt his face, reminding him of his injury.

"Stop," said a man, "or you'll reopen the wound. I won't heal it a second time."

There was a strange light coming from a paper lantern hung from somewhere above him. It didn't flicker like fire, and it wasn't steady like spirit lamps or ancient lights. The blue-white light proceeded in slow waves that washed over the room and everyone in it.

"Tell the Hierarch he's awake." The healer gave the command without moving his eyes from Zaid. He kept feeding the bound Princeps tiny cups of water.

They were in a domed corridor made of sandstone, four meters wide with no visible windows or doors. Most of the room Zaid could see was packed with calique sitting on the floor, eating and talking in hushed tones. He could only see the nearest few ranks of calique, but the corridor was much longer than that. They must be underground. If disciples could make these shelters wherever they wanted, it would explain why Zaid's people could never find them.

There were rows of planters above the men's heads, built into the wall where the domed ceiling began its curve inward. As Zaid watched, the plants inside grew and thickened. Vines dangled down among the calique, who picked round berries and young beans to eat. The suspended garden was thriving in the strange light.

Several Kashmari soldiers lay sleeping near Zaid, bound but not injured. They were very clean, as if they had been given baths and their clothes had been washed. Zaid checked his hands and found the same was true for him. His armor and weapons were gone, and his uniform was somewhat worn, but everything was clean. The prisoners were joined together by a rope that looped seamlessly around one leg each without a visible knot or splice.

The water soaked into Zaid's mouth before he could swallow. Cup by slow cup, he was revitalized. "I recognize you," he said, when his voice was working, "you're one of my healers."

"Not anymore." Another tiny cup of water passed through Zaid's lips. "Nexus has accepted us as candidates. We're to be trained as practitioners, properly this time, not the hobbled slaves to the families we have been."

"But you don't have the Heritage." It was perhaps unwise to vocally doubt the man giving him water, but Zaid wasn't in the habit of watching his words to anyone who wasn't a ranking prince. "How can you be a disciple?"

"Heritage is a lie." Another sip of water. "When you take the Healer's Oath, much of your power is restrained so you can't threaten the First Families. We've suspected it for years, but now we know." Another sip. "The first time you have your symbol blessed for practice, you can feel the difference."

"Didn't Enclave make you read Vow of Obedience?"

"No," scoffed the healer, "why would they? We're just lowly healers. Here." He handed Zaid a water skin and a leaf-wrapped packet. "Don't overdo it, or you'll get sick."

Apparently, the Pasha wasn't planning to kill him. Hadith's Destiny still guided the Princeps and everyone around him. The men around Zaid all wore uniforms from different regiments, random spearmen and skirmishers who somehow fell into enemy hands, but none of them were Chargers. The elites would never let themselves be captured.

"You poor woman." It was Phillip's voice. "I understand what they've done to you." Zaid craned his neck around until he located the young Pasha, at the end of the line of prisoners. He was sitting in front of Guardian Paraskevi. Her hands were bound.

"Your soul will be forever lost," Paraveski said in return, but not with her usual invective force. She sounded like she was weeping. "Olyon will obliterate you, and your cycle will end!"

"The curse has roots all over your mind. If I try to dig it out, I could damage you."

"Don't you dare touch me!"

"After I'm done with Enclave, this might just resolve itself. But there is something we could try now that's relatively safe. I could drain your spirit. Starving the curse completely might kill it. You'll feel sick for a few hours, but that's the worst that can happen."

"My holy vow must forever remain intact! It's my holy duty to Olyon."

The guardian held her bound hands forward as if pleading. The Pasha gently took them in his own to comfort her. The guardian's eyes widened, and she tipped as if she would fall over. Phillip caught her and laid her down with a rolled-up cloak for a pillow.

Pasha Phillip rose and came to sit across from Zaid. His eyes had changed from silver to green, and his penetrating gaze had softened to something much more human. He wore a thick white caftan and, beneath that, his armor of scarlet carapace. He bore no weapons, but in this room he didn't need them. There was a constant howling, from somewhere far away.

"These are the terms of your surrender," began Phillip. "You and your men give up your arms and go home. You swear before a fragment of the sun never to wage war on the Calique again. In return, you'll receive food, water, and healing."

"You're worried," said Zaid, leaning in to get a good look at Phillip's face. "We're close to your people. That's why you're taking chances now. And you won't kill me while I'm a prisoner. You're too merciful."

"I was worried when you aimed for Pashtuk, but not anymore. Your army will never reach our people. Not now. Do you hear that?" The youth pointed at the ceiling. The howling had grown slightly louder. "That's a haboob. We're very near to what's left of your army, and it's coming."

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Haboob were massive dust storms with hurricane-force winds. They lasted hours or even days, and the most violent ones were filled with lightning. They were terrifying, but they were survivable with nothing but a span of good canvas and a cool head. It might demoralize the men, but it wouldn't kill many of them.

"So what? My men can survive a little dust storm."

"Not this one. If I go out there, they will die by the thousands. Surrender, and save them from a pointless death."

"We can't surrender," Zaid insisted, "our orders were to win or not come home. The Tyrant would kill us as traitors, so you'll just have to let the storm have them."

"So don't go home," reasoned Phillip. "Go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Don't die here for stale ambitions."

"Stale ambitions," Zaid mocked him. "It's our destiny to rule all of Kravikas, north and south. Our birthright!"

"Why do you even want this place?" laughed the Pasha. "There is literally nothing here you can use except the trade route, and the Calique operate it on very reasonable terms. You lack the power to change the desert to your liking, and you're unwilling to adapt to it. Even your predecessors who won their wars ended up dead. And you've lost. Spectacularly."

"You think this is over?" Zaid smirked. "This is far from over. Ransom me back to Kashmar or execute me here, it won't matter. Your oases will all burn like Bitter Spring. You'll see."

"Are you perhaps thinking about the five thousand elite mercenaries you hired?" Phillip motioned for something, and soon a silver box sat in front of him, the mate to Zaid's own. "We turned them away on their first day in the desert and captured this. Mercenaries are very sensible people. As soon as you demonstrate you can kill their officers at will, they leave to seek greener pastures. We barely had to fight at all."

Phillip opened the box to show it was empty. He closed the lid, focused on it for a second, and the ancient device rattled and danced on the stone floor. When it stilled, Phillip opened it to retrieve the message Zaid had tried to send days before.

"A request for confirmation of orders," he read. "I don't think we need to respond, do you?" He closed the box and handed it off to one of the spike-haired bodyguards, who took it away for safekeeping. "By the way, your Riverland force is a total loss. We took a handful of prisoners, but the rest are plant food."

The Pasha was there to gloat, but Zaid was Princeps of Kashmar. He steeled his spine and controlled his face. He wouldn't give this upstart the pleasure of seeing him upset.

"You still think your Destiny is driving you, don't you?" Phillip shook his head. "You're still alive because I ordered it so. All those near misses were on purpose, to goad you. Don't you see? A lesser commander would have given up or lost control of his men, but you kept going. I needed you to lead them here, so they could suffer a total defeat. There's no lying your way out of a loss this severe, not after we march the survivors home as captives."

"It won't work. The princes will never give up their birthright. Our line is blessed by Olyon." Even as he said the words, Zaid's eyes flicked to the resting guardian and then to the healer who had treated him. If Heritage was a lie, what did that mean for Kashmar?

"Enclave lies, about everything. Take your son, for example. Remember Donis? You fed him drugged milk and then tossed him from a scenic overlook into the sea. If he'd lived, he would have had the power to change shape to animal form and back again. He wasn't the first, either. Those Enclave healers you've been trusting to examine your children? They've been lying to you for generations. Enclave doesn't like anything that reminds people how powerful the ancients must have been, including shifters. Most people don't know this, but shifters look smooth-skinned when they're not in their animal form. But a good healer can tell the difference with a touch."

Zaid would have said he was lying, but the details stood out too starkly. The Pasha had knowledge he shouldn't have. He hadn't thought of the child in some time. Like most princes, he didn't get too close to his sons until they passed the examination. An image came to him unbidden, of a child tumbling into gray mist. The distant roar of salty waves ground against his ears. A good and lively boy, cast aside like trash. He shouldn't have done it. Even if the boy was smooth-skinned, he should have found a way to spare him.

"How do you know? About Donis?"

"That doesn't matter right now. What matters is, there are consequences to killing Jaida's son. Isn't that what you promised her? You lost this war, and Jaida did everything she could to ensure it."

The Pasha had more words on the subject, about how understanding Zaid was key to their success, and all that Jaida had given them, but Zaid couldn't hear him over the rushing in his ears. He felt like he was the one thrown from the cliff, tumbling uncontrollably. His last weeks with her had been so sweet he never suspected her at all. She didn't even ask him many questions but had listened with an attentive curiosity that pulled him onward. He had told her about the ancient message box, the mercenaries, the Riverlands, and so much more.

Jaida was even stronger than he had given her credit for. Her other children were like Donis, apparently smooth-skinned, but maybe they would be shifters too. She betrayed him to protect their children, and Zaid discovered he couldn't be angry about that. He smiled.

"What now?"

"Now you surrender, and order your men to surrender. You still have over ten thousand men, if you include the injured. Plus what you left behind at Bitter Spring. When you're rested enough you start the march home, this time with enough food and water to see you through."

"I'm not going home in chains. And I'm not going into hiding either. My men will fight to the end, and so will I." He looked around at his fellow prisoners, none of whom wanted to meet his eye. These few who had given up had nothing to say he was willing to hear.

A spine-haired young woman knelt beside Phillip. "Master, the tunnel is ready and lookouts are secured. It's nearly on top of us."

Phillip was up and gone in a single motion. The woman spared Zaid a single glance and a shake of her head, like he had done something unaccountably stupid and sad, before following in her master's wake. As the youth passed through the room men and women stood. They pressed their palms together, fingers upright over their hearts, and said his name as he passed through them. "Phillip. Phillip. Phillip." He paused to accept a long, red, faceted stone the length of a scepter from his other spine-haired guard. With a steadying breath, he turned to one side and disappeared down a side tunnel Zaid could not see.

The healer began passing out bits of cloth for the men to stuff into their ears and instructed them to do the same for anyone still sleeping. The howling increased. Zaid refused the bits of cloth, at first. "This is to protect your hearing, Princeps," scowled the healer. "If you don't let me protect your ears now, don't expect anyone to heal you later."

Zaid thought about the thunder bombs that had decimated his men at Laggard's Shaft and made him completely deaf. "Why? What's about to happen?"

"You've seen what thunder can do. Now your men will get to know lightning."

Zaid accepted the makeshift earplugs.

The first lightning strike made the entire room jump in surprise. It was a sharp report that boomed at them through the ground. The next few strikes were nearly a minute apart. From the steady howling above them, the storm had decided to hover nearby, and the lightning strikes began to pick up tempo. By the end of the first half-hour, they were happening every few seconds. Even that wasn't the peak. Three hours into the storm, lightning began to smite the ground in waves, hundreds of strikes thundering across the land above them like a herd of animals, vibrating the stone around them so hard he feared it would break and bury them. Zaid could imagine his men being struck by lightning, or running before the storm and getting lost in the desert. He wanted to plead for the lives of his men, but what was the point? They could die here for their Tyrant, or they could die as cowards and traitors in Kashmar. Honor was better than dishonor, so Zaid said nothing.

The waves of lightning seemed to go on for hours.