Chapter Two Hundred Thirty-Nine: 'Amid the churning sand...'

The Uego Desert was quite a sight in the evening. The enormous dunes had a way of catching the sunlight with their slopes and curves that made them shine, and the heat that still lingered from earlier in the day made that gentle shimmer tremble and waver.

The uncommon purity of the sands themselves might've also factored into the scene. More than perhaps any other desert in the world, the Uego had a large percentage of translucent or even transparent grains of sand.

That was said to be the work of Asad's earliest predecessors, the arasaba, the mythological creatures from which his moniker--the Lion of the Desert--originated. They were said to have gifted their ability to create sand upon those who gained their favor, before ultimately departing from this world.

Asad had gazed upon this desert many times over the course of his life--and not always for good or peaceful reasons.

And unfortunately, this was another such occasion.

The Abolish-backed invasion of the Calthosi Armed Forces into his homeland of Sair had thus far proven to be largely a stalemate, but according to the scouts, Abolish did seem to be very slowly gaining ground. It wasn't yet enough to cause real concern, but it wasn't encouraging news, either.

Asad had been involved in a few wars already in his lifetime but never one of this scale--and never one that threatened the very existence of Sair.

That was what was really weighing on everyone's mind, he felt. The idea that, if they failed, everything they had built here over the last two centuries would be reduced to ruin.

The reapers of his Hahl had always told him that if a day like this ever came, it would come quickly. And he'd nodded along like a good student and son.

However, only now did he feel as though he truly understood. And even that was debatable.

He still occasionally found himself wondering how they'd ended up in this position. Their entire purpose in joining with the Rainlords all those years ago was precisely to prevent circumstances such as these. And later, when half of the Hahls partnered with the Vanguard, the same reasoning had been used.

True, that was all before he was born, but he knew the history well. His parents would've surely been rolling in their graves if he didn't.

And yet here the Sandlords now were, relying on the already-strained Vanguard. Any other allies that they had made over the years were either busy with their own war, in hiding, or simply long dead.

The isolationism that his brethren on the Golden Council so loved to speak about--well, it wasn't looking so wise now, was it?

It was hard not to be bitter during their meetings, these days.

His relationship with the other councilmen felt strained from both ends. They were displeased with how he had gone against them in order to aid the Rainlords and subsequently jeopardized their relationship with the Vanguard; and he was displeased with how they didn't seem to realize that they would be in a much better position to fight this war now if they had just done as he had requested and supported the Rainlords against the Vanguard, at least politically if not militarily.

The Vanguard was not supposed to be a political organization. Even if some of the Rainlords were members, the Vanguard simply didn't have the right to remove them from their own territory--not without the support of the rest of the government. If the Sandlords had made clear their opposition to the Vanguard's actions, this whole thing might have been resolved peacefully.

At least, that was Asad's opinion. The rest of the Council clearly did not share it.

They seemed to be under the impression that the Vanguard would have pulled out of Sair entirely--or worse, attacked the Drylands, too.

Which was an absurd notion to Asad; but of course, explaining as much had not proved easy.

The Vanguard wanted their alliance with the Sandlords to continue. Never was that more clear than now. Sair was far too important geographically, and the Sandlords knew this land better than anyone. And with the Sunsmith finally stepping onto the world stage as a powerful enough figure to truly oppose the other juggernauts, the Vanguard would have even less reason to pick a fight with them.

How he wished Zeff had accepted his proposal a year and a half ago. Perhaps a very public marriage between Emiliana Elroy and Midhat Najir would have been enough to prevent all of these problems from growing so out of control.

Or maybe he was just deluding himself.

There was no sense in whining about it now, he told himself. What was done was done, and allowing resentment to build up in his heart would do nothing to improve the situation--not for his people and not for himself.

His father had taught him that.

The Lord Salim Najir had been a man of few words. Asad's mother had typically been the one to raise her voice or decide punishment--and between him and his brother Haqq, there'd been plenty of that to go around.

In fact, there was only a single instance in Asad's memory of his father ever sounding angry. Perhaps the rarity of it was precisely why he remembered it so vividly.

It had happened not long after he'd become a servant at the age of fourteen and manifested his "divine" materialization ability. At first, he'd been ecstatic with the discovery. He had the most esteemed power among the Sandlords at his fingertips. What was there to dislike?

He soon found out, when all of his peers began treating him differently. It was like they suddenly thought he was above them--or that he thought he was, perhaps. At that tender age, he couldn't recognize the quiet resentment in their eyes. He couldn't understand why all of his friends suddenly seemed so different.

They weren't mean, of course. That was the confusing part. They were perfectly cordial. They were just... detached. They would still invite him to play with them, to hang out, but they couldn't laugh like they did before. They couldn't relax. It was like everyone was walking on eggshells around him.

If he'd been more emotionally mature, perhaps he would've been able to navigate those relationships better. Instead, he'd started picking fights. For no real reason, either--or at least, none that he could have articulated at the time.

Really, he'd just wanted someone to treat him like a normal person again, even if that meant getting them to punch him in the face.

And when his father had learned of what he was doing, that was the one and only time that Asad recalled him ever growing frighteningly angry. But it was not because of the fights that he'd picked, precisely. His father seemed to understand that part well enough.

No, what truly bothered Salim Najir was when Asad kept complaining.

Many times over the course of his life, Asad had remembered that moment for how strange it was. Of all the things that could have possibly set the man off, why had it been that? There were so many worse things that he and Haqq had done in their youth. Setting off fireworks in his office, for example. Or giving each other black eyes. Or eating so many sweets that they both vomited in the middle of a prestigious dining event with Hahl Saqqaf.

It hadn't been any of those. His father had been cool as a cucumber in each and every instance. Never yelling. Always gentle.

Aside from this one instance in which he apparently could not abide Asad's childish whining.

For many years, the oddness of that memory had continued to puzzle him. Maybe his father had just been having a bad day. Maybe his father had just gotten fed up after listening to him for too long. Or maybe it was some other thing.

But somewhere along his maturation into a man, Asad felt like he understood, because he remembered what his father had said afterwards, once he'd calmed down.

"Every man has his own burdens to bear. His own misery. But not every man has to let those burdens belittle him. Not every man has to become pathetic."

And if that didn't sum up his father's entire philosophy for life, then he didn't know what else would.

He wondered what his father would make of the current situation. Was this war just another burden to be borne?

Maybe it was.

His mother certainly wouldn't have been quiet about it, though.

Asad didn't think that he had ever seen two more different people than Salim and Yasmin Najir. How they'd ended up married--much less, happily so--he still struggled to wrap his head around.

He'd heard from the reapers that their union had been arranged, then called off, then rearranged, then called off again, before finally going through. Apparently, the drama had arisen from the uncertainty between the two Hahls, rather than between the bride and groom. No doubt, the families had seen their opposite natures and been concerned.

But for whatever reason, it had worked out. His mother never seemed to mind his father's stoicism, and his father never seemed to mind his mother's temper. In fact, his father was perhaps the only person who was ever spared from her biting wit.

While it might've been an exaggeration to say that their marriage had been openly "affectionate," Asad did remember the occasional moment of tenderness between them.

He wished that he'd realized sooner how special their relationship was. They'd made it look easy, never arguing--at least, not in front of him.

Compared to his own marriage, the memory of theirs felt like some far off dream.

He didn't want to think about that right now, though.

They were expecting another major offensive from the Calthosi any day now. The last few attacks had only been harassments, probably scouting for weaknesses in their defenses. They weren't likely to find any, though. Asad had been walking the lines, checking the comms, and assessing the troops and ordnance all day long--and he wasn't the only one doing that, either.

The Uego Desert was a death trap, just waiting for the enemy to try and cross it.

Asad finally sat down and breathed a heavy sigh. He'd decided to take a rest in the final bunker that he'd checked for the evening. Asho Duxan, son of the Lord Hasan Duxan, had taken over Asad's shift in making the rounds.

Asad wondered if he would even able to sleep tonight. His body felt weary enough for it, but pre-battle tension had a way of ignoring that. And nighttime, of course, was a favored opportunity for launching attacks.

For a while, he just kept staring out the long, horizontal hole in the bunker. This modest structure was almost entirely buried in the Uego sands, and the nightly wind occasionally whipped a dry spray into the domed chamber.

Glass could've kept the sand out, of course, but any glare from the sun or moon would hinder visibility, which was much more important than any discomfort that Asad was feeling from getting splashed in the face with sand every now and then.

Plus, this wasn't bad. Bad was when the sand swept in and covered his whole body in a matter of seconds. Bad was when the winds had been strong enough to make the sand grains draw blood after pelting him in his youth. Bad required goggles and body armor.

This was just fine.

The pair of silent sentries sitting next to him were wearing goggles and armor, however. And judging from the amount of sand on the floor, still waiting to be removed, maybe these fellows had gotten a taste of bad earlier.

With all that gear on, there was no telling which Hahl they belonged to, but they must've been young if they were stationed here. They might even be non-servants, since he didn't see either of their reapers hanging around.

His own reaper, Qorvass, phased through the wall and hovered over to him. 'I don't think the Vanguardians like our desert very much,' he said in Valgan.

'I'm not sure WE like our desert very much,' said Asad.

'Even so, it's obvious that many of them aren't handling the heat very well,' said Qorvass.

'Well, it's winter, so maybe they are enjoying the freezing nights,' said Asad, unable to conceal his amusement.

'They aren't.'

Asad couldn't say he was surprised. Extreme temperatures were something of a weakness for servants, especially those lacking experience or training in such environments. The effects of very high or low temperatures on the brain were big factors. Overheating obviously impaired one's cognitive ability, and regenerating could only do so much against that. And freezing, of course, was arguably even more debilitating.

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While it was true that passive soul defenses could neutralize those problems, the younger servants wouldn't have that luxury. And hell, even a lot of the older ones might still be uncomfortable--and therefore irritable--if they weren't accustomed to working in places like this.

'Abolish will be in the same boat,' said Asad. 'In fact, they'll probably be worse off. This is where having soldiers who lack discipline can become a major problem.'

'I appreciate your optimism,' said Qorvass. 'By the way, have you forgotten anything today?'

Asad almost resented that question. 'I don't think so.'

Lately, the reaper had gotten into the habit of asking him that every day. Asad had found it annoying at first, but after a couple of instances where it helped him to remember something, he decided that maybe there was some utility in it, after all.

'You're sure?' said Qorvass. 'You didn't leave the Shards behind again, did you?'

'They're right here.' Asad touched the breast pocket concealed beneath his bulky robe.

Qorvass seemed to be especially wary of where the Shards were, these days. Which wasn't so surprising, really. There were only four of them in total, and two of them were no longer in Sair.

Now more than ever, the potential that lay dormant in the Shards was constantly on Asad's mind. If he could just unlock their power, he could ascend to a level of strength that the Sandlords had not wielded in centuries.

That would change things, of course. Abbas Saqqaf would no longer be the undisputed powerhouse among them, but Asad was confident that they would be able to work through any political challenges that might arise. The safety that the Shards would be able to provide would far outweigh any drama between the Hahls, he felt.

But there was a reason why the last seven Lions had all failed to accomplish this feat.

No one knew how to do it, anymore.

Qorvass believed that it was simply a matter of growing old enough, of allowing their soul synchronization to reach a certain threshold; but the reaper had also admitted to him privately that he didn't actually know what that threshold was or when they would pass it. Despite him being even older than the Shards themselves, the reaper could provide no definitive historical evidence that this theory was actually true.

Certainly, it was comforting to imagine that all Asad had to do was survive, to live long enough to obtain some godlike power that would solve all their problems. It was no wonder why Qorvass wanted to believe that.

It was much better than the alternative explanation, where it is simply impossible for Asad to unlock the Shards' potential in the first place.

Better to keep hope alive, right?

Soon. Just a little longer. Someday. Eventually.

Those all sounded nicer in one's mind than simply "never," didn't they?

Frankly, Asad didn't know what he believed, anymore. On the one hand, he'd gotten confirmation that Rasalased really did still exist within the Shards; but on the other, the Dry God had apparently mentioned something that seriously challenged Qorvass' theory of eventuality.

When Hector and Garovel had explained their strange encounter with Rasalased to him and Qorvass, that was the thing that Asad found the most curious.

Rasalased was apparently able to gaze deeply into their souls and judge their character. To measure their worthiness. And most importantly, he said that he had "learned his lesson after the three."

There was little doubt in Asad's mind that the Dry God had been referring to the War of the Three Sands. If Rasalased was able to perceive the greater world beyond the Shards, then it would only make sense that a time in which the Sandlords had tried to annihilate each other left a lasting impression on him.

Perhaps before that conflict, the Shards worked just as Qorvass said. Any sufficiently skilled Lion would be able to unlock their power. And after seeing the destruction wrought by such indiscriminate strength, Rasalased decided to take a more cautious approach.

If that was the case, then Asad had to wonder what hope there was for him. What did it even mean to be worthy of the Dry God's power? He had a feeling that only Rasalased himself could answer that question.

And he had another feeling that perhaps his own inability to access the Shards, to even speak to Rasalased, was itself an answer. Maybe Rasalased had already judged him and found him lacking.

He certainly wasn't perfect. It seemed like every day, he discovered some new way in which he was a failure. As a friend. Or a warrior. A lord. A father. A husband.

What was left for him to be worthy of? From the sound of it, Rasalased would see right through him. There was no point in putting on airs.

His golden eyes eased shut as he rubbed his forehead, trying not to dwell on those thoughts again. Trying not to imagine how many people he'd let down, how many he would in the future.

Trying not to let the weight of the world crush him.

He was only in his forties, and yet he already felt like an old man sometimes. How did the truly old servants do it, he wondered? Surely, at one point or another, they all must have felt this same pressure that he did.

Well. The ones that hadn't lost their minds, anyway.

Maybe there was a connection there. Maybe he should have a talk with Abbas, the next time they were both free.

Which would probably be never, a stray thought told him.

He stood up. A bed was waiting for him a couple floors down, and sleep was starting to sound pretty damn good. He shuffled over to the sandy hole in the floor and slid down the ladder until he reached the bottom.

It was dark and cramped, but at least the wind's howling was a bit softer in here. The bed was right next to his feet, so he didn't even bother struggling for a light source. He just plopped down and pulled the dusty blanket over him.

From experience, he knew that there was a fair chance that at least one scorpion was sharing this bed with him, right now, but if that was the case, then he wished it a good night's rest, too. He was too tired to give it much more than a passing thought.

His tattoos factored into that lazy sentiment. He didn't actually have to worry about his skin being penetrated by something as weak as a scorpion's stinger. In fact, since he was still wearing the ring that Haqq made for him, such a sting might just reflect back on the creature and kill it, instead.

Perhaps that was the last thing on his mind as he fell asleep, because he dreamt of his mother. Of the months she had spent, working to the point of exhaustion, trying to complete these same tattoos for him.

She had, quite literally, poured her very soul into these tattoos. And as a result, Asad was a far more durable servant than just about anyone else in his age range. They had saved him time and again, most recently at Dunehall during the battle with the Marauder of Calthos.

Having them inscribed into his flesh, however, had been the most torturous thing he had ever experienced. And at the age of thirteen, he hadn't been prepared for it at all. Apparently, his mother had to do it before he became a servant, else the tattoos would disappear whenever the regeneration was invoked.

He hadn't understood that very well, back then, and he'd resisted his mother every time she wanted to continue the process. He'd thought it was some kind of punishment. It certainly felt like it.

Eventually, he grew so terrified of it that she resorted to anesthetizing him before each session. That had been a major improvement, as far as he was concerned, though he still had lingering pain for days afterwards.

And once the tattoos were finally completed, it was a tremendous relief. His peers in school looked at him differently but not in a bad way. If anything, they seemed to think the tattoos were cool. It wasn't until after becoming a servant and realizing he had the divine materialization of silicon and oxygen that their behavior began to change. In retrospect, though, perhaps the tattoos had played some sort of role there, too. They certainly made it more difficult for him to blend into a crowd.

His mother had tried to do the same for his brother Haqq, but she hadn't been able to finish his.

She died at the age of thirty-three, when without warning, her reaper released her soul and disappeared.

None of the family's other reapers could explain what might have prompted her reaper to do such a thing. By all accounts, their relationship had appeared to be just fine.

In many ways, his mother's death was as mysterious as her life. She had been younger than Asad was now, and yet her skill with integration was legendary. Asad had never once heard of someone else being able to accomplish what she did with these simple black tattoos.

But he had also heard that integration could be like that. It was a bit different from the other ability types--even mutation, with which it seemed to have the most in common. Supposedly, integration was more "varied" and "scholarly" in its usage. While age and experience were certainly factors, there was greater opportunity for true genius to achieve unexpected results with it.

There was a reason why the most famous integrators were generally inventors, after all.

And yet, even so, Yasmin Najir had been a mysterious enough figure that Asad often wondered if there wasn't more to it. Somehow. He might've been her son, but to say that he knew her well would've been an exaggeration.

Some days, she would be all passion and fury, speaking her mind to anyone who would listen--and to many who wouldn't. She would be full of energy and affection, wanting to spend as much time with him and Haqq and their father as she could. And on other days, she would disappear into her lab, consumed with her work or research. Asad might try to pester her, to regain her attention, and she would barely notice him--or even tell him off in quite a cold and curt manner.

She was so different, in fact, that he remembered asking his father if he had two mothers. The man had explained quite bluntly that, no, that was just how she was.

His mixed memories of her worked their way into his dream. Images of her smiling face. Feelings of her warm embrace. Followed by colder eyes and closed doors. And the pain from the tattoos. Coming and going.

And she spoke to him. Telling him to quit crying. That she wouldn't always be there to make everything better. That he had to take care of his little brother. That he should learn from his father's example. That a day would come when everyone was depending on him.

He saw Eloa. The whole continent. Burning. He saw creatures he'd never seen before. Monsters, humanoid but not. Gangly and distorted. Melting out of the ground. Rampaging. Slaughtering. Devouring.

And he saw them all turn toward him, hunger in their eyes. Until it turned to fear.

He snapped awake, thrashing. The blanket was wrapped around his face, and he had to take a few moments to undo it. His breathing was labored, though he couldn't tell if that was from the dream or from the blanket.

For a while, he just sat there in the pitch darkness, trying to clear his mind and failing.

He pulled one of the Shards out of his robe. He could feel where they had both pressed up against him while he slept. If not for the tattoos, he would probably have a bruise there.

He gripped the crystal and closed his eyes.

And he tried. Again.

He concentrated on the Shard, on its shape, on his own soul passing into it.

And again, he came up empty. As expected, nothing became clearer.

He sighed and returned it to his pocket with the other one.

The darkness was interrupted by the sudden appearance of an abnormally illuminated scorpionfly descending through the ceiling.

'Oh, you're already awake,' said Qorvass privately. 'Good. Come back up.'

'What's the matter?' he said, already making his way over to the ladder.

'Well, um. There's... a cluster of vending machines in the middle of the desert.'

Asad stopped climbing the ladder briefly, blinking dully for a moment before continuing.

'They just suddenly appeared there,' the reaper elaborated. 'No one's quite sure what to make of it.'

'Vending machines,' Asad said incredulously.

'That's right.'

And sure enough, when he made it back up to the bunker's main floor, grabbed a pair of binoculars, and looked out through the wide observation window again, he saw exactly what the reaper had described.

A ring of six tall, boxy machines. Just sitting there, half-buried in sand, but also lit up, as if operational.

Obviously, there were no electrical outlets way out here, so what in the world was powering them? As if their appearance alone wasn't strange enough.

The scouts were looking his way. "We've already radioed it in, Lord," said the one on the left through his faceguard. "Command doesn't seem to know what to make of it, either. Apparently, we aren't the only ones seeing something like this. They've received reports like ours from a dozen other bunkers."

"What do you make of it, Lord?" said the other scout.

Well, this was Abolish they were dealing with, Asad thought. Morons and lunatics filled their ranks. Perhaps he shouldn't overthink this.

"It's probably a diversionary tactic," said Asad. "Keep an eye on them but watch their surroundings, too."

"Yes, Lord."

Abolish knew by now that their invisible soldiers weren't going to work, anymore. Not by themselves, at least. The sands of the Uego made it all but impossible for the enemy to sneak across without leaving very noticeable tracks, and even if they somehow got past that, the Sandlords had also planted thousands of booby traps in this region--a number which was still growing by the day.

That was one of the things that Asad and the other senior warriors had been making sure to emphasize when making their rounds. The management of the defensive line's observational systems was key in the battle--and indeed, in the war. If they allowed Abolish to infiltrate their land again, then they might not be able to recover from that problem a second time.

To that end, Haqq had proved very helpful. Many of the new traps they were using were based on his designs. Some were quite simple and even non-lethal, like the Jamal-3, which was a sound-triggered paint-thrower, designed to be used in conjunction with scouts and snipers.

Others, however, were quite deadly indeed. The Kubra-4 was a sound-triggered explosive using soul-infused materials. An average servant caught in the blast radius would be reduced to a red mist, and even an older one would have a hard time living through it with passive soul defense alone.

Haqq was already at work on the Kubra-5, which he claimed would be even more powerful, despite the fact that they still had plenty of Kubra-4s waiting to be used. Their deadliness was precisely why they hadn't seen much action yet. The audio-based trigger meant that a snake could slither too close, and then suddenly an entire sand dune would be removed from this plane of existence.

They did make for one hell of a deterrent, though. Asad had a couple Kubra-4s in this very bunker. He hadn't received advisement to use them yet, but he did have the authority to do so whenever he wished.

Right now, though, his mind was leaning more toward the long-range artillery that he had in stock. Those were older and not Haqq's designs, but with a bit of soul-infusion, they would pack plenty of wallop. He ordered one of the scouts to go fetch some mortars and shells, just in case.

When the materials arrived, Asad began pressing his soul into them. He could leave the actual firing of the mortars to the two lads in the bunker with him, though. If their position came under attack, it would be better if he was free to directly engage the enemy.

After the mortars and shells were infused, he tried to contact the targeting center over the radio, but there was only static now.

Someone had started jamming them. Some form of attack was probably going to arrive soon, then. That was useful information to know, which was why he often liked to use the most vulnerable radio first.

Asad couldn't claim to be very technologically savvy himself, but he knew that his kin had recently developed several new types of jamming-resistant radios, all apparently using different techniques.

So when he opened the corner cabinet, he had a veritable buffet of devices to choose from. The first one he picked didn't work, either, but the second one did. Maybe Haqq would be able to explain precisely why that was, but all Asad cared about was getting through to observational support.

Sure enough, they already had eyes in the sky for him, along with coordinates for the mortars.

Asad still remembered a time when mortars didn't have any kind of computational assistance built into them, but he wasn't about to complain about things being better back then.

Before they could fire, however, he spotted a change among the group of vending machines.

A brightly lit sign rose out of the sand at the center of them. In Valgan, it read: "DON'T SHOOT. COME HAVE A SNACK."

'...They can't possibly think that's actually going to work, can they?' said Qorvass privately.

Asad didn't even want to answer that. "Fire," he said.

And the first shell went flying.

Asad watched with his binoculars, waiting and bracing himself for the blindingly bright explosion to arrive.

And it did, but it was not on target. It instead landed far afield, obliterating a dune in the distance.

Targeting errors were perfectly common, and the two young ones were already trying to make adjustments, but Asad had enough experience to know that something else was the problem. That was too much of an error. These boys here would've had to be complete amateurs to screw it up that badly, and they wouldn't be out here if they were.

Qorvass corroborated his thinking. 'Someone deflected it.'

"No adjustment," said Asad aloud. "Just reload."

The bunker scouts both answered in the affirmative.

The illuminated sign in the middle of the vending machines crumbled to pieces, and a new one rose up from the sand to take its place.

This one read: "HEY! I SAID DON'T SHOOT! CAN'T YOU READ?!"

And suddenly, Asad found himself rethinking everything.

The first sign, he could chalk up to being an elaborate and ridiculous practical joke by one or more of Abolish's many lunatics. They could've rigged it up somehow, found a way to secretly bury it out here--sure, fine.

But this second sign... it had responsive text on it--as if it had just been made after its creator witnessed what happened.

And how many people were there who could do something like that in so short a time?

Of course, that could be the point of their ploy here. Perhaps they predicted the response and prepared the second sign for this exact reason. Psychological warfare, of a sort. Abolish had plenty of--

The second sign broke itself apart, and a third sign arose from the sand, reading: "PLAY NICE, KIDDOS, OR YOU'LL BE REMOVED FROM THE GAME EARLY."