The Sand Moves with Snakes

The heat played tricks on Yazid’s mind. Mirage waves shimmered above the golden dunes, warping the distant silhouette of the mountain range until it seemed to dance. He blinked, trying to focus—but his mind drifted. The desert whispered strange things.   A sudden thump on his back yanked him from his trance. He staggered forward in his march, turning to see Durahj’s familiar smirk. There was concern behind the expression, buried beneath the soldier's usual bravado.   Yazid nodded, brushing off the moment. “I’m fine.”   “Good,” came Durahj's low and gravelly voice. “I need you sharp for the fight.”   Yazid glanced at the man’s half-armored bronze-skinned figure and scoffed lightly. “And I need you clothed.”   Durahj chuckled. “The sun is the only thing trying to kill me right now.”   But Yazid wasn’t so sure. He scanned the horizon, uneasy. Why their commander, Qaid Talem Zahari, had chosen to engage the enemy here—amid shifting dunes and scorching sun—was beyond him.   The enemy, the Silldom of Zemia, was the last of the Podrusan states to resist conversion. They clung stubbornly to the old gods, refusing the worship of the one god Zemour. It was for that alone that Caliph Naazil had declared his holy war: to cleanse the sands of heresy. Unity through struggle—so preached Zemour.   ***   An hour passed before the scouts returned with word: the Zemian encampment lay ahead. Yazid’s unit fanned out across the crest of a dune, forming ranks along its peak. Men strung bows, sharpened spears, and latched shields to their arms. As Yazid stooped to adjust his sandal strap, something shifted in the sand.   He stared. A ripple. A curl. Then—   The sharp whinny of a passing cavalry unit tore his focus away.   Durahj appeared at his side. “Zemians haven’t shown. Command says we advance.”   They marched. Another dune. More heat. Then—again—the sand seemed to move.   Durahj caught it too. “Sand serpents,” he said with a dry grin. “Ignore them. They’re not our enemies today.”   “Maybe Zemour has converted them to our cause,” Yazid replied with a tired smile.   Before Durahj could respond, a horn blared across the sands.   An army was coming—its approach like heat shimmer on water. But then, the ground beneath Yazid gave way. The dune turned to liquid beneath Yazid’s feet, plunging him into a choking whirlwind of sand. He tumbled, disoriented, surrounded by screams.   Figures emerged from the dust—silent, swift, cloaked in flowing robes. They struck like ghosts.   Yazid found solid ground and bolted backward, coughing, and never once reaching for his flyssa sword. Around him, men screamed and died, blades clashing and flesh tearing.   He stumbled from the storm, gasping, and saw others doing the same—shaken, hollow-eyed. Yazid turned to see Qaid Talem Zahari’s personal cavalry approaching from a ridge, barking incoherent orders over the din.   Yazid drew his sword and turned just in time to see Durahj break from the sandcloud, blood streaking his armor.   “Those devils… they set a tr—” Durahj's words were cut short by steel piercing his throat.   Yazid screamed in rage and rushed the killer—a dark-skinned warrior, nearly featureless in the shadowy swirl of sand. His flyssa met the man’s shoulder, cutting through flesh and bone in one sweeping arc. The devil collapsed without a sound.   ***   Across the dunes, chaos reigned. Similar scenes of these miniature sandstorms split the Caliphate's battle lines. Qaid Zahari rode among them, trying to reorganize the men. Others fled, and for a moment, Yazid considered doing the same.   The ambushers slipped away like shadows, retreating to the safety of their lines. It wasn't long before Yazid heard the quick rhythmic tapping of a taut drum signalling the eminent approach of the Zemians. He spied the the enemy army closing, their armor glinting in the sunlight.   By comparison, Yazid and his comrades were already tired, their morale now greatly diminished. Zemian archers rushed forward, loosing arrows and javelins on the Caliphate's legion, which managed only a meager response. Yazid raised his shield more than once to block a missile, but mostly watched as battle lines as far as the eye could see exchanged skirmishes in the few hundred yards between both sides. Idly, Yazid spied the warhorn of his fallen unit commander and picked it up.   In Yazid's unit, no one spoke. No one gave orders.   So he did.   “On me!” he bellowed, his voice rising above the tumult of Zemian war-chants. “Form up! We charge on my horn!”   The sight of the advancing enemy made his blood run cold. They were more numerous than he had feared. But there was no time to count.   When they were but a stones throw away, He raised the horn to his lips and blew.   A final defiant roar answered him as the surviving Caliphate soldiers surged forward.   Steel met steel, shields locked, and a brutal slog began—grunts, screams, and the clash of blades. The fighting was brutal but measured, both sides exchanging thrusts and jabs in the narrow gaps. The line held until a giant of a Zemian barreled his way through the shield wall, dispatching three men in the single swing of his massive ikalaka sword.   Yazid stared, paralyzed. Then his survival instinct screamed.   No more.   He turned and ran. The Caliphate rearguard was nowhere to be seen. Nothing behind them but the open desert. Where Yazid ran, others soon followed, and slowly the Caliphate's infantry lines collapsed into chaos.   ***   For three nights Yazid moved between springs and oasis pools, evading Zemian cavalry that prowled the dunes and the plains in search of survivors. There was no doubt word of the disaster would spread far, and soon all of Kronis would know of the Caliphate's first defeat in centuries.