†

THE HAUNTING SCREECH of a desert owl needled the back of Thami Alaqiq's neck. Startled by the forlorn sound, he paused before nodding his head in agreement with the owl's complaint. Life was misery.

Thami wrinkled his nose as he looked down at the buckets he carried. Even empty, they were foul. Why wouldn't they be? Moments ago, they'd been filled with human waste, and soon enough, they'd be filled again. He sighed and forced himself forward, resigned to finishing his latest punishment—cleaning out the latrine pits for his squadron of Tafilatan soldiers. He dragged his feet like they were made of lead and groaned as he approached the troughs that were still half full. At this rate, he'd have to spend his entire night carrying bucket loads of fetid slop to the distant trench the entire squadron had helped dig when they had first arrived here in No Man's Land.

No Man's Land. A stretch of desolate territory that no nation claimed because it was worthless. Here, the soil was tortured by an unrelenting sun. Water was miles away. It would be easier to grow crops on top of broken clay pots than the wretched soil beneath Thami's feet, which made the region utterly useless.

Worthless. Useless. Words his father might have chosen to describe Thami if the famed Captain had lived long enough to see his son's misadventures as a soldier. Apparently, there was no guarantee that sons of great warriors were destined to become great warriors themselves.

A fleeting image of his father clouded Thami's vision. The great Captain stood at attention, dressed in his full-dress uniform with his golden jambiya, the ceremonial dagger given to heroes, proudly belted at his waist. His eyes, smoldering like black coals and hot with disdain, were locked on Thami.

Even though the image was only a figment of his imagination, Thami addressed his father as though he was there. "I told you I didn't want to join the army," Thami blurted out, "but you wouldn't listen. Kept insisting that being a soldier was a glorious family tradition. And look at me now, stuck with latrine duty in the middle of the night. Isn't this glorious, Father? Well, I guess it's a lot better than the price you paid for being a soldier, huh? Honestly, was being a soldier worth...your life? Was it glorious?"

Thami sucked in a deep breath and stared blankly at the muck clinging to his boots. His shoulders sagged. He kicked at a rock, set his buckets down next to his shovel, and continued walking—away from his soul-crushing punishment. Away from his father's memory. Away from everything.

The night's wind flicked at his hair and made him smile. The breeze was gentle but still strong enough to keep the latrine's stench at bay if he continued west for a while—something he'd learned earlier that night. And having set his labors aside, his pace quickened. Soon enough, he reached the small rocky outcrop that separated the latrine from the squadron's camp. He clambered to the top and took a seat.

Looking up at the ebon sky ablaze with starlight, Thami sighed. Some people just aren't meant to be soldiers, he thought. Not me, that's for sure. I was meant for something greater than being fodder for a king's greedy ambitions.

He tried to picture the king but had never actually met him. So, images of the squadron's leader, Commander Zahir, replaced the king and flooded Thami's thoughts. Zahir was a man Thami had met numerous times, rarely for good reasons.

He'll do, Thami thought, recalling the Commander's stern face when the other sentries had reported Thami's supposed dereliction of duty. But instead of speaking to Thami, Zahir had shaken his head and whispered something to the sentries. They'd responded by dragging Thami to a tent, where they'd kept him in isolation for the rest of the day. And then, after supper, they had escorted him to the latrine pits, given him a bucket and a shovel, and told him not to leave till the job was done.

Thami pulled some saliva onto his tongue and spit. King? Commander? Same thing. I don't need to take orders from some doddering old man. Why is closing my eyes for a few minutes such a big deal? We're in the middle of nowhere in a place no nation wants to own. Who could I possibly be guarding us from? We're the only fools out here. Besides, it's not like I was asleep. Maker's piss, we're in a desert. Even the slightest breeze fills your eyes with a fistful of grit.

Thami rolled his eyes and looked eastward. The distant horizon was ominously black, as if something there had swallowed all the starlight. There were probably no guards to sneak past in that direction—for good reason. If any place on the planet was worse than No Man's Land, he was currently looking at it. The Ta'Gengan Wastes. The haunted lands the old gods had forsaken. Nothing survived in the Wastes, and no one ever entered them...on purpose.

Everyone in Tafilat had heard the stories of travelers who lost their way in the desert and drifted into the Wastes, never to be seen again. And yet here Thami and his squadron were, stationed a stone's throw away from the Ta'Gengan. What sort of lunacy had sent them here?

Well, he was no lunatic. The idea was to live a better life, not run to an early death. So, not that way, then. Thami swung around, intending to locate any sentries to the west. If he were going to escape this nonsense, he would—

"What are you doing, Thami?"

Thami nearly fell off his perch, surprised by the sound as well as its source—his only friend in the squadron, Hamza. Thami stared at his friend as he regathered his wits. In many ways, Hamza was Thami's opposite. Dark skin, neatly trimmed hair and beard, a pristine uniform tucked tidily into all the proper places. Like his uniform, Hamza was usually unflappable, and he almost always smiled. But not now. Something was wrong.

"Whoa, Hamza. Must you sneak up like that? You scared me half to death."

"Wasn't my intent to sneak up on you, Thami. If you were where you're supposed to be, doing what you were supposed to be doing, I'd still be 100 yards away from you. In truth, you surprised me. Leading me to ask again, what are you doing?"

"What? Can't a guy take a break? Do you know how torturous it is to shovel shit all night? Forget it. Of course, you don't."

"You wouldn't either if you simply did what you were commanded to do. But you fell asleep on sentry duty. You're lucky your punishment is only latrine duty if you ask me. If we were at war, the commander would've hanged you."

"I didn't fall asleep—"

"Yeah, yeah. Grit in the eyes. I know. I know. Don't you understand that most of the squad has been on sentry duty, too? We all know about the sand, Thami. We also know the difference between blinking and snoring. But maybe Commander Zahir will believe you. But I strongly suggest—as your friend—don't try to talk your way out of it this time. Your stories don't have the same charm anymore."

"What do you mean, maybe Zahir will believe me?"

"You've been summoned to the Commander's tent. He sent me to fetch you. You've got fifteen minutes to clean up and report."

Thami blinked. A sudden dread chilled him despite the evening's warmth. "Right. Fifteen. On my way."

Hamza sucked in a deep breath. "This is probably your last chance, Thami. Don't screw it up."

***

Hi there!

Thanks for taking the time to check out The Lost Treasure of the Forsaken. This story is meant to introduce readers the world of my epic fantasy series called The Grandmaster's Son and all the stories that are told in that world. I hope you enjoy the adventure. If so, please consider giving my the chapter a ❤︎.

I also enjoy hearing from my readers, so please feel free to leave a comment. And if you are interested in learning more aboout the world of Tafilat, check out the contents of my Adlani Royal Library, my ever-evolving world-build for this vast fantasy world.

Best wishes,

Will