The desert of Zahram was a land of absolutes: blistering sun and freezing night, life-giving oases and deathly silence. For weeks, the Company of the Serpent's Tooth moved through this new, harsh reality, and Praxus felt his scholarly understanding of the world being scoured away by the relentless grit of sand and sun. His knowledge, once a source of comfort, now felt like a fragile parchment in a world of unforgiving stone.
He watched his companions transform. Eva's command became sharper, her decisions stripped down to the bare essentials of survival. Finnian and Malik had become creatures of the wastes, their senses honed to a razor's edge, reading the terrain for signs of water or danger. Even Hanna, the quiet healer, seemed to draw a hard, resilient strength from the stubborn desert plants she studied. Praxus, a man of theory, felt himself to be the weakest link, his body a constant complaint against the hardship of the journey.
Their encounter with the Al-Sabil tribe had given them a heading, but it had also been a stark warning. Ouen was not merely hiding in Zahram; he was growing, recruiting, and poisoning the soul of the land.
They saw the proof a week later. From a high, rocky ridge, they spotted a caravan moving through the valley below. It was not a merchant train. It was a procession of the damned. Hundreds of desperate-looking people, gaunt farmers from Aethel, pale fishermen from the coast, even a few hardy-looking folk from the north of Karak, shuffled through the sand. They were led by a cadre of black-robed Covenanters, who marched under a new, terrifying banner: a stark, white banner bearing a single, jagged black rune, like a crack in a pristine sheet of ice.
"Pilgrims," Praxus whispered, his voice dry. "They are flocking to him."
"An army of the desperate," Eva corrected, her eyes cold and analytical. "Each one of them a potential suicide bomber in a war of faith."
They let the procession pass, their own small company a hidden secret in the rocks, watching as this river of misery flowed south towards Qar-Teth.
Their own supplies were dwindling again. The desert was a relentless thief, stealing their water through sweat and evaporation. According to Finnian's calculations, they were approaching a small but permanent oasis-town called Al-Khem, their only chance to replenish their stores before the final, week-long push to Qar-Teth.
They arrived to find a town on its knees. Al-Khem was a collection of mud-brick buildings huddled around a central square, the entire settlement walled against the desert. But the usual sounds of a bustling oasis, the chatter of merchants, the braying of animals, were absent. The air was thick with a grim, lethargic despair.
The reason was in the center of the square: the town well was nearly dry. A murky, shallow puddle was all that remained.
Worse, a contingent of a dozen black-robed Covenanter priests had established themselves in the town's largest building, their jagged, black sigil hanging over the doorway like a funeral shroud. They were not ruling the town with force, but with the patient, predatory stillness of vultures circling a dying animal.
Disguised as a humble merchant caravan, the company entered the town. The locals, their faces etched with thirst and hopelessness, barely gave them a glance. The Covenanters, however, watched them with sharp, intelligent eyes. Praxus felt a chill as he realized their enemy was not a disorganized mob, but a disciplined, organized order.
As the oppressive heat of midday reached its peak, one of the Covenanter priests, a tall, gaunt man with a voice that was both smooth and sharp, strode to the edge of the dry well.
"People of Al-Khem!" he called out, his voice carrying across the silent square. "You have prayed to a silent god! You have abided by a heretic king's cowardly laws! And what has it brought you? Thirst! Despair! Death!"
He gestured to the dry well. "Your old ways have failed you! But there is a God who listens! A God who answers! The God of Bargains can make the waters flow again. He can restore your lives. All He asks in return is a true sacrifice to prove your faith is worthy!"
Praxus watched from the shadows of a nearby awning, his stomach churning. It was the sermon from the Merchant's Forum, refined and perfected for this desperate land. Ouen was not just offering power; he was offering life itself.
"Who among you has a faith strong enough to save this town?" the priest roared. "Who will make the covenant and become a holy martyr for your people?"
A young man, no older than Finnian, stumbled forward from the crowd. His face was a mask of grief and determination. "My wife… my children…" he choked out. "They are sick from the bad water. I will do it. I will pay the price!"
The priest's face lit up with a triumphant smile. "Step forward, my son! Let the desert bear witness to your glorious faith!"
He stood beside the young man, who was trembling but resolute. He raised his hands to the sky and shouted the now-familiar words of the deadly ritual. "Oh, God of Bargains, who hears all! This man makes the covenant! He offers his soul for the life of this town, for the water that lies sleeping beneath the sand! Accept his sacrifice!"
The ground beneath their feet began to tremble. A deep, groaning sound echoed from the depths of the well. The townspeople gasped. Then, with a sudden, powerful surge, a column of fresh, clean water erupted from the wellhead, gushing into the dry basin, the sound of it a symphony of salvation.
The people cried out, their voices a single, ecstatic roar of joy and relief. They rushed towards the well, cupping their hands, weeping as they drank.
The young man who had made the bargain watched them, a beautiful, peaceful smile on his face. He took one step towards his new, life-giving well, and then, his life was extinguished. He collapsed into the mud, dead.
Praxus watched the scene unfold, a wave of nausea far worse than any desert heat washing over him. The reaction of the crowd was not the panicked chaos of Aethelburg. Here, in this desperate land, it was something far more horrifying.
The people stopped their celebration. They looked at the gushing water, then at the body of the young man, their hero. An old woman knelt and gently closed the martyr's eyes. Then, she bowed her head to the Covenanter priest. One by one, the entire town knelt in the mud, their souls bought and paid for with a single life.
Eva's hand gripped Praxus's shoulder. Her message was unspoken but clear. We have to leave. Now.
They moved quickly, grabbing what little supplies they had managed to trade for and making their way to the gate. They slipped out of Al-Khem as the town was beginning to celebrate their new miracle, their new faith, and their first saint.
Back in the cold, starless dark of the desert, they looked back at the distant torchlight of the oasis. Praxus felt a despair so profound it threatened to swallow him whole. He had come on this quest to stop Ouen from opening a gateway for a god. But he now realized the horrifying truth.
Ghra'thul did not need to break down the door to enter their world. He could simply wait for humanity to invite him in, one desperate, thirsty soul at a time.
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The Chronicle of the Fallen
Time Period Covered: Approximately Days 141 through 150 of the Age of Fear
Victims of The Reaping: 3
Victims of the Covenant: 112 (The success of miracles like the one at Al-Khem is causing a massive surge in conversions and willing sacrifices throughout Zahram)
Deaths from Civil Unrest: 9
Total Lives Lost: 124
Of Note Among the Fallen:
— A young father in the oasis-town of Al-Khem.
— The last master lore-keeper of the Stonehand Clan in Karak.
— A famed architect in Aethel, reaped.