Al-Habor was the well to which social gravity drew the lost souls of the desert. Even the flies and parasites had yielded to despair. Soul-shattered veterans of decades of war haunted al-Habor, shaking, muttering, afraid, or just staring at something only one man could see. They did not talk much. They survived on the charity of Sheyik Hanba al-Medi al-Habor, the local tribal chief. Hanba bore the marks of the wars himself. They had cost him a hand, an eye, and three sons. He could not afford the charity he provided. The wars had seen to that, too.

Still, he did provide.

Al-Habor once was a major crossroads. It was of minor importance still. Trade remained limited because fighting could return any time. The oasis was sweet and reliable and strategically valuable.

Half the mud-brick buildings were abandoned. The best preserved were infested by squatters.

Haroun settled in unremarked. Few would have cared had he announced himself. Al-Habor was the end of the road. No roads led to a future elsewhere. Al-Habor clung to the souls it collected. Haroun found it bleak enough to dampen a brilliant spring day at high noon.

Nobody cared about one more bum fallen into the cauldron. He did not learn much. Lack of care meant a lack of information. Only travelers had any real news. Few of those would waste time on a soul-shattered tramp whose real goal must be to mooch or steal something.

Insidious tendrils of despair shadowed Haroun’s own heart. He should move on before he became lost himself.

There were those who preyed on the lost. The most virulent was a big, stupid man called the Bull. The Bull ran with a timid killer known as the Beetle.

It was unusually cold. Haroun had formed an unspoken alliance with two others. Between them they had found enough fuel for a small fire. They sat round that, no man meeting another’s gaze.

The Beetle and the Bull appeared. The Bull rumbled, “The Bull is hungry.”

Nobody responded. Only Haroun had anything edible. He did not intend to share.

The Bull kicked the little fire apart. “I said…”

Haroun slipped a knife into the back of the Bull’s right calf. He sliced down, then sideways. At first the Bull did not feel pain enough to understand. He tried to turn. His leg did not cooperate. Haroun leaned out of the path of his collapse.

The Bull roared, tried to get up. Haroun’s blade entered his right eye. “Breathe without leave and I’ll take the other, too. Your old friends will have great sport with a blind Bull.”

The Beetle tried something stupid. Haroun disarmed him. He settled beside the Bull, nursing partially severed fingers.

“Would you like to spend your remaining days dependent on the good will of the Beetle?” The Bull abused his partner with only slightly less vigor than he did everyone else. “No? You’re less stupid than I thought. I’ll leave you one eye, then. I’ll take it first time you do something to offend me, though.”