Ras Qahira's parched tongue sizzled like frying meat as he licked his lips. He didn't succeed in wetting them, only scratching them. His tongue felt like sandpaper.
"Sir," one of his colonels choked out, "We have to surrender. It's been days..."
It was closing on weeks now. A day in the desert without water was usually enough to kill a man. The Rhinos had had untainted reserves of the precious liquid, but it was all gone now. They'd gone three days without a drop. Many were dead.
"No orders," Qahira whispered through a chalky tongue.
He wasn't feeling quite so bad anymore. In his last state of delirium he had imagined he was moss on a rock. It wasn't really so bad. He found he didn't mind the nickname much anymore. He only wished he would be able to hear it again.
Some of the soldiers in their heat induced hysteria were filling their mouths with sand, dreaming it to be water. Qahira hadn't sunk quite that low yet.
"We've really held it, haven't we?" he said to no one in particular.
It didn't matter. He'd be dead soon.
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