Hadrian Dustwhistle's Arc

Chapter 2 of 7

By dawn Hadrian was already counting waterskins, and the count was bad. His camp held enough for short runs to the outpost and back. The new map asked for days across open dune. He would run dry halfway, and a dry man finds nothing but his own bones. He loaded up before the hands woke and walked the sturdy mule out toward the supply post at the edge of the flats. The animal carried his coin purse, two empty skins, and the weight of a man who had lied to better men for less. The wooden building sat baking in the sun, barrels stacked along its walls. Hadrian traded hard. He came out with a stockpile staged in the dirt — tins, water jugs, dried meat, salt. Enough, by his rough math, to cross and come back. He strapped it all to the mule's flanks until the beast grunted. He turned for camp with the load swaying behind him. Then he saw the dust on the ridge road. Two riders, moving fast from the direction of his tents. His hands had not waited for sundown. Hadrian had his crossing supplies. He no longer had the time to leave quietly.