Hadrian Dustwhistle's Arc

Chapter 3 of 7

Hadrian pushed the mule hard away from the supply post, the riders fading behind a ridge. By midday the sun had teeth. The pack swayed heavy on his own back too, because the mule could only carry so much, and his legs were already dragging troughs in the sand. He counted his steps and stopped counting. The next waypoint was too far. At this pace he would fold before he reached it. He squinted ahead and saw nothing but heat shimmer and a faint smudge that might have been a sign, or might have been hope lying to him again. He stopped. He pulled the case of tinned food off his shoulder and set it in the sand. Bright labels, fruit and meat, weight he could not afford. He stared at it a long moment. Twelve years of bad luck had taught him what a man keeps and what a man leaves. He kept the water. He left the cans. Lighter, he stumbled on. The smudge sharpened into a painted board on a post — oasis ahead, in faded letters — and past it, tucked against a rise of rock, a canvas tent strung with rope and a small yellow flag. An outpost camp. Shelter. He half fell against the mule's flank and laughed once, dry as paper. He made it inside before his knees gave. He was alive. He was days from Arishaat still, lighter by a case of food he might come to miss, and now beholden to whoever owned the tent he had collapsed into.