Hadrian Dustwhistle's Arc

Chapter 4 of 7

Hadrian woke inside the tent with his mouth full of grit and his heart already running. He crawled out, blinking at the glare, and saw it at once — a yellow plume rising on his back trail, low and wide and moving. Not weather. Riders. He counted shapes inside the dust: four, maybe five, mules at a hard trot, scarves pulled up over their faces. They were closer than he wanted to believe. He could not outrun them on foot. He looked past the tent and saw what the rise of rock actually hid — a squat stone doorway, half buried, an old ruin with a carved arch and a black mouth of shade. Shelter that was not canvas. He grabbed the mule's lead and the water and dragged both toward the arch, kicking sand behind him to muddy his tracks. The pack caught on the stone lip. He shoved it through and fell in after it. Inside was cool and dim and smelled of old dust. He pulled the mule deep, hand on its nose, and listened. Hooves drummed past. Voices. A long pause at the tent. Then a curse, and the hooves moved on, hunting the wrong line across the flats. He waited until the sound thinned to nothing. He sat against the cold wall and laughed once, quiet. He had the map. He had the water. He had a roof of stone over his head and a day, maybe two, before they circled back. He pulled the burned scrap from his shirt and smoothed it on his knee. The scorpion stared up at him. Closer now, and still hunted.