The road was broken, crooked, rising up to catch at her feet as she walked. Adal cursed it as she went, between pleas to Sen and the angry Walker to leave her be, as she went to avenge them. The Legion’s trail was direct, more bodies along it as they culled the weak. Some she knew. Others were strangers. Their hair and clothes and tattoos marked them as tribal, some foreign, others allies or rivals. She paused over each of them, or stared up as they rotted upon crosses, as much kin in that moment as the Walker.
She Walked by reckoning and instinct, body shaking with chills and rolling with sweat. Time meant nothing, blackness taking her when it wished, regardless of day or night. Her wounds throbbed and smelled fetid, red streaks cutting across her skin, breaking open as she walked to bleed and weep. Her feet found a broad road, wide enough that even her wandering, erratic footsteps stayed upon it. It would lead to the Legion. She would start at the edge of their camp, picking off their sentinels, letting her slip in quietly.
She paused, confused, an unknown time on. The bodies were gone. She blinked, tried to focus, but there was no sign of the forced march in the dust. Her balance failed, and she staggered on. Let that be direction enough.
The ghosts of the Walker were with her, sang with her, tried to keep her footfalls even. She tried to raise her voice with them, managing only a labored moan. They encouraged her as she moved, threatened her when she faltered. Stillness, rest, collapsing dead was no option.
She could see the camp of Red men, in her mind’s eye. They would have captured many, broken them, bound them with collars like the woman Peda had killed. She would cut them free, give them hope. Steal the weapons from the Legion’s own hands, and rise up.
The sky was full of strange lights, and she felt pebbles digging into her knees.
They would fight, their pain and fear become wrath. They would fight, take back what was theirs from the Red men, wipe them out in revenge. Find the men who had used her, cut them down herself…
The world tilted and spun. She tasted dust as she breathed.
Find Ches and Alam, hold them tight and weep with joy. But no, not Ches. She tried to push herself up, hands scraping in the dirt, arms failing. Ches was dead on the road. Alam. If he still lived…
Adal could feel the earth under her, and could feel herself walking, moving on still. Panic took her, and she thrashed. Was her soul leaving her behind? She clawed at the ground, panting, trying to follow. Her son. Her kin. Her soul might Walk on, but the Legion still had to pay.
She was blind, the pain putting lights before her eyes, the cold of her body and heat of the sun making her shudder and shake.
Find him.
Find…
Movement.
A smell of people and brahmin, the feeling of hands lifting her. She couldn’t fight, her body too feeble.
Crossroads (8c/9)
She Walked by reckoning and instinct, body shaking with chills and rolling with sweat. Time meant nothing, blackness taking her when it wished, regardless of day or night. Her wounds throbbed and smelled fetid, red streaks cutting across her skin, breaking open as she walked to bleed and weep. Her feet found a broad road, wide enough that even her wandering, erratic footsteps stayed upon it. It would lead to the Legion. She would start at the edge of their camp, picking off their sentinels, letting her slip in quietly.
She paused, confused, an unknown time on. The bodies were gone. She blinked, tried to focus, but there was no sign of the forced march in the dust. Her balance failed, and she staggered on. Let that be direction enough.
The ghosts of the Walker were with her, sang with her, tried to keep her footfalls even. She tried to raise her voice with them, managing only a labored moan. They encouraged her as she moved, threatened her when she faltered. Stillness, rest, collapsing dead was no option.
She could see the camp of Red men, in her mind’s eye. They would have captured many, broken them, bound them with collars like the woman Peda had killed. She would cut them free, give them hope. Steal the weapons from the Legion’s own hands, and rise up.
The sky was full of strange lights, and she felt pebbles digging into her knees.
They would fight, their pain and fear become wrath. They would fight, take back what was theirs from the Red men, wipe them out in revenge. Find the men who had used her, cut them down herself…
The world tilted and spun. She tasted dust as she breathed.
Find Ches and Alam, hold them tight and weep with joy. But no, not Ches. She tried to push herself up, hands scraping in the dirt, arms failing. Ches was dead on the road. Alam. If he still lived…
Adal could feel the earth under her, and could feel herself walking, moving on still. Panic took her, and she thrashed. Was her soul leaving her behind? She clawed at the ground, panting, trying to follow. Her son. Her kin. Her soul might Walk on, but the Legion still had to pay.
She was blind, the pain putting lights before her eyes, the cold of her body and heat of the sun making her shudder and shake.
Find him.
Find…
Movement.
A smell of people and brahmin, the feeling of hands lifting her. She couldn’t fight, her body too feeble.
Dark.