MoT-Book I

The March of Thirst, by Markus Lucius Sulla.  (1st Draft)

    The Alik’r Wasteland had swallowed the X Legion whole. Even sound was consumed by the ever-shifting sands. There was no chatter, no playful banter, no blowing of horns or beating of drums. Seven thousand me marched through the sun scorched badlands like an army of ghosts. The dead lie where they had fallen, we had neither the energy to lift them nor the will to try. The man to my front stumbled a few times, and then fell to his knees. I stopped and leaned heavily on my crutch and struggled to get him up by his elbow.
“March on, soldier,” I urged.
“Aye sir,” his voice was weak like thin glass. He strained and together we got him on his feet.
“Here trooper, drink,” I pushed my waterskin into his hands. The near boiling water was all I had left. He stared at it, then at me, then back to the skin, as if trying to ascertain whether or not it was a trick.
“Sir, I…” I pushed more insistently, cutting him short. He hesitantly took the skin, slowly drawing it to his lips. The first sip was small, testing. The second was hardly a sip at all and the third was a gulp that made my heart sink a bit. He wiped his mouth and handed me back the nearly empty vessel.
“Thank you sir.” He opened his mouth as if to say something further but stopped.
“Fall back in trooper.”
“Aye sir.”
    I was staring out towards the desert hours later, trying to think of anything but water or marching, when I stepped on his body. I stopped for a moment and peered into his open, dead eyes. He seemed at peace. The man following me bumped past muttering curses. I reached down and removed the dead trooper’s Imperial clasp and realized I didn’t even know his name. I marched on feeling nothing.

    The single cart that remained rolled silently through the sand. The ox that bore it was a pitiful thing, it’s mouth hung open and it’s eyes never blinked. I tossed the clasp in with the rest, too many to count. I handed my empty skin to the quartermaster. He squinted at me suspiciously.
“Chit?” He held out his hand expectantly.
“I have no bloody chit Sergeant, just give me some water,” I croaked.
“No chit, no water,” he replied curtly, thrusting the skin back into my hands. I nearly drew my blade and forced him, but couldn’t find the energy. A brief image flashed through my mind. The Sergeant lying dead, life soaking into the sand from his newly-opened neck. My head submerged inside one of the few remaining water jugs, mouth gulping down belly fulls of water. A harsh voice snapped me from my daydreams.
“Give him some water, fetcher.” I looked for the speaker and found a gaunt, ragged Dunmer glaring at the quartermaster. A bow swayed, unstrung, from his pack.
“No sodding chit, no sodding water, soldier. That’s the rule. You'll do well to remember it, and your place,” the old Sergeant huffed. The Dunmer’s lips tightened and he nodded. He swung the bow off his pack and began pulling the string taught.
“What are you doing trooper?” I inquired.
“That n’wah has exactly as long as takes me to string this bow and nock to give you some water,” the answer was casual and unhurried.The sergeant’s eyes bulged and he stood, pointing.
“I’ll have you flogged!” he shouted. The Dunmer nodded knowingly.
“Sure as sure I'll be whipped for this, maybe even hanged. If, that is, they can find a tree to hang me. But you won’t have a say in it.” The Sergeant seemed to notice my golden Dragon for the first time and looked to me desperately for help.
“Sergeant it looks like he knows what he’s doing and I can’t stop him on a bum leg.” I offered the skin again. The quartermaster snatched it from me, yanked the lid from the nearest jug and held it under the water until the bubbles stopped.
“Here,” his voice quavered a bit as he held it out to me, “here’s your bloody water.” The Dunmer, unmoved, finished stringing his bow and nocked an arrow.
“Hand him the ladle you’ve been drinking from all day, let the man wet his mouth,” at the word mouth, he pulled the string back to his cheek in an easy and practiced motion. The portly man fell all over himself, sloshing water and trembling. Curses and jeers came from all around the cart. It seemed the men grew weary of watching him sip away at their rations. The water was tepid and tasted of earth but nothing had ever tasted so good or filled my soul so full of vigor. The elf, satisfied, lazily returned his arrow and unstrung his bow. The Sergeant busied himself with some task out of our view.
“My thanks soldier.” He took my hand in a firm grip.
“That s’wit’s been drinking water all day. Here we are, down to a few mouthfuls a day, and that fat sack of guar dung has been guzzling it down right in front us!” His voice had risen to a shout and he took a moment to calm himself before continuing. “I saw what you did earlier. Good man sharing your drink like that. I’ve got a few swallows of Sujamma, find me when we make camp. We’ll speak of times not so dry.” I nodded again in thanks. I picked up the pace of my hobbling, seeking the Old Man on his horse above the heads above the marching Legionaries. I needed to speak with him about relieving a certain Sergeant before a mutiny broke out.

-End Book One-