💾 Archived View for fedran.com › raging-alone › chapter-16 captured on 2023-04-19 at 23:21:22. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
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Desòchu struggled to crawl up the side of yet another dune. This one had fragments of sharp rocks that dug into his palms and feet but, after countless others, he ignored the trickling blood and aching joints to haul himself to the top.
Panting, he wiped the dried salt from his brow. “What is wrong with my moon-damned clan? How can they possibly think running in this heat is somehow better?”
He knew others in the clan said that Tachìra, the sun spirit, protected them against the heat but when pressed for more, they never continued. They would just clear their throats and change the topic.
Bending over, he took a couple deep breaths before straightening. He looked for the Wind's Teeth first. He had gotten disoriented more than once in the last few hours.
The three pillars were much closer but still too far away. They mocked him by appearing to only be slightly larger than when he last looked.
Next to the spires, the sun had become a burning sphere of red light. Half-hidden by the horizon, it cast brilliant heat and light across everything. The sand around his feet looked like fresh blood from the setting sun. He shuddered at the memory of his mother's death before pushing it back.
“Sun-damned sand and the idiotic goats that run along them,” he muttered. He scanned the horizon for any sign of another person. When he spotted nothing, he shook his head in disappointment. There was no one: no plume of a fast clan, no rippling of slower travelers, not even darkness hinting at an oasis or structure.
He turned and regarded his destination. The sun would be gone in about fifteen minutes. With a clear sky, that meant he only had a half hour, an hour at most, before he would be walking blindly. The rocks were about a hour and half walking. The only way to make the rocks would be to jog.
“Damn KiramĂro and the cactus up her ass,” he snarled.
Gathering his flagging strength, he walked quickly for a few steps before moving into a jog. Despite not having speed powers of the clan, all the teenagers were forced to run around the valley. It came back quickly: the familiar tugging of sand on his feet, the burning air in his lungs, and the dizziness he got when he ran at his limit. It reminded him of home and back when he had a simple and happy life.
Grinding his teeth, he ran along the ridge of the dune. It was hotter in the sun but it also meant less effort to racing down into a valley or struggling up the other side.
It felt like seconds later before he struggled to breathe and struggling to remain on his feet. Hours of walking had sapped his strength. His injuries ached in joints, stiffening them. Every time he lifted his foot, it felt like a weight had been tied to his ankle. He breathed deeper, drawing the sun-seared air into his lungs.
Desòchu needed to go faster. He groaned and pushed himself, trying to find some measure to strength get him to the rocks. He didn't know if there would be a clan elder waiting for him or even the possibility of food, all he needed was to reach the shade and get out of the damned sun.
His vision blurred.
He wiped his forehead and kept running. He reached the end of the easy part and raced down the side, half sliding and half crawling until he reached the bottom. He could only risk running out of sight of the spires for a few minutes before he had to scale the next dune.
“Shit!” he screamed. His voice sounded ragged and pained.
Coming up on the next ridge, he oriented himself toward the spires again and kept running. He prayed that the next one would be easier but when he had to delve back into the space between dunes, he struggled to move his legs enough to clear the sucking sand that gripped his feet.
“Shit on all of you!” he screamed and tore up the side. The tales of danger about rushing blindly in the desert rose up, the whispered tales over the fires never ended well. He didn't care anymore. He charged forward. He just had to make it, then he could collapse.
Eyes blurred with his exhaustion, he struggled to keep going. He wanted to drop down and give up, to let the vultures pluck his corpse apart.
That would leave his brother without a family.
His brother.
Desòchu's rage rose up again, the frustration and hatred giving him strength as he powered his way up the incline and down the other side. He growled and snarled with every step, reminding himself that it wasn't his fault his brother almost died. If the bastard hadn't entered his life, Desòchu would still have his parents. His mother's corpse wouldn't seared into his memory. His father would still be at home, coming home with a smile and small trinkets.
The words became difficult. He couldn't talk, he could barely breathe.
He had to, he had to scream.
With an inarticulate howl, he reached for one more surge of strength, one more shred of willpower.
There was nothing.
His legs collapsed underneath him. The burn of his run matched the agony in his chest. His face smacked against the hot sands and he could only sob past the grains that stuck to his bloody lips and dry mouth.
With a supreme effort, he rolled over. “Shit on all of you!” he wheezed with all his might.
His eyes burned, if he had tears left, they would be dotting the dust across his face. He wiped it anyways, smearing the salt across his vision.
Above him, the sky drew darker.
“Shit on you,” he gasped.
Desòchu knew he couldn't stay. It would get cold soon. He had to keep moving. With a groan, he rolled over and forced himself to his knees.
“I hope you drown in sands, you addled cows.”
Panting, he looked around. The three spires stood just out of reach, beyond his limit. He would never make them, not unless he could somehow get the powers of his clan in the next few minutes.
He glanced over his shoulder.
The moon, Chobìre, shone brightly along the horizon. The reddish disc peeked over the edge, reflecting the last light of the sun.
Desòchu shuddered. Nothing good came from the night, not the clans or the creatures that haunted the desert at night. He remembered when Somiryòki had introduced him to the Fijimòsu but he didn't believe it. Why would the warrior keep it a secret?
However, the moon might give him enough light to reach the spires. Hopefully, he levered himself to his feet and inched up to the ridge next to him. Shielding his eyes, he scanned the horizon for one last hint of humanity.
He spotted a dark edge of something. It wasn't in the same direction as the three spires but the moonlight sparkled on something near the darkness. He glanced at the Wind's Teeth, they appeared to be about the twice the distance away as the unknown object.
Desòchu worked his raw lips for a moment as he considered his options: the rock spires or explore the closer unknown.
His chest began to beat faster and his vision blurred. The urge to race to the pillars rose up.
He took a step toward the rocks but then stopped. He had no more energy, no more will to run. He couldn't see any light or any hint that he would be able to find the rocks in the moonlight. For all he knew, he would stumble and break his leg.
Slowly, he turned to the darkness. It was closer. If it ended up being nothing, he would have lost a half hour of walking. If it had water, shelter, or even a place to hide and sleep, it would be better.
He shook his head to clear the dizziness and limped toward the unknown.
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