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The canyon had devolved into complete chaos. Most of the white legs were occupied above, their blood streaming down the cliff sides like a torn artery connected to a stuttering heart. It mixed with the water, taking on a dark hue in the night as it flowed downstream.
The courier passed by. She stuck near the edges of the stream, ignoring the noises around her as she pushed forward.
A white leg popped into view. His back was turned to her from where he was perched a few yards up the cliff wall. His weapon was aimed at someone she couldn't see.
She put a bullet in his head. The body went limp immediately, slipping into the water below. Fresh blood curled around her legs as she splashed past the body, visible by moonlight for only a few moments before being swept away.
Was it blasphemous, she wondered, to let the blood of the enemy soak into a “holy” land? What would Graham think once it drained into the groundwater? Soaked into the silt and clay, ready to be absorbed by wild plant life and crops alike. How would he feel if he ate vegetables grown from the blood of his enemies? Would he be disgusted? Would he feel that this land had been violated? Would he care at all? Or would he consider it a necessary evil?
Not that she could ask anyway. He’d long since run ahead as if she were another star struck follower he could expect to stay on his heels.
More White Legs appeared as if birthed by the night itself, unfortunately catching a glimpse of her before she ducked behind cover. Two went down easy. Too slow on the draw. There was a pause before the third, however, as she mentally counted bullets. Only one left in this pistol.
She shoved the weapon back into its holster on her hip and swung her rifle from her back. There was a shock of adrenaline and focus, practically mundane in its familiarity. The last White Leg was quick, his purposeful but erratic movements nearly enough to throw off her aim.
He was close enough for blood to splatter on her sleeve as the bullet sliced through his neck.
And no clean water to wash it off.
She kept going.
The canyon narrowed the further she went, the sounds of the battle fading behind her as the walls closed in.
There. Graham, standing with his back to her, water halfway up his calves. The moonlight illuminated a multitude of bodies, White Legs and Dead Horses alike, contaminating the normally crystal clear pool.
Graham held his precious .45 to the head of a kneeling white leg with his finger resting on the trigger. The infamous Salt-Upon-Wounds that had been leading the charge, if she had to guess.
“…the only use for an animal in our temple is sacrifice.”
He must have been giving a sanctimonious little speech that she only caught the tail end of. His tone threw her off, the anger in his voice deep and raw and vicious. Very much at odds with the way he’d acted back in his cave as he looked down at the newcomer.
She laughed. A giggle at first, but it quickly grew into something bordering on hysterical. Salt-Upon-Wounds startled at the sound, staring at her with a mess of emotions; fear, confusion, maybe even anger. Graham twitched. Caught off guard but unwilling to show it. Stoic as always.
“Now this,” she breathed, “is priceless. Getting to watch the great, the famous Burned Man get back to his roots. I bet those New Canaanites of yours would be so thrilled! A shame they aren’t here to watch.”
No response. Nothing but the sounds of Salt-Upon-Wound’s erratic breathing and the gentle lapping of water.
“What, nothing to say? Oh, I’m not ruining the mood for you, am I? You have some very serious, important cold blooded murder to commit after all. Anything I can do to help? Maybe a nice cross to lash him to. Make a proper show out of it for everyone. Especially for the younger ones. Follows-Chalk would love a demonstration I bet.”
She moved forward, one slow step at a time as she spoke, eyes trained on Graham’s hand. His finger had only tightened on the trigger, a hair’s breadth away from firing. He still refused to look her way.
“Come on, there’s no point in lying anymore. No point in the scripture quotes, the bullshit prayers.”
She spoke carefully, gleefully enunciating each word with sharp clarity to ensure he didn’t miss a syllable.
“Time to show us who you really are, Legate.”
He moved so fast, faster than she expected. The barrel of his weapon sat levelled between her eyes before she could think to react. It was almost close enough to grab.
Not that she even could. Not that she would try.
She was aware of Salt-Upon-Wounds running, desperately splashing away in the opposite direction the second his would-be killer was distracted. Graham didn’t seem to care. His eyes burned into hers, a fury backed by decades of violence and cruelty and power shining through. The kind of man who expected obedience. The kind of man who got it.
Neither of them moved. Graham still didn’t say a word.
“What,” she said, voice now just barely above a whisper, “stopping already? Is this not part of that grand, ancient tradition you keep going on about? No bible story coming to mind to justify it? Or are you even planning to keep pretending you care?”
She shifted. Graham twitched.
“You aren’t faithful. You’re a goddamn liar, a deposed tyrant so lost without control you swept in here and took over like you thought you were the next fucking Jesus. So go on! Do what you’re good at. Take out another degenerate and do your Caesar proud!”
Whatever she expected, it wasn’t the surprise that flitted across his face. The expression was clear despite the bandages masking most of it. Anger, disgust, pride, condescension; there were a host of emotions she might have expected before surprise.
Voices drifted up from behind-the survivors of the battle were on their way. Was it over, then? How had they gotten so close without her noticing? They were almost around the corner. Just another few seconds and the moment will have passed-
Graham lowered his gun.
“You will not find what you’re looking for here.”
She froze. The words cut like shrapnel digging into her flesh, working to expose the surge of shame and anger. It took all the control she had to keep her face as neutral as possible as Dead Horses flooded onto their little scene.
Graham pushed past her with a sudden briskness. A mix of conversation and orders from Graham came from the group as he joined them. She heard a few inquiries that seemed directed at her, but she made no move to turn around. Eventually they all began to fade away once again without a fuss, back down the canyon, until all she could hear was the bloody water flowing around her legs.
It was over, this time.
They had won.