The Rail-Walker Pt. 1

by F. G. King

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  The rail-walker followed at a distance. She hunched low to the ground, moving at a near crawl, and she kept her spear low, so that the light of the sun toward topsky would not catch upon its surface. She followed their footsteps in the dust, footsteps that faded quickly as the ever shifting powder was disturbed by even the slightest breeze.

  The footprints eventually brought the rail-walker to a place of shadow. She stopped in her tacks as the light of the sun was blotted out by some great tower that rose before her. She crouched low in the dust, trying to guess at the purpose of the black silhouette that stood before her. With the light of the sun nearly blinding her a moment before it took her a moment for her eyes to accept the comfort of the shadows. She looked up at the dark spire, and saw that it was an old tower, from before wars that had dried up the great river and had set the whole world to rust. The tower was made of iron and glass, and sheets of glossy blackness as smooth as silk and as light as the air itself. Those sheets were the reason that the tower had stood for so long. They were made by the old knowledge, knowledge that was greedily kept by the few who still possessed it.

  The rail-walker stayed there at the edge of the tower’s shadow for a long time. She watched for movement through the glass, or somewhere about its base. Some clue as to whether or not the pilgrims to the well had in fact stopped here. The tower would be a beacon to any who traveled along the old rails, a beacon for scavengers. The rail-walker knew this, and knew as well that if there were people here, they would know this as well. They would be well armed if they stayed here in the safety of this shadow for any length of time. The rail-walker knew all of this, but knew also, that her way lay ahead, regardless of whether or not there were scavengers ahead, or worse. She resumed her trek again, but this time she lay flat on her belly and crawled through the dust, keeping her spear atop both her hands so that it would not scrape the metal that was beneath the dust.

  She approached the tower on her stomach, moving with slow deliberate motions. She kept her eyes up, watching for any signs that she was being watched. When she was just to the base of the tower she stood again, and carefully circled around it, looking for any entrance through which she could enter. The black fabric that made up the outer shell of the structure was pierced here and there. The holes were old, left from weapons that no one in the dry-lands possessed anymore. At long last she came to a gash in the fabric that was large enough for her to enter. She glanced inside the great tower, but the darkness inside was absolute. She lowered her mask and leaned in next to the opening. She sniffed at the edges searching for a sign that the way ahead was safe. She did not detect the scent of ashes, or of charcoal that she was looking for. The rail-walker put the tip of her spear into the gap and moved it slowly around the edge of the opening. The spear caught on something. A thread, as narrow as a hair, ran right through the center of the gap. In the shadow of the tower it was impossible to see. The rail-walker tried for a moment to snap the small cord, pressing on it with her metal spear, but the fiber refused to break, even as she put all of her weight behind the spear. She gave up on breaking the strand and instead ran her spear along it, memorizing where it crossed in the middle of the gap. She then skipped over that space and continued checking around the edge of the opening. After meticulously checking the entire opening and identifying the course of three more fibers, she stepped into the tower.

  Just inside was a pair of boots. She nearly tripped on them in the dark, and she quickly felt around to see what else was there. The boots still possessed the feet and legs that had been a part of them. The rest of the body was not in the near vicinity. The rail-walker hunched down and held the spear before her defensively. Then she furtively felt the portion of the legs that should have connected to a torso. They were dry, dry as the dust outside. There was no stench of rot, or even a trace of wetness about the legs on the floor. They were mummified from the heat and rust. The rail-walker breathed quietly, and edged into the darkness. She felt about with her feet, until she found the remainder of the body several yards from where it had lost its legs. Upon finding the whole corpse the rail-walker breathed a sigh of relief. She looked back to the gap that led to the dry-lands. Whoever this person was they had been running scared. This person had to have been so desperate that they would not check for fiber-blades. Then they had continued trying to flee from whatever it was that was chasing them, even after losing their legs. The rail-walker didn’t linger by the corpse. She climbed through the tower, navigating by the lights of the glass windows, and by touch.

  The sun shone harshly into every room of the tower. Every room that faced topsky that was. The side of the tower facing lowsky was darker, cooler, and had apparently been the direction of attack when this place had been sieged. The walls were full of holes; some no more than a hand-span across, others were large enough that they could have easily fit several people through at once. The tower leaned slightly in the direction of lowsky, so the dust drained out of these gaping holes, and the structure proved to be mostly clear of the red powder.

  The rail-walker found a dark hallway, where the light from topsky could not reach her, and where the dust had not been able to reach. She slept on the floor, nestled in a corner. The day wore on outside, and Newarth turned. The lip of the tube slowly crossed over the sun, and day ended in the dry-lands. Night would be short, but the rail-walker had found a safe place to spend it.