King Magnus

The dust was red. It clung to the boots and the skin. It got into the teeth. Magnus spat and rode on.

The horse was a good one. Not his. Stolen. Lean and fast across the wide plains of what had once been Queensland. The air was dry. Everything was dry.

Saskia rode behind him. Her hair was black and tied back, and her eyes looked ahead, and not behind them either, where the flags flew. The new flags. The old ones had burned.

The sun went down hard and red. They stopped at an old pub. A goat had died in the billiards room. Magnus sat with his back to the door.

“We’ll need water,” Saskia said.

“There’s a tank behind the schoolhouse,” he said. “It’s clean.”

She nodded. Her rifle hung at her side like it was part of her.

When she came back, she had two canteens. One was full. The other was not.

“Shot holes in the tank,” she said.

He drank from the full one and passed it to her. She drank, then leaned against the wall. Her face was worn but not hard. Still beautiful. She had been an actress once, before the screens went dark and the AntiFashh men in rainbow suits started putting names on lists.

“Do you think they’re following us?” she asked.

“They’re always following,” he said. “But they’re stupid and slow.”

She looked at him. “You’re not stupid.”

“No.”

“You’re not a real king, either.”

“No,” he said. He took an old 1925 book out from his pocket. It was bent but dry. “But they think I am. And that’s enough.”