I write this accounting as my husband’s body cools in the earth barely ten yards away, and scarcely one deep. There were so many to bury, we ran out of shovels. A lot of Dusties. That made it easier, Pa’i forgive me for saying so, but it did. They partitioned up the bodies and buried bits here and there, but mostly scattered them far from camp. Fewer to bury. And there were so many dead. Murdered by the liars and thieves of the Leoinidas Collective.

For myself, I will say that I am a free trader, born in Polok Varey, to a small family of apothecaries. I married my Okam at seventeen, and we have been well content with each other these last twenty years. We are traveling merchants, and this was far from our first caravan. I have no love for Nimu, nor any of the thugs from the Mercantile Trust, but they ran this caravan well. Many fewer deaths than I expected, this journey. Until that night.

I can’t bring myself to describe the whole journey. It was long enough to know the nature of our neighbors in the caravan. We got to know the Collective.

They kept strictly to themselves. They shouted at us to stay away from their wagons. At night, they turned their wagons into fortifications, and threatened to shoot anyone who got too close. If something went wrong, it was never their fault. If the caravan came across something good, they demanded their share. Or all of it. They had a lot of rifles.

On that dreadful night, the Collective situated their wagons between the Dusty settlers and the wagons of the independent parties who had joined the caravan. Now, I take no position on the Dusties right to the land in the disputed territories. I don’t pretend to know enough to have a good opinion. But these are farmers. These are working families, with barely a sack of lentils or flour to feed a family of six. Compared to the greasy Collective and all their steel, I have no problem deciding who the thief is.

Anyhow, they insisted on putting their wagon fort right in the middle of everyone. No explanation. We all went on as normal. I kissed Okam and went to bed. He was right behind me.

Some time that night, I was woken by gunfire. The Collective was shooting into the caravan. Mostly at the Dusties, but at least a third of them were aimed at us independents. Some folk started shooting back. Okam grabbed my arm and started pulling me away. I guess the Collective didn’t approve of self defense.

They had machine guns. These so-called settlers had machine guns hidden in their wagon fortresses. They opened the hidden gunports and started washing the caravan with streams of lead.

We fought back, of course. Okam had his father’s old service pistol, but it was dark and we were at rifle range. What good was a pistol? Lots of people had slings, launching their stones up and over the wagon forts. Someone, I think a Dusty, started launching burning embers and torches. Some of the wagons caught fire, but it didn’t slow the machine guns any.

Okam and I ran. What else could we do? We ran. Not fast enough. A stray round caught Okam in the leg and down he went. He was bleeding. I had to stop and bind the wound. Bullets whipping around us. People and aurochs screamed. Wagons burned. Kids screamed too. I was fumbling in the dark, trying to pull off his belt, cinch up the leg and slow the blood. Stopper it with coth until we could get it clean and stitched. Most of the light came from burning wagons.

One of the machine guns went down. I don’t know why. I learned later they can overheat and the barrel melts from all the killing. Maybe that was it. But one of the guns went down. I saw a woman my age, run to the wagon fortress. She threw herself onto the gun, and exploded. She must have carried all the black powder her family had. She destroyed that hateful thing. I don’t know her name, but I honor her. I will add her to my family’s altar.

The Mother of Martyrs. May she watch over my children in these deadly times. May she bless them with her courage and resolve, to protect their own families.

She truly was the Mother of Martyrs, for any time a gun went silent, a Dusty would charge it and blow themselves up to destroy the hateful engines. One thing I know about Dusties- they welcome a good death.

The battle drew into a stalemate. The coward murderers of the Collective didn’t dare keep running their machine guns however they liked, but they had endless rifles. The Dusties were willing to die, but they wouldn’t die for nothing. It turned into a siege, where only the besieged could attack. People died for nothing. My Okam died for nothing. He just bled out. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t save my heart from dying.

I don’t think anyone even aimed at him. I don’t think they cared enough to aim. It was enough that we weren’t them. Weren’t the Collective. So they killed him. Just like that. Pa’i forgive me, I hope that his murderer died in a fire. I hope that they lived just long enough to realize he was crippled and disfigured by the flames and in terrible pain, before dying in front of their loved ones. Pa’i forgive me, but I cannot forgive my husband’s murderers. I must speak the truth in my heart.

This is my true testimony- Our caravan was peaceful, and filled with peaceful settlers and traders, but the Collective saw only enemies. Obstacles to their dominion. The Collective killed without provocation. The Collective attacked while everyone else was asleep. We were innocent. I testify, I was there and I testify, we were INNOCENT. Now, we are no longer innocent. We are the survivors.

It was that damn polisher Nimu hired out of somewhere that stopped the fight. Fussy beanpole of a man, painfully polite with his neatly trimmed nails, coming around every night to purify water and food. Stitched people up and purified wounds too. Fussy rode in a wagon between the Dusties and the Collective, waiving a white flag. Fussy had a bullet hole in him, maybe a couple. He looked pale, and his always clean clothes were covered with blood.

He called a truce, and nobody wanted to bear the curse of killing a polisher. Or maybe everyone was tired of the killing. As the sun rose, we drove the poisonous Collective from our midst. They had to leave their machine guns, and all the ammunition and tools to make them. But we drove them out.

We now journey down Broken Stone Ridge. The Green River runs red with our family’s blood. Our aurochs are terrified and restive. Our strength is shattered, but our will is Iron and Stone. Broken Stone Ridge will test us. Not all of us will live to see the bottom of it. In truth, I don’t much care if I die now. My Okam is waiting, and I miss him too much to hang about. But I will carry on and preach my truth. The Collective cannot be trusted. Cannot be lived with. They honor no contract, keep no covenant. They will kill what you love.

Mother of Martyrs watch over us, and grant us your courage in the days to come.

By the grace of the Goddess,

Xerice Prum, Widow.

The Sky Runners Tribe makes no guarantees about the accuracy of this accounting, and publishes it at the request of Widow Prums surviving children. Our condolences to the grieving.