Ashlords

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Ashlords Page 17

by Scott Reintgen


  Whoever the rider is has settled in, half hunched over their ashes.

  My eyes flick back to the valley. Four fires spark against the night, all circling the same encampment. I’m surprised by how many have chosen to team up. At least three of them will go hunting. At least one to defend the ashes. I know I’m running out of time.

  Shielding my eyes, I glance back inside the nook. There’s a shift of shadows. Someone’s kneeling over their components. I can’t help but wonder how they killed off their phoenix without me seeing the flames. Back in the valley, there’s shouting. The pack’s starting their hunt, searching for me. It’s now or never.

  I take a solid grip on my switch. Leaving it in baton form, I dart into the opening. The light of the stars gives me a perfect view of the surprise on the Dividian’s face. Imelda Beru staggers up from a knee, hand reaching for her own weapon. My first blow hits her right in the stomach. I hear the breath snatch from her lungs as she doubles over, helpless against the pain.

  “Sorry about this,” I grunt. “I wanted it to be one of them.”

  Before she can respond, I bring the switch across her temple. It’s far from a killing blow, but more than enough to spin her unconscious to the ground. There’s barely time to feel bad about it. I make my way carefully around her ash pile and drag her limp form deeper into the recess. Around a little outcropping, there’s a second nook. I settle her into it, pushing her legs out of sight. “Sorry again,” I say. “Hope you have some absolution for whatever they use.”

  I return to the ashes. She was starting her rebirth. A few components are already sprinkled in the ashes. It couldn’t be more perfect. I knew I couldn’t win tonight, but now I won’t consider what happens a loss. I stand over the pile and wait for my guests.

  Shouts sound in the distance. Wooden clacks announce fighting. Maybe the group that’s after me has targeted someone else. Maybe they’re just letting me know they’re coming.

  Even if it takes them all night, I know they’ll eventually…

  Noises. Footsteps. A few muttered words.

  All three of them wander in front of the opening. I see them before they see me. I square my shoulders and step around the Dividian’s ashes protectively, hoping to make it look like they’re mine. The movement has them pausing. Their faces stand half in shadow, but their intentions are more than clear. I raise my switch and point at the clear leader of the pack.

  “Evening, Thyma.”

  They spread, taking a few steps forward, widening their stances. It’s clear they’ve all been trained for engagements like this one. They know how to fight in formation. They know how to use their numbers. There’s no way to win this, but the point of the first night was never to win. The point is to cut away. Take out one enemy at a time.

  “Going to kill me?”

  Thyma laughs. “You’ve forgotten your place. We are here to teach you.”

  “Good of you to bring so many instructors.”

  The circle’s closing. Muscles flex and grips tighten. It will come soon, and it will happen fast, but my goals are straightforward tonight. The two flanking Ashlords keep their switches in baton form. Thyma has shaken hers into a whip.

  “You never should have entered the Races,” she says.

  She lets the lash cross the distance. It’s damn near textbook. A flushing blow that’s meant to move me right or left. It doesn’t matter how I dodge the strike, the others will move to hem me in with reaching blows of their own. But I don’t do what she expects. I don’t dodge. I let the whip catch me across the shoulder as I step into a brutal strike of my own. Thyma’s eyes widen, but she can’t transform her switch fast enough to get up a defense. My blow crushes the side of her knee, and there’s enough force behind it to shatter everything.

  Her screams tear the night in two, but there’s no time to savor them. The other Ashlords press me, undistracted by their fallen partner. My first strike leaves me vulnerable, and both of them punish me for it. Two shots to the ribs, another glancing blow off my shoulder.

  But I’m bigger and stronger than they are. I parry a fourth shot, strike low, and spin away. I catch another lash to the kidneys before smashing the knuckles of the Ashlord on my right. It’s a cheap shot, but he cries out, fumbling his switch. Behind him, Thyma’s started struggling back to her feet, even though I know her knee’s a nightmare of pain.

  I trade blows with the third Ashlord, and he’s smart enough to set his feet in a defensive stance. His face is that perfect display of angles every Ashlord has. He’s shaved fancy slits in both eyebrows. I’m close enough to feel the heat of his breath. It takes a second to recognize that it’s Capri. The former Ashlord prodigy trying to prove his worth.

  Unfortunately, his footwork is as smooth as a dancer’s. Every one of my blows rattles his forearms, but by the time I have him backing up a few steps, the other Ashlord has started lashing at me with his off-hand.

  I can feel my arms getting tired from the prolonged fight and the sweat running down my forehead. Desperate, I decide to finish things. Do what they won’t expect. Recklessly, I shoulder past both of them. The decision earns me a pair of wicked blows on both sides, but it exposes Thyma again. She’s finally back on her feet, and her eyes go wide when she sees me coming. She thrusts her baton up, but I sweep low and smash her knee a second time.

  Whatever didn’t break the first time does now.

  She screams. This time I’m trapped. The other Ashlords are methodical in how they put me down. I’d never seen them before the Longest Ride, but both of them punish me like this is all personal. It’s when I finally hit the ground that they become artists. A shot to the head, quick and dazing. A second to the ribs, a third to the knee. They can’t swing as hard as I can, but that doesn’t stop them from turning me into something small.

  I’m expecting them to stop. The rules are clear. Murder is illegal. Their race will end if they keep going. Their lives will be reduced to a poorly lit cell. But down on the ground, surrounded by darkness, I’m conscious enough to feel fear for the first time.

  Neither of them stop. The blows keep raining down. Bones are breaking.

  I am going to die.

  Darkness comes.

  I feel life slipping out of my grasp. There are distant noises. The Ashlords move away to help Thyma. The girl is weeping and cursing my name. I do not move. I cannot move. It feels like I’m falling through the earth itself. But then a set of hands holds me steady. Adrenaline spikes in my chest. I can feel every wound pulsing like it’s a living thing. I’m still careful not to move, but I know with strange confidence that I am not going to die.

  Someone—or something—is pulling me back into the land of the living.

  “I think he’s dead.”

  “No one’s come. Dead or not, it doesn’t matter. He won’t win the Races now.”

  “Use the wormwood,” someone says. “On his ashes…”

  I am not going to die. That hope beats in my chest. I can’t lift my head to watch, but it’s not hard to imagine them leaning over the Dividian’s ashes and poisoning them. I’m starting to feel each individual wound. A few broken ribs. A swollen eye. My clothes are slick with blood, but at least the plan worked. My attackers will walk away thinking they’ve ruined my chances, but my ashes are waiting in the next recess, untouched.

  “Welcome to the Races, Longhand.”

  I can hear them at the entrance helping Thyma. I’m sure they know what I know. She’s a burden now. They’ll honor their pact, return her to her ashes, but in the morning she’ll be left behind. Even through the pounding pain I can’t help smiling: one down, three to go.

  Black threads spin in my vision. I know I need to stop the bleeding. Get back to my saddle and treat the wounds, bandage them. But I spend the next thirty minutes trying to breathe as I stare at the stars. The night grows lonely and quiet. Before long,
the world is so still that the only thing I can hear is the pounding in my head….

  The stars snap back into focus. It’s not dawn, but it’s getting close. An hour or so has passed. I sit up—half groaning—and realize the pain is bearable, which seems impossible. I thought my ribs were broken. Death was close enough that I could feel it breathing along the back of my neck. I sit up and rub the sorest spots and realize the wounds are all gone.

  This isn’t normal.

  A figure stirs within the recess. I’m thinking the Dividian has woken up and is coming to take her own vengeance on me. Instead, moonlight traces over reptilian features.

  “Could you hear it?” the Dread asks. “The wild beating of their hearts? They were going to kill you, Longhand. Almost did kill you. My gift is the only thing that kept you breathing.”

  I spit blood on the ground. “I would have survived.”

  He grins. “Would you have? Remember, Longhand. This is but a taste of my power.”

  “A power in decline,” I whisper back. “By your own admission. Aren’t you afraid the other gods are watching? The whole Empire can see us right now.”

  “They see you,” he replies. “Muttering to yourself after nearly dying. I’ve obscured the words. I am the god of caution. I did not come to be seen by them, but by you. I wanted to tell you that most of my boon is gone. Please use more restraint in the days to come. Unlike your father, I need you alive at the end of all of this.”

  Before I can lash out in anger, the Dread vanishes. I curse the god’s name before tracing my footsteps back east. His words trail after me like ghostly things. Unlike your father. I want to dismiss it as a lie. Daddy has plans for me. I’m the face of his revolution. I’m a general in his army. I am meant to march on the Ashlord capital and lead us into a new era.

  But he also taught me to be logical.

  In the back of my mind, doubts loom. Daddy sent me here knowing what happened to the last Longhand. I’ve avoided poison. I’ve escaped a beating that should have killed me. What if the Dread’s telling the truth? I know Daddy wanted me to win, but I know him well enough to know that he’s planned for both outcomes. If I die, will he shout my name in the streets? Will my spilled blood be the fire that spreads like flame across the Empire? The truth leaves me cold.

  I know my father better than anyone. He will have plans ready for any outcome. And that means he knows I might die down here; he knows I might never come home.

  I reach my ashes. There’s no sign of movement in my chosen nook. My ashes haven’t been scattered or poisoned, because the crew that came for me thought they’d already done the job. Careful not to let my own blood drip down, I unlatch the cubes and start my first alchemical mixture. My body feels fine, but my head is still spinning. Looking down for too long just makes it worse. So I take a few pinches of the right components and scatter them blindly. It’s easy alchemy. After the work’s done, I clean the wounds that haven’t unnaturally healed already. Some sting like hell, but clean is better than infected, and bandaged is better than bleeding.

  As dawn comes, I set my back to the stones.

  It takes effort to remind myself that Daddy doesn’t want me to die. There’s a difference between planning for my death and wishing it into existence. I know the Dread is right. If the Ashlords actually killed me, Daddy would have wasted no time using my death to start his revolution. That realization almost knocks the breath from my lungs. All the years together, and it is the first stain painted over an image I’ve held of a flawless father.

  Knowing is living.

  I steady my breathing. None of this matters. Not right now anyway. I carefully set those thoughts off to one side and focus on what does matter. Pretty soon my phoenix will burst free of its ashes. I’ll saddle him and we’ll ride. I survived the first night. The pack stalking me has one less member. Now I get my turn at being the hunter.

  I spit out a mouthful of blood, gargle water from my canteen, and start arranging my gear. The first night couldn’t have gone any better.

  “Your ashes are ready, Bravos.”

  The coming dawn gives only enough light to see shapes and outlines in the dark. The heat of your own phoenix has long settled, and you’ve performed some quick and easy alchemy. It’s a standard rebirth. Far more difficult rebirths are waiting ahead. You’ll have to do alchemy while surrounded by enemies. But on this first night, you have enough space to time-control the burns and get your mixtures just right.

  Bravos leans over his pile. “Not quite ready. I don’t like to add components until they’re on the verge of re-forming. They’re more powerful that way.”

  You can’t help grinning at him. “Been reading more of Azlo’s theories?”

  “They’re convincing,” he replies. “I’ve seen some good results in my training.”

  “Fair enough. What component combinations did you go with?”

  Bravos sets down his cubes and slides the locking dials. They open with consecutive little snaps. Over his shoulder, you notice Quinn moving through the camp. You watch the spirit inspect your saddlebags before forcing attention back to Bravos. You’re still not sure what to make of the girl, or what to tell Bravos. Maybe it’s better to leave it unspoken.

  “Lingerluck and Gasping Mercies for the first leg,” Bravos says.

  “I went with the same.”

  He points to the next two. “Then Iron and Latchlock.”

  You make an appreciative noise. “That’s not a mixture everyone knows, Bravos.”

  “Thanks, love. Means a lot coming from you. I thought about a handful of speed combinations, but the forest paths in that last leg will be tight. If we’re riding against Adrian or Etzli, I wanted a confident phoenix that can do some damage. I used it a few times in my training. The spikes are pretty wicked.”

  You nod your agreement. Iron and Latchlock is one of the few purely physical mixtures. Bravos doesn’t realize you’re the one who put the idea in his head. You even underlined the two components in a textbook on his desk as a hint. It offers his favorite tool—dagger-sharp spikes—but adapts the horse for tighter turns and trickier footing. It’ll be perfect if the two of you have to go up against Adrian Ford down the stretch.

  “What’s the last one?” you ask curiously.

  Bravos frowns. “I’m not too happy about that choice, actually. I picked it before I knew we’d be off on our own like this. I thought we’d be down in that strangled canyon, defending our ashes all night. I should have guessed you had something up your sleeve. Anyway, I grabbed a few doses of Absolution in case our ashes get poisoned.”

  You squint at the substance. “Absolution? I didn’t know it was such a dark powder.”

  “Me neither,” he says, snapping the case shut. “Feels like I wasted one, though, doesn’t it? I just hope our final leg doesn’t depend on it. I’ll feel like a fool if we lose because of that.”

  Absolution is the only known cleansing powder. A healthy dose added to ashes will birth a horse without any increased or decreased attributes. Some more defensive alchemists even know how to add the substance to remove negative effects without negating their original combination. It’s useful in the Races, especially if someone manages to taint your ashes with a poisonous component. You’ve never had your ashes compromised, but you’ve seen enough footage of horses tainted by wormwood, or rend, or powdered glass to know the damage they do to a racer’s chances.

  “Having a fail-safe is smart, Bravos. We have no idea which riders we’ll run into on the second or third legs. Absolution might be what wins the Races for us.”

  “Speaking of other riders,” Bravos says. “We’ve got about thirty minutes before sunrise hits. Want to scout out the valley? I’d love to know who survived the night.”

  Your camp is set alongside a rising shoulder of rocky spires. Above, the plateau runs flat and far until dead-ending. In the valley o
n the right, all the campsites of your competitors will be waiting. The light isn’t perfect, but you know anything you learn could be valuable in the next few days. Your eyes are drawn to the waiting spirit. You’d like a moment alone with her.

  “I’ll go,” you offer. “Guard the camp while I take a look.”

  Bravos nods. “Just don’t take too long. I want to ride at first rise.”

  It’s funny, hearing him push you on timetables and logistics. He said the sun would hit the ashes in thirty minutes, but you know it will really strike in forty-four. Still, it’s nice to see him acting so professional and focused. You lean down and kiss him on the forehead.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  Carefully skirting the ashes, you head for the upper plain. You give Quinn a little wave and you’re pleased to see her stand and smile. It’s hard not to like her a little. Together, you make your way through the vague morning, sidestepping knuckled stones and stopping at the cliff’s edge. Only as the lower valley comes into sight does the girl speak.

  “You like him.”

  “I want to marry him.”

  “I’m surprised he can’t see me.” Quinn makes a thoughtful noise. “Better not to tell him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m your spirit, not his.”

  You swallow your instinctual response. What is yours will be his. You know the girl is here to help you win, and the reality of that has you worried again. What if she mistakes Bravos for a target? What if she can’t stop herself from taking action as you come down the stretch?

  “Bravos is not an enemy.”

  Quinn nods. “Understood.”

  You let out a little sigh of relief.

  “Well, Quinn, I don’t really know how all of this works. I can tell you that you’re with one of the best phoenix riders in Furia. I have the map memorized and we’re in a great position. But…” You hesitate. “What do you actually get out of all this? What’s in it for you?”

 

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