Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  The girl doesn’t respond immediately. In silence, the two of you stare down at the unlit valley below. You can just make out the silhouettes of four riders there. All grouped together. Teaming up for the first night, only to betray each other at sunrise. You can’t help wondering where Adrian Ford and Imelda Beru are camped. The shadows are too thick to pick them out.

  Quinn answers, “This is the only chance we have to escape our bondage.”

  “But haven’t you already escaped it? If you’re here?”

  Quinn reaches out and sets a cold hand against your cheek.

  “Feel that?” she asks. “I’m here and not. Alive and dead. If I can help you here, I’ll go back to our world as one of the revived. The revived have power in our world. Some do not return. The rumor is that they go on to other worlds. But I will not do that. My friends and family are waiting for me. I will return and I will stand up to our former masters.”

  Masters. It’s not hard to figure out she’s referring to the gods. In this world, they’re powerful allies for you and your people. Quinn doesn’t see them that way. She clearly thinks them cruel. You imagine they are. A shiver runs down your spine as you recall the Madness.

  “So we finish the Races. And then you…go back?”

  “I revive. There are only twenty or thirty revived ones in our world. Some end up joining the masters. The taste of power is too tempting. But there are some…” She pauses, and it’s like she’s looking down into her world. “Some fight for the enslaved. I intend to join them.”

  You nod, even though it makes as much sense as the stars. Deep down, you realize you’re afraid of Quinn. You remember the footage of other Races that involved the Madness. Some riders performed impossible feats. Others were shoved over cliffs. You know your mother’s gift will likely prove useful, but until then, you’re just hoping to keep her happy and on your side.

  “And your world, is it really so bad?”

  “My world…” Quinn shakes her head, struggling. “I’ve been a slave all my life. Your gods? They are cruel to us. They use us. The place we live is nothing like this one.”

  For a time, the two of you are silent. First light is striking the mountains, working its way over the great iron shards, dripping down into the waiting valleys. The two of you leave the lovely sight and start making your way back to camp.

  “Your days are shorter here.”

  “Are they?”

  Quinn nods. “Your nights, too.”

  “We’re a fast-moving people. I guess the world is just trying to keep up.”

  She smiles at that. You’re almost back to camp when sunlight spills over the plateau. Bravos is separating his equipment, getting ready for the second births. Beyond him, you see light catch the ashes. The wind whispers of creation. You pause at the edge of camp and watch as the ashes turn and stir, then whip up with devilish force. Quinn watches beside you, fascinated.

  You can’t imagine what it’s like to see the magic for the first time. Somewhere along the way, this all became normal to you. It would be nice, you think, to see it again for the first time.

  Dark forms rise out of the storms and sunlight fractures against the swirling wind, bright to the point of blinding. Quinn shields her eyes. You do not.

  Both phoenixes stagger free, glorious and full-formed.

  You’re surprised to see that your horse has a slightly darker coat than it did the day before. Normally, their color doesn’t change unless you drastically alter the alchemy. It’s still silver-maned, but the rest of its coat looks closer to char than the usual cloudy gray. Bravos’s horse stomps and snorts until your phoenix startles. You watch as it trots a safe distance away.

  “That’s amazing,” Quinn says.

  “It’s my favorite thing in the world.”

  Bravos looks over. “What?”

  You shake yourself and remember he can’t see Quinn. “Nothing, love.”

  He raises an eyebrow before crossing over to his horse. You can hear him whispering the same phrase over and over as you sort through your own supplies. When the creature is finally calm, he hefts up a saddle and sets to work on the girth and then the bridle. You’ve unearthed your own saddle and started walking over as he mounts. Those gorgeous arms flex as he swings gracefully onto the phoenix’s back.

  Bravos adjusts his hair before glancing your way. He’s got that determined look that you’re so proud to see. He’s a champion craving victory, and your first step toward that victory couldn’t have been more perfect. Your mother would caution you. It is called the Races for a reason. Champions aren’t crowned at the end of the first day.

  “I’m going to scout the valley,” Bravos says. “Get a look at who has the early lead.”

  “Go ahead. There’s a pack formed. It’d be good to know who’s in it. Looks like Etzli is starting out in the lead today. I’ll catch up to you in a clockturn or two.”

  He nods back, and urges his phoenix into a trot. Dust trails him, rising like smoke. There’s nothing finer in the world than a man like him on a horse. After a few seconds, you turn back to the task at hand. Your phoenix has wandered off toward the nearest cliffs.

  You click your tongue in greeting. It’s a sound this phoenix has heard in every life, through every death. Digging into a pocket, you hold out a baked-red tomato. But when you set a probing hand on the horse’s wide flank, he startles. A series of unsettled snorts follow. Even his ears are swiveling. “Whoa, boy. It’s just me, boy. Just me.”

  Carefully, you circle round and approach from the front. It’s a bright morning, and you have to squint as you walk into the sunlight, letting your eyes adjust. But your feet stick to the ground. An unconscious hand drifts up to cover your mouth. No, no, no.

  Quinn takes an instinctual step in your direction. “What’s wrong?”

  The fruit slips from your hand, kicking up dust as it falls and rolls.

  “He’s blind.”

  “You can tell that just by looking at him?”

  Tears streak down your face. “His eyes. He has no eyes, Quinn. I must have…Somehow I must have messed up the mixture. The wrong components or added them too late. Quinn, I blinded him. We can’t ride blind. That’s not—I’ve never trained for that.”

  The horse is feeding off your distress. It’s impossible to calm down, though. You’re finally in the Races and you made the biggest mistake of your life. The horse neighs, but you don’t have any words of comfort to offer. This is unthinkable.

  “So what do we do?” Quinn asks. “There has to be something we can do.”

  Bravos. Of course. You need Bravos.

  “My horse can follow his,” you say, turning. “We need Bravos.”

  The resurgent hope brings you stumbling back to reality. You ignore your unsettled phoenix and start walking toward the open plateau. Quinn watches with narrowed eyes.

  “I’ve seen them do that with blind horses before. They use mates or companion phoenixes. They trust the scent and follow. We just have to slow the pace a little, but not by much. We can make decent progress before nightfall that way.”

  You’ve been distracted, so you haven’t been watching. As you stumble past the staggered rock formations, you get a clear view of the empty plateau. And even as you strain your eyes, there’s no sign of Bravos. You blink, trying to clear that impossible vision, but he’s still not there when the dust and sunlight settle.

  So you call out his name. Again and again, ignoring the sudden clench in the pit of your stomach. You shout your voice raw, stumbling through the scorch and ignoring the truth:

  Bravos is gone.

  I claw my way back into the waking world. My breath comes heavy and it feels like something’s been sitting on my chest all night. I stare at the approaching light, the rock formations, and none of it makes any sense. I was doing my first mixture….

  The
Longhand. I scramble to my feet and go light-headed. Weak-limbed, I stagger right into the nearest outcropping. Pain lances through my hip, then connects to the pulse at my temple, and all I can do is let out a groan. It’s like I’m still getting hit by the blow.

  “Dammit.”

  At the end of the first day’s ride, I had let myself dream for just a second. I thought that maybe I really could win the Races outright. Now I have a knot on my head that’s the size of an apple. I rub at it and wince. Still light-headed, I stumble over to my ashes. Morning light’s coming on quickly, reaching its claws across the valley, and I realize I’m way too late to do anything. The Longhand scattered flakes of green through my ashes. I lower my head, wincing with the pain, and take a whiff. The smell is one that I know well.

  “Wormwood,” I say to no one. “That jackass used wormwood.”

  I stand, noticing the bloodstains for the first time. That’s strange. They streak the entrance to the recess in dark and faded pools. I have a wicked bruise, but there are no signs of blood. My mind starts playing detective, but I know I don’t have the time for mysteries.

  Furious, I turn back to my things. They’re piled in the opposite corner and I’ve got about twenty seconds to prepare for the rebirth that the Longhand saddled me with. I start sorting through my gear as the dust swirls.

  Sunlight creeps across the entrance. Bright fingers grasping for my ashes. My mind is racing. Wormwood. It’s a psychedelic poison. The symptoms are straightforward. With a heavy dose, a phoenix starts to see visions. Some people think the visions are real, that the phoenix is getting glimpses of the veiled underworlds controlled by the Ashlord gods. I couldn’t care less about the philosophy behind it. All that matters is that when my horse is born, it’s going to be seeing demons and monstrosities. It will smell them, too. I can soften the fear at the start, but there’s only one eventuality for a horse that’s been poisoned by wormwood.

  They run and they run and they run until they die.

  I curse, hearing the rebirth begin. Dust spins violently around the recess, sudden wind knocking me back a step. I brace myself and keep rooting through my packs. When everything’s arranged, I shove the sack over one shoulder and lift my saddle from the ground.

  A glance shows the chaos settling. A bloodred horse strides out of the scattering dust, new to the world and not. I unlatch the third container and dip two fingers into my stores of Revelrust. I didn’t want to use any of the stuff—every gram of it is worth a fortune—but I know the addictive substance will buy me the time I need to saddle the phoenix.

  She’s already stomping, testing her new legs and snorting wildly. She starts toward the entrance and I dart forward. Three strides have me in front of her, cutting off the exit, hands raised and fingers powdered with Revelrust. She huffs at me, but then catches a whiff of what I’m offering. There is no component more addictive for a phoenix. Her whole body shudders and I sprinkle a pinch of it down to the ground. She can’t resist. Lowering her head and sniffing, her eyes go wide and unfocused. I slip past as she tries to gauge the strange substance, confused by how badly she wants the stuff.

  I’m quick on the saddle and with the straps, slipping around her frame with as much precision as I can manage. I have to go fast, but if I miss something, I’ll break my neck just the same. She finishes the Revelrust and turns, sniffing and searching for more of it. I let her snort against my fingers, and use the other hand to work on the harnesses, getting everything in place. She gets bored with me and starts moving toward the entrance again. This time, when I get in her way, she snorts and stomps. I stand firm until she settles; then I slide past to tighten the final buckle.

  Sack still bouncing against my shoulders, I swing up to mount. My head spins with pain, but I keep a tight grip on the reins as she begins forward. I know the visions will start soon. Wormwood starts fast and stays strong. Its effects won’t fade until her heart bursts.

  I’ve never used the stuff, but I’ve read about it a few times now. She’ll smell the blood and the rot and the ruin. She’ll see twisted demons. All of it is in her head, but she’ll bolt the second she notices any of them. I set her on a northeast path. The edge of the course, and the mountains beyond, are in that direction. Once she bolts, I’ll have no control over where she goes. All I can do is hold on for dear life.

  The day’s warm and the sun’s bright. I send a little curse in the direction of the Longhand, wherever he is, and then remember I need to name the horse. It’s better to die on a horse I named than on one I didn’t.

  “Burn,” I say as calmly as I can. “That’s what you’ll do, isn’t it? You’ll burn bright and hard and fast before you go out. Just try not to take me with you, all right, Burn?”

  Her coat shivers with light. She snorts pleasantly, too, like she likes the name. But before I can take much pride in getting that part right, she flinches. A second flinch is followed by stamping. Her head shivers, eyes swinging and rolling wildly, and then she breaks.

  I tighten my grip and she’s from trot to gallop in heartbeats. Her hooves thunder against the packed hardpan and wind comes howling from all sides. I try to match her rhythm with my body, but it’s a jolting and terrified sprint. I end up more focused on not being thrown from her back. The sprint doesn’t stop, because the demons that Burn is seeing don’t stop, either.

  The course looks empty. This route isn’t one the real riders will choose. It’s the long way around, winding on the eastern side nearest the mountains. Before the Longhand poisoned my ashes, I intended on taking this path, flanking the barrier, and executing my own plan.

  Now I just have to hope Burn doesn’t run us off a cliff or right into a wall.

  It’s not a pace that can last, but a phoenix pushed by fear and powered by the sun can still perform miracles. A glance at my bracelet shows we’re in the lead after an hour.

  A second hour passes, and even though she’s sweating and frothing, Burn never slows. We tear through the vast, clay-caked valleys and it’s pure luck that most of the way is straight and safe. I glance at the standings on my bracelet and see the impossible: I’m leading the Races.

  Imelda: 0 paces

  Etzli: 573 paces

  Bravos: 701 paces

  Naturally, that’s when Burn’s heart gives out.

  I feel it a second before her forelegs snap, and her front end drops. Momentum whips my feet out of the stirrups and sends my body straight over her lunging shoulders. I scrape my way, rolling and cussing, some ten paces past her. Pain sears along my waist and arms and shoulder. I’m still groaning and spitting out dust when the flames course over Burn’s sides. It was a short life, haunted and unfair, but she’ll work her way to ashes and rise stronger. I glance up at the sun and know the other riders will keep moving for another few hours.

  My lead will vanish. They’ll be so far ahead that I’ll never have a chance to close the gap.

  “You were never in the lead,” I remind myself. “You came to break the Races.”

  It helps to say the words out loud. It was nice to flash a little alchemy the day before. It was nice to hold the lead for a few hours, but the ease with which Adrian poisoned my ashes echoes the truth of things. I was never going to win the Races. Not their way.

  Eyes to the east, I measure the distance to the course’s metal barrier. A little over half a mile. The sun’s moving, but I have time to get where I need to go. There’s a danger in moving ashes after sundown. As long as the sun’s still up, I can keep moving.

  The spectators will wonder what I’m doing, what I’m thinking, but they won’t figure out the plan until it’s too late to stop it. As long as they keep believing in the myth of the Alchemist, the girl with the magic plan, I’ll be fine. So I carefully scoop my ashes into an empty, race-standard container, and when I’m sure I’ve got them all, I start jogging east.

  The silver bars
of my cage are waiting.

  The second and third days of the Races are about separation and distance.

  The Racing Board defines each course by rhythms. Yesterday, they had us snaking through a narrow valley, fighting for room in the most cramped section of the course. Today, there are seven different routes forward, each with its own advantages and pitfalls.

  I always knew which way I would go.

  A hunter follows its prey.

  Instead of riding off at first breath, I waited. Saw the Dividian first, hurtling off on her poisoned horse. Heading down the longest and slowest trail—to the east—but that’s not something she could have helped if she wanted to. Wormwood’s nasty stuff. I find myself praying she doesn’t get herself killed. Honestly, I’m impressed she even decided to mount the thing. That took iron sides.

  Next off was Etzli. She’s building on her day one lead. I sat there waiting, horse tethered and settled, until I see three riders make their way into the yawning canyons.

  Thyma isn’t with them. I smile at that and follow. I made the switch from the Ravenous rebirth to a hunting combination. I actually saw Bravos was going to use the same one for his first day of riding. Today is all about the chase.

  As the pace picks up, I’m still a little stunned at how completely my pain has faded. I’m a long way away from trusting the Dread, but at least his magic works. It would have been a long day’s ride after the beating I got last night. The thought has me eager to pay them back.

  It’s not hard to shadow them. I ride faster and harder than they do, but pull back on the straightaways, keeping out of sight. This section of the map has us fording a few rivers, cutting through the heart of everything, and moving gradually into territory where the most important decisions will come into play.

  I’m not surprised to see Imelda rush out to an early lead. Riding breakneck like that can’t last forever, though. Behind her on the bracelet is Etzli, followed by Bravos. That’s a surprise. I didn’t even see him yesterday. It has me wondering if he went a different route altogether, but I don’t remember one on the map. It also has me curious about Pippa.