Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  It’s possible they’ll be at ours.

  I leave him unconscious in the dust. I don’t bother using wormwood. That’s their kind of poison. Calling forth demons to haunt horses. I flip the lid of my fifth cube and take a pinch of the fine, white powder there: Rend.

  It’s a substance most Ashlords know, even if they pretend it’s beneath them. Some use it in training to better understand the true limits of a phoenix’s heart and body. It’s an effective poison. Get their horse up anywhere close to a trot, and the heart will burst. I’ve always liked it because it cuts away the core of what a phoenix is: blood and bone and sunlight.

  Both riders will be able to walk their horses tomorrow, and little else.

  I give both sets a healthy dose before remembering the Ashlord I shoved over the cliff. The second is still knocked out, but the first hasn’t climbed back up looking for a fight. And no officials have thundered out to punish me for murder, either. Silence has my guard up again.

  I slink down the narrow path. It curls slightly, feeding back into the main valley. I glance in both directions. The moon’s bright enough to show just how empty the valley is. A pair of dark wings stir to the west, but otherwise? Completely still. I make my way back along the canyon to the spot where the other Ashlord would have fallen.

  At first, I think he’s run off somehow. I’m eyeing the place for blood or footprints until I see the body. A shelf of raised stone caught him in the air. He’s lying about chest high, back broken against the stones, blood pooling on his right side and coloring everything. His eyes are closed and his mouth is slack. Nothing looks right or alive about him.

  The truth trembles through me. My race is over. He’s dead.

  So why haven’t the officials come?

  He must be alive. Our bracelets monitor heart rates. If his stopped beating, I’d already be surrounded and ready to be taken into custody. I move closer and gently set both forefingers to his neck. The beat is still there, but for how long? Even in the moonlight I can see how bad the injury is. The fall mangled his back. A sharp point of stone punched through the meat of his right side, too. I actually impaled him.

  Blood pools around the wound. Dirt and dust are fouling the thing. He’ll be septic by the end of the next day, if the blood loss doesn’t kill him first. Maybe he’s paralyzed? The way his body just dangles there isn’t the best sign.

  I pace, thinking and thinking. If he’s paralyzed and he’s dying and he’s losing blood, can I get to the finish line before he goes? So long as his heart’s beating, my race eligibility remains. The second it stops, though, I’ll have officials riding out to arrest me.

  But if he dies after I cross the line, there’s nothing illegal about it.

  Leaning close, I eye the wound again. The spike of rock is blade thin. Like a little knife punched through the skin. I wouldn’t worry about it, but if he’s paralyzed, he can’t treat the wound or drink water or anything. And I’ve already seen what these Ashlords do with their wounded. His friend won’t help him. He’ll saddle up and cover him in dust as he goes.

  “Damn.”

  I tuck the switch back in my belt and lean over him. I’m not sure how to help him without doing more damage, but I set a hand under his back and another right beneath his hip. Wedging both hands as close to the stone as I can, I lift him away from it. The blood sucks and smacks and the pain snaps him awake. A protest escapes his shaking lips. Blood pours out from the back of the wound as I get him free. He passes back out a second later.

  I’ve got a head of height on him, so it’s easy to tuck my head over one of his shoulders and bear-hug his chest to mine. I get one hand pressed over the wound and the other tight against the base of his neck. Careful to not let his head bounce or his spine shift, I stumble back through the valley. He’s not light by any stretch, but it’s only a few hundred paces. I set him down beside my ashes and rummage through saddlebags. There’s not a whole lot of light, but I practiced enough that I could stitch a wound in the black of a cave.

  I clean it out first, wasting my own bandages on him. I’m thankful he’s blacked out from the pain, because this would be a nasty welcome back into the world. The entry point is easy, but the frontal wound ruptures twice while I’m patching him. Cursing, I waste even more of my bandages to finish. When that’s done, I wash off my hands and put my back to the canyon wall. I sit there, eyeing a gap in the raised mesa where the sun’s supposed to come.

  Before sunrise, I know I’ll have to wake him. If he’s paralyzed, I’ll have to take him with me. It’s far from ideal, but it’s also the only way to guarantee he stays alive long enough for me to reach the end. Leave him behind and helpless and it’s likely he’ll die the next night. In fact, I wouldn’t put it past the Empire Racing Board to lure something over that would finish him off and get me disqualified.

  This is an unexpected complication. I can almost imagine Daddy pacing through his study as he watches me, a hundred strategies spinning through his head. But that thought chains itself to an image of the Dread offering to protect me, and Daddy rejecting his offer. I shake my head and know that out here, no one can help me.

  I’m my own general now.

  Every choice I make is not just a choice for me. It will echo back to the Reach. Feeling the weight of all that on my shoulders, I take a second to close my eyes.

  The bordering wall of the course is some thirty lengths high. It’d be impossible to climb if not for the raised, metallic circles covering the entire surface, the help of my switch whip, and some fancy alchemy. There are eleven rows from top to bottom, and they stretch left and right as far as I can see. Each circle contains a face. Dividian faces, Ashlord faces, Longhand faces.

  Thousands of fans that weren’t content with watching the government’s public cuts of the footage. They want to walk the course and follow their favorite riders. I don’t understand all the tech, but I know folks on the bottom row purchased vid packages that follow a single rider. Maybe they’re obsessed with Pippa, or a fan of mine, or viewers from the Reach. But each row up the wall gives viewers more access to more riders. I’m not surprised to see the top row filled with Ashlord faces. The only people in the Empire who can afford to pay for full access to all the riders, all the fights, all the tense moments we see every year in the Races.

  Ayala explained that it’s a technological grid. Whatever that means. Apparently between the two metal barriers, the Racing Board’s got eyes and ears on everything. They miss nothing, and neither do the fans who subscribe for the extra services. Previous racers have claimed they could feel the viewers walking around. A strange, hair-raising chill in the air.

  All it means to me is that people are watching. They see me now, at the edge of the course. They watched me walk my ashes here in the night and I know both fans and officials are curious. What’s the Alchemist going to do next?

  The answer is simple. I plan to do what any good alchemist would do.

  I’m going to make something out of nothing.

  Night burns its way into dawn, and I sit beside my ashes, in the shadow of the metal barrier, staring at the faces. Are the Dividian watching me? Will they take hope from what I’m about to do? Are Father and Mother somewhere in the vast rows? Maybe on the opposite wall? I hope they didn’t waste their money, because they’ll only get half the show they wanted.

  My eyes drift to that upper row. It feels appropriate to see Ashlord faces filling it. They’re so fond of putting their own kind above us. And now it just means they’ll have the best view of my rebellion. Witness me, I think. Watch as I break every one of your precious rules.

  I hope the Dividian see this, too. I don’t know if what I have planned will actually change anything, but it’s a message at the very least. It is a bold cry to our rulers that not all Dividian will be made to bow and serve their purposes. We will not continue pretending. We are not small. We are not to be sw
ept aside. Amaya was right. It’s time to outdance a few more Ashlords.

  Sunlight streaks across the upper sections of the canyons back to the west. I wait to start my alchemy until the sun’s leaking across the lower plains. Instead of reaching for the cubes on the front of my utility belt, I unclip the set hidden behind my right hip. Anyone watching will know something’s wrong. Fans will flock to the Chats and shout about infractions. I just have to hope the judges won’t disqualify me before I can disqualify myself.

  I glance up at the faces. Some of the eyes are focused on me now, watching curiously. I smile up at them like Farian’s filming me behind the camera. I think of him, and my family, as my rebellion begins.

  “Good morning. My name’s Imelda Beru, also known as the Alchemist. I wanted to thank you for watching my recent videos, but I’ve saved the best one for last. You’ve probably seen this trick by now, but today it’s got a new name. Today it’s called the Shattering.”

  I kneel down and take a healthy pinch of locust dust. I let the powder feed between my fingers and highlight the border of the ashes with a deep, tan color. Next, I take the gypsum and limestone. They pile up fine and high before I use both fingers to mix them together. Any fan of mine will know this is the Trust Fall mixture. I smile up again once I’ve added the unborn ashes.

  “Now we need sunlight.”

  It creeps over the ashes just thirty seconds later. I step back and admire the magic as it summons my phoenix into being. She staggers free, proud and beautiful, snorting like the world is hers to conquer. We’re of a mind today, so it doesn’t take me long to saddle her and get the straps tied right. Once I’ve got her done up, I look back at the admiring fans. More and more of them are watching me, drawn to whatever stunt I’m about to pull. It’s exactly what I wanted. I needed them to see this. I need them all to know what the Dividian are capable of doing.

  “If you’re going to shatter something,” I say with a smile, “it helps to have a Hammer.”

  The horse’s coat shivers with light. She takes the name and I can’t help smirking as I imagine Farian rolling his eyes at the lazy joke. But what comes next isn’t a joke.

  I let the humor fade from my face before looking right into the imaginary cameras. I try to picture my features written brightly and boldly across thousands of screens. In one swift motion, I mount Hammer. She stamps her feet before accepting the prodding of my knees. I get her striding forward, parallel to the metal barrier. With a gritty determination lining each feature, I ride her as close to the wall as I can before standing in the saddle.

  Every eye follows us as we make our quiet way down the edge of the course. They watch with hungry eyes as I mimic the movements I did in the video that made me famous. My feet slip the stirrups and I’m up on her back. She’s a little unsettled by the movement, but I flex my legs and leap before she can startle. It’s a short jump, but the impact shakes through my arms and legs. I hit the wall hard, but don’t drop. I keep my grip on one of the raised metal circles and get situated. There’s a flush of wind behind me. When I look back, Hammer has vanished from sight. It takes ten seconds to scurry up to the top of the wall using the circles as handholds.

  At the top, the view of the Gravitas takes my breath away.

  But I’m only halfway done with my trick. I remove the switch from my hip. Carefully, I squeeze the grip twice. The wood unfolds and the whip shakes out. I knot the material around the top of the barrier before lowering myself down. This side doesn’t have metal circles. Fewer places to set my feet or get a solid grip. I’m about halfway down when I see the dust rising. To the north and to the south. A pair of officials ride out from both directions. Every second matters.

  I resettle my equipment, eye the drop, and let go of the switch.

  Air whistles up as my body smacks back into the saddle and my hands scramble for the sudden mane and I’m laughing as Hammer comes flashing back into existence. The fans will get a final glimpse of this, and they’ll see me laughing as I escape their precious Races.

  “Get, get! Let’s ride, girl!”

  Dust plumes around us. I shift my utility belt, waiting until I’m beyond the sight of the course’s cameras, and then I let the precious set of black containers—full of the world’s most expensive components—fall to the ground. Hammer pushes into a gallop, making a line toward the distant mountains. The officials chase, all four in pursuit, but I know it will take them all day to catch me. And even if they do, they’ll return empty-handed. All I have to do is escape.

  All I have to do is reach the mountains.

  Eyes to the great, iron rises, I ride.

  “I can’t feel my legs. Why can’t I feel my legs?”

  The Ashlord hasn’t stopped talking since he woke up. He’s got their dark skin, their dark hair, their dark eyes. During our first fight, I thought he’d shaved matching notches in both eyebrows. But up close, I can see they’re scars. Surgically perfect cuts. Some kind of blood sacrifice when he was born. The kind of Ashlord blessing that’s supposed to protect him from moments like this one.

  The worst-case scenario is playing out. He can’t move his legs. His upper body isn’t doing much better. He can make fists with both hands, but moving them functionally is a stretch. I’ve used up the last of my bandages on him. At least the sutures are holding. He stares up at me, and his face is full of hate—but also touched by a growing fear.

  “It’s temporary,” I say. “You fell. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “You pushed me,” he says. “You pushed me off the cliff. If I die…”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  “I can’t feel my legs.”

  I nod again before glancing up the canyon. The sun has already stirred my ashes back to life. I made a last-minute adjustment. Needed a phoenix that could carry a little more weight. It trots nearby, sniffing loudly and stomping its feet. I realize I’m losing precious minutes. Time that will matter as we race to the finish line on the final day. And I’m wasting it on someone who beat the hell out of me two nights ago. The Ashlord’s dark eyes trace my movements around the camp, following as I gather my belongings.

  I broke him. He didn’t fall on his own. He didn’t trip. I pushed him, and the Racing Board will know that. It means I have a decision to make. Either I take him with me and keep him alive, or I race his death to the finish line. Annoyed, I spin the cap of the canteen off and set it down next to him. His eyes flick to it and he licks his lips.

  “Drink.”

  He’s pushed up on his elbows. I watch him reach and fumble the canteen. He tries to open his hands, then tries to close them around the body of the container. He manages enough force to almost knock the thing over into the sand. There’s no chance of him lifting it up and taking a drink.

  There are three full days of riding left. I consider the odds of him surviving in the shadow of these cliffs, without water or food, his infected wound attacking him from the inside out. I look back down at him and he looks like he’s considering the same odds as me.

  “Don’t leave me,” he says. “Please. Don’t leave me.”

  I kneel down next to him and heft the canteen. Carefully, I tilt it so water runs down into his mouth. He drinks, half choking, but when I tilt the canteen away, he looks relieved, like the water is my promise to stay with him. “You left me the first night.”

  His eyes widen. “This is different.”

  “How?” I ask. “You didn’t know if I’d survive or not.”

  His chest heaves now. He understands I could really leave him. He understands, maybe for the first time in his life, that his decisions have consequences. The utter surprise there makes me want to leave. It is the Ashlord way to rule without looking down.

  I turn my back on him and start saddling my phoenix. He moans the whole time. I ignore his pleas, letting the fear steal through him, letting the Empire see one o
f their blessed ones beg for his life. The noise goes on and on until I’ve pulled the final strap tight.

  “Your name is Capri, isn’t it?”

  He nods at me.

  “Capri, if I leave you, you’ll die. Agreed?”

  He bites his lip and nods again.

  “If I leave you, no one will come for you. They could send help. But I think they’d rather see me disqualified than see you live. Agreed?”

  A third nod. The Ashlords have no mercy for their weak and wounded.

  “There are three more days of riding. I’ll take you with me today. Once someone crosses the finish line, they’ll come to get you. Two rules. You keep your mouth shut. Not a word. To me or to anyone. Just because I’m riding with you doesn’t mean I want to listen to what you have to say. Second, don’t touch my horse. It’s a purebred. I’m guessing you know what purebreds do to horse thieves?”

  He squints past me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m telling the truth about the horse.

  “They burn them,” he says finally.

  “You’ve been warned. Try to steal my horse and your death is on your head.”

  It takes some work to get him up on his feet. I wrap his arms around my neck and turn so he’s leaning fully against my back. Taking the rope from my pack, I loop it around the two of us until we’re tied together tight enough to be hostages.

  Luckily, I’m taller than him by about a head. His face is pressed into my right shoulder, and his feet bounce off the backs of my calves. He could try to choke me, I guess, but he doesn’t have enough strength to light a candle right now.

  It’s easy enough to lift him. Thankfully he’s light, but like most Ashlords, his skin burns a little hotter than normal. The heat has me sweating as I struggle to get the two of us onto my phoenix’s back. His legs are the hardest part. They flail and bounce and disagree. I can tell he’s at least trying to help. He pulls up with his arms, but it still takes a few minutes to get us situated in the saddle.