Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  Revel stormed out to the lead at first, but Bravos is the steadier rider. I always thought of him as a bruiser without much pacing or technique, but maybe he dated Pippa long enough to learn a thing or two. At one point, I glanced down and the third name had changed. I thought I saw Pippa’s name scrawled there like an inevitability. But a second glance had me blinking. It wasn’t her name. It was mine. I watched the numbers for a while after that, but it must have been a mistake. Pippa’s name never appeared again.

  I kept pushing deeper into the course, and the standings fluctuated only slightly:

  Bravos: 436 paces

  Revel: 247 paces

  Adrian

  Bravos had an even bigger lead for a while, but his progress stopped right before sunset. It’s not hard to figure out that he caught an early burn. And the whole field is lucky that he did. I’ve never heard of a rider coming back from a lead over five hundred paces. But now?

  It’s close enough. Victory is within reach.

  I glance over at Capri. He’s lying in the dust and dirt. Looks like hell, but there’s nothing more I can do besides give him food and water. I sit with my back to a rise of cool stone, eyes on the canyon we left behind. The way forward is a departure from the rest of the course. It will run us through the strange desert forests. It’s full of crags and twists and sunstripe trees. The kind of course that demands a lot from a rider and his horse. I was lucky to stay this close to the leaders, but I’m not foolish enough to think it will happen again, not with Capri weighing me down.

  He’s as healthy as I can get him. His wounds look fine. Ugly, but not the kind of infections he’ll die from. It’s time to cut the cord. He’s been watching me since we woke up.

  “You’re going to leave me,” Capri says aloud. “Aren’t you?”

  I glance over at him. “Makes the most sense.”

  He nods. The movement is an upgrade from the day before. He might recover.

  “You’re just like us,” he says.

  “Is that right?”

  He nods again, eyes on the fading stars above. “You don’t feel guilty. I might never walk again, but you don’t care. I can see it in your eyes. You’re just doing equations and distances. Not thinking at all about what life will be like for me now. You care more about winning. That’s all my people care about, too. Who wins and who loses. That’s all I was ever taught.”

  I weigh his words. I know the Empire’s listening. Officials are sitting in their camps at the start and end of the Races, ready to ride out and arrest me at a moment’s notice. But I also know that Daddy and half the Reach are losing sleep to listen in, each of them hoping I’ll speak with their voice. The Empire is watching. Most of them were born hating people like me.

  It gives my voice fire. “I’ve trained my whole life for this.”

  “You trained to be like one of us.”

  I shake my head, knowing he’s wrong. “I trained to be better than you. Faster than you. Stronger than you. At the end of the day, I trained to be more merciful than you, too.”

  “That’s what you call this?” Capri gestures to his legs. “Is this your idea of mercy?”

  I stare back at him. Anger’s breathing into my bones, curling hands into fists. The Dread is right. Daddy sent me here not knowing whether I’d live or die. I’m wrestling with that, but it’s still his words that come to mind. I haven’t forgotten why I wanted to come in the first place.

  “Nine hundred and seven.”

  Capri stares back at me. “What?”

  “Nine hundred and seven. That’s how many firstborns the Ashlords killed in the Purge after the Rebellion. Some were infants. Some were elderly. I had nine hundred and seven good reasons to bury you back in that canyon. You’re right. I don’t care what you do after this. I don’t care if you ever walk again. But every breath you take from here on out? Mercy. Every time your parents give you a hug? Mercy. Every time you see the sun rise? Mercy. You’re alive because of me. I gave you everything you have from here on out, and you’ll never forget that.”

  I stand as sunlight starts edging through gaps in the scarecrow trees. We’re a little higher up than we were the day before, on a little plateau that precedes the waiting forest. Sunlight cuts a path to my ashes and stirs them, drawing life into my phoenix again. I ignore Capri and start sorting through my gear. It takes time to get my horse settled and saddled.

  By the time I turn back, he’s started crying.

  “My family won’t take me back,” Capri says. “Not like this.”

  I pause to look at him. “Make that another difference between my people and yours.”

  Taking up the canteen, I head toward the nearest creek. One feature of the Races is that the officials come in beforehand and treat all the rivers. They figured out a few years back that riders boiling water in pots wasn’t all that entertaining. No one cares about those kind of survival skills. They’d rather watch us fighting to protect our ashes or throwing people off cliffs. I let the clean water run into my canteen until it’s full. I’ll leave the canteen with him. It should be enough to keep him alive until I’ve crossed the finish line.

  As I turn back, everything inside me turns to ice.

  Capri’s grunting with the effort of pulling himself up onto my horse. His muscles bulge and I see sweat running down his face. In an impossible burst of strength, he flings himself up and over one flank. His body slumps against my phoenix’s neck. His legs aren’t working, so he can’t hook them into the stirrups right, but he’s in the damn saddle and that’s all that matters.

  I drop the canteen and dart after them, closing the distance, but Capri’s plenty fast with the reins. The horse jolts forward, out of reach. I give chase as they trot off to a safer distance, but the horse is quicker, its strides longer. When Capri’s got a decent-sized gap, he turns to get a look at me. He’s all awkward and slumped, but there’s a grin on his face as he meets my eye.

  “Remember this,” he calls back. “Remember the sight of me riding away.”

  “Capri.” I make the word a warning. “That’s a purebred phoenix. You know what—”

  “Like hell it is,” he snaps. “Like anyone from the Reach would even know how a purebred rides. How they look and smell and act. You think I’m foolish enough to believe that?”

  I let the air rush out my nostrils. He’s wrong. He’s dead wrong. I look up into the air, knowing officials and fans are watching this on a live feed. I make each word loud and clear. I won’t be blamed if he dies a death this foolish.

  “You heard me warn him! If he dies, it isn’t my fault.” I set my eyes back on Capri. “Last chance. I swear to you that’s a purebred. You steal it and you’ll burn.”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll be the one who beat the Longhand. I’ll be more than the kid who snuck into a race. I’ll be remembered as the one who ended your race.”

  The sound of his whip follows the promise. I chase, but my strides can’t come close to matching a phoenix’s. Capri works him into motion, up into a gallop. Dust rises and my view is distorted in the bright swirls. I can’t tell the difference between the beating hooves and my panicked heartbeat. I shout as they reach the first forest path. Capri shifts in the saddle. There’s a terrifying moment when I wonder if the old myths are just myths. Maybe my horse isn’t…

  The flames that come are brighter and hotter than any I’ve ever known. A god-sent storm. They break the morning in two. Everything echoes and bursts, and I can hear Capri’s screams. The heat’s so intense that I have to stop well away. All I can do is watch as fire consumes both horse and rider. The nearest branches catch, and before long smoke is pouring into the sky above us.

  Capri rolls off one side, a falling mass of flames. The second he hits the ground, my stallion’s fire winks out. Its eyes are ringed with flame, but its coat returns to that onyx color. I move f
orward to help Capri, but the flames still have him, and they’re devouring everything. I know I’m innocent, but it doesn’t make hearing and watching him die any easier. Horrified, I skirt the body and get my horse settled.

  He’s not bothered by Capri’s death. It’s the same way a wolf wouldn’t be bothered by the last gasps of a rabbit. They’re just animals acting out their nature. We leave Capri’s body behind. The forest fire trails us, smoking and clouding every path. None of the riding comes easy, but we ride fast and hard because no matter how far we seem to go, the sound of Capri’s screams follows.

  I have to force myself to think of numbers. I keep my hands tight on the reins and look to my bracelet for distraction. Revel chases Bravos down around noon, but fades again. I can almost imagine the two of them ramming into one another somewhere up ahead, slowing down the pace for both of them. Bravos holds to a slim lead. My name hovers in third. As fast as they push the pace, I know I’m gaining on both of them.

  Something about Capri’s death wakens a deeper part of my phoenix’s nature. On a few of the corners, I try to slow him down, but he snorts his displeasure and ignores me. It takes all of my mental effort to set the visceral memories of Capri’s death aside. I know I’ll never truly forget the flames and the screams, but for now I focus on what I can see in front of me.

  I lean over my phoenix and clench my jaw until it feels like my entire body’s locked in. I watch the gap start to shrink. We burn through corners and tear down straightaways.

  I hope they see my name getting closer and closer and closer.

  I’m coming for them.

  Bastian leads us deeper into the mountains.

  I have only visited once, for my cousin’s wedding, but I never forgot the taste of mountain air. It’s sharper and colder and thinner. We start through a valley and only the risen sun can shake the night cold from our bones. No single mountain reigns in the Gravitas. They’re a brooding group of iron giants. As morning sweeps the fog clear, I see their dark shoulders already surround us. The first valley looks green and healthy, but ahead are the warning signs of a stark world. Here, the Empire’s rebels rule their own kingdoms.

  At least, that’s what I always believed.

  Bastian moves us like ghosts. Two of his men range ahead, scouting and reporting back. He shuts up laughter and noise until the trees strangle any sight of the desert behind us. I can’t help glancing over at him. Every stride he takes is confident, like he’s always known he’d be escorting an enemy of the state through these mountain passes. When he notices me watching, I pretend to be fascinated by the metal arm pumping and gasping at his side.

  “I’ve never seen engineering like that.”

  “Stole the design from the Longhands,” he explains. “I lost the arm when I was a kid. Let’s just say I’ve tested out a lot of prosthetics. This one’s the most fun.”

  He throws a quick signal to his second in command. I watch as the man strides out ahead, taking point, and Bastian makes a deliberate effort to fall back and walk beside me. I try to bury the nervous feeling in my chest with curiosity.

  “Why not ride?” I ask. “We’d get where we’re going in half the time.”

  Bastian shakes his head. “Not all of my men are horsed. Even if they were, phoenixes leave trails we can’t hide. We might raise them up as ours, but they’ll always belong to the Ashlords. Sometimes it’s better to go on foot if you don’t want to be followed.”

  “And you really think they’ll follow me?”

  He nods. “You stole two hundred thousand legions on a national broadcast.”

  Hearing him put it that way makes me smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

  There’s that grin again. “Hell of a start to your career as an outlaw.”

  I give him another smile, but this time there’s less heart in it. The word outlaw isn’t one I ever thought would apply to me. I always dreamed I’d be a rider, a champion. The choice I made has good and bad consequences both. My family will have enough money now to change their lives forever. I made sure to check the law ahead of time. The Ashlords emphasize personal responsibility above all else. My rebellion cannot be charged to my family.

  Which means Prosper can get a proper education. Farian can study film at any university he wants. My father can stop working three jobs. It takes effort to remind myself that those blessings outweigh the curse attached to them: I’ll never get to go back home.

  The best-case scenario is that I survive this, settle into my cousin’s village, and live life as a rancher. Martial is slick enough to help my family visit from time to time, but I’ll miss birthdays and celebrations and all of it. I didn’t know how much I wanted a better life for them until this moment, until I knew exactly what it would cost me to get it for them.

  Bastian must recognize the change in my expression, because he keeps walking beside me but doesn’t say a word. The quiet is enough to drive me crazy, though, so I force the conversation in the hopes of thinking about something less sad.

  “Where are we going?”

  Bastian nods in the distance. “Gig’s Wall. It’s past the first few villages. Our base of operations on this side of the mountain. We’ll camp there and then move through the passes. The plan is to escort you to your uncle’s village.” His cheeks brighten. “Or you could join us. Always need extra hands. It’s your call really.”

  He doesn’t wait for an answer this time. Instead, he slides back up to the front of our column and leaves me to consider the life I left behind, and the life that waits ahead.

  It’s past noon when we reach the first village. From below, all I can see are the slanting roofs and stone chimneys. Bastian has the rest of the group march an overgrown path, well out of sight. But he walks in the open and flashes a series of signals as he does. I don’t know who’s watching or what any of it means, but fear settles like deadweight in my chest. I realize for the first time I’ve trusted my fate to people I don’t know, and I’m stuck in a place I know even less. I’ve been trusting them because Luca is with them. And because Bastian is nice and they’re Dividian like me. But is that enough?

  Thankfully, the signals don’t result in an ambush. Instead, a loaded packhorse waits for us at the next crossroad. Bastian looks patiently through the saddlebags, counting off items, before nodding his contentment. We watch from the woods as he takes a loaded sack from his coat and ties it around the road marker. It’s not hard to understand. He’s leaving payment. Some of yesterday’s stolen Ashlord goods in exchange for food and water.

  It’s my first glimpse of life in the mountains.

  We skirt the second village entirely, wind up the forested shelves of another valley, and stumble into sight of Gig’s Wall. Once it might have been a marvel. A great stone wall that stretches from one side of the valley to the other, barring encroaching armies from the valleys beyond. It rises fifty feet into the air and stands three times as wide, but the decades have worn away all sense of grandeur. Great blasts of wind have swept chunks out of the wall’s once-even ramparts. At the bottom, I note gaping holes wide enough to ride a horse through.

  It’s through one of these, and not the reinforced gates, that Bastian leads us. Everything about his posture—and the posture of his soldiers—changes once we’re inside the fortress. They dust themselves off and move toward familiar nooks in a central room, looking like workers returning after a long day out in the fields. I realize, with a sense of honor and dread, that this place is home to them. One of many homes, and they’ve invited me into their trust. Luca and I both stand off to the side, feeling a little like intruders.

  “Rest well,” Bastian calls from the nearest stairwell. “We’ll sleep the night here. A handful of you will move on to escort Imelda to Little Sickle tomorrow. Mattys, let’s get something hearty on the stove. I’d like to have the whole group—”

  His words are drowned by fire. It flashes in
the air before us like a magician’s trick. The blast of energy knocks everyone backward. I’m on one knee as the flames take form and a man strides out into the center of the room. He’s shirtless and shoeless, wearing the dirtiest trousers I’ve ever seen. What catches every eye, though, is the great falcon mask sewn into the skin of his neck, enclosing a human head within. Everyone stares at the creature, the man, but his great beaded eyes swivel in my direction. He lets out a throaty cry and darts through our ranks.

  The gods have come.

  We all know which one this priest represents: The Curiosity.

  Bastian screams, “Quit staring and kill him!”

  The bird-man dodges the first lunge and slips from the grip of a second. Someone fires a pistol, filling the room with smoke and an echoing bang. The bird-man makes the hallway. Three of Bastian’s soldiers chase, following the nightmarish screeches and answering with more gunshots from their pistols.

  I ignore caution and run after them. There’s another loud screech, then a thump, and I turn the corner to see the bird-man fall, feathers pluming out. He ran far enough to get back outside the walls. The darkened valley is quiet except for the sounds of him dying at the hands of Bastian’s men. I’m shouldered out of the way as Bastian presses past to stand over the corpse.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  He spits down, looks at his men, then at me.

  “The Curiosity.” He says the name like a curse. “Their god of vision and prophecy. This is one of his priests. Whatever he just saw, they can see. It means they’re coming.”

  “Who?”

  “The Ashlords,” Bastian replies darkly. “It means they’re already here.”

  The fourth day of riding is flawless.

  You can almost see the smirk on Maxim’s face as he confirms your record-setting pace to a national audience. Revel started the day impossibly far ahead of you. But as your phoenix burns down in preparation for another night, your bracelet shows that you’re only four hundred paces back now. If you hadn’t gone back through the caves, it’s likely you’d be close to first place. But Etzli would also be dead. Quinn would have abandoned you.