Ashlords

by Scott Reintgen

  Revenge responds with a burst of speed. The pumping rhythm brings you closer and closer. The landscape briefly takes both of the opposing riders out of sight. A handful of vaulting seconds pass before the path funnels into the waiting mouth of the crossroads. Your eyes narrow as the other rider straightens into a full gallop just ahead of you.

  “Bravos,” you hiss. “It’s Bravos.”

  Instinct draws one hand to your switch. With a deliberate twist, you let the whip snake out. It tongues the desert dust, waiting to sing through the air, eager for flesh.

  Bravos is using his Iron and Latchlock mixture for the final leg. On either side of his saddle you can see the ominous spikes the alchemy’s known for producing. Bravos might not be a brilliant rider, but you know he’s familiar with violence. Given the chance, he’ll use the horse’s spikes to spear your horse and put an end to your ride.

  It doesn’t stop you from thundering after him, teeth gritted. He glances over his shoulder when he finally hears the hooves. And when he sees it’s you trailing him, his eyes go wide.

  The two of you start the final stretch just a few lengths apart. Revel’s a dark shape ahead. Shouts chorus their way to madness as the fans watch both of you drive your horses onward. You want to end Bravos, but the Latchlock hide has you keeping your distance.

  He’s smart enough to do the same. Neither of you can afford a confrontation, not while you’re still trailing Revel. You feel Quinn’s nails digging into your hips. There’s an anger linking the two of you together, bright and burning as the sun.

  Revenge rides beautifully. He’s a hand longer and taller than Bravos’s horse, and he continues stealing from their meager lead every twenty or thirty strides. You hold the rhythm and smile coolly when he noses into a lead. Bravos darts a worried look in your direction, but he concedes the advantage for now. Make contact and both of you will fail to catch Revel.

  There’s a horse behind you with a huge rider.

  You resist looking back. It will only slow you down. Better to let Quinn be your eyes. You’re sure it’s Adrian. Knowing he’s there creates a new pressure. Clashing with Revel or Bravos has direct consequences now. A crash will give the Longhand a chance to win the Races. You force yourself to dismiss that concern. There’s nothing you can do about it now.

  Revel’s lead keeps slipping. The closer you get, the sharper the details. The lanky Ashlord sits up in his saddle. His long hair flows away from a silver-shining headband. You’re close enough now to see the ghost that’s riding with him in the saddle. You’d almost forgotten. He was the other rider who had help from the Madness.

  Quinn’s grip tightens as you press on. You can see Revel’s horse struggling. The bracelet shows he’s just five hundred paces from the finish line, but his horse’s gait looks less and less rhythmic. A tired horse coming down the homestretch. You know you have two clockturns to erase his lead. A dark dread pulses in your head. You’ve seen nightmarish endings in the Races before. Bone-breaking collisions and tossed riders, crashing together as they approach the finish. Hard work washed away as some backtrotting nobody takes the grand prize through laws of attrition. The noise of the crowd falls away. Your focus narrows to heartbeats and hooves.

  Something’s wrong, Pippa.

  You see it a second after Quinn speaks. A plume of dust fans out as Revel’s horse collapses. Its shoulders clip the earth, and the riders both go skidding over the rocky soil. There’s a moment of confusion; then the ghost helps Revel back to his feet. The ghost slings Revel’s arm around one shoulder and keeps him moving toward the finish line. They’re on foot, moving much slower, but just one hundred paces from the finish line.

  Can they win the race like that?

  You ignore the question and urge your phoenix forward. For the first time, you see the finish line looming in the distance. You’re so focused on the sight of it and Revel’s stumbling figure that Quinn’s mental cry is the only warning as Bravos brings his phoenix slamming into yours. A kick of Quinn’s leg is the only thing that saves you. It lands just before impact and lessens the shock of the blow. Her effort keeps the back spikes from finding flesh, but it doesn’t stop the front ones. The collision is a storm of sounds and lightning-bright images:

  Blood gushes from a fist-sized wound.

  A scream tears from Revenge’s throat.

  The familiar mint on Bravos’s breath.

  Sweat colors his clothes.

  Last, you see his massive hands come to life.

  One grips his reins. The other flexes around his switch.

  The impact jars your horses apart, but not far enough to keep you safe. Bravos is close enough for a single strike. It’s an off-handed jab. It comes like lightning, but Quinn is quicker. The girl who rode the lightning into your world tugs you down by the shoulders. The blow glances overhead. Bravos looks stunned, but he’s smart enough to stay focused. He takes advantage of Revenge’s broken stride and vaults forward. The sight of him pulling away draws out every instinct. It takes fifteen years of endless training and bottles them into a single grain of time.

  Mind and body move in flawless harmony. Your hand brings the whip up and around. Your tongue clicks a command that keeps Revenge moving. Your eyes find the target of your strike, calculate the distance with impossible precision, and force your shoulders to swivel for the perfect range. Revenge steadies his gait as your whip snakes through the air.

  The black tongue curls around Bravos’s wrist and snaps. You hear the bones break before he can even scream. Bravos slumps sideways, losing control of his phoenix. Ahead, Revel’s collapsed horse has burst into flames. Revenge slides left to avoid the chaos as Bravos fumbles the reins. He’s too late. Both boy and horse collide with the waiting fire.

  There’s a duel of screams. Revenge plunges through the smoke, past both of them. You do not celebrate the sight of Bravos spinning face-first into the sand because there’s no time to glory in his defeat. Not until you’ve claimed your victory. Only Revel and Adrian exist now.

  You don’t have to look at the bracelet to see how small the world’s become. The finish line is one hundred paces ahead. Revel’s halfway there. Adrian’s riding twenty paces back.

  Time flexes every muscle and you feel like you’re the center of the universe.

  You are the lightning.

  I am the thunder.

  We are the storm.

  She strikes, and it’s like the world’s ending. Bravos nearly finished her. I had a good view of their collision. He swung his phoenix over at the perfect time. It should have ended, but then the impossible happened. Pippa kept her horse upright, dodged his switch, and somehow landed a blow with her whip before he could outrange her. I watched as she sent him spinning into the flames, as the dust of his fall clouded my vision.

  It was stunning. I wonder if that’s what happens to thunder, if that’s why it’s always a second late. Maybe it gets distracted thinking about how beautiful lightning is and forgets that its job is to make all the noise. The move is so stunning that I have to shake myself out of a trance.

  I force myself to remember.

  I’m the thunder, and thunder always follows lightning.

  Pippa steadies her phoenix as I close the gap. I’m as far from her as she is from the finish line. Revel’s ahead, but he hears the storm that’s about to descend on him and turns. His expression is horrified. A man who knows he is going to lose at the very last second. Hesitation costs him everything. The finish line is too far for something with two legs to beat something with four. I’m riding up Pippa’s left side, the nose of my phoenix even with the back flank of hers, when Revel turns his desperation into action. He leaps at her. Pippa rolls a shoulder and her horse flinches, too, straying just enough to send them both slamming our way. My stallion’s too much of a monster to get put into the wall, so he stands his ground, but it leaves us tangled as we storm past
Revel’s flailing body and on to the finish line.

  There can’t be more than twenty strides left and our horses trade leads. It’s her and then it’s me and then it’s her and then it’s me. War and revolution wait with breathless anticipation.

  We both look up. It’s the unforgivable sin of riding. At the end of a race, riders should never look up. Do not look left. Do not look right. No, a rider’s eyes find the finish line, and stay there until the end.

  But we lock eyes instead. The Ashlord and the Longhand. Ruler and Rebel. We’re close enough to spit curses or whisper secrets. Our eyes lock and there’s no mistaking her at this distance. She’s a champion, a queen, a goddess. The truth rides her shoulders like a curse.

  And with a single, smoldering look, she ends me.

  Blue light scorches the air between us. In the brief and godly glow, I see a face. A girl’s ghostly features darkened by a savage growl. I’m helpless as an invisible arm wraps around my neck, as the impact wrenches my feet from the stirrups, and something tears me out of the saddle.

  The whole world spins as I fall.

  I get a final glimpse of Pippa’s hood riding the wind like fire.

  Then the earth rises up and devours me.

  Applause thunders.

  You are the winner of the Races.

  Revenge collapses over the finish line. And as he falls, you slip your legs free and tuck your body into a roll. All instinct. The impact of the hardpan shakes the breath from your lungs, but a second roll brings you upright. Dust is swirling as officials from the Empire Racing Board start riding out to congratulate you on your victory. But from your crouched position, your eyes swing back to the finish line for an eternal second.

  There’s an explosion of flame beside you. Revenge’s body racing its way to ashes. In the distance, Adrian’s horse has fallen to the ground. He’s wedged against the silver-wrought walls of the course, bleeding and shocked. He stares at you and looks completely dazed.

  Quinn stands over him. You never asked her to do it, but she leapt anyway. She risked her life in the end so that you could win. The two of you share a look of wild freedom. You notice the cloth in her hand. The same one that carries drops of your blood. Her thought echoes across the distance and it’s as loud as if she were speaking in your ear.

  Now I begin my own race.

  The girl grins wickedly, and you feel the same grin spreading over your face. Instinctively you reach out for her, and she mirrors the motion before fire consumes everything. A blinding flash. You rush forward, half shielding your eyes from the bright reckoning that will revive Quinn in her world. But as the light fades, it’s clear she’s gone.

  Drawn back to the underworld.

  Free.

  “God in heaven,” Bastian says, still grinning. “They sent a whole company.”

  The Ashlords come on horseback. Fifty are mounted. Another hundred soldiers march in a perfect, bronze column up the mouth of the valley. They move with steady caution, because they know they don’t need to hurry. The Curiosity’s servant showed them how many of us there are. Whatever he saw, they saw. We have no horses summoned. We have few supplies.

  And we have nowhere to run.

  Bastian considered fleeing north and dismissed it. A glance in that direction shows how right he was. Running would have been useless. The valley stretches on for miles. We’d have to scale the cliffs and mountains flanking the valley to avoid the mounted Ashlords. Which makes the wall our only choice. A narrowing, defensible point.

  Bastian quieted his men and commanded them to the different choke points and entryways. He ordered me to stand on the ramparts with him. He tried to protect Luca, but my cousin spat on the ground, grabbed a sword, and went to join the ranks below. Bastian muttered something about mountain-raised Dividian and shrugged.

  It strikes me that Bastian is the same age as the Shor brothers. If he lived in my village, Mother might try to invite him to my birthday party in the hopes of matching us up. Unlike the Shor brothers, he’s not training to be a locksmith or a city clerk. Bloodshed is knocking at the door, and Bastian looks excited. This is what life in the mountains has trained him to do, to be.

  I have to take a deep breath to stay calm. There are a handful of his men posted along the ramparts with us. I watch as they load spare pistols and polish weapons, preparing for battle. My gut clenches every time one of them glances my way. They’re probably just looking to their captain, waiting for orders, but I can’t help feeling like there’s an accusation in their glances. I’m the reason this battle has come to their doorstep. The idea turns my stomach.

  “Let me go,” I say. “I’ll give myself up. They’ll leave.”

  “No, they won’t.”

  “I’m not going to let this happen.”

  “Hey,” he says, fixing his eyes on me. “You’re not the only one who can make something out of nothing. Got it? This battle is by design, Imelda. Just stand there and look rebellious.”

  The words don’t make any sense, but I resist asking the questions that burn to life. Instead, I stand there with my chin raised and watch as the Ashlord soldiers form ranks. A single rider separates from the company and trots forward, his ringed hand held up to signal a peace negotiation. The sight has Bastian grinning.

  “The burners forget we play by different rules here,” he says. “Cover your ears.”

  My hands are halfway to my ears when Bastian raises the pistol and powder smokes the air. The little trotting hooves. The shifting of booted feet. The rustle of cloaks. Every other noise drowns in the explosion of Bastian’s gun. He echoes the bang with a war cry, and his boys join him, and the rest of the valley plays stunned witness to the Ashlord messenger’s death.

  “Main entrance, hold!” Bastian shouts, leaning down for his other pistol. “Have the boys along the second passage retreat. Get them safely up on the ramparts. Let’s teach the burners how we fight out here in the mountains.”

  I expect Ashlords to come pouring forward, but they don’t. Instead, there’s the distant beat of drums, the call of a general, and the steady march forward. They move as one toward the walls and Bastian’s crew do their best to take advantage. Every patient step sees another Ashlord drop, but the ranks fill in and there’s something terrible about their unsmiling faces.

  A barked command finally sends Ashlords streaming forward. The units break into perfect formations. Groups of three or four stream toward the two gaping holes: the main entrance below us and the abandoned side entrance off to the right. I’m trying to figure out what Bastian was thinking pulling his men from such an accessible entryway when rifle shots sound and bullets snap angrily against the stone ramparts.

  “Down,” Bastian barks, shoving a pistol into my stomach. “Take this and wait.”

  Smoke fills the air. Below us, the first wave of Ashlords meets Bastian’s men. I hear the scrape of metal and the cries of the dying. My heart is a riot in my chest, but one glance shows Bastian is clearly in his element. He’s humming some bastardized version of the March of Ashes. I shout over the sound of gunshots.

  “If they get in that second entrance, they’ll surround us. What are we waiting for?”

  He grins crookedly. “The explosions.”

  And the foundations shake. The sky screams, full of light and heat. I squint through the smoke. The entrance his crew abandoned—and lured the Ashlord troops toward—is a mess of shattered stones and fallen soldiers. The sight is so horrific that I cover my mouth. The luckier Ashlord soldiers work to remove the wounded, dragging them safely away.

  The other Ashlords divert back to the main—and only remaining—entrance with their blades drawn. Bastian stands up and fires his pistol. He looks over and sees I haven’t fired, so he snatches my pistol, finds another target, and fires again. Even with the explosion, there are still hundreds of them. All coming for us.

 
“Hold the main entrance,” Bastian shouts. “All we have to do is hold them.”

  He pulls me back a step as the Ashlords return fire. People are streaming up to the higher sections of the wall. There’s a fire in the stairwell that’s connected to the entrance Bastian’s rigged explosions caved in. Everything’s hazy and chaotic. Bastian shouts orders. I barely hear him. Some deep part of me is horrified. This is battle. This is war. The Ashlords have ruled my people unfairly, but is this how we win our freedom? In blood and smoke?

  Everything that follows is a nightmare. Like most dreams, I’m not completely in control of my body. The Ashlords finally break through the main entrance, forcing Bastian’s men to retreat up a set of flanking stairwells, working hard to hold the higher ground. In the chaos, I search for Luca, hoping he’s survived the first part of the battle.

  Below, Ashlords keep pushing through the smoke and shoving ladders up against the sides of Gig’s Wall. Every attempt is a threat to break our control of the upper ramparts. Bastian’s men call out the threats and we rush the climbing soldiers, shoving them back as new Ashlord soldiers appear to take their place.

  Their troops are gaining ground on the stairwells, and even as we make our stand, death’s grasp feels closer than ever. One of Bastian’s men collapses by the nearest staircase, blood spurting out. An Ashlord rushes up through the gap, body flexed in righteous anger, only to be shot in the stomach. He takes a slack-armed swing at the nearest Dividian before collapsing.

  Bastian’s voice starts to sound like music compared to the constant ring of gunfire. The mountains look beautiful against the smoking ruin being made around us. Bastian keeps shouting the same thing. “Hold them! Help is coming!”

  If help really is coming, it feels like it’s too late. Someone misses a ladder on the far side of the ramparts. Ashlords are swarming up that side now. They’re pressing up the two staircases, too, lashing out with swords. Our group pinches tight, backs pressed together. Everyone is bleeding and every chest is heaving. This feels like the end.