‘Keep the faceplate down and nobody will be the wiser,’ Edgar said, before pointing at Joss’s belt and the dagger strapped to it. ‘Though you may want to leave your humming blade with me, rather than give the game away at first sight.’
‘This is why you’re the best prentice I know, Edgar,’ Joss replied as he set the helmet down long enough to detach his humming blade, the practice weapon that prentices used to train for the day they might receive their own song sword. Edgar quickly took the blade and tucked it away in his satchel, while Joss pulled his curly mess of long black hair into a lizard-tail to keep it out of his face.
‘The best prentice who isn’t you, I take it?’ Edgar said with a knowing smile.
‘Your words, not mine.’ Joss smirked in return as he slid the helmet onto his head.
Edgar’s smile faded. ‘Honestly, though …’ he said, his words heavy with earnestness. ‘Thank you. Sur Wallace will owe you a debt, even if he never knows it. And I’ll owe you twice as much as that.’
Joss shifted uncomfortably, his grimace hidden by the helmet. ‘Don’t make me ill now. I can’t afford to retch with this bucket on my head,’ he said, and Edgar snickered. But despite his bravado, Joss wondered if it was too late to turn back. The worst punishment for breaking into the armoury would probably be a month’s worth of scrubbing the ranch’s floors. With a toothbrush. While blindfolded. But impersonating a paladero to compete in the Gauntlet … What punishment would that entail?
‘So … you’re all set,’ Edgar said, distracting Joss from his thoughts. ‘If you run, you may just make it in time.’ ‘You’re forgetting one thing, Edgar,’ Joss said, striding for the tent flap. Even under the weight of all this armour, even with all the doubts that plagued him, he still felt a whole foot taller. ‘After all, what’s a paladero without his raptor?’
CHAPTER THREE
A STROKE OF LUCK
THE crowds in the campground had grown thin. It was mostly just the stallholders who remained, grilling brachiosaur burgers and watching their illuminators. Images of the crowd inside the stadium were floating in the air, intercut with close-ups of the competing paladeros filing onto the starting line. Joss didn’t have much time left.
If there had been more people around, he might have tried affecting Sur Wallace’s lumbering gait. But the old paladero had never distinguished himself in the way that Sur Verity had, greatly decreasing the chances of anyone recognising him, which meant that Joss could run as fast as he liked without fear of giving himself away.
Sprinting at a breakneck pace towards the stables, he rounded the corner of a market stall and almost crashed into a spectator dressed in the finest fashions that Illustra city had to offer.
‘Oh! My profoundest apologies, good sur,’ the Illustran gentleman said, doffing the ridiculously large hat that sat atop his head like a chimney. ‘And may I say, good luck in running the Gauntlet!’
Joss nodded but didn’t say anything as he returned to his run. The fact that this man was comfortable enough to wander about while everyone else was fighting for a seat inside the stadium meant that he had enough money to pay for a reserved booth. Joss could only imagine having that kind of wealth, and he was wary of anyone who splashed it about without a thought.
But more than that was the longstanding suspicion that all the inhabitants of Thunder Realm had of those who came from Ai’s coastal cities to gawk at their traditions. They’d ride out here in their gleaming jet-carts, spend a day or two talking down to everybody, and then they’d rocket off again to the safety of their steel towers to be served fizzy drinks by mechanoid butlers. The general sentiment was that all those muckety citysiders would be better off staying in Illustra and counting their money … if it wasn’t that the same money kept the Tournament running every two years.
Joss slowed to a jog as he drew closer to the stables. A mud puddle surrounded the barn doors like a moat, though he managed to navigate through it with little mess. Inside was dark but dry. All the animals had been separated into their own stalls, with the herbivores in the closest pens and the carnivores at the far end.
‘Azof!’ Joss called out as he ran up the centre of the stable, approaching the carnivore stalls. ‘Azof boy, we’ve got a competition to win.’
The thunder lizard was waiting for Joss in his pen, his head tilted to the side as if he’d been keeping an ear out for his master’s voice. Though still only an adolescent raptor, Azof already had a thick plumage of navy feathers on his head, neck and arms that matched his pale blue scales.
When he finally saw Joss, the thunder lizard growled.
‘It’s all right, boy, it’s just me,’ Joss said, retracting his faceplate long enough for the animal to recognise him. ‘We’re not rich in time right now so if you could keep from snapping as I saddle you up, I’d appreciate it.’
Azof pushed his chest out and clicked his tongue, the closest thing he could express to agreement. Joss, unaccustomed to the weight of Sur Wallace’s plate armour, hopped over the barrier and into the stall with far more effort than it usually took. Clinking and clattering, he set about saddling his raptor.
Not all prentices were fortunate enough to have a thunder lizard to call their own, but when Joss had been named a Prentice of First Merit last season it had come with the gift of a mount. That gift would have traditionally been given to him by his parents, but with that not possible it had been Sur Verity who had ended up offering him one of Levina’s hatchlings.
Thinking of Sur Verity, Joss wondered again what she would say if she caught him in what he was doing. Would she take Azof away from him? Did she have the right to do that? The possibility was enough to make Joss pause in strapping on the saddle, his hands trembling.
‘All competitors to the starting line.’ The speaker outside sparked to life, rousing Joss back into action. ‘We repeat: all competitors to the starting line.’
The job finally done, Joss threw open Azof ’s pen, jumped up into the saddle, and urged the raptor into a run. Together, they sprinted from the stables at full speed in a mad dash for the registry pavilion.
Though massive, the pavilion was dwarfed by the sandstone stadium in front of which it stood. Joss could hear the crowd chattering excitedly from over the stadium walls, cheering on their favourite paladeros, while the speakers crackled once more. ‘All competitors to the starting line. This is your final call.’
With no more time to spare, Joss steered Azof towards the pavilion and rode straight inside. It was quieter in here, allowing Joss to hear how his armour rattled like a full coin purse. The noise was enough to rouse the attention of a rusty mechanoid who sat alone behind a table stacked with papers at the far end of the tent. When the mek looked up at Joss, still mounted on his raptor’s back, the lights of its cybernetic eyes turned red.
‘You are late,’ the mechanoid said, its voice hissing more than the camp speakers. ‘Name?’
‘Sur Wallace Wundamore of Round Shield Ranch,’ Joss said, lowering his voice to a deep drawl and trying his best to make it sound natural.
‘Why are you wearing a helmet, Sur Wallace?’ the mechanoid asked, scanning the papers it held.
‘Stubborn cold sore.’ Joss recited the line he’d been rehearsing in his head. ‘Wouldn’t want to horrify any
one when my mug is projected on their illuminator.’
‘And your mount?’ The mek peered over the desk at Azof, who tilted his head and trilled in response.
Joss placed a reassuring hand on the back of the raptor’s head. ‘My own beast took ill, so I borrowed a prentice’s. I hope that’s not a problem …’
The mechanoid stared at him, its fixed face impossible to read. Can it detect lies? Joss panicked, but then the rusty automaton pushed forward an entry form and Joss relaxed again.
‘No pterosaurs. No bolt guns, no thundersticks, no song swords or whips. Just you, your mount, the two bolas you’re allowed and your wits. And a waterskin for refreshment, should you need it. If you agree then make your mark,’ it intoned, and placed a pen alongside the form.
Sliding down from his saddle, Joss picked up the pen. Every paladero had their own unique mark, combining the emblem of their order with an embellishment of their own choosing. As tempted as Joss was to put down the mark he’d been practising in dozens of different journals over the past six years, he knew he had to keep himself to Sur Wallace’s insignia.
First he drew the four small circles set inside the one larger circle that denoted Round Shield Ranch, before adding the two Ws that Sur Wallace Wundamore had so imaginatively chosen as his personal mark. He handed the papers back to the mechanoid.
‘Good luck, Sur Wallace,’ it said, adding the papers to its stack. ‘And please be assured that we will notify your next of kin in the event of death or mauling.’
With that, the mechanoid waved him onto the entryway reserved for competitors, its elbow joint squealing like an old gate. Beneath his helmet, Joss blinked in disbelief. Was that really it? But as he remounted Azof and rode the thunder lizard through the curved tunnel that led into the stadium, he realised that getting in had been the easy part.
Blinding light and deafening noise crashed over him, leaving him momentarily disorientated. When his senses readjusted, he saw the massive crowd that surrounded him at every turn. He’d never seen so many people in one place in all his life. The turnout looked to be twice that of the last Tournament, though perhaps it was only his mind playing tricks as it grappled with the notion of actually being here, readying himself to run the Gauntlet. He didn’t know whether to be excited or sick. He settled for both.
The presence of the crowd was intimidating enough, but then as he rode forward he saw his fellow competitors gathered before him. The paladeros sat atop their mounts at the starting line, the raptors all snapping at each other as they waited impatiently for the gun to sound. Holding his breath, Joss steered Azof to the rear of the crowd, all while keeping an eye out for Sur Verity. Without surprise, he spotted her jockeying for position at the head of the pack, illumicameras hovering all around her. His breath escaped him in a wheeze.
‘The entry rolls have now officially closed and we stand only moments away from the running of the Gauntlet, the main event of the biennial Paladero Tournament! To the winner goes honour, glory and the generous prize of 10,000 crowns! And to the losers? Well, only the Sleeping King can say! Children, ladies, gentlefolk … Are! You! READY?’ the announcer boomed over the speakers, driving the spectators to cry out louder than any thunder lizard Joss had ever heard.
They had come from all across the land of Ai to be here. There were the familiar faces, of course – the paladeros who hadn’t won any events the past three days, locking them out of running the Gauntlet. They all cheered half-heartedly, with many of them swaying in such a way as to suggest they weren’t far behind Sur Wallace.
But beyond those grey-faced dirt-eaters were the members of the crowd dressed in the silken robes of the Midnight Isles, the rough-hewn work wear of Hammerton and the bright, tailored garments of Illustra. They were all packed in together among farmers from the Counties, in their wide-brimmed straw hats, and the mountainfolk from the Backbone Ranges, who still had their scarves pulled up around their faces as if they expected a snowstorm at any moment.
Overlooking them all was the regent’s private booth, its gleaming mirrored windows making it impossible to tell if the elected ruler of Ai had bothered to grace the day’s festivities with his presence. Not that this dulled the excitement of the crowd. Each and every one of them was cheering and shouting and screaming with excitement, and they only grew louder as giant illumigrams of Sur Verity popped up across the stadium.
‘And there’s three-time Gauntlet winner and current Blade Keeper Sur Verity Wolfsbane of Round Shield Ranch, riding on behalf of her sponsors Ascendant Armouries, the Thunderhome Hotel chain and Claw & Co. Saddlers!’ the announcer continued. ‘Can Sur Verity retain the Champion’s Blade this year? We’ll see soon enough!’
The emerald streaks in Sur Verity’s black hair shone as she offered a small wave and a nod to the crowd, before returning her attention to the starting line. Her focus was far greater than Joss’s; he couldn’t keep himself from staring at the rusty illuminators as the image of an immense, drooling tyrannosaur replaced Sur Verity.
‘Our King Lizard has been loosed in the canyon and our paladeros will have to either catch him or do their best to outrun him, depending on which way their luck strays,’ the announcer half-chuckled.
Joss looked away from the image of the marauding thunder lizard to gaze out across the stadium, where the flat sandy ground led to a sheer rock face. The wall of smooth red rock shot up higher than the stadium itself, split in the centre by a crack the size of a narrow alleyway.
He could feel a trickle of sweat crawling down his spine, prickling his skin. He did his best to shake it off without moving too much in his saddle, but still Azof huffed beneath him. He forced himself to sit still, concentrate, ignore the itch. And then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted Edgar.
He was in the stands with the other prentices of Round Shield Ranch, his hood drawn up over his head once more. But even with his face half-hidden, Joss could still see the boy’s worry. Offering a small wave of acknowledgement, Joss surprised himself with how steady his hand was. The gesture seemed to reassure Edgar, who returned it with a small yet uncertain smile.
‘My name is Merry Merl and I’ll be your host for today’s event,’ the announcer continued, his voice kicking up feedback over the speakers. Joss winced, glancing away from the stands. His reaction was shared by the hunched figure gliding into the centre of the stadium on a hovering platform. ‘But for now, please join me in welcoming Tournament legend, head of the Grandmaster Council and today’s chief judge, Grandmaster Eno Corrigan, as he enters the field to fire the starting gun!’
The bald paladero had a cane in one hand and a rounded pistol in the other, his platform floating just over the competitors’ heads.
‘Paladeros, prepare thyselves!’ he shouted. His voice echoed throughout the stadium, silencing the crowd. The paladeros and their mounts tensed to the point of snapping, Joss included. His every muscle was strained, waiting for the pivotal moment to come.
Grandmaster Eno looked across the line of competitors. He raised the starting gun into the air.
‘Go!’ he shouted, pulling the trigger. Lightning spewed from the barrel, splitting the stadium in half for a second, and the paladeros bolted out of the gate to stampede towards the crack in the rocky wall, with Joss and his raptor sprinting along behind.
Somewhere beyond that wall, a half-starved monster was waiting for them all. Sur Wallace’s helmet half-choking him, Joss leant forward in his saddle and raced for the canyon maze.
CHAPTER FOUR
A RING OF FIRE
THE sound of the paladeros charging was louder than an avalanche. Clustered together, they made the earth shake at their approach. Joss kept his head down as he clung to the rear, ignoring an overwhelming desire to sprint ahead. He couldn’t say what rash impulse was responsible for this sudden need to push to the head of the pack, given that he knew it was wiser to lag behind and avoid Sur Verity’s attention. But as they neared the crack in the wall, his plan to keep a low profile imploded when an illumicam zipped past his head.
‘Keeping up the rear we find Sur Wallace Wundamore of Round Shield Ranch, riding on behalf of his sponsors Allied Scale Wax and Bill Longspur’s Boot Repairs. In a surprising move, his raptor looks to be little older than a hatchling. Will this decision cost him his chance at the prize? We can only watch and wait!’ announced Merry Merl, and Joss’s helmeted visage flashed up on all the surrounding illuminators, the Round Shield Ranch emblem on his jacket giving him away.
Joss cursed beneath his visor and glanced at the head of the pack where Sur Verity was looking around in surprise, searching for Sur Wallace. Thankfully she didn’t spot him, even as the crowd of competitors thinned out into a single line and the first of the paladeros entered the canyon. With one last glance over her shoulder, Sur Verity disappeared through the crack. Relaxing in his saddle, Joss snapped Azof ’s reins and drove the raptor onward.
The riders charged one by one into the canyon, and within seconds it was Joss’s turn to do the same. The cheering of the crowd intensified into a thunderous roar, then quickly died away as he slipped out of sight.
The Riders of Thunder Realm Page 2