Chapter Eighteen: Arrowhand
Nil turned his head and listened to the desert on the cusp of nightfall.
Its music was a subtle symphony. Crickets chirped, filling the craggy granite and crumbling concrete with their melodies. Peccaries joined them, grunting as they snuffled through brambles and crevices, their keen snouts searching for the singing insects. Gravel crunched as his charger shifted beneath him, the sharpness softened by its humming motor as it idled patiently. And in the ravine below, he listened to people reveling around a crackling campfire.
Their voices were both boisterous and sardonic in tone. Their every word filled with the foolhardy daring that came with being untested. Where the only death they'd seen were the deeds tattooed on another soldier's body. He smiled, reminiscing. Their exuberance wasn't unique to the Tenakth. He'd heard these voices before. In Chainscrape when fresh recruits poured from the gondola with their bags slung over their shoulders, or in The Cut when they choked on their first taste of mead.
He thought about moths fluttering on papery wings, too naïve to know the difference between the moon and an open fire. If they were lucky, they survived with just a singe.
And speaking of the moon…
He spied back over his shoulder at the eastern horizon. A rust-red aura tinted the sky over the silhouetted mountains, almost as bright as the sun's waning glow in the west. The moon was rising, but there was something foreboding to its light. Like the bloody dawn in Cinnabar Sands so many years ago. But here it was the beginnings of an eclipse.
By their sun-worshipping faith, the Carja were well-versed in all celestial movements, so his smile broadened into a wolfish grin as an idea formed in his mind. Then he nudged the charger with his heels, and it started to pick its way down the rocky outcrop. His thighs gently squeezed its flanks, guiding the beast towards the crackling fire, a connection that had become more instinct with every ride.
Rowdy laughter and bitter scorn echoed through the ravine.
"You did me dirty, Pekka!" a young woman spat. Her dark skin was smeared with the colors of a breaking thunderstorm at sunset, and she glared at another whose fair skin was painted like that of a lush jungle.
The other waved a dismissive hand at her and sneered. "I didn't do anything to you, Elottak. It's not my fault that you're too clumsy to hold onto your mount, especially after a little bump."
"A little bump?!" she scoffed. "You rammed me at full gallop and sent me flying into a cactus." She gestured to the angry rash that raged across her arm and shoulder. "I'm still picking the thorns out. I can't even see the tiny ones."
Pekka approached her, her head tilted inquisitively. Elottak eyed her, then sighed and held out her arm, so that it could be seen. A sharp slap cut the air and a seething curse exploded from Elottak, equal parts pain and hate. Pekka cackled as she fled to the far side of the fire, and Elottak drew a dagger, eager to pursue.
"Enough!" a woman ordered. Her skin glistened with shiny paint, its desert colors flickering under the fire. She sat lounging on a boulder, her posture boasting the relaxed confidence of a leader who didn't fear challenge. Then she thrust out her chin. "You two stop squabbling and save it for the next race."
"But, Attah…" Elottak began.
"I don't want to hear it," Attah said flatly, and she crossed her arms against her chest. It was a simple gesture, and yet, it doused them as if she had thrown a bucket of water.
Pekka's grin evaporated and Elottak sheathed her dagger dutifully. They both shuffled off towards the machine pen. Inside, blue lights panned over their bodies as overridden chargers wandered along the fence.
Attah watched them go, her aloof expression more critical than angry. Then she nodded, satisfied, and her gaze drifted towards the darkening night. Nil smirked when her eyes passed over him. She blinked, confusion furrowing her brow. Then her jaw slackened, parting her mouth.
He imagined what she saw. The hot, red glow of his charger's eye glaring at her and bathed in that wrathful aura was a man on its back. Like his beast, he watched her, but from behind the shadow of his demonic hood. His hard, silver eyes framed by sharp teeth dripping with blood. And behind him, the rust moon peeked above the horizon, on the verge of turning as bloody as he.
Attah flew off the boulder, unsheathing her sword before her feet hit the ground. The others stumbled back, startled, their eyes widening with surprise. Then a lifetime of conditioning under their warrior clans kicked in. They dove for their weapons and brought them to bear. Their attention followed her line of sight until they, too, discovered him. He could feel their sharp arrows aimed at his chest and the edges of their blades catching the firelight. Tension charged the air, drawing every breath out while quickening his pulse.
"Who are you?!" Attah shouted. She held out her sword, guarding her body, and slowly approached. The others fanned out behind her.
There was something ingenuous in how they moved. As though he had stumbled across a den of fox cubs. Sure, they gnashed teeth and growled, but he could see their flagging confidence. The uncertainty exposed by their fidgeting stances and the nervous looks they cast at each other.
"I'm a rider like you," he replied, infusing his voice with soothing amiability. He used to think this tone made him sound warm and friendly, but the façade seemed thinner than he remembered. Like a smile on a snapmaw.
"I don't know who you are, but you're not one of us," she said, and she pointed at him with the tip of her sword. "By your bare skin, you're not even Tenakth."
He glanced at his arms. The only paint he wore was slathered on his face and hidden behind his hood. It was nothing more than a mask to him. But for them, it was pride. He grinned, undeterred. "And your skin is as bare as mine with some soap and water. What matters is the ink that can't be washed away, and there our difference is great. Because there isn't enough skin between all of us here to tattoo my every deed. And I'm only counting the legendary ones."
She scoffed.
But he spotted it. That flicker of hesitation that made her sword dip. That shared doubt that sent their eyes glancing towards the chargers. He could see them count the steps to the pen and the precious seconds it would take to open the gate.
The allure of escape. Not that they were cowards. Just young.
And he wondered if he had ever been that young. He didn't think so.
"So, you're a machine rider," a man spat. He edged up behind Attah, his tall frame serving as a shield for the others behind them. The desert's colors surged across his dark skin, adding fire to his voice. "Why are you here and what do you want from us?"
"Josekk…" Attah warned.
"I'm not going to stand here while this fucking outlander terrorizes us."
"I feel like you still misunderstand why we're here," she said coolly, never taking her eyes off Nil. "We barely escaped from Regalla's forces with our lives, and as we speak, our clans are about to go to war. You seem to have forgotten that when our tribe demanded we choose a side, we said no and opted out."
"He threatened us—"
"You want to fight this stranger with your sword? Fine, you can go and get cut down. But here, we settle our differences through the gauntlet, got it?"
Josekk glared at the back of her head.
She kept her eyes on Nil.
Then he blew out a hard breath. "Got it."
"I'm not looking for a fight," Nil said through a bemused smile. "I'm looking for a race."
Attah blinked, then raised an eyebrow. "You want to race? Against us?"
"Yeah."
He watched as her shoulders relaxed, and she used her thumb to guide her sword back into its scabbard. The electrified current in the tension between them shifted, and she regarded him with the same dispassionate confidence she had wielded among the other riders. But his smile never wavered as she tested that power against him, because he, too, wasn't afraid to be challenged.
"Why would you want to race against us?" she asked.
"I've seen you," he replied, and he waved his finger in a circular motion, gesturing to the wasteland around them. "I've seen all of you. Tearing across the sand and screaming your war cries. The flying arrows and the blood spattering your mounts. You're the only ones who know how to battle on the backs of beasts, and I want a taste of it."
She thrust out her chin and sneered. "Just because you want it doesn't make you worthy, and we're not looking for new recruits. Especially an outlander who's playing at being a native."
He smirked. "I wasn't suggesting charity. Instead, I'm proposing… a wager."
Murmurs passed between them, like wind rustling through trees, and he felt the tension shift again. The fear that charged the air transformed into eagerness, like lightning building in a storm before it strikes. The fox cubs were bored of milk and ready to taste blood.
"What kind of wager are you proposing?" Attah asked.
"A race that will test your mettle against mine as well as each other."
"And where are we racing? Into some trap where your outlander friends are lying in wait?"
"No," Nil chuckled, more amused by her accusation than he probably should have been. "And besides that, you all have fought worse than what most outlanders could muster. If I had friends, they wouldn't last long." Then he pointed past them. "We'd begin here and head down the ravine towards the west. When it opens up to the salt flats, we go north for Scalding Spear. We do one circuit westward, and when done, we head back through the ravine and finish where we're standing now."
The group nodded, the surreptitious glances they exchanged with each other were sly and confident. The route was familiar to them. But it should be. He'd watch them race it a dozen times.
Attah frowned, and she tapped her lip thoughtfully. "A good route but hardly a test for us. You called this a wager, so what do we get when you lose?"
"Are you that certain that will be the outcome?"
She stared at him, her reply a faint smirk.
"If I lose," he said, then he patted his charger, "You can have my mount."
Whatever furtive looks they shared while they considered his proposition evaporated, replaced by whooping laughter threaded with insults maligning his intelligence. To them, he was an arrogant outsider who needed humility more than his charger. And they were more than happy to help him get it.
"And if you lose…" he said.
Attah raised her hand, and the others settled to a quiet murmur. After a moment, she said, "And if we lose, you can be our newest recruit."
He grinned. "Deal."
They bolted from where they stood, legs pumping as they rushed towards the pen. The gate flew open, and they swarmed inside. Chargers pranced and tossed their heads, swept up by the ratcheting tension. Riders threw themselves onto their backs. Then heels kicked flanks, and they poured out from the pen, bodies clashing, in a cascade of glinting metal and painted skin. Once they were free, the riders hunched forward, urging on their mounts with kicks and slaps. And they pounded down the ravine, spitting snide slurs as they swerved past Nil.
The race had begun the instant he had agreed.
His grin turned wolfish.
And when they were nothing more than a distant cloud of dust, he gave Red-Eye a firm kick.
The charger bleated, and its humming motor whirred to a highly tuned pitch. It lunged forward, and Nil felt his insides drop, sinking like lead. His hands clawed at its shoulder plates, gripping its edges with white-knuckled force. Tears streamed from his squinting eyes, and like his giddy breath, they were instantly whipped away by the blustering wind.
They rocketed down the ravine. Ahead, the dust cloud swelled as they closed in on it, but through his bleary sight, he didn't spy any shadows. The others must have already reached the salt flats.
They flew into the dust, and he tasted its grit on his teeth. The light from his charger's red eye refracted against the swirling motes as dense as fog. He couldn't see anything, and a wave of vertigo washed over him. His grip tightened, and he closed his eyes, trusting that the charger could see its way.
Then in a leap, the dust was gone, and they turned out onto the salt flats. The ancient lakebed glimmered rust-red under the eclipsed moonlight, and on the trail towards Scalding Spear, he spotted a rider. She hunched forward awkwardly with her hand clenched against her side. He could see the arrow's thin shaft protruding from between her fingers, its wound more debilitating than deadly. By her lowland paint, he guessed it was Pekka and supposed Elottak had exacted her revenge.
They tore past her, and he felt his chest chuckling at the seething rage she cursed at him.
Far off against the northern horizon, a tower jutted into the night sky. Amber lamplight studded the structure's crest and welled around its base. Out across the dunes around it, a theater of rusted mirrors radiated, adding to its light. Scalding Spear glowed tonight, a beacon in the sprawling emptiness.
He spied the remaining riders beginning the circuit, their numbers spreading out. With hooves thundering, he and his charger rounded the trail and gave chase.
Arrows plinked brightly against his charger's armor. Nil slid to the side, ducking down as more whizzed past his head. Elottak's cackle threaded the wind, and she sprayed another volley. Arrows sunk into machine muscle, and he felt sharp sting as he caught one in the thigh. His heels dug in, spurring Red-Eye on, and the beast barreled towards its galloping tormentor.
Metal crumpled as they slammed into her charger. Red-Eye hooked its horns under the other's armor and peeled it away with a hard toss of its head. Then it dug in, shredding cables and conduit, turning them into sparking ruin. Sizzling ichor sprayed, spattering Elottak, and she yelped as she dove off her mount. Its forelegs gave out, and it tumbled off the trail in a plume of flying sand, ending with a satisfying crunch.
Nil and his charger plunged onward, rounding the northern stretch on the circuit. Ahead, a pair of riders closed ranks. Josekk and another man raced side-by-side, their pumping mounts blocking the breadth of the trail. They had no intention of letting him pass. Nil considered the warrior bow slapping against his thigh and shook his head. He didn't have time to pepper them with needles. Instead, the hours he'd spent on duty splitting firewood in The Cut wormed its way into his mind, and he grinned. He guided his charger towards the center of the trail, lining it up with the narrow gap between the two riders.
Then he gave it a hard kick.
Red-Eye lowered its crowned head and surged forward. Metal shrieked as it rammed into the other riders. Sharp horns gouged through machine muscle and hardplate as it and Nil pried the blockade apart. The riders scrambled to the side, barely holding on as they swung their legs out of the way and narrowly missed the horns as they sliced through. Then his charger bashed against them, bouncing off their shoulders, and they went careening off the trail.
Ahead, Nil spotted the last one flying down the southern stretch. It only seemed fitting that Attah held the lead.
He and his charger tore after her, kicking up sand as they closed the distance. She leaned forward, pressed against her mount's back and neck, and urged it on, milking every ounce of blaze that fed its motor. She was an excellent rider. Almost as good as the redhead he once knew. But all she rode was a plain, old charger.
And he had Red-Eye.
"You all put up a good race!" he shouted warmly at Attah. "I'll wait for you at the finish!"
"It's not over yet, outlander!" she yelled back at him. "You're not better than us! No one's better than us!"
"But I am," he replied.
Then he kicked his charger's flank twice, and a new whir thrummed through its motor. It spun up smoothly, growing louder and louder. And they jetted past her, the sucking wind of their flight sending her mount stumbling.
The wasteland blurred, its features turning abstract. Shadowy mountains. Shimmering sand. The odd angles of the joshua trees. His stomach lurched as they skidded sideways, drifting as they took the corner back into the ravine. Hooves pounded down it, echoing off its walls like rumbling thunder.
A pinprick of flickering firelight shone ahead, and his charger's whirring motor eased. The world came back into focus, and Nil sat up in time to admire the campfire as they blasted past it at an easy gallop. They slowed to a trot and turned back to await the others.
Time stretched. But soon he heard their galloping strides filling the ravine.
Attah poured through first, followed by Josekk and the other man. With a grumbling Elottak seated behind her, Pekka was last, still clasping her side. They watched him, fox cubs smarting from their wounds. Perhaps he had played too rough with them. Perhaps he had been too intense. Too disturbing. Too much like the weapon he was.
At least he wouldn't be alone. He still had Red-Eye.
He squeezed his thigh against its flank, guiding it towards the trail where they could slip away into the night.
"Wait!" Attah called out.
He stopped and looked back at her from beneath the shadow of his hood.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He frowned thoughtfully. A name. He was so bad at having one of those. Then his gaze lingered on the red glow of his charger's eye as it illuminated the ground in front of them and on the eclipsed moon rising in the sky. And he replied.
"Red-Teeth."
She smiled. "Well, Red-Teeth… Welcome to the Gauntlet."