Even at a distance, I can tell which rebirths they’re using. The phoenixes have the telltale signs—inflamed nostrils and razor-thin eyes—of a Seeking rebirth. The Empire’s favorite breed of tracking horses. The only rebirth that can follow a scent through multiple lives, which means even if I make it to the mountains, they’ll still have the trail.
I am their legitimate prey.
I have stolen from the Empire.
Behind me, the hunters ride wide enough that if I tried to swing west or east, they’d have the perfect angle to end this chase in minutes. So I keep straight. I know there are two other Ashlords riding directly behind me, closing the distance one mile at a time. I know the sun will set in forty minutes and I know they’ll catch me long before then. The worst part is that I can feel Hammer struggling. She’s frothing and sweating and there’s that telling scent of burning flesh in the air. It’s like her insides are already working their way toward an inferno. I keep pushing her because she was born to push, born to die in flames, and born to rise with tomorrow’s sun.
I just want to be alive and free when she does.
I hear the shot long before I see the smoke.
It’s followed by others. Little, distant snaps of gunfire. Smoke curls in the vague landscape ahead and I hear one of the sets of hooves behind me stop. The rider falls. The second trailing Ashlord shouts out quick commands. Her flanking riders angle inward. They’re still a hundred yards back, but the noose is getting tighter.
More shots ring out. They sound closer this time. But these Ashlords are military trained. They swing their horses, making moving targets for my unknown saviors. We’re close enough now to see the slight distinctions between landscape and man. There might be twelve of them, all dressed in drab gray outfits, all reloading rifles as I bring a storm to their doorstep.
The sight of them gives me hope. This is what I asked Martial to do. I needed him to whisper my plans to the mountain rebels. Spread the word. Tell my cousin I’m coming. The Gravitas are full of Dividian, and rebellious Ashlords, and insurrectionists. They’ll have watched the broadcasts. They’ll have seen my rebellion, written bold and bright against the backdrop of the Empire’s most cherished tradition. I just have to hope they think I’m worthy of joining them. A handful of desperados firing on my pursuers is a great start.
We’re still a hundred yards from their front line when Hammer’s shoulders start to slump. Shots ring out again and this time the Ashlord on the far left goes down. His scream is swallowed by the spinning dirt. All the triumph of the shot vanishes, though, as Hammer staggers again. My whole body clenches as one of the trailing Ashlords closes the gap. My eyes swing back as she lets loose a war cry and stands in her saddle. She’s holding a switch, but it’s not modified for safety like the one I left behind. Her leather grip extends into steel. The blade swings in an arc as she passes. The silver streak promises death.
I don’t react. Time doesn’t slow. The only thing that saves my life is Hammer’s collapse.
Her blade whistles overhead and my body hits the ground with an air-sucking smack. The landing shakes me from toe to hip, a numbing blow that leaves me helpless as Hammer rolls onto my legs. The weight’s not enough to break bones, but it’s more than enough to pin me.
Everything moves around me like a storm. I watch the desperados break forward, then scatter away from the oncoming Ashlord. Her sword bites down, past a raised spear, and sends blood splaying out from the closest throat. The man dies, but the lunge costs her.
One of the other rebels catches her shoulder with a perfect jab of his spear. The blow spins her out of her stirrups, and she hits the ground hard. To my right, the second Ashlord sits in his saddle, but he’s surrounded and swinging wildly. The rebels turn his blows aside until one of them gets hold of his cloak. The Ashlord shrieks as he falls, as the men surround him, as their spears dart down into flesh.
There’s something stunning about the blood. Reading about rebellions is different from living them. I watch how the desert drinks every drop. What was I thinking?
What have I done?
My eyes flick back to the other Ashlord. She’s surrounded, too, but a far better soldier than the other official. She sweeps her sword in dangerous arcs, carving a cautious circle around her. The rebels backpedal until one of their number answers.
He looks like an average Dividian until his weapon lashes out to meet hers. The Ashlord parries the blow, but I can see my own surprise echoed in her expression. The soldier’s entire right limb is hardware. From the shoulder down, an arm of pistons and steel and strange joints.
The second surprise is how young he looks. The determined look on his face can’t hide the fact that he’s just a boy. I watch as he swings again and again and again, backing the Ashlord down with the strength of each blow. He matches that strength with grace. There’s something poetic about the way his shoulders twist at the last moment. His metallic arm catches the point of her sword and another turn sends the weapon spinning to the dirt.
The boy moves to finish her off at the exact moment I notice the flames.
Panicked, my eyes sweep back to my legs. Hammer’s heart has given out. The burst of fire courses over and through her, and I realize the flames are starting to spread to me, too. I squirm and scrape my nails into the dirt, but I don’t have the strength to get out. The heat snakes through my leggings and I can’t bite back the screams.
Half the rebels are at my side in seconds. I feel hands and see legs and they’re pulling me free. Someone pats me down. Someone else turns me over. Beyond them, I see the final Ashlord fall. She gasps as she does, and the boy with the metallic arm kicks her aside to end it. Blood drips from his elbow joint as he sounds the next command.
“Gather the ashes,” he says. “Loot the corpses. Help the girl. There’ll be more.”
One of the rebels pulls me to my feet. In the failing light, I can see that every single one of them is Dividian. I’ve been surrounded by Ashlords for so long that I forgot what it’s like to have someone look my way without their chin raised in pride. There’s something blessedly familiar about their casual stances, about the scent of the same cologne my father wears curling into the air. These are my people. I’m still wary as the leader crosses the distance and offers a greeting.
“The name is Bastian.” We shake hands. I have never seen eyes as light blue as his. And I’ve never seen someone so young with so many scars. Something about my expression has him grinning ear to ear. “You must be Imelda Beru.”
The others look up to smile at me as they pick the pockets of the dead. It takes a few seconds to realize the whole crew is younger than I thought. A bunch of rebel boys and girls.
“We came down from Sickle Pass as soon as we caught wind of what you were doing.” He nods back to the tree line. A figure is crossing the plain. “Your uncle even sent a familiar face so you’d know you could trust us.”