Incite, page 26
Blinking rapidly and through blurred vision the bandit refuses to give up. Rabid, he leaps at Amiria before she is able to regain herself tackling her back to the ground. He hovers over her, pinning her arms down.
He leans down close to her face. “You had to make this harder than it needed to be. Now I’m really going to enjoy this.”
“HELP!” she cries. “CALIX!” She will never give up. She will never let him have her. If one person walks out of her here it will be her. She will see Stirling again.
Knowing Stirling is out there lost in this new world, she bucks her hips off centering the bandit. He casts out his hand to steady himself. She wraps her arm around his, pulling it out from under him. She frees her own legs and flips him over reversing the rolls. With her swords crossed like scissors, she raises them up above her head.
“AHHHH!” Amiria howls, sending her blades down like a guillotine.
Panting, she leans on the pommel of her swords stuck into the ground. Her shoulders and back heave with each exhausted breath. Sweat drips from her chin into the pool of blood where a head used to be.
“AMIRIA!” She hears from the dark fog surrounding her. “AMIRIA!” Calix’s voice is a wolf’s howl as he searches for a member of his pack. She checks in the direction of his voice and then switches to the direction of the unknown.
“AMIRIA!” Calix calls through cupped hands. “I thought I heard her. Where is she?”
Dicun lights the path with a torch as they search. “Whoa, Calix, watch your step.” He warns holding the torch out farther in front. Calix can smell it before he sees it. Bloodshed. “Found where she was fighting,” Dicun observes.
A dozen full-grown men lay dead in her wake. Blood gathers into small red seas in the uneven soil.
“AMIRIA!” Calix’s voice frightened at the probabilities running through his mind as he scans the gruesome landscape.
Dicun nudges a corpse with his foot, “Pathetic. They got what they deserved. Don’t underestimate us.”
“She had to have won. Look at this carnage. There’s no way she didn’t win.” Calix brings up, his voice beginning to quiver with uncertainty.
“What we can see is that she was able to hold her ground well, but we don’t know if this was all of them,” Dicun points out. “We had to fight a group of our own too.”
“She can handle twice this amount. There is no way some mediocre bandits were able to beat her. That is why she was selected for our team,” Calix states, trying to convince himself, his eyes trailing the perimeter of where the light reaches.
An uneasy twinge in his stomach forms, a natural intuition developed from years of fighting. With melancholy steps, Calix searches around the bodies for clues. With each step he takes the spidering crack in his heart grows.
Where is she?
He can read the scene. He can see it in his mind like a theatrical play. He can see where the curtain was drawn, and the actors began. He can see each change of characters as your hero continues through the act.
The silver handle of a war hammer glints in the torch's light.
“Dicun, give me the torch,” Calix asks.
Dicun raises an eyebrow and passes the torch. With an unsteady heart, Calix steps around the war hammer. His armor rattling with his quaking body. If someone was to attack at this moment he will be taken by surprise. His mind is clouded with the thoughts of Amiria.
The Winged Cavalry are raised in a way the average citizen would describe as soulless, but they aren’t heartless. They are taught to keep their distance from everyone. To keep their heart enclosed and their head in the game. A heart can only handle so much loss, so lock it up and save your mind’s sanity.
He steps over the giant’s body stopping at the decapitated man. There it is. Where the hero bowed, and the curtain was pulled. He can see it in the dirt where the two swords dug. This was the last opponent. She would only have taken the opportunity to kill him in such an exposed way if she was not worried about another approaching attacker.
But what if there was someone else? He searches the ground around the body. The ground scribbled with shuffles and drag marks. But none leading away from the body. Though Amiria is small enough if she was unconscious, she can easily be carried away.
Time is frozen. He slowly drops to his knees under the crushing weight of his heart. He clenches his jaw as he scoops up a gold and lavender ribbon saturated in iron-filled liquid. He wants to scream, but he can’t take in any air.
She couldn’t have lost. Amiria doesn’t lose.
Dicun places a hand on Calix’s shoulder. “One of us can stay and secure the camp. If she is not recovered by the morning, we will send a situational report on our casualty.”
Calix violently swings his arm, throwing Dicun’s hand off his shoulder. “SHE’S NOT DEAD! —AMIRIA!” His eyes wide and wild, he takes off sprinting. “AMIRIA!”
Sighing, Dicun charges after him.
Amiria’s hair flows wildly behind her like a flag being flown on a galloping horse. She can hear her name and the urgency in Calix’s voice. She pushes away her instincts. Fights against her urge to run back to him, back to the now familiarity of his arms.
No. She needs to keep running, to keep going. Her lungs burn with exertion. She can’t slow. This is her only chance.
Dicun chases after Calix, clipping at his heels. “Calix! Stop!”
“AMIRIA!” He calls ignoring the demands.
Still running, Dicun reaches out, snatching the younger man by the arm. Digging his heels into the ground he yanks back on Calix spinning him around to face him. Without hesitation, Calix chops down on Dicun’s elbow, freeing him of his grip.
Furious, Dicun rears his gauntleted hand back and swings, striking Calix in the jaw. His head snaps to the side with his body falling suit as he topples to the ground from the sudden impact. Lying on his back, Calix holds his already swelling jaw.
“Have you lost your mind!” Dicun screams, foaming at the mouth. “Have you forgotten all of your training, or have you disregarded it because you let emotion take over? You won’t even be able to find yourself running blindly like that!” Dicun pinches the brim of his nose as he takes a few calming breaths. “If you want to find a missing-in-action rider, you follow the dragon.”
She won’t call for Taika. A dragon can hear their unique rider’s whistle across an entire mountain range. If she spends the next several days walking, she will gain a substantial amount of distance without giving herself away. Taika will not be called. She is to remain unresponsive. If she is not called by Amiria, they can only assume she is not calling for help because she has already joined the deceased. When they declare Amiria a loss, they will leave Taika behind. Then and only then will they be able to reunite.
Calix couldn’t sleep. He sat leaning against a tree until dawn finally broke through the now clear skies. His red-rimmed eyes stare unblinking. Continuously watching. Still waiting. His gaze upon Taika never broke. For a creature who lacks facial expressions, it truly appeared confused when Amiria did not return.
Uncurling his hand, he stares weary-eyed down at the stained ribbon, the golden strands now lit by the rising sun. He chokes back everything as a long shadow crosses him.
Kinsey hovers over Calix. “Aww, so sad.”
With hardening eyes, Calix glares up at the eclipsed silhouette of his sister. “Go crawl into a hole.”
“Why do you say such mean things? I’m just trying to comfort my older brother.
His fingers curl around the ribbon. “We both know what you’re doing.”
Dropping her jaw, Kinsey places her hand over her chest, mimicking hurt. “Why can’t a sister try to console her brother without being accused of something?”
“Because it’s you.” Calix uses the tree he was leaning on to slide up to his feet. “Don’t you have some men to fool.”
“None of them are as fun to torment as you are.” Kinsey’s fanged smile glints.
Taking the ribbon, he ties it to the straps of his shoulder plates so the remembrance hangs over his heart. Returning to the soldier he is, Calix states, “The report needs to be sent back to King Dietrich and the field marshall.”
Thirty-Nine
Stirling erodes a worn trail as he paces nervously back and forth in front of the racers tent.
“Calm down, you’re making me anxious,” Ignis says, his eyes tracking Stirling.
“I can’t. I’m excited but scared at the same time. I can’t sit still. My chest is going to explode. I think I’m dying. Oh no, am I dying, I think I’m dying.” Stirling hunches over, putting his hands on his knees.
“Why is this race any different?” Ignis questions.
“It’s the last race and it’s at the elite level. Everyone will remember this performance.”
Pale hair steps out of the tent, Quilan squints at Stirling jittering in place.
“Q-quilan!” Stirling stutters. “I haven’t gotten the chance to thank you.”
Quilan puts his hand up. “Don’t.”
Clamping his mouth shut, Stirling hunches his shoulders in submission. The color drained from his face. He will never understand Quilan. He supposedly instructs the games committee to place him in the last elite race yet refuses to speak to him. What kind of pedestal does Quilan put himself on that he gets to use him as his own entertainment? One moment he wants to race him because he is bored. The next Quilan believes he is too far beneath him for a short conversation.
As if Stirling is nothing more than another one of the stakes around the tent, Quilan passes him by, his face turning tranquil as his sights set on his quetzalcoatl.
“RACERS! MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE STARTING LINE!” the announcer cries towards the tent.
Pulling in a deep breath Stirling holds it in until his face turns red. With a forced exhale of the old stale air and Stirling gasps sucking in the new oxygen. Standing idle, he watches one by one as the elite racers exit the tent to fetch their dragons.
The oldest of the group, Aylmar stops. “Just because pretty boy wants to race you, doesn’t mean you deserve to be up here. You’re going to see you’re in over your head newbie.”
“I uh.” Stirling shrinks as his insecurity grows around him.
“See you at the starting line.” Aylmar huffs.
Stirling lowers his eyes and shuffles to Ignis. “Are you ready?”
“Am I ready? I’m not the one making a trench with my pacing,” Ignis replies getting up.
Stirling pulls his lips into a straight line and grabs Ignis’s harness. Not waiting for Ignis to pause, Stirling climbs up onto his back as Ignis walks them toward the start. They line themselves up with four of the other racers at the edge of the cliff.
Closing his eyes, Stirling mumbles encouraging words to himself ignoring Ignis who lowers his head distracted by a dragonfly hovering around his legs.
Through the stilts of his legs, he sees light blue feathers. His head immediately pops up as Quilan’s quetzalcoatl slithers across the ground like a piece of falling sky. Quilan sits perched between their wings, the same dull look in his eyes.
Stirling now well familiar with Quilan wonders, Does he ever show any expression beside boredom?
“Hello, beautiful!” Ignis chirps, his heartbeat picking up as they slide into place beside him.
“Stirling! Stirling! Stirling! LOOK!” Ignis giddily whispers.
Stirling rolls his eyes.
“Stirling! We’re next to each other!” Ignis points out, being overly excited.
“I am well aware,” Stirling says, annoyed.
The quetzecoatl ruffles their icy feathers and tilts their head at Ignis. Ignis’ heart lurches in his ribcage. Stirling sighs, he doesn’t have time for Ignis’ antics. He needs to focus on the race that will be starting at any moment. Leaning, he checks down the rest of the line. Beside him is the racer he remembers named Peyton with a knuckler dragon, then the older racer on a draco, and the two whose names have slipped Stirling’s mind with a draco and an amphiptere. They are all older than him, averaging in their mid to late twenties.
“May I ask you a question?” Peyton shifts on his dragon toward Stirling.
“Me?” Stirling points to himself.
“No, your dragon. Of course, you,” he says sarcastically.
“It could have been me,” Ignis inserts.
“Sure, I guess,” Stirling replies awkwardly.
“You’ve won all those matches; how come you haven’t updated your gear? Besides your goggles everything else looks so umm, economical,” he says, trying to word the sentence so he won’t offend Stirling.
Pearlescent goggles reflect rainbow light as Quilan tilts his head listening in.
“That’s because I made them myself. Well, me and a close friend. This is much more valuable to me than any of the gear I can buy,” Stirling answers.
“It doesn’t impede your racing?” Peyton asks curiously.
Stirling shakes his head. “Not that I’m aware of, but I really don’t know any different.” He pauses. “I have a question for you.”
“Go for it,” Peyton says, now drawn in.
“Is the gear really what makes the racer?” Stirling inquiries.
Peyton’s eyebrows scrunch as it dawns on him. “I guess not.”
Stirling steals a quick glance at the legendary Quilan, who turns away and pretends to be inspecting his gloves. But Stirling had seen it in the split moment. The man has the personality of a bag of coal everywhere he goes, but up here. Up here when he is flying, they light up in flame. Stirling’s eyes return to Quilan.
Quilan’s eyes, already beginning to glow, dart back to Stirling, “Good luck.”
Thrown back, Stirling replies, “Oh—uh—you, too.”
Smiling on one side, a dimple creases on Quilan’s cheek, he answers, “I don’t need it.”
The announcer steps up the metal funnel amplifying his voice, “RACERS! ARE YOU READY!”
The crowd goes wild. They holler from the stands down below, calling out their favorite racer’s name and waving their colors in the air.
Stirling peers down at the audience from the top of the cliffside. He is back where he started, the same cliff from his first race. This time he will not falter at the sound of the horn, this time he will leap with the rest. This time he can hear his name being called out by his fans in the crowd. He can see the orange flags and banners being held above people's heads.
This is his accomplishment. He deserves to be sitting up here. Despite Quilan’s recommendation, he earned his place beside them in the ranks. He was the one who refused to accept the “no” that life kept hitting him in the face with. It was drilled into him that he was nothing and should stay that way.
His mother didn’t see him as nothing. Amiria, Eve, Bernard, and Ignis, with matted hair and patched-up clothing still all saw him as someone.
Raising his sleeved arm he places his forehead against his insignia, Even if I get last. I did this all because you believed I could. This is for you.
Dropping his arm Stirling runs the course through his head. They will fly past each checkpoint, swooping between the building with a referee and a flagpole. As they pass, a flag with their color will be lifted signaling to the next checkpoint their current placement.
Out over the water. Around the east side of Leucasia. Fly north over the small velvet mountains. Then west following the river over Patu and finally south back to the water through a gorge carved out by man.
He grips the handles of Ignis’s saddle, scrunching his lanky body down tight against his back. He can do this.
The horn sounds off.
Chunks of dirt and debris tear loose from the ledge as Ignis plunges, diving like a falcon after its prey. A cyclone of wind bursts from the six dragons as they launch themselves. Dust and sand are blown into the air storming out over the audience as they propel themselves forward and out over the water.
At this point in Stirling’s first race, the large group had already started dividing, those with more experience pulling ahead and taking the lead during the first lap. Now here, racing with those who have climbed the ladder earning the right to be called an elite, they are flying neck and neck. They are a tidal wave of scales and feathers returning to the ocean.
They pass the last of the pillars and soar out towards the first checkpoint stationed on a small island that is barely larger than a cluster of boulders. A lookout tower hardly able to fit atop sits mounted to the top of the rocks. Undulating in the water sits a small row boat tied to the bottom of a series of ladders leading up to the tower.
Standing in the rickety tower, the referee wears his own pair of goggles to protect his eyes from the wind as the racers pass through the checkpoint. The intensity of the wind rocks the weathered wood as the referee pulls strings hung above him releasing the flags in the order of the racers.
Sky blue is up on top, and orange is in fifth place.
Stirling checks over his shoulder to check his official placement. He smiles. They aren’t leaving him behind. He is able to hold his own and stay with the pack. This is a marathon, not a sprint.
He doesn’t need to push Ignis until the last moment. Straight in front of him, the pale blue snake-like dragon’s body ripples through the air as it slowly starts to pull ahead of them. Don’t try to catch up. Hold your ground for now and go all out at the end.
They curve around the next watchtower heading back to the shore now on the opposite side of the capitol.
Stirling can’t help but take his eyes away from the race to look down at the city as they pass by. Citizens crowd the streets and huddle at the top of buildings flying their racer's colors. Stirling can hear the faint sounds of horns and cheering.
Pulling his focus back to the race, they reach the summit of the mountain behind the city and pass the next checkpoint.
They are halfway there.
Stirling leans back over the side of Ignis.
“What are you doing?” Ignis asks, keeping his pace.
