“Messenger”: An outcast races to improve his standing amid occupiers ...Middle East

Tall and muscular, Jay’s black warhorse snorted fiercely at the restraining bars. Havoc kicked the back of the starting stall, rattling the chains.

“Easy, boy,” Jay said in a soothing voice. Havoc yanked the reins and shifted forward, half-rearing. Jay longed for freedom, too. The final event of his training, and the only barrier to becoming Top Cadet, stretched out on the track before him.

Since the contest began years before, the winner had always been one of the Galathian occupiers. If he won, he’d be the first to break the tradition. Jay wondered how winning would feel. The thought of all Galathians forced to swallow their swollen pride warmed his heart. Even better, Calonadens would have to stop ridiculing his mixed ancestry and low station. Beyond the glory of adding his name to the winner’s plaque, he’d earn the plum assignment and ride out of this cursed city as a freshly minted lieutenant of the Horse Division.

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Twenty riders, the best of this year’s academy class, lined up in the racing stalls, waiting for the starting gun. Jay brushed a stray strand of coiled copper hair out of his rust-brown eyes. A hash of pale blue plinum lines and starbursts decorated his deep blue skin, marking his mixed descent. But the accidents of birth didn’t matter today. Only the rider, the horse, and fate had any influence on the outcome. Every fiber of Jay’s being tensed to take a shot at a life far from here.

“A half-casting made the cut,” a voice jeered. “That has to be a mistake.”

To Jay’s right, a stout Galathian sat atop his royal thoroughbred. Of all the contenders for Top Cadet, Jay ended up beside the person who constantly touted himself better than all others. Gilcres’ plinum bands overlaid his features with orderly vertical lines, marking him as highborn. Gilcres sneered back at him through the iron bars that separated their racing stalls before flicking his pale eyes away from Jay with disdain.

“Messenger”

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Half-casting. Jay’s blood boiled at the slur, but he held his tongue. He would soon prove he wasn’t half-made or a flawed piece of machinery to be tossed away into the trash heap. He would show them he was far from broken or malformed.

“Shut up, Gilcres.”

Gilcres sneered. “I suppose it’s valiant to try, even though you can’t win.”

Jay appraised his opponent’s sleek and well-muscled steed, bred for the track. The rider, however, didn’t impress. Broad-shouldered and rotund, Gilcres had strength and skill with a blade, but he fared better at mounting a barstool than a racehorse. Jay was tired of his petty ridicule and blustering conceit.

Havoc tossed his head, flipped his tail, and lined up another kick, but Jay leaned forward and whispered into his ear. “He’s going to eat our dust.” Havoc snorted, flaring his nostrils, but held back his hoof. Jay needed him steady for a good jump at the starting gun.

They had transformed the academy parade grounds into a racing arena. Onlookers from all over Calonade filled it. Royalty, military brass, and Galathian merchants lounged in the upper tiers and gazed upon the proceedings as if they were a spectacle created solely for their entertainment.

Jay wiped beads of sweat from his face. The race meant more than a contest of speed. All the racers prepared for a test of resolve and a fight for survival. They rode in full kit, with saber and flintlock pistol, ready to face obstacles made to mimic battlefield conditions. As with any battle, the blood of both horse and rider could be spilled.

Fisherfolk, laborers, and artisans filled the lower stands and milled around on the grounds. Some even pressed against the track railing. The Calonadens came to see if one of their own could finally best the hated Galathian occupiers.

They didn’t come to see Jay.

On Jay’s left, Jortica, the only full-born Calonaden in the race, sat straight and proud on her blueblood mare. A thin white scar traced from the corner of her mouth, under her dark blue cheek, and back to her ear. It rippled as she clenched her jaw in concentration. A strand of black hair had escaped from under her short-brimmed cadet topper and fluttered in the breeze.

Jortica, the true competition, regularly bested anyone with sword and shot. For a person with deep fisherfolk roots, she rode a horse with true skill. Jay had never gone toe-to-toe against her, but he knew her reputation. She said little, just got the job done. If she won, the streets of Calonade would ring with long-sought triumph. It would prove that Calonaden’s glory days were not twenty years past.

Though Jay would enjoy the wounded pride of the Galathians, he had to beat Jortica. If he lost, he could end up humping a pack up and down the Kelstone Mountains in the Calonade Foot or cleaning some Galathian officer’s boots. Probably both. No better than a servant. Such a fate would make the castle kitchens, where he grew up as a cook’s boy, seem pleasant.

Silence fell over the crowd as a team of cadets rolled out the starting gun wagon. They placed the monstrous antique brass cannon, stuffed with gunpowder and burdening its own axles to near collapse, in front of the starting stalls and pointed it crosswise to the track. One cadet touched the powder hole with a lit match cord.

The cannon let loose a deafening roar, flinging smoke and sparks across Jay’s line of sight. The gates exploded open, and Havoc leaped with all his strength toward freedom. They burst through the plume and flew down the front stretch. Jortica claimed the lead, with Gilcres and Jay close behind. Hundreds of people crowded against the railing, waving their hats and cheering.

They rumbled through the first turn as an obstacle came into view. Back straight, with perfect form, Jortica flew over the thin wooden fence. Her gray cadet’s topper whipped off her head and her black hair bounced loose.

Gilcres’ thoroughbred made it, dragging its belly over the top rail. Gilcres wobbled in the saddle but held on.

Jay dug his heels into Havoc’s flanks. The broad and muscular horse, bred for battle not grace, surged forward. Splinters flew as Havoc leaped, crashed through the barrier, and pounded down onto the racetrack. A deafening roar rose from the crowd. Jay shook off the rough landing to see Jortica still in the lead.

He ignored the noise and crouched in the saddle. Havoc’s steady stride meant he wasn’t hurt, at least not badly. Jay breathed with relief at passing the first barrier unscathed. He steered into Gilcres’ wake. Frothing as much as his thoroughbred, Gilcres slapped the sides of his mount with a whip to squeeze out more speed.

Trusting Havoc to run straight down the backstretch, Jay glanced back to see the rest of the riders far behind, their gray uniforms thick with dust. Ahead of him, along the last bend of the track, a lethal challenge waited. As he approached the turn, he faced a machine bristling with razor-sharp weapons.

A wide column of steel held dozens of metal tentacles looming over the racetrack. Blades on the ends of mechanical arms spun and reached out in all directions. The reek of oil and smoke filled the air as the deadly mechanism chugged along a circular course inside the far turn. Cogs and wheels spun to propel sharp spears and studded clubs into the path of the racers. Metal ground on metal. Gears whirred as spikes shot out and pulled back. Countless blades slashed and twisted, scissoring the air. Cadets called it the Barber. Swinging wide meant trading speed for safety. Turning close meant risking a shave—or worse.

Jortica and Gilcres steered wide on the track, staying out of the machine’s range. Gilcres slammed into Jortica’s mount and pushed her farther off course. A howl of outrage rose from the crowd. Gilcres, not above cheating to win, left an opening.

Drawing his saber, Jay steered Havoc tight into the turn. He’d faced the Barber before, but this wasn’t a practice run. For the contest, it wielded weapons sharpened to a deadly sheen. Showing the mettle of a Calonaden warhorse, Havoc thundered into the machine’s notorious reach.

Calculating the machine’s rhythms, Jay swung his sword hard and fast, cutting off the end of a spear before it skewered him. A heartbeat later, he ducked under a set of studded clubs. On the next stride, a cloud of gunpowder blasted Havoc’s face, but Jay’s seasoned mount didn’t flinch. With a fiery burst of steam and a shriek of metal, the machine shifted and turned, blades cutting upwards to chase him. Jay flipped his sword back to block each blow, the impacts ringing to his shoulder.

They raced on, nearly out of the Barber’s reach. Jay lifted his sword in triumph, but he celebrated too soon. A long, serrated blade sliced the back of his arm.

Jay gritted his teeth but didn’t drop his weapon. A line of red welled up from a long, shallow cut, staining his gray uniform.

A close shave, as promised.

Jay flipped the sword under his arm and ignored the pain. Instead, he grinned at the view of the homestretch, smooth and open before him. Freedom within his grasp, the race distilled down to the wind in his face and the horse beneath him.

A moment later, the hair on Jay’s neck stood up. He heard the pounding of hooves and glanced back to find Gilcres on his heels, his thoroughbred dredging up a burst of speed.

Gilcres swept by Jay, laughing. “Half-casting!”

Jay bit back his fury and pressed his body flat against Havoc’s neck. With his ears laid back, Havoc rallied his strength and matched the racehorse’s speed. Slick with sweat, he dug deep for the final leg. Hooves pounding and hearts racing, they flew over the track.

With thunderous strides and a blur of straining muscles, Havoc closed on the flying thoroughbred. He nosed past Gilcres’ leg and gained inch by inch. Breath roaring with effort, Havoc drew past the thoroughbred’s shoulder. They raced neck and neck. Eye rolling white and mouth frothing, the other horse lost a step. Stride by stride, Havoc pulled in front.

With the finish line in sight, pain lanced the back of Jay’s neck. He flung up an arm and blocked a second blow. Undeterred, Gilcres whipped Havoc instead. Brutal swipes flayed the horse’s flanks. Havoc shied, breaking stride. Gilcres pulled even, raising his whip for another strike.

“No, you don’t!” Jay shouted as he lashed out with the pommel of his sword, hitting Gilcres in the chest. The stocky cadet flopped back, losing the grip on his reins, and sending his whip flying. The horses veered into each other with a rib-bruising crunch. They swerved wildly away. Gilcres flopped onto the muddy track. Jay hung on and yanked the reins to turn Havoc back on course.

Jortica flew by, her coat whipping loose in the wind. Graceful and powerful, her whole body stretched along the length of her sleek racer. To the thundering roar of the crowd, Jortica crossed the finish line first.

The sight took Jay’s breath away. He didn’t even notice the rest of the cadets racing by. As Jortica turned her horse to trot back around, she raised her fist and grinned. Her scar stretched along her jaw like a second smile. He had to smile, too. A Calonaden had finally won.

Collin Irish is the author of the Violet Sky science fiction series. His first novel, “Messenger,” and short stories, “Subversive” and “Inventor,” are available through Amazon and M4L Publishing. He lives in Lakewood with his wife and two children.

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