The Long Cold Ride
The Rider Chronicles – Book One
© 2016 Jesse H Gray
All Rights Reserved
For more information on the Rider Chronicles, visit:
www.TheRiderChronicles.com
For Mom,
Who taught me about the noble
beauty and power of art.
For Dad,
Who taught me that the greatest
achievements in life are those we earn.
The Long Cold Ride
The Rider Chronicles - Book One
Chapter 1 The Rider
Chapter 2 The Escape
Chapter 3 Love Rekindled
Chapter 4 Hogsbreath
Chapter 5 A Sprint in Paradoxium
Chapter 6 The Scar
Chapter 7 News to Magneto Mountain
Chapter 8 The Heir in Clutchaven
Chapter 9 The Drop-Off
Chapter 10 Eqinox
Chapter 11 The Naming Ceremony
Chapter 12 The Pick-Up
Chapter 13 Return to Clutchaven
Chapter 14 Skeldermoor
Chapter 15 Odious and the Old Man
Chapter 16 The Gauntlet Grounds
Chapter 17 The Deal
Chapter 18 The Clearing
Chapter 19 The New Champion
Chapter 20 Testing Day
Chapter 21 The Gauntlet
Chapter 22 Serpantoria Quarters
Chapter 23 Solidarity
There’s an eerie silence to the winter woodlands, a hallowed hush; if you listen close enough, you can hear death whispering her grim lullaby. It was this silence that had lulled the rider into complacency, dulled his senses. He was pulling the straps tight on his gear when he was jolted by the shrill crack of a rifle. He bolted behind a boulder for cover. Two more shots ricocheted off the rocks in front of him. If this was someone with any type of skill, he would have been dead to rights and he knew it. The rider was furious with himself.
Damn it. I’ve got to be more alert.
He eased around the rock to try to get them to give away their position. He could see two shine moving down the hill toward him, their glowing green eyes betraying them in the early-morning darkness. He surveyed the landscape and made a quick plan of action. He belly-crawled downhill and rolled into a dry riverbed, then stayed low and ran along the contour of the land, using the bank to shield his movements. These were shine, and while they could be crafty when they wanted, a ghoul was still a ghoul, and he had dealt with plenty of them before. They come in guns blazing, trying to use shock and fear to overwhelm their target instead of using actual tactics. For most of their marks it was an effective strategy, but the rider wasn’t like most men.
He made it about a hundred feet away and carefully poked his head up to see where they were. They were still advancing on his original position. Luckily, he hadn’t secured his rifle to his bike yet, so it was slung over his shoulder when they attacked. Another few minutes and he would have had to take them on close range with his pistol, and that would have gotten dicey.
He slid his rifle up over the crest of the bank and sighted in the first shine.
Crack!
The lead shine fell face-first, sliding down the hill. Realizing he’d been flanked, and not knowing where the shot came from, the second shine scrambled for cover. He crouched next to a rock in full view of the rider.
Crack!
The second shine slumped over in a fetal position, a smear of black blood running down the rock. The rider waited for a minute, scanning the hill for any movement. Satisfied no one else was out there, he made his way back down the riverbed to his bike.
Normally he would check the dead for supplies, but he wouldn’t want anything the shine were carrying, even the ammo, which was usually homemade and unreliable. He walked over and checked them to make sure they were dead.
He was all too familiar with the shine, or ghouls as he preferred to call them, a slanderous nod to the reprehensible behavior they often made their living off of. They were mostly a despised race, outcasts that lived in communal tribes across the continent of Arimetria. Their violent nature made it extremely hard for reliable trade to be established over land routes. Along with their reputation as murderers and bandits, the fear and loathing for them also stemmed from their occasional hunger for human flesh.
In recent times, a few coordinated efforts were made between cities to establish roads, communications towers, and secure trade routes. But the shine fought the progress each time with nothing short of suicidal ferocity. They knew that secure land routes meant not only the loss of their livelihood and territory, but soon thereafter possible relocation, enslavement, or worse. In a few cities, the human cost of the attempts at progress threatened to destabilize the power structure when losses mounted. Fearing loss of control over their cities, versus gaining greater trade and long-distance communications, the ruling elite made the decision to pull back. For as much trouble as they caused him, the rider also knew, in part, the shine kept him in business.
He finished checking his gear, threw a leg over his bike, and kicked it to life. The deep pitter-pat of the engine was a soothing sound to him, a familiar sound, but he knew that in the woods it made him a target. The gunshots might also draw unwelcome attention, so he wasted no time and pulled away. He followed the natural lines of the terrain, weaving his way down through the dull, gray hogswood trees towards the valley below.
He was always focused when riding, relying on an instinctual hyper-awareness of his surroundings, in complete symbiotic harmony with his bike. He had to be, because one wrong move, one momentary lapse of concentration, and it could be over. A crash in the woods, however minor, could mean your life. No one was coming to rescue you.
He had a solid day of riding ahead before he reached Clutchaven, but he had to make it back out to the road first. He was looking forward to a hot shower, a hot meal, and most of all to seeing her.
Clearing an open stretch of dead reeds, he made his way to the road. No more than a simple dirt path carved through the countryside, but enough to kick up a couple gears and make some time.
He rode swiftly for a few hours, stopping once at the base of a rocky outcrop to refill his tank from his reserves. As he neared Clutchaven, he made his way up through the granite pass known as the Rygard Gate. Without the shelter of the woods, and with the elevation change, he could feel the lingering winter cold biting at the smallest opening in his gear. It would be spring soon, but the dark months still clung tightly to the mountains. He reached the top and stopped at a pass. He parked his bike and walked over to a shrine carved into the side of the mountain. He pulled a small, red candle from his pocket, lit it, and placed it in the alcove atop the waterfall of frozen wax already there. He wasn’t a follower of the new gods, but he thought it prudent to at least pay his respects.
Always good to hedge your bet.
He returned to his bike and surveyed the vista before him. Below lay Helical Hills and, in the distance, the foggy outline of Clutchaven, carved against the deep azure of the Eastern Sea.
Clutchaven was a beautiful and prosperous port city. Its geography helped to keep it safe, with natural rocky defenses discouraging a land attack and sheltered ports guarded by cannons and cliff faces. One of the main reasons for its prosperity was the tenure of Lord Wentworth, regent of Clutchaven and its surrounding realm. And it was Lord Wentworth whom the rider was here to see.
He smiled as he looked down upon Helical Hills and its mesmerizing, sweeping roads. Not dirt paths here; here it was fresh, smooth blacktop. The road minders in Clutchaven were master craftsmen, carving the roads in such a way that they accentuated and maximized the topography. Smooth rises, cambered switchbacks, long, fluid straights, all smooth as polished obsidian. Every beast who threw a leg over a motorcycle lusted for warm sun, a full gas tank, and access to the hills from the Helical Guard.
Most of the Guard had never cared much for the rider or his kind, but they understood his purpose. A few even liked him. One of the latter, Captain Aldon Sirius, made his way from his command post when he saw the tiny black smear racing down the mountain. Only he rides that fast, he thought.
Sirius walked to the center of the road in front of the gates, flanked by his troops, guns at the ready. Caution was paramount these days given the rumors he was hearing, even for an old friend.
The rider pulled up and stopped about fifty feet short of the guards, hitting the killswitch on his bike. He looked at Captain Sirius, then up at the lighted guard tower, where alert eyes watched his every move.
“Remove your helmet, rider, and speak your intentions,” Sirius said.
The rider undid his helmet and pulled it off, his grizzled brown beard and hair a contrasting canvas for his steel-gray eyes. His black leathers had taken on a light brown sheen, a product of the hundreds of miles he had traveled through the grit and grime of the woodland.
“You know me,” he said. “I bring correspondence from Paradoxium, meant for the Lord Regent.”
“And what if I told you that you weren’t welcome here, rider?” Sirius said as he walked over and stood in front of the bike.
The rider stared him down coolly. “Well my heart would just be broken, now wouldn’t it?”
Sirius smirked, holding his hand out, “Good to see you. Broos told me there were rumors that you might have met your demise outside of Paladrea.”
“You think I’d die in a shithole like that? The highwaymen who attacked me weren’t so lucky, though.”
“Indeed it seems so,” Sirius said as the two shook hands. “When you’ve finished your business come find me at the Wharf. We’ll drink to your resurrection.”
“And so we shall,” the rider said. He grinned as he pulled his helmet on.
Sirius motioned to the guard in the booth and the towering metal gates groaned to life, disappearing into the mountainside. Before him stood a smooth, black line of roadway, dipping down into the side of the mountains and careening out of sight toward the east.
“Welcome to Clutchaven, rider. Shining beacon of the Eastern Sea.”
The rider opened up the throttle, the front suspension extending to its limits, urging the tire to break free of the road. He roared down the mountainside, diving into corners, ripping up and down through the gearbox. His lines were fluid, his every action precise and measured. For a moment he felt like he was running a sprint, but it was just his muscle memory kicking in.
After twenty minutes riding through Helical Hills he arrived at the city limits. Clutchaven was beautiful and bold in its simplicity. Carved from the many felsite and granite cliffs that overlooked the Eastern Sea, it melted into the landscape so naturally that from a distance it was almost hard to tell it was there.
The rider made his way to the Capitol District, weaving through throngs of bikes and the occasional truck hauling bulk goods. He pulled down an off-ramp at the base of Regent Peak and was met at the bottom by a roadblock manned by the watchmen.
“Captain Sirius alerted us to your arrival. Take your bike to level four. Park it. Leave your gear, it will be secure. You will be frisked and escorted to the Lord Regent’s chambers by members of the watch. You are to ask no questions, nor make any unexpected movements. Follow and obey the commands given to you by the watch at all times. Failure to obey the rules outlined will mean your immediate incarceration. Do you understand and agree to these terms?”
The rider shook his head yes. He had been through the drill before. He knew they meant business.
He made his way down the spiral ramp to level four and found the designated area. Waiting for him were a pair of guards. He parked his bike under a streetlight and took off his gear while they kept an eye on him.
“See anything you like?” the rider said.
“Watch yourself, asshole, we don’t play games here,” a black-haired guard said.
The rider smirked to himself; these guys were so high-strung it was almost too easy. When he finished taking his gear off he stood still, arms out to the side, waiting to be frisked. In his hand he held a silver tube with the seal of Paradoxium adorning its side. The guard frisked him roughly as the rider silently laughed to himself, but when he reached for the silver tube the rider pulled it back with lightning reflexes.
“Not unless you’ve been named Lord Regent of Clutchaven. My guess is that isn’t the case, being as you just had your hand on my crotch.”
The guard sneered at him and pushed him in the direction of the elevator. “Shut your fucking mouth and move.”
They walked down a corridor to the elevator where another guard was stationed. He opened the door and the four men got in, the three guards surrounding the rider. As they ascended, the guards stared the rider down, doing their best to intimidate him. It wasn’t working, and he let them know with a wry smile.
The doors opened when they reached the top, revealing a stunning white-granite alcove. The sun radiated through twenty-foot-high windowed arches that looked down on the city of Clutchaven and the jagged, rocky coast. Orange honeysuckle spilled out of giant planters by the windows, filling the air with its sweet aroma.
For as many times as the rider had delivered messages here, he never tired of the view from Regent Peak. This was truly one of the most beautiful places in the realm, with a view worthy of the old gods.
Court members, political personalities, and businessmen mingled in the grand alcove and on the enclosed patio bluffs, sunning themselves and keeping the human machine that ran Clutchaven properly lubed. Servants buzzed in and out, carrying flasks of the finest wines from the Farrosh Isles, fruits from the traders in Builders Gulf, and seasoned cuts of wild game.
And the women. Each turn of the head would have the common man claiming his undying love. Clutchaven was especially known for its black-haired, green-eyed women. Many a man had gone to his grave lusting after a “Raven from the Haven.”
As the guards escorted the rider to the Lord Regent’s chamber the looks at him were long and worried. He usually wasn’t greeted with much more than apathy, but there seemed to be a palpable tension this time. He had heard the news going around before he left Paradoxium, but he wasn’t sure what the correspondence that he carried said. The first rule of a rider was to keep the cargo safe, and confidential.
They walked into a smaller antechamber and stopped in front of a pair of large oak doors. They opened and High Counselor Hitchcock walked out. He was a spidery man, a good six and a half feet tall.
“Lord Wentworth will see you,” he said to the rider. He motioned to the guards, “Wait here until called for.”
“Stay, doggie,” the rider said as he walked past. The guard’s nostrils flared.
Counselor Hitchcock led the rider into Lord Wentworth’s chamber and shut the doors behind them. The rider had only been in the main chamber once before, and only briefly. The chamber was a true reflection of Lord Wentworth the man, bereft of flash, only the essentials, including a large granite desk in front of a wall of windows overlooking his city. There, sitting behind the desk, watching the waning winter sun drop behind Helical Hills, was the man himself.
Lord Wentworth was once a Helical Guard, and one of the greatest Gauntlet champions ever to have ridden in the eight major territories. Years of ruling had turned his black hair a silver gray, but behind his cool blue eyes one could still see the warrior spirit. This was evidenced by the only bit of braggadocio he allowed himself: a row of five ribbons each attached to a brass circle, hanging on the wall. Two of the ribbons looked as if they’d been in a fire, while others bore stains of what looked to be a mix of oil and dried blood. It was hard to decipher which was which, but with Gauntlet racers there really wasn’t much difference.
The rider’s eyes drifted to the wall; he was drawn to the aura of the ribbons, as were all who stood in their presence.
“Hitchcock, leave us for a minute.”
“Sir, do you think it wise—”
“It’s fine,” Wentworth said, waving him off.
Counselor Hitchcock shot a distrustful glance at the rider and slipped through the oak doors to wait outside. The rider stood there silently, gazing at the ribbons. He reached up, instinctively wanting to hold one of the ribbons in his hand, to feel its realness, to connect with it.
“Ah, I do miss it,” Lord Wentworth said. “Not a day goes by when I don’t think about it. There are few alive who know the feeling. The smell of high octane, the cold flood of adrenaline from a narrow crash at the Red Crossing, the blur, the screams, and most of all, the swell of cheers that drown your ears when you remove your helmet. I can remember every one distinctly. Every moment. And on some days, I can still feel some of them as well.” He held his forearm out for the rider to see the large scar running from his wrist to his elbow.
“I feel mine, too, Lord Wentworth,” said the rider, pulling his shirt down at the neck to reveal scars across his clavicle. “But I have never had the honor of a Gauntlet, as you know, just city sprints.”
“You may have your glory yet. I have seen your sprints in Clutchaven. Maybe I’ll have you ride for me one day.”
“I would consider it a true honor, my Lord.”
Wentworth shot him a warm grin. “Now on to business. What news do you have?”
The rider produced the silver tube with the seal and handed it to Lord Wentworth. The Regent opened it and pulled out a small piece of parchment with a gray wax seal on it. As he sat at his desk and began reading it, a look of consternation crossed his face. For all the banquets and lavish gifts, the pleasantries and beautiful chamber maidens, this was how a lord paid his dues, through the stress of governance. He looked up at the rider.
“How is the mood in Paradoxium?”
“Tense, my Lord.”
“It would seem so. This is very troubling news, with the Spring Equinox quickly approaching and the Gauntlet preparations about to start.” He took a deep breath, “Give me a day or two to write a response. Hitchcock will pay you.”
“Certainly, my Lord.”
The rider walked to the oak doors, stealing one last glance at the wall of ribbons on his way out. Immediately outside the door stood a petulant-looking Hitchcock, arms crossed.
“Well?” he said, “Are you finished?”
“I am. You’re to pay me. He said to give him a couple of days for a return message.”
“This way,” Hitchcock said, turning and walking toward the elevator. The guards followed closely behind, jamming their fists into the rider’s lower back to keep him moving. When they reached the elevator Hitchcock pulled a brown leather pouch from his vest pocket and handed it to the rider. “Be ready when we call for you.”
“How will you know where I am?”
“I know where everyone is in this city. You just be ready.”
The rider and the guards rode the elevator back down to the parking area. As they walked over to his bike the guards took their opportunity to taunt the rider.
“You’re lucky the Lord Regent still has some use for you, or we’d beat your ass,” one of them said.
“I guess it’s my lucky day, then, isn’t it?” the rider said as he pulled on his helmet and started his bike. “Now I’ve got important business to attend to, like getting drunk and getting laid. This bag of gold is burning a hole in my pocket.” He put the bike into gear and turned to the guards as they stood bristling, “Now stay, little doggies.”
He popped the clutch and shot up the ramp as the guards gave chase on foot, but he barreled away from them laughing. He had more important business to take care of. First stop was to get the Banshee tuned up. And that, of course, meant seeing Thea.
They had been searching for him since he’d slipped out of Paradoxium six nights before. They didn’t pick up his trail until he was clear of their communications range. Brother Seven knew that if he was spotted they would call in reinforcements. He was far from afraid; it was self-preservation that he valued most. That, and money.
On the fifth day he found a suitable area and stopped to set up shop. He knew they weren’t far behind, he’d spotted them on high ground twice, so he did his best to prep the scene. He found a spot with good cover under a shivering pine and laid down with his rifle. He looked through the scope, down the sloping hill to the scene below him. At the bottom, lying in a contorted position, was the body of a man next to a fallen motorcycle. He settled in and waited.
It was well into the afternoon when he heard the muffled growl of the bikes approaching. The two men stopped as soon as they cleared the hill. They killed their engines and took up defensive positions behind two large trees, guns drawn.
They waited for a couple of minutes, then moved forward. Brother Seven watched through his scope as they took turns moving from tree to tree, one always with a gun fixed on the fallen man while the other scanned the woods for threats. They used hand signals that Brother Seven recognized.
Paradoxium military, but why aren’t they in uniform? And why would they have sent these two instead of body trackers?
They stopped about fifty feet away from the man and crouched behind two trees. Brother Seven could tell they were talking to the man, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. After a moment they both peeked out and fired, peppering the man with multiple body shots. He didn’t move.
They broke cover and moved in until they were standing over top of him. One soldier fired a final shot into the man’s head. They lowered their weapons and began searching him.
As Brother Seven watched he took note of the wind direction and speed, made one final adjustment to his rifle, and fired. The first man dropped. A clean chest shot. Before the other man could stand Brother Seven had sighted him up and fired. The second man collapsed, grasping at his throat. Brother Seven saw a spray of red mist around the man’s neck. Damn wind, he thought. He waited for a moment and then fired one more shot into each of them. He jumped to his feet, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and made his way down to the crash site.
He approached cautiously, pistol drawn, but there was no need, they were lifeless. He scavenged what he could find—knives, weapons, ammo, and a handful of other useful tools. He knew the sound of the gunfire would most likely bring some curious eyes to the area, so he hurried.
He made his way up to their bikes and helped himself to their gas reserves and what food he could find in their packs—some dried meats and flatbreads. He walked back over and lifted his bike off the ground, propping it against a tree. He secured the gear and supplies, hopped on his bike, and started it. It had been difficult riding this far with a dead body tied to him, but he knew it would work. It was an old trick he learned from Brother Three, who was all too familiar with manipulating corpses.
He dropped the bike into gear and took off north. He had to make it to Gullywell to catch the ferry across the Bristling Brine before dark. If these were military, he knew there would be others scouting around the woodlands looking for him.
He rode hard for a couple of hours, carefully knifing his way through the countryside. As he pulled into the outskirts of Gullywell, the sun was sinking low in the sky. Border towns like this were perfect for a guy like him to blend in to. No one asked questions about who you were, where you were going, or what your story was.
As he made his way through town, more than a few wary eyes sized him up, some of which glowed a dull green. Gullywell was far enough on the outskirts for some shine to wander in. They traded what they could, mostly scavenged or stolen goods plucked from travelers and caravans that tried to move through their territory, then they faded back into the woods.
Brother Seven, however, was very familiar with the shine. He had used them on many occasions to help execute his plans—and his enemies.
As Brother Seven rounded a corner he spotted the flatbed ferryboat and pulled down the street to the water’s edge.
“Oy, rider. I suppose you’re looking for passage?” a man asked as Brother Seven parked his bike.
“Yes. When’s the next ferry?”
“Sunrise.”
“What if I pay you double, will you take me now?”
“Mate, you could pay me with a gold brick, but it’d only end up on the bottom of the Brine. Once the sun goes down the water’s too dangerous for this old flat barge. I suggest you get a room for the night over at the inn.”
Brother Seven weighed his options. Pull up outside of town somewhere in the woods and buckle down for the night? That’s most likely where they’d think he was, and that’s most likely where they might be looking. No, hiding in plain sight was a tactic he’d have to take advantage of.
He hopped back on his bike and turned around, heading back up the road. Brother Seven saw the inn on his way through town, back up a few blocks. Gullywell was small, with just enough amenities to make it livable. But if you were looking for creature comfort, you wouldn’t find it here.
He parked his bike in front of the building and secured it. A single, dull light illuminated the faded red door of the Gully Inn. He pushed it open and walked in, the smell of stale beer flooding his nose. To his right, the bar was occupied by a few local drunks, sullen and disheveled from a long day’s labor on the river.
A man with large, mutton-chop sideburns called out to him from behind the bar, “You lookin’ for a room, rider?” Brother Seven nodded his head. “Around the corner, ol’ boy'll get ya situated.”
Brother Seven walked down the hallway and turned the corner where a man was nose-deep in a book in front of a large stone fireplace.
“You the man in charge?” Brother Seven said.
“I am,” he said without lowering his book, “You lookin’ for a room?”
“Yes.”
“Three bronze a night, and it can’t be that Serpantoria scrap, it’s three-quarters lead.”
Brother Seven dropped three coins embossed with a triangle and a lightning bolt onto the table next to the man. He lowered his book at the sound of the money.
“Ah, Magneto Mountain,” he said, inspecting them in the light of the fire, “that’ll do just fine. You can grab any room number off the wall there.”
Brother Seven walked over to a row of keys and grabbed the one with a red 7 on it.
“Round the back side, you’ll see it. Food and drink in the bar if you want,” he said as he buried his face back in the book.
Brother Seven walked back outside, started his bike and rode it around through the alley to the back of the inn. He found number 7, opened it, and rode his bike right into the room. Judging by the oil stains on the floor he wasn’t the first one to do it either. The room was sparse, with a gray wool blanket on the bed. Brother Seven killed the engine and positioned the bike so that it was facing the door.
He pulled up a chair and unrolled his toolkit on the bed. On the road, a man was only as good as his bike. Neglect it and it will leave you, usually in the worst time and place possible. As a man who earned a living getting around he always took time to make sure his bike was taken care of. He was checking the oil when he heard three soft knocks on the door.
Brother Seven pulled his pistol out and moved quietly to the window. From the thin sliver of space between the curtain he could see a cloaked man standing quietly at his door, his face obscured. Then four more knocks.
“Death makes all things equal,” the man said through the door.
“We are death,” Brother Seven said.
“And as seven we balance the scales.”
Brother Seven opened the door, pistol pointed at the man’s stomach. He stepped back as the man walked into the room and shut the door. The visitor pulled back his hood to reveal his dirty, hardened face.
“Brother Three, a welcome sight.”
“I’ve secured passage for us across the Brine,” Brother Three said. “I’ve been waiting for you in the outskirts, sheltering with the shine. They’ve been keeping watch for you. They alerted me to your arrival.”
“I was expecting to catch up with you somewhere in the Northwood,” Brother Seven said. “Let me secure my gear and we can go.”
“I’m parked around the corner,” Brother Three said, “Meet me one mile west along the banks, and be swift, word is that there are Paradoxium body trackers headed this way.” He pulled his hood back over his head and slipped out the door. Brother Seven waited for a minute to prevent them being spotted together. Once he felt he had a good lead he opened the door, fired up his bike, and rode out.
Brother Seven looked down the alley to his right. The man from the inn was standing there pointing at him, behind him were two men clad in black leather. Apparently Brother Three wasn’t the only one with people watching for his arrival.
“Hey, you! Stop right there!” one of the men said. Brother Seven turned the bike hard and was off down the alley. The riders pulled their pistols out and began firing. Bullets ricocheted off the cobblestones and walls. Brother Seven ripped open the throttle, his rear tire sliding sideways on the slick stones. He made it to the first cross street and turned right. As he roared past, the townsfolk scrambled in every direction, running for cover.
He weaved in and out of a couple streets to try to draw the riders off, but he knew they would be hard on his tail. Once he got his bearing he flew up an alleyway and headed west. He cleared the last few buildings and opened up the throttle. He found a dirt path next to the river and moved as quickly as possible with only the rising moonlight to guide him. Then he saw the eyes glowing in the darkness, like wild animals lying in wait. Although this time Brother Seven knew they were there to help.
He sped past and continued up the path another hundred feet when he saw Brother Three. He pulled off the path and made his way to the river bank. Brother Three was waiting there with a shine. They had already loaded his bike onto the boat and there was a wooden plank set up for Brother Seven. He rode straight up and into the boat.
Back from the direction he came, Brother Seven heard the body tracker’s bikes coming, and then the sound of a crash. There was a shrill cry and then all was silent. As they finished securing his bike to the boat the four shine returned. One of them was carrying a freshly harvested human leg, which he had slung over his shoulder.
As he climbed up into the boat he eyed Brother Seven up with a smile. “A guy’s gotta eat, it’s a long trip back through the Northwood.”
“These two is gonna take the bikes,” one of the other shine said, pointing to the two shine who had ambushed the trackers. “There’s good money to be had from them. Me and Stills here will get you ‘cross the Brine and through the Northwood. We got family on the other side that’ll get us some rides. You blokes ready? Let’s shove off.”
The two remaining shine pushed the boat from the banks of the river and they drifted out. The boat driver fired up the engine and then spun them around, heading north across the river.
“Did you have any trouble leaving Paradoxium?” Brother Three asked.
“No, but I was followed into the hills. I brought a friend to help me set a trap,” Brother Seven said.
Brother Three smiled knowingly. “Ah, excellent.”
“The men I killed in the hills, they were military. I’m assuming the man I assassinated was not a trade merchant?” Brother Seven asked.
“No, he was a Paradoxium racer by the name of Chason,” Brother Three said. “For now, just know that you did well. The rest of the brothers will be pleased.”