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.