Red Rising — Chapter 31: The Fall of Mustang

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The Fall of Mustang

I ride dressed for war. All in black. Hair wild and bound by goatgut.

Forearms covered with durosteel vambraces looted in battle. My

durosteel cuirass is black and light; it will deect any edge less than

an ion blade or a razor. My boots are muddy. Streaks of black and

red go across my face. SlingBlade on my back. Knives everywhere.

Nine red crossbones and ten wolves cover Quietus’s ank. Lea

painted them. Each bone is an incapacitated opponent, who are

often healed by medBots and then thrown back into the fray. Each

wolf a slave. Cassius rides at my side. He shimmers. The durosteel

he received as a bounty is polished as bright as his glimmering

sword and his hair, which bounces like coiled golden springs about

his regal head. It’s as though he’s never been stood around and

pissed on.

“Well, I do believe I am the lightning,” Cassius declares. “And

you, my brooding friend, are the thunder.”

“Then what am I?” Roque asks, kicking his horse up beside us.

Mud ies. “The wind?”

“You’re full enough of it,” I snort. “The hot sort.”

The House rides behind us. All of it except Quinn and June, who

stay behind as our castle’s garrison. It is a gamble. We ride slowly so

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that Minerva knows we are coming. What they do not know is that I

was there in the night just hours before and that Sevro is there now.

Mud still sticks underneath my ngernails.

Minerva’s scouts dart across their rocky hilltops. They make a

show of mocking us, but really they count our number to better

know our strategy. Yet they seem confused when we ride into their

country of high grass and olive trees. So confused that they

withdraw their scouts behind their walls. We’ve never come in full

force like this. The Howlers, our scouts, ride in full view on their

black horses, black cloaks uttering like crow wings. Our highDraft

killers move as the vanguard of the main body—cruel Vixus, craggy

Pollux, spiteful Cassandra, many of Titus’s band. The slaves jog

about their owners, those who captured them.

I ride forward with Cassius and Antonia anking me. She carries

the standard today. Only a few archers man the walls, so I tell

Cassius to make sure we are not ambushed from the anks in case

any of Minerva are about. He gallops away.

Minerva’s fortress is ringed by a hundred meters of barren earth

made mud from the torrential rains of the last week. It is the killing

eld. Step into the ring and the archers will try and kill your horse.

If you still do not retreat, they will try to kill you. Nearly twenty

horses of both Houses litter the eld. Cassius led a bloody assault on

a Minervan warband up to the very gates of the castle itself just two

days before.

Beyond the killing eld is grass. Oceans of grass so high in some

places that Sevro could stand tall and still not be seen. We stand at

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the edge of the mud ring amidst a meadow of autumn wildowers.

The ground squishes underfoot and Quietus whinnies beneath me.

“Pax!” I then shout. “Pax.”

I hurl the name against the walls until their main gate opens

ponderously, as ponderously as it once opened that night when

Cassius and I snuck inside. Mustang rides out. She trots slowly

through the mud and pulls short of us. Her eyes take in everything.

“Is it to be a duel?” she asks with a grin. “Pax of Wise and Noble

Minerva versus the Reaper of the Bloody Butcher House?”

“You make it sound so exciting,” Antonia yawns. She’s not got a

spot of dirt on her.

Mustang ignores her.

“And you’re sure you’ve no one hiding in that grass waiting to

ambush us when we come out to support our champion?” Mustang

asks me. “Should we burn it and nd out?”

“We’ve brought everyone,” Antonia says. “You know our

numbers.”

“Yes. I can count. Thank you.” Mustang doesn’t look at her. Just

at me. She seems worried; her voice lowers. “Pax will hurt you.”

“Pax, how are your balls?” I shout over her head. She winces as a

drum beats suddenly from inside the fortress. Except it’s not a drum.

Pax comes out of the gate. His war axe thumps his shield. Mustang

shouts him back and he obeys like a dog, but the beating of the axe

on the shield does not cease. We agree that the stakes should be all

the remaining slaves between the two of us. A hefty bounty.

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“I thought Handsome was the duelist?” Mustang says, then

shrugs. Her eyes keep going to the grass. “Where is that mad fellow?

Your shadow—the one who leads that wolfpack? Is he hiding in the

grass? I don’t want him popping up behind me again.”

I shout for Sevro. A hand rises amongst the Howlers. Mud covers

the faces that peer out from beneath the black wolfcloaks. Mustang

counts. All ve Howlers accounted for. In fact, all our forces save

one, Quinn, are accounted for. Still Mustang isn’t satised. We are

to remove our army six hundred meters from the edge of the mud

ring. She will burn away all the grass within one hundred meters of

where we now stand. When the grass is done burning, the scorched

earth will be the duel eld. Ten men of her choosing will join ten of

my choosing in creating a circle in which to ght. The rest of hers

will stay inside the city, and mine will stay six hundred meters

removed.

“Don’t trust me?” I ask. “I don’t have men in the grass.”

“Good. Then no one will burn.”

No one burns. When the re dwindles and the ground is all ash

and smoke and mud within the killing eld, I leave my army. Ten of

mine accompany me. Pax thumps his war axe on a shield

emblazoned with a woman’s head, her hair all of snakes. Medusa.

I’ve never fought a man with a shield before. His armor is tight and

covers everything but his joints. I heft a stunpike in the hand I’ve

painted red and my slingBlade in the hand I’ve painted black.

My heart rattles as the circle forms around us. Cassius motions me

over. Even in the muted light, he glows with color. He shares an

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ironic smile.

“Never stop moving. It’s like Kravat, this.” He eyes Pax. “And

you’re faster than this gory bastard. Right?” I get a wink. He thumps

me on the shoulder. “Right, brother?”

“Damn right.” I return his wink.

“Thunder and lightning, brother. Thunder and lightning!”

Pax is built like an Obsidian. He’s over seven feet tall, easliy, and

he moves like a bloodydamn panther. In this .37grav, he could

throw me thirty meters or more. I wonder how high he can jump. I

jump to stretch my legs. Nearly three meters. I can easily clear his

head. The ground still smokes.

“Jump. Jump, little grasshopper,” he grumbles. “It’ll be the last

time you use your legs.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“I said it’ll be the last time you use your legs.”

“Odd,” I murmur.

He blinks at me and frowns. “What’s … odd?”

“You sound like a girl. Did something happen to your balls?”

“You little …”

Mustang trots up with their standard and says something about

girls never challenging each other to stupid duels. “The duel is to—”

“Yielding,” Pax says impatiently.

“To the death,” I correct. Really it doesn’t matter. I’m just

screwing with them at this point. All I have to do is give the signal.

“To yielding,” Mustang conrms. She nishes necessaries and the

duel begins. Almost. A series of pops in the sky above signal sonic

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booms as the Proctors come join us from Olympus. They spin down

from their high-oating mountain, coming from several dierent

towers. Each wears his or her sign today, great headpieces of

glittering gold. Their armor is a spectacle. They do not need it, but

they love to dress up. Today they’ve brought a table with them. It

oats on its own gravLift, supporting huge agons of wine and trays

of food as they set to having a dinner party.

“I hope we’re sucient entertainment,” I cry up. “Mind dropping

some wine? It’s been a while!”

“Good luck against the titan, little mortal!” Mercury cries down.

His baby face laughs jovially and he showily brings a agon of wine

to his lips. Some of it tumbles the quarter mile from the sky to fall

on my armor. It drips down like blood.

“I suppose we ought to give them a show,” Pax booms.

Pax and I share a real grin. It’s a compliment, of sorts, that they

would all come to watch. Then Neptune, her trident headdress

wobbling as she swallows a quail egg, shouts for us to get on with it,

and Pax’s axe sweeps at my legs like an evil broom. I know he wants

me to jump, because he’s about to charge forward with his shield to

swat me from the air like a y. So I step back, then spring forward

as his arm nishes its stroke. He’s moving too, but upward in

anticipation, so I shoot right past his right arm and jam the stunpike

into his armpit with all of my strength. It snaps in half. But he

doesn’t fall even as electricity courses through him. Instead, he

backhands me so hard that I y through the circle and into the mud.

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Broken molar. Mouthful of mud and blood. Whiplash. I’m already

rolling.

I stumble to my feet with my slingBlade. Mud covers me. I glance

at the walls. Their army rings the parapet—couldn’t help but watch

the champions ght. This is the point. I could give the signal. The

gates are open in case they have to send aid. Our nearest horseman

is six hundred meters away, much too far. I planned for that. Yet I

do not signal. I want my own victory today, even if it’s a selsh one.

My army has to know why I lead.

I come back into the circle. I have nothing clever to say. He’s

stronger. I’m faster. That’s all we’ve learned about one another. This

is not like Cassius’s ght. There is no pretty form. Only brutality. He

bashes me with his shield. I stay close so he can’t swing his axe. The

shield is ruining my shoulder. Every strike shoots agony into my

molar. He lunges with it again and I jump, pull on the shield with

my left hand and launch myself over him. A knife ickers from my

wrist and I stab it at his eyes as I pass. I miss and scrape his helmet’s

visor.

Putting a little distance between us, I reach for a knife and try a

familiar trick. He bats the ying blade away contemptuously with

his shield. But when he lowers it to look at me, I’m in the air,

landing on his shield with all my weight. The suddenness of it pulls

the shield down just a hair. I slam mud into his helmet with my o

hand.

He’s blind. One hand holds the axe. One holds the shield. Neither

can wipe his visor clean. It’d be a simple matter if he could just do

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that. But he can’t. I hit him a dozen times on his wrist till he drops

his axe. Then I take the monstrous thing and hit him on the helmet

with it. The armor still doesn’t break. He almost knocks me

unconscious with his shield. I swing the heavy axe again and nally

Pax crumples. I fall to a knee, panting.

Then I howl.

They all howl.

Howls ll the lands of Minerva. Howls from my far-distant army.

Howls from my ten highDraft killers who help make this dueling

circle. Howls from the killing eld. Mustang hears the dread sound

behind her and she wheels her horse. Her face is one of terror.

Howls from the laughing Proctors, except Minerva, Apollo, and

Jupiter. Howls from the bellies of the dead horses in the middle of

the killing eld. The ones near her open gate.

“They’re in the mud!” Mustang shouts.

She’s almost right. But she thinks like a Gold. Someone screams as

they see Sevro and his Howlers cutting their way out of the stitched-

up bellies of the dead and bloated horses that litter the mud up to

the gate. Like demons being born, they slither from swollen guts and

parted stomachs. A half-score of House Diana’s best soldiers exit

with them. Tactus and his spiked hair burst from the belly of a pale

mare. He runs with Weed and Thistle and Clown. All within fty

meters of the ponderously slow gates.

The Minervan guards all stand upon the ramparts watching the

duel. They cannot repel the sudden blitz of demon soldiers by

closing their slow gates. They hardly manage to nock and draw their

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bows before Sevro, the Howlers, and our allies slip through the

closing gate. On the other side of the city, the House Diana’s soldiers

will be slowly scaling the walls with the ropes they use to climb

their silly trees. Yes. The whistle sounds now from the other side. A

guard there has seen them. No one will come help him. My army

moves forward, even the fake Howlers we borrowed from Diana and

dressed up to look like Sevro and his band.

We destroy House Minerva in minutes. High above, the Proctors

still howl and laugh. I think they are drunk. It is over before

Mustang can do anything except gallop away across the muddy eld

through the still-smoldering grass. A dozen horses set o in pursuit,

Vixus and Cassandra amongst them. She’ll be caught before

nightfall, and I’ve seen what Vixus does to prisoners and their ears,

so I mount Quietus and set o in pursuit.

Mustang abandons her horse at the edge of a small wood to the

south. We dismount and leave three men to guard the horses in case

she doubles back. Cassandra plunges into the woods. Vixus follows

me, purposefully stalking as though I might know where Mustang is

hiding. I do not like this. I do not like being in the woods with Vixus

and Cassandra. All it would take is a blade in the spine. Either

would do it. Unlike Pollux, they still hate me, and my Howlers and

Cassius are far away. Yet no knife comes.

I nd Mustang by mistake. Two golden eyes peer out from a pit of

mud. They meet mine. Vixus is with me. He swears something about

how excited he is to break the gorydamn mare, see what she looks

like with a bridle on. Standing there, leering into the brush, he looks

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bent and twisted and evil—like a withered tree after a re. He has

less bodyfat than anyone I’ve ever seen, so each of his veins and

tendons ripple beneath his tight skin. His tongue its over his

perfect teeth. I know he’s goading me, so I lead him away from the

mud pit.

Eo didn’t deserve to die a slave to the Society. And despite her

Color, Mustang doesn’t deserve any sort of bridle.

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