Pirin couldn’t hope to match the speed of the other riders on the straightaway. They were simply too fast atop their birds.
He guided Gray to the edge of the canyon wall, as close as he could get to the rock ledges and trees, and stayed out of the other racers’ way. The others fought for any lead they could get, and it was fighting. A rider beside him drew a crossbow and shot at another bird. Pirin couldn’t tell if the bolt hit.
He dipped beneath a stray rock that someone flung from a slingshot, then navigated around the crashing carcass of another bird. A rider used a subtle, underhanded Assault technique—she shot a blast of wind at an opponent out the palm of her hand. It split the air with the shrill cry of a falcon and fluttering feathers.
Two more riders used the technique subtly. It must have been a comment technique for most wizards with bird Familiars. He’d have to learn how to do that at some point.
When Pirin looked ahead, the pack had thinned out a little. He hadn’t passed anyone, but riders had been knocked out of the sky by their fellow racers. Pirin swallowed, recalling the threats that Garrosen had made against him.
No, no, now wasn’t the time to think about that.
The straightaway ended with an abrupt hairpin turn. Pirin navigated Gray around the corner so tight that he could almost touch one of the spindly trees sprouting from the canyon wall. Gnatsnappers were agile, sure, but the other riders should have been able to make that turn…
Pirin turned tighter than everyone else.
His lips curled upwards at the realization. These wizards were so used to their enhanced bodies—of them and their Familiars—that they’d just rely on brute force to plow through the air. They had no agility.
He focussed on taking the tightest, most perfect lines though the winding section of the canyon. Leaning into Gray to make himself more aerodynamic, he also lowered his center of gravity and made her more maneuverable.
They crawled ahead of three more places. A crossbow bolt shot past beneath him, fired by one of the angry riders, and he gasped. The bolt whistled harmlessly overhead.
Ahead, a bridge ran across the canyon. Gray had to tuck in her wings close to her body to make it through the tight supports, and by the time they reached the other side, she’d lost so much altitude they were nearly skimming the river. She fluttered faster and harder just to rise back up to the level of the other riders.
When Pirin rose up to the level of the other riders, he cursed himself. In all of his concentration on their course and his competitors, he’d forgotten one thing: his breathing technique.
In through his nose, out through his mouth, in through his nose, out through his mouth, in—
He took a corner tight, and gasped when the pilot in front of him smashed into the rocky canyon wall. He caught his breath on instinct, cutting off the breathing technique.
Start again, he whispered to himself. He had to keep calm and focussed, keep his Essence flowing through his veins, and let the flying be instinct. It was the only way.
They shot around another corner. Pirin pulled up to avoid the largest, central cluster of racers and hopefully pass over them, until he saw the route markers—sticks painted with lumawhale oil—at the top of the canyon. If he flew above them, that’d surely be a disqualification.
And so he dipped down, immersing himself in the pack once again. He breathed in and out and in and out, starting the cycle anew. He let his conscious mind fade and subconscious take over.
He made, he forced, the faint wind to help him.
In his mind, in his memory, the canyon turned into a vast forest. He raced through a maze of trees instead of stoney walls. He was younger, by a year or two, but he had been on a quest—an adventure—and the race had been the only way to get something he needed. Just the same as now, except…it had been smaller in the past.
It was a memory.
This time, Pirin didn’t let it fade. He didn’t let his mind take over; he kept his breathing pattern strong and he let his instincts help him pilot Gray.
In one eye, it seemed, he watched the current race. In the other eye, he recalled the forest flight. He felt the nuances of riding a gnatsnapper. He recalled the exact right pressure he needed to navigate Gray, and the exact angles she was capable of turning at—and how to make it happen.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
His experience came rushing back through the strength of his Bloodline Talent.
In the blink of an eye, they neared the finish line of the first lap of the canyon. They shot through an old water wheel poking out the side of the rock wall. In his memories, he turned Gray sideways to fit through a pair of close trees. In the present, a pair of angry racers tried to press him against the canyon wall as he overtook them. In his memory, a strong gust of wind had pushed him off course.
At the start of the second lap, he was in the middle of the pack. But the middle wouldn’t be good enough. Gray was flapping as fast as she could, and she wouldn’t be able to maintain the speed for another lap after.
Unless…
Pirin leaned out to the side until he could see Gray’s eye. He reached out and, without breaking his breathing, he tried to form a link with his gnatsnapper’s mind. It failed once, then twice, then twice more. On the fifth try, he cemented the link.
He fed her his feelings—his normal, non-tired feelings. He allowed her to push herself faster around the corners, faster down the straightaway. Most importantly, on the tight turns, when skill and agility were paramount, he pulled back and took the corners with grace.
As Gray’s exhaustion filtered into his body, his own memories blurred. His mind accelerated and raced onwards, slipping ever away from him—and further into the past.
Glimpses of his past surged through his mind, and he couldn’t tell what half of them were except for empty images. The snow-shrouded island, his training, the blonde-haired sprite with antlers and a spear…
And then his mind started whirling. He saw more and more distant and blurry images—armies clashing, empty halls and hundreds of advisors, countless elven weddings, countless wars, countless courts, countless sessions of training, learning magic, and learning to fight.
None of them were his own memories anymore. Sometimes, he was a child, and sometimes, an elderly elven queen. Sometimes, just a middle-aged elf sitting on a leafy throne, staring at maps and advisors and all the dull drudgery that came with nobility.
Pirin’s head stung, like someone had rammed a beehive and all its contents through his ear. His Essence quivered, and his veins burned, and he didn’t realize it until a blast of blue sparks and Essence shot out of his hand. It nearly tore Gray’s wing off.
He held his breath and stopped his Essence in its place. He breathed, “What was that?” More appropriately, whose memories had those been?
It didn’t matter—not right now. Right now, he had a race to win, and he wasn’t doing a very good job at it. As his mind cleared, he became aware that they were entering the last lap, and he and Gray were slowing down. Already, a pair of racers overtook them.
“One last push,” Pirin whispered to Gray. “We have to do this.”
They blasted over the starting line. The crowd was cheering, but not for them. Pirin entered his trance again, and he tried to keep his mind tight—keep to his own memories, rather than those of whoever else he had observed, all while staying lucid.
Once he restarted his breathing technique, he bolstered Gray’s mind again, keeping her exhaustion at bay and absorbing it into his own body. Droplets of sweat beaded above his eyebrows and lips, and his back felt tired, like he’d been lifting crates all day.
At the third corner after the straightaway, Pirin could see the front of the pack. There were three racers, all battling for first. One rode a giant blue-jay, and the other two rode birds the shape of magpie—only these massive magpies were all white. The rider in the lead wore a gold-gilded cloak. Garrosen Tereau. Pirin’s eyes widened.
The three wizards blasted gusts of wind at each-other, or tried to push each other into rock walls and dried trees. One pulled a longbow off her shoulder and pointed it at the other. She fired it, but her target Manifested a wall of feather-textured Essence, blocking the arrow. It was pure white, matching the colour of his mount.
Pirin just had to get in front of the dueling wizards. “Just a little faster, Gray…just a little faster.”
His words trickled over into his own thoughts and fed into Gray’s mind. But she couldn’t go any faster.
As they rounded another corner, Pirin took it tighter than the other pilots. One of the gnatsnapper riders spun out of control, blasted by a stray Assault technique. He pulled in front of the other two. Garrosen let out a shout of rage, and his white magpie’s wingbeats thrummed faster in the air behind.
Garrosen commanded the air with his Essence. With the power of his Path—whatever it might have been—he Manifested a talon-like hook out of nothing but air and whirling white feathers. He threw it at Pirin.
Pirin pulled Gray around a corner, again flying tighter than the other riders could have managed. The hook sliced just past his back, ripping off the tails of his coat. It smashed into the rock wall beside him and dislodged a spray of rocks, dirt, and wet snow. Gravel pelted Pirin and Gray. A stone tore through his coat and cut his flank, and another slit his cheek.
Gray squawked—she had been hit, too, but Pirin still maintained his slight interface with her mind. He only felt a twinge of pain in his arm, where a rock had struck them. Gray could keep flying, maintaining their lead.
They shot beneath the bridge, and instead of tucking in her wings, Gray turned sideways, keeping her speed and altitude. Pirin and Gray were neck and neck with Garrosen and his mount. The man shot a gust of wind at them, but it blasted high.
Pirin clenched his teeth together. They rounded the last corner tight enough that the top of Pirin’s riding helmet scraped the canyon wall, and Garrosen fell behind. Pirin looked over his shoulder, expecting his pursuer to conjure another blast of wind, but they were on the final stretch now—within sight of the audience. They might identify a wizard…
That, however, didn’t stop Garrosen. When Pirin inhaled, he could almost taste the Essence. Garrosen was conjuring a technique for a final, desperate attack. Pirin pulled Gray up toward a snowy ledge. He drew his sword and swept the snow off the ledge. It fell in Garrosen’s face.
The wizard sputtered and spat, and as he raged, he flew into a column of chimney smoke. He turned off-course, falling behind three more places.
Pirin and Gray dove towards the starting perch with a healthy lead. He pulled back on her nape just in time, and she ran the entire length of the perch to slow down.
The crowd…they cheered. And they cheered for him.
He had won.