She feels them before she sees them, the thundering of hooves raising a hum on the road that makes the stones dance. A cloud of dust boils out of the south, and within the dust, the long shapes of lances, the cut of a bright pennant, and then suddenly, the skull of a horse, clutched in the hands of the lead rider.
Shroudweaver lets out a yell at this, and the distant racers yell in response, a savage whoop that echoes back from the stones of the houses.
The leader is topless, high in the saddle, his chest and face painted with white and yellow bands, streaked like the rising sun. The skull is tucked under one arm as the other cups his horse’s jaw, steering its head straight on down the track.
About a mile out, and with the speed of them, Shipwright realises they have a couple of minutes at best. She watches Shroudweaver’s delighted face, and an idea hits her.
She grabs his wrist. ‘Come with me. Run!’
To his credit, he doesn’t bat an eyelid, just turns and follows her pell-mell over the grass. They’re both laughing like idiots, breathless, arms windmilling.
She drags him to their horse, unhitches it, and mounts up.
The riders are near now, a minute at most. She takes his arm, pulling him up behind her. ‘Come on!’
‘What are we doing?’ he shouts, his voice muddled with laughter, as their horse picks up pace.
She pulls his hand tight around her waist, gives his fingers a squeeze. A surge of elation in her heart.
‘Joining the race!’
Their horse is a little slower with two riders, its stubby coast-cliff legs no match for the horses of the Cut, these white and dappled things that seem to have fallen loose from the hills and dropped, lithe and speeding onto the homestead road.
They have a few moments on the pack though, and they peeloff at an angle that brings them onto the road just as the jostling mob of hooves and dust draws level.
Perhaps twenty riders in all, daubed and painted with bright stripes in varying slashes and swirls. Lean and tough looking, some of them as young as the roadside teens, others with a steel slash of years at their temples and brow.
All of them as one glance at the pair thundering up on their squat brown horse. All of them as one let loose a yell of delight and joy at the strangeness of it.
The lead rider stands high in the saddle, beckoning them, his legs swaying with the thunder of his horse below him. ‘Come in strangers, bring your short-legged creature in! Ride your dog with us a while!’ He howls uproariously, then jukes as a pennant marked with a white vine swings at him, and hands lash out for the skull. He hollers his horse onward and ducks away laughing.
The pack parts to let them in, the leader’s horse skull slipping to one side. He dodges a green pennant with a blue flower couched beneath its rider’s arm, as another woman draws level with him, her colours flashing orange and red.
For a moment, Shipwright and Shroudweaver hold their own.
The lead rider shouts encouragement, and the woman with the orange pennant blows a kiss to Shipwright as she sails past.
Over her shoulder, Shroudweaver chuckles. ‘I think this invalidates my bet.’
Shipwright whoops in response, her heart surging with joy. For the first time in weeks, her mind is clean, clear of worry, nothing in her body but the rush of speed and the thud of her horse’s hooves on the packed earth.
They keep pace for a few seconds more, before their little horse starts to tire, and she chucks gently on the reins to ease its wheezing lungs. The other racers thunder past, their hooves turning the rich, dark earth, the dappled bodies of their horses parting around Shipwright like river water.
As the pack pulls ahead, the dust swirls behind them in a haze of petals. The lead rider turns his head back, eyes alight withspeed. His gaze etched into the whitened sockets of his face as he yells a farewell. ‘Dog-riders! Grey legions on the march in the south! The crow’s got legs. Better hope you’re as fast as us!’
His friend’s horse barrels into him, sending both animals staggering. For a moment, the skull wobbles, then is caught again. Raucous laughter over the plains, as they cut their necks lower to their animals, striving for every ounce of speed.
Behind them, Shipwright pulls their horse to the side of road. As they dismount, it’s mobbed by the crowd, bringing water and garlands of flowers, ruffling its hair and feeding it treats.
She bends to the knees, catches her breath. Shroudweaver rubs her back in soft, even motions. Her head is still buzzing with adrenaline
As she heaves in a lungful of fresh air, a broad-cheeked woman pats her on the shoulder.
‘A good race. A brave little horse you’ve got there. Strong littlemushki.’ She twines her thick black braids. ‘I’ll buy him from you?’
Shipwright shakes her head. ‘No, we need him.’
The woman tuts, reaches into her kirtle for coins. ‘Need him for what?’
