Tyler and Kovan weren’t the first to arrive at the Volcan grounds.

But they certainly brought a fresh bout of cheer that threatened to bust Tyler’s ear-drums. Even he was surprised at the sudden change in chant, where the cry of his name rose sharply in decibel and eclipsed all other Torches.

He had his second race only two fortnights ago – the match being set once every two weeks – and even then, he only came in fifth place. So he was surprised over the level of attention and frenzy he caught.

His ponderings were rudely disturbed, when someone banged into his shoulder, rushing ahead with every ounce of vehemence, pausing after a few strides to throw back a challenging glare. Tyler bit back a grunt and kept a straight face to keep from satisfying the assailant that his boorish provocation succeeded.

Since the party, Kovan had warned him about race taunts at the actual Volcan grounds. Normally, blatantly subbing other bondsmen in the presence of their owner was akin to insulting the Echelon themselves.

Not in the case of Torch racing. It was virtually accepted, encouraged even, to some extent, as the visible rivalry served to heighten spectator interest. Their owners seemed to unanimously agree on this, suddenly giving the Torches a wide berth, falling behind whilst the Torches strode ahead to the front pavilion at the head of the Volcan track.

It was sickening, really, like bile in Tyler’s gut, that the Echelon relished in seeing such childish enmity. Tyler told himself he was beyond such foul behavior. Determined, he made no effort to retaliate against the aggressive jibes of the other Torches.

They were especially scathing, claiming his first two runs were a fluke. One sneered at his ‘beginner’s luck.’ Another cursed and spat at his feet for coming ahead of him. Someone else vowed to make him ‘eat his dust’. The top three, just ridiculed him.

And of course, this hateful, derisive conduct were directed from one Torch to the next, at each and every one amongst them.

Clement was the only one who didn’t play in the charade, looking as unbothered and unaffected as preserved Sycamores trunks.

Tyler resolved to take Clement’s cool and aloof cue, but found it difficult for him. Tyler wasn’t exactly a push over after all. He was going to wear out his jaw for grinding his teeth so hard in effort of keeping backing his retorts. He shuffled from one foot to another, waiting impatiently for the ceremony to get on.

Like the previous race, the Torches’ mini spit-fighting episode was intended to incite their audience, and was dragged on long enough till the Echelon started stomping their feet, as if calling on for rain and thunder.

Their thunder-making ceased when the Atari ascetics entered, changed into raucous applause and cheer.

The Torches then entered the pavilion that had Serpent’s breath and Sycamore branches loosely curved over their heads as roofs. All twelve of them took up a place in marked positions on the rough cut Silica dais. Each of them, had an ascetic – of a mix of men and women with heads entirely shorn, save for a center braid lining their cranium like the backbone of a dragon – stepping up to them.

Like a purposeful show, the Torches stripped their tunics, remaining only in their short, fitted pants and heavy boots. They handed their tops to the arms held open before them, then dropped to one knee, resting an elbow on the propped knee and keeping their heads slightly bowed.

The ascetics carefully folded their garbs, keeping them to their chests, then in a flash of an eye, their hands disappeared into their large, sweeping sleeves and reappeared with fists clenched.

On a timely, mental count that seemed to be done telepathically, they released the dust clenched inside their fists, spraying over the Torches with glittering dust that drizzled over them like a pinkish-yellow cloud.

“May Atari bless you!” they chanted in unison, repeating the line twelve times, chorus taken up by the eagerly anticipating crowd watching from the floating isles above.

Tyler felt his lips crawl into a baffled smile. The whole ritual served nothing more than a pretty spectacle. The only basis for drawing on Atari, was the Spirit’s symbolism of fire, accounted in the stuff of old folk tales and myths that had no real grounds. There weren’t even many Atari believers to begin with – nor for any of the other Spirits in lore – so this ceremony was rather unnecessary.

Regardless, he went through with it quietly – not like he could comment or be excused from it, and once that was done, he remembered to feel nervous.

Or rather, fear, visited him starting from quaking his legs, sinking under his skin and latching onto the veins that extended through his body. Every fiber tensed, demanding he about-turn and walk away from this, from the much dreaded sport that threatened to kill him with every step. His chest already started galloping like a spooked camel though the race has yet to even start.

Tyler drew a deep breath, forcing himself to steady his beating heart, whilst he and the other contenders stepped down from the pavilion and headed for their starting positions.

Each Torch to his own lane. Each, racing against his own death.

In the brief time it took to reach his position, his inner mantra of calming himself, had succeeded sufficiently.

He knelt on the racing track, positioning one knee on the rough ground and stretching the other foot backwards, thick, tough heel kissing the rough pebbled track.

He avoided looking at the other Torches lined up on his left and right, focusing instead on long, winding snake of vivid sienna before him, that streaked the rest of the sun-baked, crusty, sandy grounds. Reaching only five hundred meters, the distance was nothing to sweat over, if the track was not combustible.

As it was, the cursed path were laid with Volcan stones, which erupted into flames with little friction and if it was heated for long enough, and at temperatures high enough. Dug from the treacherous valleys spread across the sprawling desert for as far as the eye can see, these minerals were painstakingly and deliberately laid in tightly compacted arrangements, so that there are no loose stones that could make the runners slip. It was a thoughtful attempt, in a cold exploit that was nothing short of murder.

And because the lanes were lined so close to one another – about an arm’s length – any Torch who was not in first position, was in danger of getting burnt alive. Like in Tyler’s very first race, a rouge spark from the lane next to his, had hijacked his track. Hence, fire spread and raced down towards him, sandwiching him in between two torrents that rushed to devour him from both directions.

It was a miracle he nearly doubled in speed, sprinting so fast the fires couldn’t cling to him. At most, just the tips of his unruly, shoulder-length hair, were singed, which didn’t matter any way since it got rid of his brittle ends.

If not for the horrors held on the race grounds, the location was rather picturesque, nestled within the heart of a stretch of mountainous valleys encircling the plot, the jagged crowns gleaming pale gold under the noon sun.

It was there in the far-off distance that Tyler focused his gaze.

Aim for beyond the finishing line, and you’ll go further, he reminded himself with Joah’s words, remembering all the training he had done under his watchful, but caring eyes. In contrast, Owner had not supervised his training; only fetched him to and fro practice grounds outside the city quadrants, somewhere in the vast, inhospitable, barren desert. Kovan seemed to be busy with many things, of which was a given since the man did not use the service of runners, nor did he have any other bondsmen under him. Tyler didn’t think he had any other workmen from the Middle quadrant under his employ either, which was almost inconceivable.

As inconceivable as the hearty meal Tyler was sure would be prepared by Owner himself when they return to the abode, as like what he did for both his earlier races. He briefly wondered how many bondsmen were fortunate enough to taste their owner’s cooking.

Then again, his lot as a Torch was counted as wildly unfortunate.

If he was lucky, he would be able to taste Owner’s cooking again later.

A long whistle pierced the air, signaling the countdown to the start of the race. Short shrills followed after, punctuated in intervals, jolting his heart at each call.

He would probably never get over the frenzy gripping him.

He scarcely breathed at the last shrill. Then a horn blared, and he was off.

Fifty meters.

The roar of stones combusting started nary as soon as the race started. The continuous thunder sent a ringing in his ears, louder than the cries of the crowd and even thunder in a heavy sandstorm.

Hundred meters.

He took measured breaths of air, intake large and sharp to fulfill the demands of his lings. His muscles pumped full of adrenaline, body driven by the searing heat at his back.

Hundred and fifty...

Heat swathed in from both lanes at his sides, pressing in, threatening. He pushed harder and gritted his teeth, sucking in sharply, air almost cutting the corners of his wide-stretched lips.

Never look back.

At the halfway mark, he fought the urge to throw a glance back to check how close the flames were to reaching him. He didn’t need to anyway – he already knew how the reaper looked like dressed in burning cloaks of flame.

Three hundred.

The short race seemed to stretch into a long road of fighting the limits of his mind and body.

But he made it, bounding past the end of the sienna track.

Relief swept in like the first rain after a hot summer’s drought.

He slowed to a jog, keeping a beeline to the resting pavilion where their owners were seated and waiting. He counted four backs presented before him, also headed for the resting area – which meant he finished fifth again. He should be pleased with himself for his consistency but for the moment, he was just glad to be alive. From the back, he still sort of recognized the other Torches from their hair and heights, and noted that the previous top three were not all there – one was replaced by the fourth, and the fourth, was the previous sixth.

He barely took ten paces, when the crowd’s fervent roar heightened to an odd pitch. Screams pierced the sound of fire still roaring on the grounds. Sensing something amiss, he turned back, and gasped.