Sharr surveyed the priestly assembly and his eyes, intense and fiery, rested on the men and women standing before him like an eagle hovering over its prey. “You might be thinking, in your heart,” he thundered, “that you will be safe, that the magic of the Temple, the power of the Arayat will protect you, or that the creatures of the Pit at our disposal will stop him. Wake up! Wake up from your slumber, from your apathy, from the comfort and false security you derive from this hallowed hall. Know this: the power of the Letters is over all, above all, and stronger than all. After having consumed the entire world, he will walk alone, unloved, in the ruins of his own making, in the desolation of his conscience. The Seer will turn his attention to the Arayat and will consume it also.” Sharr’s voice echoed in the great hall like a thunderclap. “He will consume the Arayat, lay waste to its powers and destroy it utterly. Then, he will strip bare the great lid that keeps the Pit of Chaos shut, and he will take the true measure of the Pit and the Lords of Chaos locked within.” Sharr’s voice was now a controlled whisper. “And he will smile.” He paused, letting the image sink in his listeners’ mind. “He will smile,” he repeated softly. “And in the conceit of his heart,” he now shouted, “in the conceit of a heart whose wickedness is a greater hell than the hell of the Pit itself, he will open the Pit. He will release the Lords of Chaos, and will turn them into his minions. He will enslave them and from the ashes of your decaying bodies, he will raise you to life again, to a life so bleak and so putrid that it rivals the despair of death. He will raise you back to life only to kill you over and over again until at last, boredom and indifference will eat his own heart. And he will remain eternally alone on the surface of a scorched earth. When in the eons to come, he will have consumed the substance of the Lords of Chaos, the very marrow of their soul, he alone, like a terrible god of the vast nothingness that spans the space between us and the abode of the gods, will wander the earth the way death wanders a battlefield. There will be no one and nothing left to consume. Then his cry of despair, of hatred, of regret will be the only storm to rage on the surface of the earth for ages to come.”
Sharr surveyed the assembly once more. All eyes were on him. No one moved. “This cannot be,” he said, pounding the pulpit. “This must not happen. We are the faithful guardians of the Pit. The Lord Baal set us up to be a wall of safety, of protection, of providence to the whole world. It is we who will stop the Seer, who will save him from himself. Henceforth, I decree that it is the duty of every priest of Baal to stop the Seer. No other business, however pressing or important it may seem, must take precedence over this most noble task. Two Seers before him have risen, and both have been defeated by the Temple. This third Seer of Chaos will soon fall into our hands, and if he doesn’t, if he refuses to capitulate to the dictate of the Temple, we must destroy him.”
Sharr cocked his head and watched his fellow priests. They were listening with great intent and attention. He continued on a more measured and controlled voice. “We have unleashed a kôhrosh. But so far, the Seer has eluded even this great servant of Baal. Therefore, we must go after everyone he loves. If he doesn’t convert to Baal’s ways, we will destroy his homeland, Tanniin, by war and magic. We will capture and kill his family, his friends, and destroy everything he holds valuable to show him,” said Sharr, tapping the pulpit with his finger, “to show him his true self, to force him to give up and capitulate, to convince him of the evil of the Letters and turn him into a faithful servant of Baal. But if he refuses, if he resists, then we will send him to an eternity of suffering in the Arayat. Let the flow of blood begin, let the rivers of sorrow fill the earth. Let those who can mourn, mourn, those who can pray, pray, and those who can sing of despair, sing. Soon, the Temple will unleash such destruction upon the world, the likes of which has not been seen since the First Age of Blood, and may Baal have mercy on us all. But when the Seer sees the destruction he has wrought upon us, when he sees the bones piled up higher than the heavens, when he stands in the middle of this destruction and weeps, our sacrifices and the blood on our hands shall then be fully justified. For it is better to spill the blood of many than to let the whole world be destroyed.”
Sharr inhaled and closed his eyes. He waited a long time before resuming his speech. “I trust that you all know where your duties lie. The Temple has not faced a threat such as this one in a long time, and by the power of Baal, the Temple will prevail.”
“The Temple prevails,” came the thunderous reply.
Outside, dark storms blotted out the sun. Rain started to pour down on the streets of Babylon. The water, mixed with the red dirt, turned into a bloody stream, filling the entire city of Baal.
“Hey, Manassa, what are you doing here?”
The excitement that had been building for a few weeks had reached its apex. This was the day before the race, and the last day to place a bet. Manassa turned around and saw a giant named Ergel standing in line a few stands away from him. “I have a winner,” the thief exclaimed.
“Who is it?” Ergel asked, “A dumb legless blind?” All those standing in line to place their bets at the Wretched Race erupted in laughter.
“No,” Manassa replied with a grin, “much better than that.”
“Share the wealth, boy! Come on!” a giant behind him shouted. “Who are you betting on?”
“I am ostensibly betting on the illustrious Huska the Fat,” shouted a dwarf standing in front of Ergel.
“And you will ostensibly loose,” Ergel replied. “Huska the Fat is old history. Krom the Hunter will take him like, like —”
“Slippery Slued,” a young, pretty woman cut in. “Slippery Slued will outrun both of those guys like a horse outruns an old woman.”
“Maybe your Slippery Slued runs fast, but he is no match for Mango Karthal,” countered a female giant who had finished placing her bet. “He has survived many battles, and he will win this Race.”
“You’re all wrong,” a tall, skinny man interjected. “The Race requires more wit than strength. It takes someone who has been in the Race multiple times to win it. All these guys are newbies. I’ll bet on Sweet Gondolaz. She’ll win.”
“She’s a sweet baby crying for mama to pick her up,” Ergel protested.
The man snorted. “Better a shrewd baby than a dumb bull.”
“Your understanding is understated and you lack wise wisdom, my friends,” another dwarf said. “The racing race is a mysterious mystery that must be unraveled.”
“Even though I’m a giant,” another gambler thundered, “I agree with that dwarf over there. I hear that the traps this time are particularly difficult. Then, there’s the heat and lack of water, and what about sleeping without getting assassinated? All these competitors are brave and have experience in war and danger, but it requires someone with exceptional qualities to win the Race. I’ll bet on Quiet Surata. She’ll make it through, and she’ll be the only one standing in the arena.”
“So, Manassa,” Ergel yelled, “Who are you going to bet on?”
“Me?” Manassa said, a glint in his eye. “On all of them, of course.”
Ergel stopped in his tracks. Everyone turned and stared at Manassa, including the zakiruun who were memorizing the bets. “All of them? What do you mean by ‘all of them’? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“All of them,” Manassa shouted excitedly. He took a purse and gave it to the clerk behind the window. “Four hundred gold diegans, fifty to one on all players. That’s right, you heard me correctly … Well, if I want to waste my gold, I can well waste it, don’t you think? I want to bet four hundred gold diegans, fifty-to-one, on all players winning … yes, yes, that’s exactly what I want to do.”
Ergel stood transfixed with a sorrowful expression on his face, convinced that Manassa had lost his mind. It was simply impossible for all the participants to reach the finish line of the Wretched Race alive. The contest required the players to get rid of opponents as they raced the three-mile stretch from start to finish. Sure, the distance
was short, but no one had ever reached the end of it in less than two days. Even if a player did not fear the attacks of the other players, the traps the lizards were constructing and the attacks from the partisans guaranteed the death of at least several players.
“The poor lad,” Ergel murmured to himself. “He’s lost it. It has come to this, then.” He sighed heavily and proceeded to the window, where he placed his bet on Huska the Fat.
“Sleep, sweet baby, sleep.
There is nothing to fear.
Mama's love runs strong and deep,
She's watching over, you my dear.
But if sleep you'll not embrace,
She'll ship you to the Wretched Race.
Ahoy, mama boy, ahoy! To the Race
You'll go, with swords, daggers, and a mace.
Sleep, sweet baby, sleep.
There is nothing to fear.
The Race's love is strong and deep,
Your neck the Race will shear.”
–Fragment from a Maradite lullaby, adapted by rowdy sailors.
The following day, as the sun crested over high snow-covered peaks east of Cordoban, a long line of giants, dwarfs, and men waited patiently before the gates of a military compound located ten miles southeast of the capital. A mix of slaves, servants, and wealthy players had arrived in Cordoban expressly for the thrill of the Wretched Race. The northern and western sides of the compound were protected by a sixty-foot tall wall, and a steep ravine several hundred feet deep shielded the southern and eastern borders of the camp.
Once a year, this fortified plateau was converted into a racetrack for the duration of the Race of Kyril, otherwise known as the Wretched Race. The elite Shard Legion of the Maradite army, 4,320 strong, manned the high wall, ready to prevent the violent confrontations of the Wretched Race from spilling outside the confines of the arena. An hour trickled by, and another, and the waiting crowd continued to swell until the line reached the edge of the adjoining oak forest, nearly a mile away.
The racers were standing behind Rolyssan, an ancient gate that was once part of a massive protective wall. That wall was long gone, replaced by a tall enclosure where the racers waited. Alone, Rolyssan remained, like a watcher still keeping guard over the Maradite kingdom. A beast stood by the gate, its stony head set on top of a scaly green frame. Some believed Rolyssan was a beast-gate, a creature that tested travelers who came knocking. Those it found worthy, it let in, and those it did not were refused entry. Rolyssan had two thick iron panels, which were partially rusted. A worn-out etching of a cup on the face of each panel was barely visible. The easterly sun lit up the eyes of the beast, and they sparkled black and blue for a short moment before returning to their dull, monotonous gray.
At long last, the sound of a powerful gong rang six times through the area and the four massive stone gates of the compound slowly opened. “Did you hear that?” Slippery Slued asked. “The gong is the signal that the doors are opening.” He peered through a hole in the enclosure and looked at the empty benches. “Soon enough,” he whispered almost inaudibly, “every seat will be taken and the blood bath will begin.”
“Alright now,” Quiet Surata said, raising her left index finger and speaking with eyes closed. “We have a plan, but everything is in the details. Let’s review and make sure every person on the team knows everything about the race. Pay attention now …”
Huska grinned. “And drop da tension.” They glared at him. “It’s a rhyming joke with double meaning: tension rhymes with attention, and da tension is like sayin’ detention, and we’re all … What? It’s funny.”
“Funny as a Shogol tickling a curse,” Krom muttered.
“Anyway,” Slippery Slued continued, “Folks are being dropped off by the stairs closest to their assigned seats. They’ll climb the marble stairwells to the bleachers.”
“What does it matter that the staircases are marble?” Ahiram asked.
“Marble may have properties we might find useful?” Slued offered.
“Properties of marble?” Sweet Gondolaz asked. “Like what?”
“Here’s an interesting property,” Quiet Surata said. “You can hit Slued with marble all day long, and he’ll continue to insist that our latest job was a great opportunity.”
“But it was, Surata,” Slippery Slued protested. She shrugged her shoulders. “She’s feeling guilty,” he told Ahiram.
The Silent pointed at Surata who was standing next to him. “She can hear you, you know?”
“Slippery Slued is right, Surata,” Sweet Gondolaz interjected. “Your plan was perfect. We should have pulled that heist. That was the first time any of us had seen a trap like the one at the pyramid.”
“Frankly,” Mango Karthal added, “I still don’t know what happened. One moment we were standing in front of that pyramid and the next, we’re made prisoners and shipped to the Wretched Race.”
“Surata feels responsible,” Slippery Slued told Ahiram again.
“I can still hear you,” Quiet Surata added.
“Are you two married?” Ahiram could not help but ask Slippery Slued and Quiet Surata. “Because if you’re not, you’re only getting the downsides of married life without any of its benefits.”
Slippery Slued’s face took the hue of a nice, ripe beet, while Quiet Surata turned away and ended up face-to-face with Huska the Fat, who was grinning from ear to ear. He tried a wink but blinked both eyes instead. She looked away and saw Krom gazing at her.
“Like I said,” Huska repeated, “drop da tension.” And he nodded contentedly, as if he had stated a profound truth.
Sweet Gondolaz peered into the arena and looked at the bleachers. “I remember the first floor,” she said.
“Me too,” Mango Karthal added.
“It’s narrow and dark,” Sweet Gondolaz continued. “The ceiling is very low at times. There’s a peculiar smell, like that of burned wood.”
“The bleachers are made of wood?” Ahiram asked.
“No,” she corrected. “Built of stone. They’re fire-resistant, except for the benches and the awning. That’s where lizards hide.” She shuddered. “I’d rather be anything but a lizard in the Wretched Race,” she added.
“A lizard?” Krom asked. “Remind me once more, what’s a lizard?”
Liar, Quiet Surata thought, you know full well what a lizard is. She was grateful that the attention had been diverted away from her. Ahiram had hit a raw spot. In her tumultuous and complex relationship with Slippery Slued and Krom, she had never said which one she favored, and neither of them had ever managed to confess how they felt about her. As a result, they had gone from botched courting to hurtful misunderstandings and yet, all three had always maintained their friendship intact, as if no one wanted to break the delicate dynamic. No one had ever articulated what Ahiram had just said. It was so simple, yet she was struggling to understand why his words hurt her so deeply.
“Sweet Gondolaz is getting ahead of herself,” Slippery Slued cut in. “To understand what a lizard is, you’ve got to know first about the partisans and the gamblers, right, Surata?”
The growing loudness of the crowd attracted their attention. They all peeked through loopholes and watched the bleachers, which were two hundred yards away from them. They were beginning to fill up.
“Those benches are very comfortable,” Krom the Hunter added. “You could sit on them for hours and not be tired.”
“So, you were a gambler?” Ahiram asked.
“Nope. I was a partisan. Just once.”
“How was it?” Mango Karthal said.
Krom thought about the experience. He could still vividly see the chaos of battle. He could see Quiet Surata standing next to him, and the difficulty he had to concentrate on the battle. “Hectic,” he replied after a while. “Yeah, hectic.”
“The view is astounding,” Quiet Surata commented.
“From the bleachers?” Ahiram said. She nodded. “Why?”
“Well,” Surata explained, “the benches are set o
n an inclined floor beneath a richly decorated awning with carvings of fighting scenes.”
Ahiram sighed impatiently. “More useless details.”
“Wait,” she retorted, “these carvings change as you progress into the race. We could use them to know how far along we’ve got to go in the race.”
“That’s useful,” admitted Ahiram. “What else?”
“Pretty solid fighting scenes,” Mango Karthal said. “Whoever cut these scenes knows about hand-to-hand combat.”
“Here’s a useful question I don’t recall anyone asking: why is the track a straight three-mile-long road from the starting point to the finish line? The Games of the Mines were much more complicated, and some of the mines had treks that were at least sixty miles long.”
“Well,” Slippery Slued replied, “the bleachers, they’re relatively thin, yes? I mean, there’s only ten benches on each side of the track. But,” he added in a professorial tone, “they run the length of the track. Three miles of twenty benches and you can hold a crowd eighty thousand to one hundred thousand strong. Double that and you’ll get an angry mob that can overrun the Shard Legion and attack Cordoban.”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 61