“I see, so the length is three miles to manage the crowd.”
Up on the bleachers, the benches were beginning to fill-up rapidly. Whitewashed granite balustrades protected the crowd from the edge of the encased track. Grotesque etchings of laughing animals ornamented the ballasts. Less conspicuous were the threaded holes drilled into the thick stone railings, ready to receive metal fasteners of iron shields, specially designed to protect their owner from incoming missiles, for the race was also the theater of bloody battles.
Six hundred trumpeters filed in, three hundred to a side. They took their positions behind the top benches and waited. Then with a loud blast, they signaled the imminent start of the race. All eyes were now on the iron gate behind which the players were standing.
“Everyone,” Quiet Surata said, “remember the new rule they just introduced in this race: we start the race without weapons, but we’re allowed to collect whatever we can find along the track.”
“The problem,” Mango Karthal added, “is that there are way more partisans than gamblers or lizards, and they are armed and very dangerous. I won’t be surprised if we’re attacked as soon as we step outside this gate.”
“Partisans come in groups of ten or twenty,” Krom added. “Each of these groups will root for one of us, which means they’ll do everything they can to defend their protégé by forcibly taking out the competition; that is, the rest of us.”
“Forcibly is the operative word here,” Mango Karthal emphasized. “Very forcibly.”
Quiet Surata glanced at Ahiram. “We’ll be ready to receive them.”
“So many of us have da partisans,” Huska the Fat continued. “So da other partisans will defend us and partisans will fight like da tomatoes tossed in a salad bowl.”
“What’s a tomato?” Mango Karthal asked.
“Focus, people,” Quiet Surata cut in.
“Year after year, these stupid battles maim or kill a quarter of the crowd and often resemble localized civil-wars,” Sweet Gondolaz said. “That’s why I’ve never wanted to come back here.”
“Don’t worry,” Ahiram said softly. “I’ll get you out of this. I promise.”
She looked at him, smiled, but said nothing.
“Aside from the partisans, there are gamblers,” Krom continued. “They’re the small, privileged minority who own the partisans.”
“Exactly,” replied Sweet Gondolaz. “To be called a gambler, you’ve got to be free and rich. Those who bet small amounts are labeled petty gamblers and are not dangerous because they don’t have their own army. The gamblers are rich and powerful.”
“Exquisitely rich,” Slippery Slued confirmed. “So Ahiram, let’s see if you remember; what’s important about gamblers?”
“Since there’s no cap on the size of a gamble,” Ahiram answered, “fortunes will be made and lost during the race. To protect their fortunes, gamblers seek to control as many partisans as they can.”
“Some have small armies in there,” Mango Karthal confirmed.
“They’ll use their groups of partisans to tilt the outcome of the race in their favor,” Sweet Gondolaz added. “Also,” she continued, “gamblers sit in different sections of the bleachers, so when the partisans fight, the gamblers are safe.”
“I see Garza talking to the trumpeters. The door will open in about ten minutes,” Quiet Surata signaled.
“Who’s Garza?” Ahiram asked.
“The race master. A nasty viper on two legs,” Krom warned.
“Quickly now,” Slippery Slued said, “You’ve got the partisans and the gamblers. So what’s left?”
“Everyone else in the crowd who is not a partisan or a gambler is a lizard,” Ahiram said. “Like the partisans, they’re slaves of the gamblers.”
Mango Karthal nodded. “Since partisans can be sitting far away from their gamblers, the lizards relay their master’s command to the partisans. They travel through the first floor beneath the benches.”
“They also spy on other lizards,” Krom the Hunter pointed out.
“They stab, smother, and da strangle other buzzards,” Huska added.
“Lizards,” Quiet Surata corrected. “They’ll kill other lizards to prevent them from relaying messages.”
“You’ve got the crowd. What about the traps then?” Krom said.
“The traps are mandated by the game,” Ahiram replied. “They’re complex and dangerous structures that we have to cross.”
“There’s three traps in total,” Sweet Gondolaz added. “One per mile. They’re the size of a large house.”
“The gamblers are forced to fund them,” Krom explained, “and the lizards build them. The gamblers hate them because the traps even out the odds since any one of us could be killed by them.”
“Normally,” Sweet Gondolaz said, “lizards would have come to our prison and bribed us to betray the others. Normally, gamblers spend a small fortune gathering information on the racers to help them create a trap that’ll favor the winner they’re betting on.”
“But this race is not normal,” Krom observed. “I didn’t see any lizard come to our prison. What about the rest of you? Did you spot lizards?” He narrowed his eyes and stared at Ahiram. “There were no lizards around our prison. I wonder why?”
Ahiram’s expression remained impassive. He did not wish to share with them that a small group of dwarfs, led by Orwutt and Zurwott, the crafty twins, had prevented those lizards from reaching the prison. That Balid had managed to muster a small dwarfish group to help told Ahiram that the carpet merchant and his wife were somehow connected to Kwadil, which meant that Ashod and Kwadil were connected as well. He felt this was important, but did not know why.
Thanks to the dwarfs, Manassa had been the only one to visit Ahiram in prison. The dwarfs have been diligent as usual, and everything is in place, he thought. All that remains is to execute Quiet Surata’s plan.
No one knew how much money flowed into the race, for the Tajéruun refused to arbitrate the commercial dealings under such risky conditions. By the best estimate, enough gold to fund the Kingdom of the Marada for one year flowed through the race. The crown made a fortune from the taxes it collected on gambling transactions, the sales of weapons, and the fees of the race. Taverns, hostels, bakers, farmers, carpenters, masons, weapon masters, shield makers, and other commerces thrived on this very race.
But beyond the bloody competition of the racers, there was a dark side to the Wretched Race where gamblers, partisans, and lizards hired assassins to settle accounts, for in the confusion of the race, it was relatively easy for anyone to lose a limb or a head.
It was nearly noon now and the last lizards were scurrying away from the track, having put the finishing touches on the traps.
Hearing footsteps outside the iron gate, the racers lined up to face it. As with many defensive gates, a small door, known as the wicket, was built into Rolyssan. It swiveled silently and Garza, a skinny man, walked in, closed it, and surveyed the racers. He smiled obsequiously and dangled the Entalorian Amulet before them. The small gold pendant was shaped into the stylized head of a horse with emerald eyes.
It looks like Your Highness, Ahiram thought. I wonder what kind of mischief that horse has gotten himself into.
“This pricey gift is yours for the taking if you cross the finish line,” he said, with a self-satisfied sneer. “In case none of you do, I get to exchange it for a few slaves—.”
“Cut it, Garza,” Sweet Gondolaz spat, “open the blasted gate and scram before I change my mind and kill you.”
Garza smiled sycophantically. “Relax tigress, I’m not that easy to kill.” She stepped forward and he moved back. “Fine, fine, I’m leaving. But, since I’m convinced that most of you will be dead before reaching the finish line, allow me to extend my deepest sympathy for your loss, and my greatest admiration.” He raised his hand, inviting Huska to shake it.
“Don’t touch it,” Ahiram ordered, slapping Huska’s hand. He grabbed Garza by the sleeve and ya
nked his arm up.
“Let go of me,” the thin man growled, pulling away, but Ahiram held him in place and pointed to the man’s hand, which was covered with a barely visible grayish layer.
“Most likely a spell-poison,” Slippery Slued observed. “It seeps through your skin, and gives you hallucinations.”
“What do you want with Huska?” Krom growled.
“Let go of me,” repeated the race master.
“Should we ask him to lick his hand?” Ahiram suggested. His companions grinned. “Lick your hand, Garza.”
Beads of sweat peppered the man’s forehead. “I’m a gambler,” he replied hastily. “You’re not allowed to kill me,”
“As soon as I cross the finish line,” Ahiram snarled, “I’ll be a convict no more. I will come after you and I will hurt you in ways you cannot begin to imagine.” Garza’s face turned to a dull gray. The eyes of the young man speaking to him burned with a stormy fire. “Whatever you planned to do, you better stop now before it’s too late,” Ahiram added, “or I will come after you.”
Garza slid his other hand behind his back, groping for the small door handle which he found after a short, agonizing moment. He stumbled out, slamming the door behind him. “Start, start, start,” chanted the crowd with rhythmic claps. The chant rose to deafening proportions.
The trumpeters let off three trumpet calls and the gate opened. The crowd cheered as the eight players stepped forward and began walking slowly along the two-hundred-yard strip that lay between the gate and the stands. Immediately, from the left bleachers, a group of buffed wrestlers stood up and chanted, “Man-go-Karthal, man-go-enthrall, kill them, kill them, kill them.”
A company of women in yellow and gold saris stood behind the wrestlers, waved, and ululated in loud shrieks: “Krom the Hunter does not barter, Krom the Hunter; slice and sunder, bind and grind, bind and grind, you’re the champ.” They unsheathed sharp swords and daggers, and began to dance.
In the bleachers on the right side of the arena, a band of men stood up and sang a canon in four voices, “Quiet Surata, you’re no batata, destroy them, do not be staid and come and be my first maid.” They sang in perfect harmony and as they did, they repeatedly threw and caught their round black hats in the air.
“Those hats are deadly,” Krom pointed out. “They’re razor sharp.”
Ahiram knew all the performers were partisans; he understood who they were and what their objectives were. Still, his mind was struggling to understand their enthusiasm and apparent joy. Don’t they know they might die soon? Don’t they care?
“What’s da batata?” Huska asked.
“A potato,” Slippery Slued said.
“You’re no potato? Da make no sense.”
“It’s a Togofalkian expression that means you’re not a coward. You know, potatoes grow underground, so that means—”
“Slued,” Ahiram cut in, “How come nobody is singing your praises?”
The thief shrugged his shoulders. “Everyone here wants me dead.”
As if on cue, a dozen giants stood, whirling maces overhead. “Slippery Slued, you’re dead meat, we’ll watch you die with pleasure, you little cheat. Huska the Fat is the kitty cat, Huska, Huska, Huska.”
“They don’t like you much, here,” Ahiram observed.
“Everyone has lost to me in the Wretched Race in the past,” Slippery Slued explained in a sheepish voice.
“Sweet Gondolaz, we love you, we love you!” Young she-giants shrieked a few benches away. “Sweet Gondolaz, we’re with you, we’re with you,” they added as they waved poles holding flags with Sweet Gondolaz’s face embroidered on them.
“They’ll try to skewer the rest of us with those flag poles,” Slippery Slued sneered. “Those are dangerous spears. The singing banters are not just for show. If we were playing against each other, we’d know where our backbench was and we’d plan accordingly.”
“Backbench?”
“Yep, the partisan benches that have our backs.”
“What happens if these crazies waving the spears aim for, say, Huska?”
“Like you said before,” Slued explained patiently, “the other partisans would fight them. For instance, the giants in front of them would turn around and fling their maces at them.”
Ahiram surveyed the crowd, disbelieving his eyes. “What has the world come to?” he wondered.
A band of dwarf-drummers began beating their instruments at a frenetic pace. “We’re thrillingly thrilled and chillingly chilled, but we will whatever Huska willingly wills.”
“Hey, Huska,” Slippery Slued hollered, “you’re popular today.”
“What?” Huska replied, straining to hear over the din, “I’m a poplar?”
“Huska doesn’t hear well when it’s noisy.”
The crowd finally noticed that the players were not moving and they began to chant rhythmically, “Race, fight, race, fight,” while swords, spears, maces, and daggers were whirled around with a death-defying abandon and enthusiasm so senseless, so repulsive, that Ahiram wanted to flee. Did Noraldeen die so these people could live? Did she die for this depravity? He thought about the crowd in Metranos. He imagined the madness of Tirkalanzibar caravaners had told him about. He remembered the three enchanted dunes and the women all too happy to sacrifice their children, and he felt a tinge of nostalgia for his days of slavery in Tanniin. No, that’s not it, he thought. Some slaves are slaves because they were forced into it. Others, like these people, are slaves by choice.
“Shall we?” Slippery Slued said. “We don’t want to disappoint them, at least not right away.”
Quiet Surata glanced at Ahiram and he nodded. She breathed deeply and gave the signal to move. Immediately, five spectators ran down the benches on the right side, tied ropes to the railing, and slid to the track floor where they waited for another group of five to join them. Together, they ran toward the racers while keeping a wary eye on the partisans in the opposite bleachers.
“There it goes,” Mango Karthal muttered. “What do we do now, boss?” He said that last word with a noticeable sarcastic bent.
Quiet Surata glared at Mango and decided to ignore the jab. “Huska,” she told the fat man, “Take one step forward. Just one step.”
Huska, heard “step forward,” so he moved ahead of everyone else. Given his girth, this required three steps.
From the left bleachers, four giants sprung to their feet and whipped the air with thick ropes sporting grapples. Four of the men running in their direction fell face down. A loud cheer erupted in the bleachers.
“Hooked four fish,” a giant yelled. “Time to bring them home.”
The giants yanked their ropes back and threw the four men in the air, flailing and screaming. They slammed into the wall and fell back down, like broken puppets, to the cheer and delight of the crowd. Simultaneously, three she-dwarfs standing in the right bleachers released their arrows, pummeling Huska in the chest. He staggered back but remained standing. Meanwhile, the remaining six sword-wielding attackers converged on Krom the Hunter. This provoked mace-wielding giants—Krom’s partisans—to fling their weapons at them. The mace produced a strange whooping sound and then crashed into the running men. Three attackers fell with screams of pain.
“Watch your back, Krom,” Mango yelled. “They’re after you.”
“Down, Huska,” Quiet Surata ordered. “Pretend to be dead.”
“I’m pretending dhat,” protested Huska. “I’m not da movin’, see?”
“You can’t pretend to be dead while standing like a gorilla with your hands on your hips.”
“My father da tell me to die on my own ten toes.”
“Drop dead, Huska,” Krom and Slippery Slued yelled.
The man complied in a dejected huff. The three remaining attackers were now close. Each of them wielded a sword and a short spear.
“Leave them to me,” Krom said, and he stepped forward ahead of the rest. The she-dwarfs released another flight of arrows just as a giant�
�s mace crashed into them, sending them sprawling across the benches. This led a group of women to fire back at the giants with stiletto daggers. A vicious battle engulfed the two sections of partisans opposite the track. Slaves in adjoining sections scrambled to secure iron shields to the railing for protection.
Meanwhile on the track, Huska the Fat lay awkwardly on the ground. He grabbed each of the arrows and yanked them from the breastplate he was wearing under his clothing; a precaution Ahiram had wanted all of them to take. Krom, who had stepped outside the range of arrows, waited for the attackers to get close. The three partisans sprinted toward them, hoping to take Krom down. Three spears flew in coordinated precision.
“Duck,” Krom yelled. His right hand snatched one of the incoming javelins and with snake-like speed, sent it hurling back to the attackers. It struck the ground at a partisan’s feet, who tripped over it and fell in a sprawl. One of the other two javelins missed Ahiram’s head by a hair, while the third ricocheted on Bow’s shield, and struck the ground harmlessly. Ahiram sprung to his feet, grabbed the javelin, and threw it at the second attacker, missing him by a few feet. The man raised his sword as he drew close but was taken by surprise when the javelin doubled back and struck his skull. He crumbled to the ground. Krom ran toward the last standing man who raised a sword to attack, but a lasso thrown by one of Krom’s partisans caught the attacker, yanked him back violently, and threw him against the wall.
The gamblers cheered and applauded. The Race was off to a good start. Meanwhile the battle between partisans had subsided. Lizards slithered through the benches, conveying orders before sprinting back to the safety of the first floor.
Ahiram watched the gamblers and spat on the ground. He undid the knot that tied his Silent thread to the javelin and threw the weapon away. As he did so, he surveyed the track and quickly counted fifty bodies lying on the terrain.
“This is crazy,” he whispered. “Utterly insane. I swear I will put an end to this race one of these days.”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 62