The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  “Whoa,” Huska exclaimed, “dhat is a shield-box.”

  “Portable shield-box,” Ahiram replied as he strapped the box to his shoulders, then he stood to his full length. He tested the contraption by running briskly and was relieved to see that the straps kept it securely in place. He removed them and looked at his seven companions with an expression that said, “What are you waiting for?”

  They all went to work and after a while, eight shield-boxes had been assembled. Two shields remained. Ahiram slid one of them down the grooves set into his left and right shields, closing the front of his protective box. With the last shield, he closed the rear of another box.

  “Alright everyone, flip your thobes back to the black side and put your masks back on your face. We’re going to use these shields to get us to the first trap safely.”

  “How?” Sweet Gondolaz asked, “Six of these boxes have their front and back exposed.”

  “We’re going to form a shield-train. Just do as I do.” He donned the reversible thobe again, then lifted his shield-box equipped with the additional frontal buckler and secured the iron pipe to his shoulders and back with leather straps.

  “Quickly, now do the same. Huska, you’ll carry the shield box with the protected back.”

  “Ha,” Huska the Fat quipped, “we look like da tortoises.”

  “We’re going to form a single-file train,” Ahiram repeated. “Quiet Surata, stay behind me. Walk over here and slide the hooks on your shields inside the rings on the back of my shields. This will interlock your box with mine. The rest of you follow suit, and Huska will come last.”

  A little later, both gamblers and partisans were dismayed to see the eight racers running inside a strange-looking rectangular box, fully sealed with steel shields. The shield-train snaked its way on the racetrack. Archers fired arrows at the racers, to no avail. Thankfully, the few giants present in this section did not have cannon balls to throw at them. After a long run, the racers reached the first trap safe and sound.

  “Break the shield-train,” Slippery Slued said. “We’re safe as long as we are in a trap. That’s part of the rules.”

  “Alright,” Ahiram said. “We need to look for the trap.”

  “What do you mean?” Quiet Surata said as she emerged from between the shields. She pointed at a large structure blocking the racetrack. “That’s the trap.”

  “You mean this whole thing? Wow!” Ahiram exclaimed. “I was expecting a hole in the ground.”

  The trap blocked the width of the entire racetrack and looked like the face of a mountain with a narrow cave, accessible via a wooden bridge over a dark, shimmering pool. Two dozen statues of laughing dwarfs lined the narrow bridge.

  “They certainly have a sense for theatrics,” Ahiram commented.

  A closer inspection revealed the statues were cheap wooden facades. The dark pool below was colored sand, and the mountain face was built from wood planks covered with plaster.

  “That’s part of the attraction of the Wretched Race,” Krom commented. “It’s got to look impressive.”

  “This is so strange,” Surata muttered.

  “An—An—An—” Slippery Slued stuttered, staring at the entryway.

  Quiet Surata whispered, “This entrance looks like the gate of Andaxil. I mean… it’s a lot smaller, but proportions aside, it’s uncanny how much it looks like it.”

  “You’ve been there?” Ahiram asked.

  She gave him a noncommittal gaze. “We’ve all know its description.”

  “So what if it looks like the gate of Andaxil?” Mango Karthal said, “What does it matter?”

  “Maybe there’s a hint about the nature of the trap,” Sweet Gondolaz suggested. “Where does the gate of Andaxil lead to?”

  “It should lead to the Chamber of Orbs,” said Slippery Slued, having caught his breath.

  “That’s where the dwarfs stored their most precious and powerful Orb of Seeing,” Quiet Surata explained.

  “The dwarfs crafted Orbs of Seeing?” Ahiram asked.

  “No,” Surata said, “they got them from the Seriathörist Shepherds.”

  “Dwarfs or shepherds,” Mango Karthal said, “who cares? Let’s get on with it. We’ll handle it as we go.”

  “We’ll handle nothing at all,” Ahiram replied. “We need to know what we’re dealing with in order to survive this trap.”

  “So what does our wise leader suggest then?” Mango asked. “Tear this thing apart and walk straight through?”

  Ahiram smiled broadly and looked at Mango. “That’s smart. ‘Only a fool or a drunkard trusts his enemy’s door.’ Lamentation 1:5.”

  “Interesting,” Slued commented. “What about a friend’s door?”

  “Friends are more dangerous,” Ahiram replied as he closely inspected the gaping hole before him. “We’ve got two sayings for that; ‘A Silent is never predictable, neither in the sill he crosses or the hand he shakes.’ Book of Siril, 11:4. And also, ‘O Silent; To trust your friend without knowledge of his weakness is vanity. To distrust your friend without knowledge of his strength is vanity. Know your friends as well as you know yourself, and you shall prosper.’ Lamentations, 3:7.”

  “Huska,” Quiet Surata said, “look for a small dwarfish barberry to the left of the cave. Krom, climb on Mango’s shoulders, and Ahiram will climb on yours.”

  “What?” Mango complained, as Krom hoisted himself on the wrestler’s broad shoulders.

  “Ready,” said the swordsman.

  “Found da shrub,” Huska confirmed.

  “Yank it,” Ahiram said. He stepped on Mango’s intertwined hands, grabbed Krom’s arm, and pulled himself up to stand on his shoulders.

  “Whoa,” Huska exclaimed as he yanked forcefully on the shrub. He had unearthed a large leather bag. “What is dhat?” he asked.

  “Clean water and food we can trust,” Quiet Surata replied, “plus ammunitions we can use.”

  “You got your own lizard?” Sweet Gondolaz asked.

  “Something like that,” Ahiram said as he sheared through the wood with his blade. A rumble went through the crowd and everyone held their breath. Ahiram cut a large hole in the facade and peered into the trap’s structure. He shot a vanishing dart inside and in the light of its flare, glimpsed snakes gliding lazily on the ground, and above them, a series of planks held by ropes to the rooftop where spherical objects were attached. The planks formed a path from the entrance to the exit. How very amusing, thought the Silent. Snakes below and explosive orbs on the path. I bet there are orbs and snakes overhead as well. If the orbs don’t get us, the snakes will. Avoiding all of this would be relatively easy if I was alone, but not with this group. He jumped from his improvised perch and saw two female arbitrators, dressed in white, jogging their way in haste. They reached them and stood, gasping for air.

  “Can we help you?” Quiet Surata asked.

  “Highly irregular,” one of them declared, still catching her breath. “You can’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Tear through the traps. You’re supposed to play by the rules.”

  “What rules?”

  “Well,” the second woman replied in an annoyed tone of voice, “you must faithfully accept the challenge that has been offered to you by the populace and abide in a gentlemanly spirit the execution of said challenge.”

  “And do such rules say anything about our right to defend ourselves against said populace?” Ahiram asked.

  “Racers who have been nudged to participate in the Race of Kyril are allowed to defend themselves when attacked, but they are not allowed to engage in a verbal joust, spitting, or display any unbecoming behavior.”

  “Has anyone of you engaged in a verbal joust?” Quiet Surata asked.

  “Nope,” Mango Karthal said with scorn.

  “Spit? Any one of you spat?”

  “I spat on da ground while runnin’ earlier,” Huska the Fat said.

  Ahiram looked at the arbitrators. “Does it count?”
>
  They shook their heads in unison. “We’re talking about spitting on the innocent crowd.”

  “Did not spit on da crowd,” Huska said.

  “Has anyone engaged in any unbecoming behavior?” Quiet Surata asked. Not hearing an answer, she simpered broadly. “See, we’re in compliance of the rules.”

  One of the women pointed at the hole. “What about that hole?”

  “The hole? What hole?” Sweet Gondolaz replied innocently. “There’s no hole. You don’t see a hole.” She hummed gently and the two arbitrators relaxed. “No hole,” Sweet Gondolaz continued. “There’s no hole.”

  “Definitely no hole,” Krom the Hunter said.

  The two women shared a scared look seeing Huska drawing closer. His wild grin did not reassure them. “We are lowly referees,” one woman stuttered. “Please accept our apologies.” Huska’s grin widened. They turned around, lifted the hems of their robes, and ran away.

  “Lowly referees,” Ahiram grumbled, “more like boring jesters.” He became serious once more. “There’s a rickety path we’ve got to cross. It’s filled with explosive orbs and there are snakes everywhere.”

  “What’s the plan?” Quiet Surata asked. “The orbs are definitely a serious problem.”

  Ahiram looked at the crowd as if he was searching for something, then grinned. He walked over to Mango Karthal and whispered in his ear. Mango chuckled and whispered back. Ahiram nodded.

  “We’ll eat and rest,” Quiet Surata said. “We’ll have to move soon enough. I’d like to be by the second trap around sunset.” She grabbed the bag from Huska, opened it, and gave each a thick slice of bread. “This bread is filled with nutrition you’ll need for the day. Eat it slowly and drink this with it.”

  Ahiram gave them each a waterskin.

  Krom uncorked his and smelled it cautiously. “It’s got a bitter smell.”

  “Bitter water,” Ahiram replied, taking a long gulp. “Water with Assin. It’s restorative. It tastes bitter but you get your energy back. Eat and drink slowly—”

  Huska the Fat belched loudly and slapped his expansive stomach. “Finished the bread,” he said, clapping his tongue. “Where’s the chicken?”

  Ahiram sighed and did not reply. They sat and leaned back against the fake wall, happy to rest, even as thousands of observers were following their every move.

  “So,” Krom whispered to Slippery Slued, “is it you or me?”

  “I’m just as scared to find out now as I was when we were eighteen.”

  “We’re not eighteen anymore,” Krom replied. “We need to know.”

  “But why? Things are good the way they are now, aren’t they?”

  Krom shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, Slued. Who’s to say we’ll make it alive out of this race? No, seriously,” he said, staving off a recrimination, “I mean it. Now, how dumb would it be if one of us were to die and she didn’t know, or worse, what if she died and we didn’t know whom she loved?”

  Slippery Slued sighed. “I don’t want to grow up that much, Krom. We’ve been having fun, the three of us. So why mess it up?”

  “Didn’t you see the Annuna-Ki? Do you really believe there are only two of them? Don’t you get it? If they were so bold as to cross into Maradite lands, then there must be thousands upon thousands of them. War is coming, Slued, and that kid will be in the midst of it.”

  “And? How’s that our business?”

  “I’m a swordsman, Slued. Do you seriously think I’ll let him fight this battle alone? I’m going with him.”

  “Are you crazy? None of the wars are our wars; no kingdom supported us when we needed help, so we don’t support any kingdom. That’s the rule of the orphaned brotherhood.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” said Krom. “Except him. He supports us. He could have crossed the finish line alone by now. He could have zipped through this race and won and left us behind to kill each other. And you want me to stay behind when he’s going to face the Annuna-Ki? I’m cynical, but not that cynical.”

  Slippery Slued sighed again. “Fine. Then we’ll have to ask her.”

  “And how do you plan on doing that?”

  “What do you mean? We go to her and we say, Quiet Surata, we’re not kids anymore. Pick one of us, and no matter what, the other will stay our friend. Simple, really.”

  “I see. Well, with that kind of simplicity, she’ll most likely chose a donkey over either of us. You really have a way with words when it comes to the things of the heart.”

  Slippery Slued chuckled. “Fine, we’ll do it your way then.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Krom said. “It’s finally settled.”

  Surata walked over. “Krom,” she asked, “what do the rules of the race say about us moving backward?”

  Caught off guard, and thinking that Surata heard them, Krom blushed. He coughed and quickly regained his composure. “For every mile forward, we can back up one hundred feet.”

  “How far along have we advanced?”

  “I’d say three quarters of a mile.”

  Surata nodded. She went and conferred with Sweet Gondolaz and Ahiram before calling everyone to attention. “When Sweet Gondolaz gets up and stretches,” she told her companions, “we will grab the shields, including hers, cross that bridge, and stand back about fifty feet, then as soon as we see her raise her hand and wave, we’ll count to three and dive to the ground, understood?”

  “But what—” Mango said.

  “I don’t have time to explain,” she cut in. “Just do it.”

  Sweet Gondolaz got up, stretched, and walked away from the other racers toward the right wall of the racetrack while keeping as close to the trap as possible. She faced the bleachers on the opposite side, cupped her hands and yelled at the top of her lungs, “Hey, dwarfish toad!” Her voice projected such disdain that all partisans rose and drew their weapons. She singled a tall giant. “You, yeah, you, dwarfish toad, five-to-one you can’t smash a boulder in a pack of camels ten feet away from you.”

  Referring to giants as toads was a nasty dwarfish insult, implying the Marada were somehow short and clumsy. Prefixing dwarfish to toad meant that the giant had a dwarf in his lineage, and since the lineage of the Marada was matriarchal, it meant that either the giant’s mother, his grand-mother, or a distant relative was a dwarf. This was a particularly nasty and virulent insult.

  The dwarfs sitting in the benches guffawed. Three young women snickered and the she-dwarfs growled in disgust. The men smiled and watched. Everyone gripped his or her weapon, sensing trouble.

  The giant who Gondolaz had insulted roared with anger, got up, and hurled a cannon ball that crashed into the wall, ten feet over her head. Sweet Gondolaz ran back toward the mouth of the cave.

  “What’s the matter, big toad?” she whispered, but her voice echoed inside the arena like that of a mother scolding a child. “A baby can throw better than you.”

  Now for the real insult, thought Ahiram. He disliked riling up people by defaming their reputation, but this giant would have no qualms killing them, and they needed to cross this viper-infested trap.

  “You’re such a clumsy oaf,” Sweet Gondolaz said, “Maybe you’re the son of that mindless she-dwarf over there?”

  The giant fell into a fit of rage. Five affronted she-dwarfs jumped to their feet, while another fifteen dwarfs readied their axes. The giant grabbed another ball, and Sweet Gondolaz waved. She checked that her companions dove to the ground. As soon as the giant catapulted the projectile, Gondolaz sprinted away from the cave as fast as she could. She counted to five and dove down just as a crescendo of explosions filled the air and ended in an enormous blast. Ahiram felt as if a giant fist had pinned him to the ground. Burning debris fell all around them. He looked up and saw snakes falling from the sky. The racers bolted to their feet and ran to avoid the debris as best as they could. Smoke billowed from what remained of the trap.

  “Well done, Sweet Gondolaz,” Quiet Surata said.

  “Great performa
nce,” Mango Karthal added, “as usual.”

  “Is everyone alright?” Krom asked.

  “Ya have a beautiful voice! I wish I had a voice like yours.” Huska said.

  Sweet Gondolaz smiled. “If we survive this race, I’ll teach you how to use your voice. You won’t be able to spellbind anyone, but you’ll manage to hold a tune on your own. How about it, Huska?”

  He looked at her with dreamy eyes. “I always wanted ta learn how ta sing a song or two, on account, of ya know, presenting myself properly ta da future apple of my eyes.”

  Sweet Gondolaz laughed. “Then it’s a promise.”

  Quiet Surata noticed that the smoke was starting to clear. “Time to run,” she said. “Back to your shield-boxes. Assemble the shield-train.”

  “Run where?” Huska asked dumbfounded as he feverishly strapped the shield-box.

  “Through the fire,” Ahiram replied, “before the crowd recollects itself and comes after us. All the boxes are hooked back together? Great. Run!”

  “Ten days before the start of the Race, the organizers select three groups of lizards and request each group to build a trap. When a participant survives one of these contraptions, the rich gamblers—who bet fortunes on a particular survivor to win—reward with freedom and gold the lizards who helped them build the wicked device. But if the select runner dies, these same lizards will be killed by their masters. These odious deaths are yet another dark side of the Wretched Race, one known only to grave diggers and carrion birds.”

  –Memoir of Alkiniöm the Traveler.