The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  When the first trap exploded, it blew through some bleachers and caused them to collapse, pinning lizards under the debris. The partisans in the affected sections broke the partition that separated them from where gamblers sat sipping tea and smoking hookah. Seeing a mob break through the broken wall, the gamblers leaped up and a pitched battle erupted. The lizards came to the rescue, and the fight quickly spread to the first floor. Meanwhile, a dozen giants descended from the undamaged bleachers and pursued the racers, demanding they drop their shields and remove their masks. She-dwarfs and a group of men blocked the track ahead of the racers and made the same demand.

  “Keep running,” Ahiram ordered under the cover of the shield train.

  “They will try to cut us off,” Quiet Surata yelled.

  “I know.” Ahiram. fumbled through his bag. “When I yell ‘jump,’ you all jump, understood?”

  “Huh?” Huska asked. He was in the second position. “You want us ta jump like dancers?”

  “Just do it,” Ahiram snapped. “We got this far and we’ll get all the way. Now shut up and run.”

  Control your temper, he thought to himself.

  The unrelenting attacks were starting to unhinge his cool. The fury lurking beneath his self-control had begun to grow into an inner storm that was tempting him to burn the bleachers with the mask and destroy the tracks and their occupants. But I promised Noraldeen. I promised, and I won’t fail. Looking ahead, he saw a line of archers that had joined the other partisans. Their arrows notched, they were waiting for a signal.

  “Bow, when I say ‘now,’ I want you to disarm the archers. Disarm, but don’t kill,” he ordered.

  They were running as fast as they could toward the line of fighters that was getting thicker as more and more partisans were invading the tracks.

  “Why are you obsessed with not killing?” Krom wondered. “Why does it matter?”

  “It’s the oath of the Silent,” Slippery Slued explained. “They won’t kill unless it’s unavoidable.”

  “But this might kill us.”

  “It hasn’t yet, has it?” Ahiram spat. “No more talking. Focus.”

  Traaaaack. A salvo of arrows rained down from a section on the left bleachers and pummeled their shields. A second salvo fell straight down on the shields they were carrying above head. One arrow sheared through Mango Karthal’s mask. A second arrow missed Quiet Surata’s throat by an inch. Ahiram kept his eyes fixed on the archers ahead of them. A bit more, he thought, just a bit more.

  The archers released their bows one more time.

  “Go left,” Ahiram yelled, and the flight of missiles landed too far right to do any serious damage. “Run faster,” he commanded as the archers notched another set of arrows and fired straight ahead. The arrows rammed into the front shield, denting it, but not puncturing it. They were now fifty yards away from the mob when a rock cannon ball crashed on the ground mere inches from them.

  Ahiram clenched his teeth. His rage surged anew and the internal storm began to form, swirling slowly beneath his reason, threatening to break though and overtake him with its madness. He focused on the course. “Slippery Slued,” he yelled over the clamor of the mob, “can you turn yourself around and run backward?”

  “Yeah, got it,” the thief replied. Carefully, he loosened the straps and managed to turn around. As he was tightening the straps, he yelled, “Go right. Right!” Slippery Slued’s rear view allowed the shield-train to swerve just before three cannon balls fell where they stood a moment ago. Twenty yards, thought Ahiram, as another salvo of arrows butted on his shield, denting it further. One more hail of arrows and this shield is done.

  “Get ready,” he told them, “get ready …”

  The archers, suddenly realizing how close the racers were, hesitated. The partisans took the moment of hesitation as a sign to attack and rushed the racers with swords, maces, battle axes, chains, and the screams of a murderous mob.

  “Jump!” Ahiram yelled.

  They jumped—and screamed when the entire train lifted off the ground. The partisans’ weapons hit the empty space just as a half-dozen lobed cannon balls crashed into the mob, decimating it.

  “We’re flying,” Krom the Hunter yelled. “We’re flying!”

  Archers on the ground recovered quickly and aimed their bows at the strange link of eight racers held together by interlocking shields that crossed the skies some thirty feet above ground.

  “Bow, now!” Ahiram ordered.

  Arrows flew so fast that the archers below did not have time to react.

  “How can he do that?” Sweet Gondolaz yelled. “It’s unnatural.”

  In the bleachers, everyone stood up in alarm. They were so amazed that they forgot to attack. Slowly, Ahiram willed for them to come down, and they descended. Beads of sweat peppered his forehead and nausea overtook him; lifting that many people was impossibly hard, much harder than lifting the horse in the air. He had been reluctant to use his artifacts, and certainly did not want to use them in broad daylight or in front of a large crowd, but he couldn’t think of any other way to get them out of this certain deathtrap.

  Impact. The landing was much harder than expected. Their teeth rattled and they felt like someone had adjusted every bone in their body. Quiet Surata howled in pain.

  “What?” asked Ahiram.

  “Sprained an ankle,” she said, teeth clenched.

  “Keep running,” the Silent ordered. “We’ll deal with it later.”

  “Here,” Mango Karthal offered, “pass this ointment over to her. It’ll numb the pain. Later, your foot will hurt like a Kerta’s mind, but you’ll be fine for now.”

  “Keep running,” Ahiram repeated.

  Darkness fell. Torches set along the railings cast a faint light on the tracks but were not enough to clearly illuminate the center part where the racers were running. They ran, unhindered, until at long last they reached the second trap that blocked their way. Utterly exhausted, they broke the train, removed their shields, and dropped to the ground.

  “Krom, Slippery Slued,” Quiet Surata called, “what’s the crowd doing? Anyone about to launch a cannon ball?”

  The two men scanned the bleachers and Ahiram joined them. They scanned the crowd anxiously and were relieved when they saw no hostile movement. The crowd was now subdued after a long day of fight. As a precaution, the racers dug a shallow trench to form with their shields a small protective enclosure where they huddled. There, they tended to their wounds and quickly ate some of the nourishing bread they still had with them.

  “How far along are we?” Ahiram asked.

  “Traditionally, the second trap is built midway through the race,” Slippery Slued said, breathing hard, “so I’d say we’ve covered one and a half miles.”

  “Why don’t we fly straight to the finish line?” Slippery Slued said. “Now, that would be amazing.”

  “We weren’t flying,” Ahiram objected. “We merely jumped. The boots you’re wearing, they’re equipped with special Silent powder that gives their wearer a boost,” he lied. “It’s a Silent jump, that’s what we call it. It’s a secret weapon. That’s why I asked you to jump. I need to inspect the wall,” he said. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Quiet Surata,” Krom called, “here, put your foot on my lap. Let’s take care of your ankle.”

  “Thanks, Krom.”

  “Look how nice she is to him,” Slippery Slued muttered. “She must really like him.”

  “Well, why don’t you ask her then?” Sweet Gondolaz whispered.

  “Am I that easy to read?”

  “Only when you look at Quiet Surata that way. Krom and you are behaving like two charming idiots. You should ask her.”

  “How?” replied Slippery Slued.

  “Well, how about, ‘Quiet Surata, I love you. Do you love me?’ What’s wrong with that?”

  Slippery Slued did not answer. He glanced at Krom bandaging Quiet Surata’s foot and looked away.

  “After the race,�
� Krom said to Quiet Surata, “you’ll have to rest for a few days, and you’ll be fine. The potion that Mango gave you earlier is really powerful. You’ll see, you’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

  She thanked him and winced in pain.

  “Will you be able to run?” Ahiram asked, who had just come back.

  She clenched her fists and nodded.

  “Good,” he said. He dropped two large bags before them.

  “What are those?” Mango Karthal asked.”

  “A tent and a few other things,” Ahiram replied. He untied a knot. “Help me set it up.”

  “A tent?” Sweet Gondolaz was alarmed. “You want us to sleep under a tent here?”

  “Exactly,” Quiet Surata replied. “Keep your voice low,” she added. “No point in giving out our position just yet.”

  “Well, the partisans will send flares in a short while,” Krom said. “Right now, everyone is taking a mandated break to allow the race organizers to clean the tracks and remove the injured and the dead. It won’t be long before the attacks resume. Night or day, the Wretched Race doesn’t let up.”

  “We know that,” Quiet Surata said. “Now help him set up the tent.”

  “That’s complete insanity.” Mango stood up, fist clenched. “We can’t sleep in a tent here. We’ll be sitting ducks.”

  “I agree,” Sweet Gondolaz said, “we’ll be all dead by morning.”

  “That’s why it will work,” Ahiram snapped.

  “But it’s insane,” Sweet Gondolaz insisted.

  “Sweet Gondolaz is right. Camping in the middle of the track makes us an easy target for the mob,” Krom the Hunter said.

  “I agree,” Slippery Slued added. “No one has camped here and lived through the night.”

  Quiet Surata smiled. “Then we’ll be the first.”

  “Huska,” Ahiram said, “come with me. The rest of you, set up this tent, and I won’t hear another word.”

  “You don’t get to order us,” Mango Karthal spat. “I’ve had it with your stupid air of superiority—”

  Mango found himself flying before he could finish his sentence. Quick as a cat, he adjusted his posture and fell on all fours. He was about to get up when fists of stone pummeled his back, shoulders, and sides. He fell flat on this face and tried to get up, but his legs were yanked up in the air and pain exploded in his chest as he was being kicked repeatedly. He dropped back on the ground, then was slapped so violently he saw stars. A hand grabbed his throat and squeezed.

  “I’ve been patient with you, Mango,” Ahiram said with a low voice brimming with contained anger. “I’ve put up with your taunts and your snide remarks. No more. You’ll do as I say and you won’t complain, won’t argue, and won’t talk back, or else I’ll knock you out and drag you to the finish line alive, like I promised, and there I’ll leave you to your demise. Do we understand each other?”

  Ahiram felt a sharp implement in his back. “Let him go,” Sweet Gondolaz said. “Back off.”

  Slowly, Ahiram got up and turned around to face her. She backed away when she saw the fire in his eyes. “I won’t let him put the rest of us in danger. Quiet Surata and I got you midway through, and her plan will get us to the finish line. You keep him in line, or I will. Your choice.”

  He stepped away. “Huska with me,” he commanded, and he vanished in the dark.

  Sweet Gondolaz bent over and placed a hand on Mango’s cheek. “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied with a sheepish smile. “Sorry that I dragged you into this …”

  “Shush,” she said, placing a finger on his lips. “Are you alright?”

  “I haven’t had a beating like that in ages,” he said. “It sorta clears your mind. Makes you think.”

  She helped him up and they rejoined the group. Meanwhile, Huska watched Ahiram inspect the right wall carefully.

  “What da ya doin’?” he whispered.

  “Searching.”

  “Da sarchin’ for da what?”

  “A special mark,” the Silent muttered. His anger was still simmering but he managed to control himself. He walked back and forth, inspecting the wall, and stopped. “Of course,” he said with a chuckle, “I forgot, Manassa confuses his right and left.” He and Huska crossed the track to the opposite wall where a short moment later, he felt a large incision into the wall and sighed in relief. “There it is. Good, everything is still going according to plan.”

  He went back to the team and repeated what Quiet Surata had told the team earlier, but he said it loudly. “We will set up tent and rest.”

  “Why don’t you yell it from the rooftops,” Krom snapped. Seeing the large grin on Ahiram’s face, the swordsman stopped, brushed his hair back, and chuckled. “I should have thought about it. Quiet Surata’s plans are always devious, aren’t they?”

  Ahiram looked at him and smiled again. “Come on everyone, set up that tent,” he bellowed.

  When the tent was ready, Quiet Surata invited her companions to join her. They walked in, but could not shake the feeling that they were walking into their tomb. The frail structure shivered under the nascent wind that fleeted away, leaving behind slithering shadows that circled the tent like carrion birds around a dying man.

  That night, a group of prominent gamblers met in a secret location and struck up a deal. They had discovered that a petty thief called Manassa had bet fifty-to-one on the survival of all the racers.

  “Let’s turn this race into a zero-sum game,” suggested a bony middle-aged she-giant.

  “No one loses, no one wins?” a tall man confirmed. He wore a dark beard and his eyes, feverish and wild, made the she-giant uncomfortable. Ibromaliöm smiled obsequiously and continued, “We kill all the racers, and the winning gamblers agree to refund the losers after the race ends? No losers, no winners.”

  A she-dwarf leaned forward and said in a low, sarcastic tone, “If that’s what it takes to kill that filthy dog from Tanniin, I’m all in.”

  “Farveen,” replied a young pretty woman, “Your commendable hatred won’t do. I need the Silent alive. You can kill the others.”

  The she-dwarf, former harbor-mistress of the underground dwarfish city of Karak-Zuun, shook her head. “If he doesn’t die, I’ll lose a fortune. Will you compensate me?”

  The young woman pondered the question carefully. She knew Sarand would not be pleased if the Silent died in the Wretched Race. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll have a substitute die in his stead. I need him alive.”

  “That won’t do, dearie,” replied Ibromaliöm quietly. “He must die.”

  “I agree,” added Farveen. “He must die.”

  The young Adorant beamed a smile as she looked at each person in turn. “How about this,” she said in a jovial, happy tone, “I get to ask him a few questions and leave it up to the rest of you to kill him? Deal?”

  “Of course we agree,” replied Ibromaliöm, his eyes narrowing into a murderous slit. “I will see to it that he dies.” Quick as a snake, he grabbed the young Adorant by the throat, “and if you try once more to beguile me with your wiles, you’ll die with him.”

  The stunned Adorant was suddenly afraid. This mysterious man had resisted her charm-spell and had managed to break through her defenses effortlessly. She closed her eyes and summoned a song of destruction. Ibromaliöm retracted his hand as if it had been burned. He inspected his palm, flexed his hand several times, and sneered. “I guess we understand each other,” he said.

  As the Adorant stared at him, a silver mirror in Babylon reflected his face. Across, sitting on a seat of power, Sarand tapped the edge of the iron arm rest and nodded. “Ibromaliöm is growing stronger by the day,” she told Kalibaal, who stood next to her. “Inform Sharr of this new threat. The Temple must deal with him sooner than later.”

  Kalibaal bowed and left. The Soloist stepped away from her seat and drew closer to the mirror. She gripped her arm and seethed in anger. After her botched attempt to use Aliolos dying body as a concen
trator and wrest control of the slave, her left arm had been seized with a slight intermittent tremor that she had not managed to heal. A dull anxiety was burgeoning in her mind, a still soft voice that told her the tremor was caused by the ball of energy the slave had used against her, and that, in time, it would rake her entire body. Firmly, she shut that voice away, breathed deeply, and invoked Baal’s blessing over her. After a short while, having restored her inner peace, she returned to the mirror.

  “What dangerous game are you playing, Ibromaliöm? The Pit is swallowing you alive. It is time we put an end to your madness.”

  She waved her hand, and the mirror went blank as she stepped outside the room.

  Gamblers and partisans began filling the benches at the crack of dawn. The sections along the first mile and a half were eerily empty. Nearly ten thousand people were wounded, dead, or missing. The partisans in the sections close to the second trap were forced to stand to accommodate the newcomers, and still more partisans arrived. Eventually, a number of them jumped to the track down below and began congregating on either side of the small tent set up in front of the second trap.

  Additional betting was now reaching a fever pitch. Gamblers and partisans—who were given permission by their masters—were betting furiously on the number of survivors. The tent were the racers slept was pierced from all sides with arrows, spears, and axes. There was even a shovel that had been thrown at it. Curiously, the tent was still standing. Four race-organizers were waiting for all the bets to settle before inspecting the inside of the tent.

  “Manassa, have you lost your mind, lad?” Ergel exclaimed. “They’re dead. Look at the tent.”

  Manassa looked intently at the giant. “Fifty-to-one they’re all alive.”

  The giant burst out laughing. “Quarubeen, you mock me.”

  “Not at all. I’ll bet twenty gold coins, fifty-to-one, that they are all alive.” Having completed his fourth bet, Manassa whistled stridently three times and left the bleachers.

  “Are you ready?” Quiet Surata asked. They all huddled around her, nodding. Mango Karthal’s neck was hurting and the little sleep he had did not help. Sweet Gondolaz sneezed and wiped sand off her shoulders and hair. Balid had financed Ahiram’s survival project. He had a large team of dwarfs work on the thobes, the masks, shields, and everything else that was needed to aid the team. Thanks to Balid’s team, they had spent a safe night—though uncomfortable—in an underground shelter that had been secretly dug for them by the dwarfs, before the start of the race. The tent covered the shelter’s narrow entrance.