The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3)

by Michael Joseph Murano

  “Krom,” Quiet Surata said, “Take a peek and tell us what you see.”

  Krom crawled on all four through the shelter’s exit and hoisted himself inside the hole until his head protruded above ground. He glanced through the tent’s hole and went back down. “Five men and three giants with swords and axes are waiting for us outside. I think we’re going to have to fight to get into the trap alive.”

  “I have a better idea,” Surata said. She whispered something in Slippery Slued’s ear. He nodded approvingly. “We’ll, let Slippery Slued handle this.”

  “Judging by the way Surata is looking at Slippery Slued,” Krom mumbled, “she must really like him.” He stepped aside and Slippery Slued went out.

  “Everyone, follow Slued,” Surata said. “Quietly.”

  By the time the team was back inside the tent, Slippery Slued was standing outside, before a hushed crowd.

  The crowd fell silent and the men and giants who were standing guard closed in on him. Slued raised his hands to show them that he was unarmed. “Since you’re going to kill me, allow me to present you with my last act, my finale, my farewell entertaining show.” He waited for their attention. He was one man against thousands, what harm could there be in delaying his death?

  “I’m going to clap once, and then you guys will clap after me,” he said in a booming voice. “When I stop clapping, the first among you who kills me will receive an additional fifty gold pieces.”

  “Where’s the gold?” one of the partisans interjected.

  “Yeah, show us the gold.”

  Slippery Slued bowed and Ahiram was amazed to see him remove a small pouch from his pocket. He shook the bag and they all heard the jingle. Carefully, he opened the pouch, revealing the gold coins. “Here is the gold. I’ll set it on the ground next to me. Whoever kills me first gets the bag. Alright? But not until we finish clapping.”

  The crowd nodded; there was nothing to lose. Slued began clapping slowly and soon, everyone joined in. He intoned a slow monochord piece of music. Ahiram yawned and rubbed his eyes, wondering what this was all about. Slued glanced over his shoulder.

  “That’s the signal,” Quiet Surata whispered, “let’s go.”

  “But they’ll kill us,” Ahiram protested.

  “Don’t worry, they won’t even see us.”

  The team got out of the tent and walked quickly past the clapping crowd and toward the entrance of the second trap. Slippery Slued joined them and just as he was about to walk through the door, he snapped his fingers. A very short moment later, Ahiram heard the crowd roar with laughter. Unable to resist, he peeked back outside and gasped.

  The partisans, who moments ago were brandishing weapons, now stood lifting a shoe. The weapons were in a pile next to the tent. Ahiram shook his head in admiration for Slippery Slued’s talent, and joined the others inside. Still, he chided himself for his negligence regarding the entry to the second trap. I should have told Manassa to dig a hole from underneath the tent to the second trap. A short passage from the tent to the entrance would have been child’s play for the dwarfs and much safer for us.

  The second trap offered the racers a single narrow corridor hemmed by enormous blocks of stone. The passage led into a small chamber with no secondary exit. As soon as the last participant entered, an operator would drop an iron-barred dome to trap them and a steel door to seal off the entrance. The operator would then flood the sealed chamber with boiling wax, turning the racers into statues, and that would be the end of it. By disobeying their master’s orders and attempting to kill all eight participants at once, the lizards who built this trap wanted to bring an end to the bloody battles and save the lives of their comrades, at the risk of losing their own.

  Slippery Slued entered last. Vistas in the roof alerted the operator that all the racers were in the room. He cut a rope and rattling chains sent the cage down. It landed with a loud thud and the door was shut tight, sealing the entry. Another operator raised a lever, and an immense circular bowl hanging over the trap tilted. The wax flooded the pipe and soon, steam seeped from the walls of the trap. The crowd, who was not privy to the details of the trap, waited anxiously. The operator let go of the lever and the massive bowl swung back in place, producing a loud, hollow clang.

  Manassa stood on the third bench of the closest bleacher and waited quietly. After a longer than expected moment, when no one showed up, he started to worry. “Come on boss, you’ve got to come out.” He thought about Ahiram’s brilliant idea to deal with this trap. “Boss, you’re too smart to get trapped in there,” muttered Manassa, his eyes glued to the exit. He reviewed the events that led up to the race. “Boss, you told me to get Master Balid’s dwarfs to join the crew of lizards that were going to build this trap. The dwarfs would then dig a secret, underground passage beneath it that you’d use to escape. The plan was that you’d make it out safely on the other side. So you’re supposed to come out about now, boss, so what are you waiting for?”

  As if answering Manassa, Ahiram exited the trap under the protection of his wax-stained shield-box. The crowd stared at him angrily. The anger grew progressively as one by one, the team members joined Ahiram. They were not burned, they were not walking statues, and they had not one drop of wax on their bodies.

  A woman standing next to Manassa whispered, “This is magic!”

  “Yes,” Manassa said. “This must be magic.”

  “Impossible!” a giant roared, “You can’t all survive again.”

  “Form the shield-train,” Quiet Surata warned, ignoring the shouts of anger. “We’ve got to move before this angry mob attacks.”

  The Silent was grateful to be alive. His plan had almost turned into a nightmare. Apparently, the dwarfs had not accounted for the wax as it was poured over the tunnel, which collapsed under the sheer weight of the hot liquid. Huska had been trapped under the sand, and they had to dig quickly while keeping the ceiling from caving in. After a few agonizing minutes, they were able to grab Huska’s hand and then worked carefully to free him while keeping the wax at bay. The temperature became intolerable and they almost suffocated. They had to take turns pulling Huska through the sand until he was able to move himself. They used their shields to contain the wax and prevent it from falling into the tunnel.

  The team was elated to see the sun again. “That’s what someone who died and comes back to life feels like,” Surata said. “The sun is magnificent. Look at the blue sky. What wonders lie above us of which we are unaware.”

  The crowd’s anger turned into rage. But for once, the rage was not directed at them; it was directed at the lizards who had operated the device. Slowly, silently, the partisans streamed down the benches, surrounded the trap, and with one maddening shout, they stormed the spherical snare.

  “Form the shield-train,” Ahiram said, “quickly.”

  “Get down,” one lizard screamed. “It won’t hold our weight!”

  They did not hear him. More partisans streamed down from the bleachers nearby, and in their rage, trampled one another. A second stream of partisans came down from the opposite side and rushed the tangled mass. The two sides fought mercilessly.

  Above them, standing precariously on top of the trap, the lizards tried to defend themselves against the attackers. The structure creaked and moaned, unable to carry the additional weight.

  “Get down,” the same lizard repeated. “It’s going to break. We’ll all die. Get down now!”

  In a terrible scream, the trap was cast asunder. The mob fell into the hot wax, which flowed out and scalded the fighters nearby. The racers inside the shield-train fled the scene, carrying with them the horrific shouts of rage, pain, and anguish from the partisans paddling into the burning wax. Ahiram gritted his teeth. I will put an end to this race, he thought once more. I certainly will.

  “The Entalorian Amulet is a stylized head of a horse with emerald eyes. This pendant made of pure gold is bestowed on the first participant to cross the finish line of the Wretched Race. Why a hors
e you ask? The Wretched Race started as a chariot race, but when the crowd was allowed to attack the participants, too many horses died. The gamblers, unable to bear the death of these noble steeds, threatened to withdraw. The organizers removed the chariots and introduced the traps, at which point the race assumed its current form. The Entalorian Amulet remained as a fitting gift since anyone who reaches the finish line must be as wise, strong, and fast as this legendary horse.”

  –Memoir of Alkiniöm the Traveler.

  They kept running. The sun beat the protective steel of the shields, heating the air inside their enclosed space and drenching them in sweat. Tension was now palpable for they were on their last leg, moving toward the third trap, which was built just before the finish line. They had less than three quarters of a mile to go, and Ahiram knew the gamblers would not let them reach the final trap alive if it could be helped.

  Abruptly, Mango Karthal, who was running first, told them to stop.

  “Why are we stopping?” Krom asked.

  Mango described the scene. “There’s an army of partisans blocking the way. They are standing in battle formation across the entire track and also along the sides. It looks like they’re led by a giant with military training.”

  “So what’s the plan then?” Slippery Slued asked. “They’re determined to come after us this time.”

  “And we’re going to let them do just that,” Ahiram said. “There’s strength in numbers,” he added somewhat cryptically.

  “You’re not planning on attacking all five thousand of them, now are you?” Quiet Surata said with a hint of panic in her voice.

  Ahiram was tempted. He thought about donning El-Windiir’s artifacts and raining down fire from the skies on the partisans, but something told him it would be the wrong thing to do. There shouldn’t be any doubt in the minds of the race organizers and of the gamblers that we won this race without cheating. If I were to use these artifacts in the open, they might argue I flaunted the rules and could disqualify the race and force the entire crew to race again. The extraordinary jump they had performed could be explained away as a move the Silent use, and the reputation of the elite corps would support it, but to fly in the open air while spewing fire like a dragon? That act of magic could be used against him.

  Besides, he thought, why use magic when there’s a simpler and safer way to reach the final trap? Standard Silent techniques are all I need here.

  “So, boss, what da we do?” Huska said.

  “Remove your thobes and masks. Cut and tie strips of the thobe to your waist, wrists, legs, and forehead,” he instructed. “When you’re done,” he handed them a piece of cold coal, “smudge some of this on the bridge of your nose, under your eyes, and on your cheeks. Take your time. Don’t rush,” he said. “By standing here, we’re trying their patience and that’s what we want.”

  A short while later, a hand holding a pouch protruded from the shield-train. The partisans perked up when they heard someone yell, “There’s fifty gold diegans for the first one who can come and get it!”

  The leader of the mob barked an order. “Don’t move, we’ll follow—”

  A puff of putrid yellow substance exploded in his face. That was the last of those darts, thought Ahiram as the giant reeled back and fell down, unconscious. Let’s see if my assumptions were correct. He waited to see if someone else would step forward and assume command but no one did. As I thought, this giant didn’t bother to appoint a second-in-command. “Go ahead, Slued.”

  A second pouch of coins appeared. “One hundred gold diegans for the first one who can take it.”

  The hostile militia wavered but did not break. Better not miss, thought Ahiram. He tied one end of a Silent thread to the shield’s frame, and the other to a grapple hook that he loaded into his crossbow. Hope the thread is long enough.

  “Set the shields on the ground,” he told his companions. He slid out of his straps, and crouched. “Quiet Surata and Krom,” he said, “make space, I’m going to lie down.” He got in position, holding his crossbow before him. “Get up slowly, now.” The shield-train lifted so Ahiram could see the crowd. He aimed at the right foot of a man seventy yards away and fired. The dart flew straight. Briskly, Ahiram yanked the thread and the projectile looped around the man’s right ankle.

  Slippery Slued exposed a third pouch. “Five hundred diegans for whoever can come and get it.”

  Ahiram got up and yanked forcefully on the string. The man yelped and stumbled forward. Others next to him, thinking he was making a run for the gold, sprinted immediately. The tidal wave broke and the partisans surged in a chaotic mess toward the shield-train.

  “Remove the straps from your shield and get ready,” Ahiram yelled over the roar. “Wait for my signal.”

  The partisans rushed toward the stalled racers. The warring circle narrowed quickly, and when the crowd was a mere ten feet away from their target, a cloud of dense smoke enveloped the shields, hiding them from view. A scuffle ensued.

  “I got it,” someone shouted, “The gold is mine.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” another voice countered, “Give it to me.”

  The partisans waded through the dissipating fog. One of them, a man with a charcoal-painted face and stripes of black cloth dangling from his wrists, knees, and forehead shook the shields and toppled them.

  “They’re gone,” he boomed. “They’re not here. You,” he said pointing at a she-dwarf. “You helped them. I saw you.”

  “I didn’t,” the she-dwarf protested.

  “They’re here!” a woman yelled from the back, “They’re trying to escape through the bleachers, help me!”

  “After them,” the man called frantically, “Get them! Get the gold!”

  The partisans ran in the direction that was indicated while the man with the painted face trekked through the mass in the opposite direction, moving closer to the trap. From the bleachers, the scene was pure confusion and chaos.

  Someone wearing a similar disguise joined him.

  “Dhat is a smart move, dhat,” Huska the Fat whispered.

  Ahiram smiled. “Crowds are always your best ally if you know how to work them.”

  They kept moving forward, yelling orders to any disoriented partisan who would listen to them. “Get them, they’ve got the gold! After them, don’t let them escape!” Thanks to his Silent training, Ahiram knew how to hide in full view. No one expected him, a wanted man, to stand with an ostentatious disguise and to shout orders at the top of his lungs. In the heat of the moment, those who bothered to look at him did not recognize him, but Huska the Fat was harder to hide.

  “That’s Huska, over there,” a giant behind them bellowed.

  Huska tensed, but Ahiram’s reaction was faster. “I see him,” he hollered. “Straight ahead,” he added. “Get him!”

  Part of the crowd followed his command while he took off running with Huska in the opposite direction. Unconvinced, the giant strode behind them.

  “We’ll have ta fight,” grumbled Huska.

  “Not if I can help it.” Facing the crowd, Ahiram shouted, “The giant, he’s here, he’s got the gold, a thousand diegans; get him!” Instantly, a group of partisans spotted the momentarily confused giant. “Huska, crouch behind me,” Ahiram whispered.

  “Don’t listen to him,” the giant boomed. “Huska’s over there.”

  A group of partisans glanced back. “Where?” a dwarf asked while squeezing the handle of his ax, ready for the kill. “I know Huska, and he’s not there.”

  Ahiram insisted, “This giant has the gold.” A woman leapt and swung her mass at the giant. An instant battle erupted. “Let’s go, Huska, the others should be there by now. Walk slowly, don’t run, and make way for anyone we cross.”

  Ahiram and Huska emerged from the crowd and drew close to the third and final trap where the rest of the team was waiting for them.

  “Took you long enough,” Mango Karthal grumbled. “We were starting to worry.”

  Ahiram chuckled
. “I didn’t think you were the worrying type, but thanks. Glad to see everyone’s here. Sweet Gondolaz, stop this madness.”

  Sweet Gondolaz pulled a small whistle and blew. A deafening, strident sound rang over the din of the battle. She whistled three times and the warring factions near them stopped their battle.

  “We thank you for your generous assistance,” Sweet Gondolaz said in a mocking tone, “and as you can see, we have now reached the edge of the third trap. We would like you all to return to your seats and enjoy the rest of the show.”

  “You didn’t have to be so callous,” Mango chided. “That’s cruel.”

  “They are trying to kill us,” she reminded him.

  The partisans stood stunned and confused. Some raised their weapons, yelling insults and imprecations, while others gritted their teeth in rage. The team had reached the third and final trap. Once at the trap, no one was allowed to go after them. There was nothing left to do but wait and hope the racer they had bet on would be first to emerge from the trap. The partisans’ future and freedom depended on it.

  An impatient trumpet gave three quick blows, and the two female referees from the day before hurried on the dirt road.

  Quiet Surata smiled and waved.

  “We wish to remind the noble participants in the Race of Kyril about the express rules stated in the statutes and directives of the game: no piercing, tearing, destroying, dislodging, encroaching, hanging, holding, replacing, stealing, or demolishing is allowed. The trap must run its course and the participants must survive solely by their wits, and nothing else.” The referee looked at Ahiram, smiled sheepishly, and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “This also applies to all participants who were specially invited to participate.”