The White Serpent

by Tanith Lee

  The cup had reached Rehger. He bowed his head and drank the thin sugary wine. “You are the god’s,” said the priest to him. “Go, be yourself a god.” Not immune to the galvanic of the incantation, Rehger felt it pierce him through, and closed his eyes a moment, in the verity of its power.

  Returning to himself, he was aware of the Shansar next to him on the other side, saying, “I ride for Ashara-Anack. Your Daigoth’s a phantom.” But the other Shalian, the last of the line, drank from the cup and heard the words without protest. Even in Sh’alis men might worship as they desired, providing they also made offerings to the Shansarians’ fish-serpent-woman.

  The trumpets shouted up above.

  “Corrah,” said the Corhl.

  Along the line, each side of him, Rehger might glimpse the hands of men quickly marking themselves for their gods, or their fates.

  But the ten chariots were already moving. The hiddraxi, glad of mobility, trotted eagerly up the ramp. The gates were grating wide, opening the stadium before them, a mouth darker than the lit cavern they were leaving, which would be appropriate enough for some.

  Rehger had no fear of death, only a familiar sense of it. It was integral to the ecstasy. From your earliest adult year in this place, you knew that no sane man took more than the token sips of liquor in the three days before an event. For it was in the very air. The moment you came out on the stadium sand, you were drunker than ten cups of wine could make you.

  And they were out. The black huge sky overhead, the oval rings of terraced stone descending from it, crowded with living things, that now welled into an astonishing bellowing thunder—the breaking of the storm.

  And over all the cries, the praises and exhortation, a thudding drum beat:

  The Lydian! Lydian! Lydian!

  So a king must feel, then, when—if ever—he was saluted with such real passion. A man who did not soar, know himself in that hour lord, and god, was a mindless heartless wooden lump—and such did not long make charioteers.

  They went down the straight, east to west, took the turn under a rain of banners, ribbons and showering flowers, progressed back again, west to east, toward the Guardian’s box.

  One saw that important man, the Guardian of the city, often. He liked the stadium sports. Now he was nothing, only part of the vast being of This, part of night and noise and arriving fire.

  The young boys were bringing the fire, or its physical emblem. Ten male children of the stadium courts: once Rehger had been such a child, and done this office for others. A million years ago. And a million years from now, one of these would very probably stand where he stood, some other in the future far away, when he and this moment were dust. And a remembered name.

  The child held up the burning torch for him. The child’s face flamed like the torch.

  “Win for your city,” said the child, in the ritual, meaning it.

  The Lydian laughed.

  “Go with me in your heart,” he said, and grinned. And having raised the torch high, for men and gods to see, next thrust it down and home into the gilded iron bracket on the chariot’s prow. Steeped in fats and resins, even the enormous speed of the racing chariot and the acid salty wind from the sea would not extinguish it.

  Then the children ran and were off the straight.

  The Guardian nodded. On the stone table below his box they struck the tinder over the oil, and paused, while the world held its breath.

  Then let the spark fall.

  A blast of scarlet spurted at heaven. The crowd screamed.

  Like ten great beasts of fiery night, the chariots sprang forward, neck and neck.

  • • •

  The first three laps, completed in the stadium, would rarely establish subsequent placings. The racing track was firm and clean, blocked only by its central platform that, during other events, was lowered by machinery under the earth. Five Mile Street, similarly, cleared of obstacles and lit by torch-poles, was a smooth dancing floor compared to the swooping coastal road that came next, nearly ten miles of it, revealed only by the lanterns of spectators, stars and the torches of the chariots.

  At the first turn, those Daigoth’s dice had given the inside positions took the lead, as was inevitable: The Ott and the Jowan burst forward on the straight. But the brown and ocher Thaddrian, third out from the inside, pulling his team of hiddrax around less by skill than main force, drove a diagonal course across the two forward cars, clipping the Ottish chariot so it juddered and banked up on the Kand, who was driving in fast to the rear. A primed racer of Alisaarian Kandis, the red-rose charioteer avoided the mess with nothing more than a restrained sprint, scraping past between the Ott and the central platform, and falling in behind the Thaddrian and Jowan. The yellow Shalian meanwhile, cutting into the Free Zakorian’s fifth position, cutting out again in a hurry to miss the sudden huddle of chariots, ran instead against the Zakor’s car. This, with a contemptuous slam of its flank, pushed the Shalian sideways and overturned him. The mix from Sh’alis who worshiped the one true goddess, and had made the mistake of losing his temper before the race began, was tipped into the dust. He bolted presently for safety on the platform, to the encouraging jeers of the Vis crowd.

  His hiddraxi, writhing and shrieking, anchored to the unyielding mass of the fallen car—which by some miracle had neither felled them nor caught alight from its prow-torch—were abandoned perforce leftward of the center track, the first unstable obstacle of the race.

  The remaining chariots had by now reached and taken the second turn at the platform’s western end, and were hurtling along the opposite straight. The Jowan and the Thaddrian had the lead, the Ott, discomposed, had reined back and was in third. Behind these, in an almost mathematical line, the Kand, the Zakor, the Corhl and the Lydian, galloped at a loose stretch. While behind these again, the second Shalian, and the white Shansar. To build full speed in the stadium was foolish at the start of a Fire Ride. Not till you were on the street could you afford to do it. Yet every year the unwise and overly-opportunistic angled and snatched and dog-fought for position on the first laps, as the Thaddrian and Jowan did now. As they came around into the eastern turn again, the red and black Jow chariot executed a move known as the Unwilling Girl. Ignoring the favorable inside advantage, the Jowan swerved abruptly outward across the incoming second position, to throw the Thaddrian wide. The Thaddric car, slapped on the hip, pulled out, her bandit-lord cursing in a dazzle of golden teeth. But as the Jowan wallowed back to grab the turn, the Ott went shooting by on the inside, taking first position once more.

  The black Zakorian now broke from line, rattling down the straight behind the three leaders, who, giving it a generous margin, were just past the Shalian chariot wreck.

  In the upset, the traces had been snapped from the head-stall of one of the outside animals, leaving it attached only to the crossbar of the yoke-pole. Not everyone had noted this, but it seemed the Zakorian had done so. Spectators, who had observed he had drawn the narrow dagger permitted to a charioteer for his own purposes of survival, began to caw and upbraid him, predicting his move. As he tore by the wreck, leaning from his vehicle—in itself a feat of some daring and expertise—the Zakor slashed the hiddrax’s last restraint.

  In Old Zakoris, racing had been an art of savagery and blood for centuries. It was well-known any Free Zakorian racer kept up these virtues. In Alisaar, where the animals of sport were pampered, such antics were not approved.

  It was, however, a gambit.

  The hiddrax, screaming in hysteria and excitement, dashed out from the wreck, in the path of the Kand chariot and the Corhlan.

  The Kand split to the left, space to spare, missing both the animal and the wreckage. The Corhlan, held off by the presence of the Kand, pressured from the right by the press of other vehicles, veered crazily as the untethered hiddrax skipped in a kind of ghastly dance before him. Then the animal flung itself against his team,
trying to run backward with them. Next second, the rogue hiddrax had tumbled. The steel-gray bosses of the Corhlish chariot were seen running up the air—and grounding down directly into the Shalian ruin, as, in a terrible cascading bound, the Corhl’s animals went plunging in over the sides of the wreck.

  The Corhlan had one chance only, and he took it. Amid the din of the terraces they heard him sing out the wild name of Corhl’s goddess, and with only momentum to aid them, he used the whip across the necks of his team, merciless, not to withdraw, but driving them on now, and forward, through the panic and collapse of the dead chariot, its honor splintering under hoofs and wheels—as he had promised the Shalian it should do.

  Bred for swiftness, the legs of hiddraxi were notoriously fragile. Shod and braced by metal, plied by whip and encroaching fire, they floundered and pranced. Even as the smashed car gave way under them and began to burn, they broke out through it, maddened—whole—slewed around, recovered themselves—coursed on.

  A colossal shout was lifted for the Corhlan throughout the stadium, and those with his colors shook them joyfully. He was the youngest driver in the race, a handsome boy, and courage and wits were seldom vaunted without applause in Saardsinmey.

  (Trapped on the platform, the yellow Shalian lamented. His chariot burned in great clots of smoke, his team lying broken with it to be consumed.)

  The Lydian, glancing over his shoulder, saw beyond the Shansar and the blue-yellow Shalian, the Corhlan pelting after them, silhouetted on the blaze, racing last now, but alive in the palm of his goddess.

  When they took the east turn for the third time, elements in the crowd were already yelling: Doors! Doors! Commanding that the southern exitway be opened in readiness on the street. As if such a matter might be overlooked.

  For the south gate, the benign position was now reversed, being on the outer right-hand side.

  Approaching the west turn, the adventurous Ott struck out for the right, premature, and running headlong across the noses of the Jowan and Thaddrian. This foolhardy and clumsily developed measure, not to be mistaken for bravura or dexterity by the seasoned crowd, gained the Ott a precarious minute. The Thaddrian, enraged by the tactic and judging the Jow was about to try something similar, rammed the red and black sidelong, to an overture of hissing and railing from the stands.

  The Jowan chariot shuddered but held her course. The Jow, aristocrat or not, might be beheld shouting oaths at the bandit, while the two teams rushed stride for stride. Then the Thaddric chariot seemed to rein up, giving over any hope of advantage. Inevitably, when the Jowan started to pull for the right-hand, the Thaddrian rammed him again. This time, leaning for the crossways cut, the red-black car tilted, skidded on one wheel, curved slowly over and went down. The stands were howling for Alisaarian vengeance. In the dust and spitting crush of light the Jowan seemed gone, ripped away under the hoofs—then he appeared again and the roar of the terraces redoubled. In the Thaddrian’s chariot with the Thaddrian, the nephew of the Guardian of Jow was explaining stadium etiquette with his fists. The red-and-black chariot lay heaped on the track; the brown-and-ocher car careered across the straight (the Kand, Zakorian and Lydian breaking to avoid it) to smash against the terrace barrier, where both men dropped out fighting, and girl-high the hiddraxi screamed.

  The Ott was on the west turn, far right, where the Zakorian, speed-lifted at the proper instant, passed him, followed in a graceful in-curling arc by the Kand, the Lydian, the Shansar. Surprised, the Ott scrambled in their wake, only the leftover Shalian and the Corhl all at once behind him.

  The southern exit on to Five Mile Street stood properly panting wide. Beyond, the great boulevard, jeweled either side by a watching city—

  To a paean of ecstatic frustration the stadium saw each brilliant fire-strung car complete the turn, hurl along the ultimate strip of straight, dive in the gateway— and longed for a means to follow.

  The yellow Shalian, the Thaddrian, the Jow were out, three slaughtered vehicles, slain beasts, living, bruised, Unloving men. On the terraces there were already wailings and gnashed teeth, and luckless gamblers’ talk of suicide in the morning.

  • • •

  The blue-yellow Shalian had twice crowded him on the track, a thing of no great moment, and mostly lost on the spectators in the flamboyance of other catastrophes. Now, the Shalian was back behind with the Corhl; it was the Shansar in his gold and white enamels who came on, and on.

  Rehger spared no second glance for these, or for the merchanteering Ott, who should have stayed home with the bales and baskets.

  Before, the Kand and the tricky Zakorian leapt down the road, their dust, with the sparks of his own fire, in his face.

  Five Mile Street was walled by a tall hemmed stitchery of lights and outcry. The banners and flags poured past, everything streaming in the gale of the race. This idle promenade of an hour was a chariot-run of minutes, no more, for the speed was building now, from the powerhouse of vehicle and team, from the beating hearts of the animals and the beating heart and brain of a man, and all the rushing torrent of the night.

  The street curved slightly, east to west, an accident—its straightness had been meant to be the pride of Saardsinmey. Already, up ahead, there was the dim straddle of the huge dockside gate, garlanded with flares. And soon after it, one met the fierce turn to the right, for on this stretch every turn was set contrary to the left-hand turnings of the stadium.

  The Lydian ran now for Gods’ High Gate, letting the first true escalation mount toward an upsurge of speed that might slough the Shansar from his shoulder.

  And he felt the Shansar fall from him, but not totally. For the Otherlander, too, had come armed with knowledge to this fight.

  Then the gate rolled over, rang like a giant bell, and was gone.

  The hiddraxi pulled, straining to reach the stars. The Kandish chariot seemed to flow back toward them. Vague ghost voices were calling miles away: The Lydian! The Lydian!

  Beyond the gate it was darker, a wider mouth of night, despite the winking windows and the lamps on the rigging of every ship in the bay. Stiff reek rose from the shut fish market down below, and the breathing salt of the sea.

  The Zakorian folded sideways, a blur of torchfire, taking the turn, a quarter of a mile ahead now, and next the Kand went into it and lilted through it beautifully. Rehger met and possessed the turn like a lover, more beautiful yet, and the disembodied voices laved him again from their distances. Win for your city. Go with me in your heart.

  They were on the Coast Road. Blindfolded, you would know it, going uphill, all gliding gone, now the chariot caught the action of steepness, of ruts and stones, jumping and clacketing. Nor was it a broad path. Enough room for one chariot to pass another.

  The flaming prow-torch spat back at him, flinders of fire, touching his neck and jaw.

  On the stepped heights above and to the right, the skeins of lamps and beacons continued. But to the left hand now, for the most part only a frame of ground pegged with watch towers, that slipped downward to the ocean. A lit ship or two blazed out on the water as if she burned, only more motes of arson to one who ran.

  The Kand sank backward into Rehger’s arms. A fume of red and rose, the jingling hustle as one team briefly companioned and then deserted the other, and the blare of the second torch whirled behind into the dark. Up on the heights, the balconies and roofs, came a screaming of the city’s name now, as personified in one charioteer. And there was the sound of the Kand, too, trying to regain, to grip and pass—but that speed, though well judged, not a match for this. Rehger’s hiddraxi, that he had for two years nurtured, they were in flight, nor were they done flying yet.

  The ground, having risen, leveled. The surface of the road did not.

  Only the Zakorian now, in front of him.

  (And maybe a mile behind, a bubble crashing as it burst. The Ott, finally fouled. The Shalian was on his tail, an
d had perhaps helped him to it.)

  But the fading noise of the Kandish car had expanded. No, it could never be the Kand coming in again. It was the Shansar, rising now out of the dark as the Lydian did.

  Ahead, the Zakorian looked back. Rehger, closing the gap, was easily near enough to see the grim flash of the shadowy face, and the long tongue of the whip that followed it. To hear the old charioteering shout—“Ayh! Ayh!”

  The Zakor’s animals were straining now, not to catch stars but only in labor. A breakneck swiftness tugged the black chariot away and away, and Rehger unfolded the wings of power, unleashed the coiled spring, held all this while within the hiddraxi, their hearts, his. “Fly now, my soul—” And though they had seemed to fly before, now they flew—

  The night spun off like water. Flame in his face—The world was cast away.

  The Zakorian, sucked up into their vortex, held a moment, also flung away.

  Only the twisting spine of the road before them now, weirdly splashed with light from the clapping torch, humped, chattering, made nothing now by the weightless entity that sped over it. A road that had become a ribbon across the sky.