Best of British Fantasy 2018

by Jared Shurin

  My four white horses are still. I glance down at their matching rumps. Their long backs slick under the white tack straps. I feel nauseous, push it into the pit of my stomach. The horses, the chariot, myself, are one being, waiting. I can’t smell their rank sawdust. I focus through the gates, on the track, and the position a hundred yards hence I must capture when they fly open.

  Being in four puts me too close to the central spina, and Green on my left will be crammed against it. If I make it out ahead of him, he won’t recover. But Gyr has a clear run down the straight. I have to go hell for leather to beat him into the first turn.

  I glanced sidelong at him. Eyes slipped right, turned my head slightly. He’s looking directly at me, smiling with malice. See his gold hair, grey eyes, broken nose. The mole that lifts his lip. I alter my grip on the rein straps. I’ve wound their heavy bulk around my waist, tight, with just enough slack, I can guide them with my right hand.

  He knows he’s going to win. He’s on home ground. The hippodrome is the palm of his hand, and I don’t know these horses. He knows every inch of the track, every single trick. Those studs gemming his battered crimson chariot are one for every victory.

  He gave me The Look.

  I sneer and face forward, return to marking the point ten yards ahead I must reach first, get central position, command. The gates don’t reach the ground. They’ll all flick wide together when Abishai throws the lever. And now he’s approaching, solemnly, under the weight of the crowd’s attention. He passes out of view behind the column and I know he’s reached the wall.

  I take deep breaths. There’s absolute silence. The fountain on the spina stops. The shadows of the monuments along that central reservation have shrunk back beneath them. The palace clock begins to chime. In the royal box mother stands up.

  Her handkerchief hangs white from her hand. The horses sense the tension. They brace. I draw a breath to shout.

  She lets go the handkerchief.

  The gates spring open.

  Ha!

  We leap forward, the glare and heat and sense of space belts me across the eyes. Gyr thunders past on my right and suddenly he’s a length ahead.

  His red silk shirt is billowing between crossed straps. All I can see is his back. My horses are plunging like surf. Dead ahead of their noses, the rear of Gyr’s chariot, his knees bent and streamers flying. I have the sensation that my horses are in control, not me, then I surge back over them, yelling, and I’ve totally lost the position I needed. I steer right, come abreast of Gyr on my left with the horses charging shoulder to shoulder, knees lifting, hooves pounding, manes stringing out, and our wheels and tops of our farings match. We’re leaning forward equally, my lungs are burning from yelling, the reins in my hand thrumming, my right arm lashing the horses. The floor’s transmitting every hoof strike – and his face is a snarl of screaming. The crowd are on their feet and we’re so close I’m urged to punch him, and we’re neck and neck all down the straight, flashed past the façade of the royal box, and already I’m preparing myself for the turn.

  My true love Martyn is in that box.

  She’s watching!

  I screamed at the horses, Ha! Ha! Ha! Gyr leant out to balance, flashed round the Sphendone turn with a wing spread wide, was away. Green didn’t have the mettle to tackle it at this speed; struggled with his courage. Lost it. Slowed. I shot ahead of his horses’ back legs, forelegs, noses, the shadow of the high hippodrome arches cut across the track. We hurtled into it,the turnpost came up, and the wall dead ahead.

  Suddenly the crowd was all around me, towering above, in the Sphendone seats. Up came the post. I gripped the left rein, slacked the right, threw my weight to the left side of the chariot, smacked the faring with my thigh, threw out my left wing and my feather tips brushed the turnpost. My left wheel dug in the rut Gyr’s had made, the right slipped, I thudded down my weight, both wheels bit, and I straightened out of the turn and screamed up into full speed in the tracks of my brother’s wheels. He was two lengths ahead, his wings clenched tight and packed sand hurling off the hooves.

  A gold dolphin on the turnpost bowed, and a bell must have rung but the air was solid noise. Behind me, Green and Blue made the turn simultaneously, forcing Blue so wide he nearly scraped the wall.

  Ha! Ha! Yelling my lungs raw like bellows, I slipped rein to the horses – they bowed their heads and yanked the leather through my palm – I felt the burn, clamped them. That’s enough. So the four lowered their heads, forelegs flashing out under their chins, and showered sand off the wheels, at full charge down the straight.

  Gyr’s still a length ahead! The pounding of our eight sets of hooves. His strong voice screaming. His crimson-silver streamers flashing. The multi-coloured crowd rushing past. All these people in Gyr’s scarlet, yelling! One fat man leaning over the barrier, a fake wreath on his head!

  Thundering past the familiar markers on the spina. Past the fountain. Past the ancient obelisk from the Pentadrica. The snake sculpture from Lazulai. Murrelet’s bronze statue of Princess Gerygone shipwrecked, rescued by mermaids. I’ve got to reach Gyr before we pass the Morenzian iron wolf, I’ve got to get abreast of him on the inside, or I won’t beat him into the turn.

  No chance.

  He was ready for it. He was starting to stretch his left wing.

  “You bastards! Come on!” I yelled at my stallions. They couldn’t charge faster. Foam whipped from their open mouths, flew past me, stuck to my faring. Barely in control, we hurtled down the straight.

  I’m gaining on him!

  The feathers of my brother’s left wing had brushed that turnpost so often they’d worn down. He had to cut in front of me. He bent his knees further. So did I.

  The starting block angled ahead of us, the gates wide open, the towers either side, the gigantic gold Quadriga with rearing steeds on the roof. The sun striped through their outstretched legs. Their driver is our grandfather as a young man, the Eagle standard in his hand. In the shadow of the wall, there’s Abishai by the gates’ lever, fists clenched, his mouth open in a yell of love for Gyr.

  Everyone’s roaring for Gyr. It’s deafening! No one’s cheering for me. Not one in a hundred thousand!

  Only Martyn.

  Martyn will be rooting for me. But I can’t hear her!

  This is the easy turn. Gyr zipped into it, put a length between us, allowed himself wide, sliding, and his horses seemed to go sideways over the churned ground. He straightened up and was away down the straight.

  He flicked both wings at me without looking round, leant over the faring, over the axle, and urged his horses faster, the wheels a blur, ripping up the sand.

  I whipped round the turn. Every bump and rut coming up through my feet, every jolt, and the reins rived so tight they tugged me forward, as my horses saw free ground ahead of them and lunged.

  Slick turn!

  Inch by inch, I closed the ground between us. Came up behind him. Slipped into my lane inside his left quarter. I’ll rip his feathers out!

  Green took the turn too fast and swung out on our right. Blue was nowhere.

  I gained. There’s blood on his horses’ muzzles. Did he give them too fast a start?

  Coming up to Martyn’s box already. The air buzzing. There she is, waving her hands high!

  As we passed her, I caught him. He pulled wide. I charged up on his inside.

  Just me and Gyr out ahead now. Just white and red – yelling first to reach the turn. Now I was on his inside lane. He glanced over, at my horses coming up. Steered left, and started to push me against the central wall. The marble rushed past. My wheel hub half a metre from it. My horses wouldn’t let themselves be run into it, they veered away, towards him. I let my spoked wheel encroach on his. The iron rims nearly touched – he screamed in fury, started giving ground back into the centre. He screeched at his horses – found a burst of speed and pulled directly ahead of me. Suddenly, I was looking at his broad back and the step of his chariot.

  He slowed into th
e Sphendone curve. Damn it! Stuck behind him, I had to slow down, too, and he suddenly sped up, slung round and was away up the straight. My horses slipped sideways, slowing too much and mashed the trodden sand all the way around the curve, sliding into the long middle lane, too far from the turning post – too close to the wall.

  I wrestled them out of the curve, straightened them up, more so, accelerated down the straight. Gyr was hugging the inner lane. I came up on his right. The crowd was going wild.

  Now I can push him into the wall. I steered my horses left, more and more. He looked straight ahead, scourging the whip. My left horse’s pounding shoulder started to press his right horse. Our wheel hubs an inch apart.

  He shrieked. “You fuck your cousin!”

  “You fuck your mare!”

  “Incest!”

  “Mortal!”

  I kept him against the wall, faster towards the easy carceres’ turn.

  Our wheels matched pace. Two sets of horses galloping as eight abreast. His against the wall resisted, their knees lifting, nearly tangling. If he spread a wing the wall would snatch it.

  His face was furious. “I’ll stuff you in the starting box!”

  “I’ll smash you against the post!”

  The starting block shadow grew closer. Closer. I brought him in too fast, timed it, fell back and left him. I drifted right, coursed round the bend. The hard marble arches swept past on my right, way too close. I saw the straw on the ground inside them. The springs on every open gate. Abishai flattened himself against the wall.

  My brother struggled. He loosed reins, skidded right, his horses plunging sideways over the peaked ground. They couldn’t find grip, the prints and ruts deeper here, bits of straw in them. The ground too churned up, too soft.

  The weight of his chariot swung it like a pendulum and his horses began to fall.

  The crowd gasped.

  Gyr pulled left so tightly his right wheel left the ground. I saw it stop, mid-air. He flapped once, stomped down the floor with his right foot. The wheel hit the sand and bit.

  We roared out of the curve simultaneously and plunged down the straight neck and neck.

  Now Gyr was still in the middle lane and I was wide, racing along the barrier with the crowd towering above me. The smooth stone wall grey, with deep scrapes, rushed by as a smear.

  His fist tightened on the reins. No! My move! My grip under the vibrating left rein, I squeezed it, pulled them left.

  We hurtled side by side, past the crowd, past Martyn, the people torrenting past, faces above us, mouths open wide.

  I kept him against the spina all the way. He was shrieking on tip-toes, flogging his horses’ heads. I controlled him. I stuck to him. He whipped the air around my eyes. But I wouldn’t peel away.

  Madly he started lashing and screaming his horses faster. Started accelerating – into a manic charge – right up against the wall. His chariot faring started to slide ahead of mine. His horses’ noses free, then their forelegs – then I was looking at his back, abreast of my horses.

  He can’t!

  The turn’s coming up!

  I started letting him go. No! I won’t! Out of my mind, I started lashing my horses faster too. Faster, faster! I’ll keep him against the wall. No matter what happens!

  We should be slowing now!

  We can’t go into the turn this fast!

  He tried to wrestle right. His strength against the horses’. His shoulders stood out like a bow.

  The Sphendone turn raced towards us. His expression hard, jaw clenched. Too fast! We’re going too fast!

  We should be starting the turn!

  Solid wall ahead of us!

  He’s going to break our necks!

  He doesn’t care!

  His nerve held. Mine broke. I peeled away, leaning into the curve, leaving him closest to the post. Then he pulled away too, deliberately. He swung out, forced me right. Away from the turnpost, pushed me across the lanes, towards the wall. I fought back. He kept sliding me into it! The high wall streaked past on my right, its ascending curve ahead of me like a dead end.

  Gyr leant his backside on the chariot faring, hooked his boot toe under its opposite lip and leant out, completely horizontal. Disappeared round the turn on one wheel, the other high in the air.

  Sand hurled off it, spattered in my face.

  My own speed was pulling me with uncontrollable force into the ascending curve of the wall. I saw it coming up, and I knew I couldn’t pull out.

  I’m going to crash. There’s nothing I can do. But with all my strength I fought the inevitable, dragging the reins for seconds, my muscles rock hard, my arms, chest, stomach screaming. Tension slapped the reins. Can’t pull them out of it! Can’t pull away!

  I twisted my body. The curved wall rushed in. My right horse baulked at it, tangled his forelegs into the other three. I grabbed the faring front, braced myself for the impact. We charged into the wall.

  My two right horses hit the stone full gallop. The impact smashed me into the air. My feet left the deck. As I flew up, I saw their necks buckling, heads thrown back over their shoulders. Their hooves scraped high against the wall, rumps down. Crack! The sound of snapping spines. The sheer force propelled me over the faring but I hung on – landed stomach on it, winded. My soles smacked down, on the chariot deck.

  My right wheel was mowing to matchwood against the marble. The faring screeching along, showering sparks over me. The left wheel dug in, the floor suddenly vertical. My grip white on the faring – with a mighty snap I felt the axle break. The two left horses were still going at full speed – yanked my left arm out straight, breaking my fingers. Snatched at my waist, pulled me round – I let the reins go, then the two left horses fell, sprawling and kicking. The chariot flipped left, the left wheel came off, bounced high, ahead of me, twice, and smashed itself to splinters on the ascending curve of the wall.

  I saw a flash of the turnpost, the sand filled my vision, I struck the hard ground full length and the coving of the chariot axed down in front of my eyes.

  Everything went dark.

  Quiet.

  I’m underneath it.

  Around me, its bronze walls tugged along, grating the sand and cutting deeper into it as the horses struggled. Then stopped. I lay, on my back, the roar of the crowd muted and tinny. Distant. The chariot floor flat, gritty metal, inches above my nose. My left shoulder raged in agony, my left fingers numb, ripped by the reins. They didn’t seem to be in the right place. And I couldn’t feel my right leg at all.

  That’s wrong. My whole body can’t fit into the chariot.

  Hmm.

  My leg must be sticking out.

  Hooves thundered past and I heard the chime as the last dolphin nose-dived. Two more sets of hooves and whirring wheels, air rushed by for each. The crowd gave a roar of horror – then erupted in triumph. Their applause crescendoed to an ultimate frenzy. Gyr must have reached the finish line.

  It kept the same hysterical level as I... I began drifting into unconsciousness, in the dark of my chariot’s upturned shell, and it’s strange... I shouldn’t be able to sleep when my shoulder’s in so much pain. It didn’t seem fitting... but I felt content, and... I faded between midnight-blue layers, deep into sleep... and was roused, irritably, by a vibration and a drumming.

  I must be in bed, damn it, I must have overslept, and they’re parading the troops. Martyn will be coming in to wake me. She’s so zestful; she ducks through the tent flap, laughing at my sleepy-face. She crawls onto the bed and teases me with kisses.

  The bedsheets slipped on my chest, and I tried to get up... but something was pressing down on me.

  It was the chariot floor. The drumming is the pounding hooves of my brother taking his victory lap. As he passed me, he slowed to a walk. I heard his wheels, and I thought he was going to stop.

  He didn’t stop. He drove by slowly, and the hoof falls ebbed away. He’d be drinking in the adoration of the crowd tiered into the sky, gazing up at their cheering fa
ces, their fists punching the air. He’d have stripped off his shirt, driving with his bare torso shining. Urging the crowd into ecstasy. Brandishing his wreath in one hand, his proud horses dripping foam. The way he always did.

  Sounds gusted. My shoulder flamed. A loud man was calling for bets on the three p.m. race. Then muffled voices, and the chassis around me tugged left and right, scraping into the sand. They were cutting my horses off the shaft.

  A commanding voice hallooed, inside. “Are you awake?” It was Rayne, the Doctor.

  “I’ve broken my shoulder,” I gasped.

  “Argh! You’re the Archer! You need your shoulder!”

  A chink of light appeared along the rim of the chassis. Bunches of fingertips appeared, bent up around it and, with a flash of bright daylight they hefted the thing off me and twisted it away.

  “You fool,” said Rayne. Above me, her face blocked the sun. I blinked, cast an arm over my eyes. She crouched down by my leg. I blinked against my sleeve, suddenly terrified. What was wrong with my leg?

  Was it still there?

  I writhed to see it, feeling sand in the nape of my neck. Smelling blood, the sweat-stink of my horses, and a sudden waft of grilled lamb kebabs and fragrant spices from the stalls. Rayne held me down firmly. “Your shoulder’s only sprained. But your leg – damn! Your leg is very broken. Very, very, very! It’s a comminuted fracture.”

  She helped me sit up. My shin had been crushed in a line, straight across, where the top of the faring had smashed it into the ground. It had severed the soft leather of my boot, and the skin beneath, which had pulled away – and all I could see was a wide, red gash, brimming with blood like a newly-breached well. The sand all around us was soaked scarlet with it.

  Rayne scowled at me. Her arm, at my back, held me upright. “I’ll have to cut your boot off.”

  I vomited into my lap.

  She barked at her stretcher-bearers. “Stop staring after Gyr! Worship your hero in your own time! You have to lift Lightning.”