by Jeff Deck
“Fuck,” Ulrich whispers. “He wasn’t kidding about that… oath.”
What kind of lunatics would do that to their own group members?
The kind that don’t want to get caught.
“Okay, Sol,” I go on, “I think I can talk out the rest without needing more than a nod or a head-shake from you. That sound good?”
He gives me an exaggerated nod.
“Graham and his friends needed a fire-associated material to open or close the Port in the Sheafe Warehouse. Because it was fire-aligned. The charcoal bricks did the trick. Then Nadia used a bottle of water in her ritual to open the Port to Stroyer’s Axle. That was a water Port, a.k.a. a Port connected to the Bloody Swarm.”
Another nod.
“Blood serves the same function to, I assume, either open or close a quintessence Port. Because that element represents the boundary between life and death, as you said. And…” The gears are turning now. “I’m also assuming old blood won’t do the trick. And neither will a, a wound by itself. It has to be blood from a kill. A fresh kill.”
This time Sol gives a tiny nod. But it’s still not a head-shake.
Yup. “So someone’s gonna have to die if we want to open the Port to go back home.”
With a chilling look in his eyes, Sol nods once again.
“That’s a goddamn damper on things, isn’t it,” Ulrich says. “I ain’t volunteering.”
“Well,” Sol says, and his voice sounds rusty at first, “we don’t have to worry about it right now. First we need to get through the next Wager alive.”
“Still,” says Ulrich. “You and your buddies have to kill someone to explore other, umm, worlds, and to get back home again? Who decided that price was worth it?”
Sol says a bit defensively, “Hey. I didn’t choose to take us here… all I know is what we’ll have to do to get back. And I should mention, again, that only quintessence Ports require—you know. I’ve only seen one other quintessence Port besides this one, and it was already open. I don’t know who, or what, made the sacrifice for that Port, but from what I understood, that one’s been open for a long time.”
“And where was that one located?” Ulrich says.
“Oh, no, I don’t think so. That’s the last thing I want Akerman to find out. Next thing that would happen is the city councilors would decide who they needed to—” His words choke off, and Sol clutches his throat again. He takes a few deep breaths through his nose, with his mouth firmly shut, and finally adds: “You know.”
Yeah. If the city councilors are hellbent on closing any and every Port in Portsmouth, they won’t hesitate to kill someone to close a quintessence Port.
“But you know where there are a bunch of—Ports located in Portsmouth,” says Ulrich. “Right? Chief Akerman would love to know that information. Hell, he deserves to know all about these Ports. They’re dangerous, man.”
“You won’t be sharing such information,” I say, straightening up, “even if you do make it out of here alive, Ulrich. That’s not part of the deal.”
Ulrich’s mouth twists. “Public safety is my deal. Used to be yours too, Allard. We’ll… we’ll see what happens in this fucked-up place first. I’m not making you any promises about once we get home.”
“Maybe you don’t deserve to go home, then,” Sol says quietly, with a reserve of hatred I’ve never seen from him. “People would die.”
“Enough,” I say to both of them. “We need to work together right now. Afterward, we’ll figure out a way where everyone gets to go home. No one has to die—no one.”
9
“All creatures in the race are evenly matched,” Doxe Ungam says. “Each has its own set of skills to best its opponents. But only one can win, and you may only bet on one mount, leaving your odds significantly worse than the flip of a coin. However: you may each choose a mount in the race, joined together for the same Wager. Knowing that, if none of you win, you will all fail.”
Right. Sol and Ulrich and I look nervously at each other. We’ve decided to make this pact for Milly’s sake. If one of us goes down, we all go down. Together, we can account for three out of the ten mounts in the race—still not even a 1 in 3 chance, but far better than the ten percent chance I could muster on my own.
I think ruefully to myself: if only we’d happened to bring seven additional friends with us. The race would be in the bag!
“If none of your mounts win, then not only will your friend remain as a prisoner of Avariccia, but all three of you will also become prisoners. The Tower of the Glutton will become your home until you perish. Or until one such as the Soldier Lord Chaum, with the aid of the sorcerer, steals your body from you piece by piece until there is nothing left but gristle.”
Doxe Ungam sure knows how to give a pep talk. I sense the Doxe is performing for the crowd of thousands of Avariccians as much as it’s explaining the rules to us. This is, after all, the last night of the Festival, and all of these folks have come expecting a great show.
“We’ll all throw in our Wagers together,” I say, and Ulrich and Sol nod their agreement.
“Good,” says the Doxe, and it presents the Noble Relic to us. All three of us place a hand on the Relic as Doxe Ungam holds it; something glowy and undefinable flows out of us and into the thing. Unlike the Wager against Chaum, this time I don’t feel any different.
Now the Doxe strides over to where the line of mounts is waiting.
“Each mount brings its own strengths and weaknesses to the great race. Yes, even the snail and the tortoise. I have seen races where they mired their opponents and crawled to the finish. It is only a question of which mount the Hand has graced to win tonight.”
All three of us have been gaping at the nightmarish array of creatures ever since we arrived in the Campo after Guhnach briefed us on the race. Together the mounts look like the cast of a fairy tale concocted by a psychopath.
“You may either let the mount guide itself or choose to ride one,” the Doxe goes on. “Either way you are subject to the mercy of the Hand, but if you think you can bond with a mount and gain advantage, do so. Now look upon the mounts of the great race, and choose.”
Us humans decided before we arrived that we would take our chances with riding the mounts, dangerous though the race would likely be. Anything to put more control in our own hands. Our choices are as follows:
1. An eagle crossed with a panther (a griffin, I note, but with panther taking place of lion). This is the same beast we saw fly over us while heaving at the Maw. The mount has the head and wings of an eagle, with an eagle’s talons, and the back half is all panther.
2. A giant porcupine with tree branches in place of quills. It can shoot these. Cool.
3. A fuzzy, many-legged insect, like a caterpillar meets a centipede, which I mentally dub a centipillar.
4. A car-sized snail sporting a seashell that can apparently release a wave of seawater.
5. An equally gigantic turtle with a tower on its back.
6. A slavering wolf with human-looking breasts heavy with milk.
7. A dragon. An actual dragon. Though it’s not as big as I’d expect… maybe it’s young.
8. A unicorn, just as Guhnach promised.
9. A creature with the long neck and spotted body of a giraffe but the head of an owl and small wings.
10. And a goose with ram horns!
I’m trying to imagine how this planet’s ecology would produce such a freak show, but I can’t. Maybe if the Avariccians arrived in that spaceship, they brought all these species with them. That would explain the Hill of Generation myth…
None of the mounts can quite fly: the dragon can leap with its tiny wings, as can the owl/giraffe and the griffin. But their ungainly bodies don’t move as fast at an outright sprint. The slower mounts have offensive advantages, like the porcupine with its branch quills, the goose’s ram horns, and the supposed wave from the snail’s seashell. Then there are the mounts that can move fast: the skittering centipillar, the she-wolf,
and the unicorn.
Finally, my gaze lands on the turtle with a tower on its back. It neither moves fast, nor possesses any obvious offensive advantage, nor can it leap. I can’t see why in the world anyone would pick it.
I guess that’s why I do.
Nothing is as it seems in this world. Everything wears a mask. And all our decisions lie in the void-pierced palm of the Hand. That said, I do remember that the luckiest roll of the astragali was called the turtle roll, and that the racetrack was damp when we last visited the Campo.
“Are you nuts?” Ulrich shouts at me as he sees where I’m headed.
Sol, meanwhile, needs no time at all to make his decision, shouting “Unicoooorn” and running full tilt at said quadruped, which watches him placidly. Sol skids to a halt and strokes the thick blue mane. The unicorn ducks its head, gentle eyes contrasting with the wicked silver horn on its forehead. Sol deftly climbs into the saddle, reminding me of his horse-riding experience.
Now Ulrich is shaking his head at both of us. “Of all the choices… you know, when you get the option for a dragon, you pick the motherfucking dragon.”
He wears a giddy, dazed grin as he walks up to the overgrown lizard. It stares down at him, and for one nightmarish moment I’m convinced the dragon is going to open its razor-studded jaws and eat him. Then it lies down on its belly so Ulrich can climb up into the saddle on its back.
I walk on unsteady legs toward my turtle. It blinks at me with ancient eyes.
“Hi,” I say. “We’re gonna win this thing together, right?”
Its beaklike mouth opens and a croaking emerges. Apparently it doesn’t speak Avariccian; maybe it’s not language at all, though I do sense at least a rudimentary intelligence. The “tower” on its shell isn’t a building at all, but an outgrowth of the shell that cannily resembles one, down to a texture resembling bricks, and apertures with troubling right angles: perfectly square windows. The faux tower is about ten or twelve feet tall. I notice it’s open on one side. Since there’s no saddle, I worm my way into the tower instead.
Inside, it’s hollow. A ladder leads to a platform halfway up. On the platform, I find a seat fashioned for the exact dimensions of my body. The turtle croaks again. I wish I could understand it.
I plop my ass down. I can peer through large windows to my front, sides, and back, though I see no way to even try “steering” this thing.
This tortoise is meant for me, I guess, for better or for worse.
“Prepare for the race!” Doxe Ungam booms.
Onlookers pack the Campo. The track runs around the plaza’s oval circumference, with the shiny audience looking on the areas both outside and inside the track oval; the latter seems dangerous for those sports fans.
Then the Doxe blows a horn, producing an eerie dirge, and the race begins.
All the other mounts blast past my turtle—even the snail, somehow. I may have chosen horribly. Well, Ulrich or Sol could still win this on their own.
Ulrich shouts as his dragon takes a tremendous leap into the air, its wings flapping furiously. His legs fly out behind him but he manages to hold onto the saddle. The dragon crashes down in front of the griffin, forcing it off course. Sol’s unicorn sprints ahead—he whoops and hollers and cheers it onward. Then a volley of tree branch quills from the porcupine flies down the track. Some stick into the flanks of the unicorn. Others assail the owl/giraffe and the she-wolf, both of which cry out in pain. The griffin manages to jump up in time to avoid the gnarled quills, and the centipillar slides out of the way.
My turtle and I plod along in last place, where we don’t have to worry about catching any quills. If one of those branches lanced through the windows of my little tower, I’d be toast. I’m still looking around for a way to, like, launch a missile of my own from this tower. But there’s nothing available in my bony surroundings.
The she-wolf and Sol’s unicorn take an early lead, surging forward on pure speed. Ulrich on his dragon is not too far behind, though. I watch my opponents disappear around the bend. I imagine the frontrunners will lap me soon enough—we’re going around this damn track multiple times.
Only the snail is still within sight—I estimate it’s going only a little faster than we are. My turtle finds an iota of extra speed deep within its scaly soul, and it looks like we’re actually starting to close the gap.
Suddenly the snail’s seashell opens: the bottom lifts up, and a torrent of water spills out. The crowd goes insane, screaming: “The wave! The wave!”
Indeed the water seems endless, gaining speed and power and height, flowing out of the shell with far more volume than should be possible. The whole track submerges under knee-high water, which quickly rises to chest height, spilling over the low boundaries of the track and soaking the crowd. They all cheer, heedless of water damage to their armor.
A pounding of hooves and feet and claws behind me announces the arrival of the frontrunners, the she-wolf and the unicorn and the dragon, and behind them, the centipillar and the owl/giraffe. Then raucous cries and frustrated screams indicate the racers have just met the wave.
The turtle, however, smoothly transitions from trundling to swimming, cutting through the water with ease. I poke my head out a tower window and peer behind us.
The wolf is paddling but losing ground, then it’s pulled backwards by the strength of the “tide.” The centipillar stays on the surface but spins crazily. The owl/giraffe attempts to make a jump but can’t launch itself in time and is blown backward. Sol continues to ride his unicorn hard, but despite his best efforts, they both take a bath. The unicorn falls sideways, screeching in outrage, and Sol disappears underwater.
Fuck. He’ll get himself run over, if he doesn’t drown first. As I see Ulrich’s dragon sail over my tower, still speeding onward while its opponents flag and founder, I leap out of my seat.
Even in my panic, I’m conscious of the trade I’m about to make: giving up on Milly to try to save Sol. It’s a terrible thought, but at least Ulrich has a chance at winning this for us.
“Go back!” I shout at the turtle. “Swim back and pick up my friend!”
The turtle fails to obey me or even acknowledge me, as I feared. Now in its element, it focuses only on plowing ahead.
I climb down the ladder and bang against a tower wall as the turtle makes a hard turn in the water—not backwards but to the side to skirt around one of its opponents. Once I leave the tower and the turtle’s shell, I’ll be as vulnerable to drowning or trampling as Sol.
I run out onto the shell. Don’t do this don’t do this don’t do this
I jump from the tortoise’s back into the rush of water.
The crowd of Avariccians roars its disapproval and anger.
The wave’s momentum carries me farther back on the track, though of course it might be pulling Sol in the same direction, away from me. I get yanked underwater and surface to see a hoof from the unicorn about to strike me in the face. Cursing, I whip my head back and feel a keratinous wind whooshing over my chin.
Other mounts compete for the chance to destroy me. A shadow falls over me, heralding the bulk of that goddamn goose with the ram horns. It honks at me and swerves around my flailing form, but the griffin is next in my path and it’s been made ungainly by the current. It manages to launch itself into the air, but I have to dive back underwater to keep a claw from ripping out my eye.
I come back to the surface, sputtering, thoroughly disoriented. The water level seems to be lowering, though. Apparently the snail’s wave capacity isn’t as endless as I feared. The centipillar whirls past me, its hundreds of legs twitching in a mockery of swimming. I shudder and manage to get myself turned in the right direction. The she-wolf snaps her jaws at me as she paddles by.
I knife through the water, wondering if I’ve already passed Sol. Before I give in to the despair eating at my belly, I spot my bedraggled friend.
Sol Shrive is floating facedown, carried along bonelessly by the current, though now the water is only
a couple of feet deep. I grit my teeth and make my way toward him, half-swimming, half-sloshing with my feet pushing off the ground.
Up close, I’m still unsure whether he’s alive or dead. I hook my arms under Sol’s and drag him up onto the nearest embankment of the track, on the inner side, where the enclosed oval of Avariccians is still screaming its disappointment. A solid wall of metal suits blocks me from hauling Sol over the side and into safety. The spectators look down at me with their frozen mask faces and shout in their rough tongue:
“Get back in!”
“Leave him! Get back on your mount!”
“Faithless worm!”
I shout back at the obstructions: “Get out of my way!”
They refuse. Now I see the porcupine galloping along the inner embankment of the track to avoid the remaining water on the track. It’s ready to collide with us—or impale us with tree branches. I shield Sol’s body with my own, standing astride the embankment and holding up my arms in a helpless plea for mercy.
At the last instant, the beast veers back onto the track with a splash. Behind me, Sol coughs. I see him spitting up water. He gives me a grimace. “Sorry. I messed up… you fall off too?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Lucky for us, Ulrich’s still in it.”
We’ve wound up in a decent spot to view the lap line—I’m not sure how many more go-rounds until it turns into the finish line. I lost track while almost dying multiple times.
The track is down to only a mud level of saturation. The turtle and snail and the goose no longer have the advantage swimming gave them. They’re bunched together on the far approach, and then two competitors break past. Both giving their all—it must be the final lap. It’s the griffin… and Ulrich on his dragon. Neck and neck.
The griffin noses ahead of Ulrich. And then I see Ben Ulrich draw something from his belt, an object glistening like the Avariccians’ suits. I only realize, to my horror, that the object is his Sig P226 when he raises it and shoots through the griffin’s luminous left eye.
