The Chariot Race

THE CHARIOT RACE

The clamour of the crowd was a storm. They perched like hungering seafowl on the great stone steps that were the arena walls, or stood and stared from its looming crest of archways, each small murmur like distant birdsong that kept collecting and compounding until the cloud of starlings became a thunderhead.

The charioteer had never seen so many people in one place in all his life. Had he not travelled the length and breadth of the World’s Edge, he might not have believed that so many people even existed. Yet here they were, in their hundreds, men and women and others, the ancient and the smallest child, a riot of colour and noise.

Shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot he felt the strong boards of the chariot creak, the axle’s subtle shift. He wore nothing but a green-plumed racing helm and a black fur pelt about his loins, lean muscle glinting in the sun, his swarthy skin and dark hair oiled and perfumed specially by a team of handmaidens all for the spectacle of the races. In place of a name he had called himself Nettle.

“I didn’t realise there’d be quite so many people watching.”

“No backing out now,” came the reply. “As long as we cross the line and don’t come last, at least part of the prize is ours.”

She who had spoken was a little bronze fairy hidden in the feathers of the charioteer’s helm as if they were long grasses. She would have been a tall statue of a woman if woman she were, long-legged and broad-hipped, but at scarcely six inches she concealed herself easily amongst the verdant plumes. Her white dress was short and torn at the hem, and sharp wings emerged from her back.

“It’s you who should be worried, Thorn,” hissed Nettle. “You can’t be spotted, they’ll think I’m cheating.”

“I know what I’m doing! Do you?”

Nettle hefted the heavy reins. The pair of black destriers harnessed to the little wooden platform tossed their green-ribboned manes and hooved at the sands in nervous anticipation. They looked strong.

“I shall work it out as we go,” Nettle said.

He couldn’t see Thorn's expression, but he heard it in her voice. “Pah! Well that’ll do just fine then. I thought you said you’d been practicing?”

Her admonishments were cut through by the sounding of a bugle. A half-dozen more followed, a fanfare that caused even the din of the assembled crowd to simmer to a rumbling hum.

“Charioteers! Find your marks.”

So called the lead trumpeter, a florid old man with a white beard and many-coloured robes. The musicians left the track and took their place upon the median. Nettle jostled the reins, standing dumbly on his little wheeled platform, feeling foolish.

Luckily his horses knew their trade better than their master and found their starting line on the outside lane of the arena sands. To Nettle’s right the stone steps loomed like a fortress, the crowds somewhere beyond the peak of a wall he had to crane his neck to see the top of.

To his left, three more chariots stood waiting.

The closest was a grand gilt affair, polished white and harnessed to a pair of snickering palominos by cords interlaced with cloth-of-gold. Their master was young and pale in leached linens and an oiled black beard. He looked only at the crowd.

Next along the starting line was a small craft built for speed, cherry wood and crimson lashed to two eager young roans. Nettle craned to spy its charioteer, short and strong, red skirts at her waist, her taut stomach bare and her breast bound. She did not return his gaze.

Last in the line, a near-giant of a man towered over them all, silent behind a blue veil. He stood unmoving, a muscled sculpture of calm with his plinth a great ebony chariot, a blue eye emblazoning its warship prow. On his finger Nettle spied a silver ring set with lapis. Two silent greys hung their heads and waited for the call.

With the eerie swiftness of a storm’s eye, the clamour of the crowd died down. The officiant at the head of the band raised high a black cloth. Nettle took a breath.

And then in one instant the cloth fell and the crowd erupted and the race began.

It took an agonising second for Nettle to thrash his reins as the others launched from the line. Whether it was his encouragement or the sight of their fellows setting off that spurred the horses to run, they bolted, and soon the charioteer was tailing his opponents down the first straight.

Hooves rumbled, wheels juddering as Nettle fought to cling on. Ahead, the veiled giant had taken the lead with the red team close behind, vying for position. Nettle urged his horses on but the white chariot drifted dead ahead, taking his line. The pale young man shot a smirk over his shoulder, driving his horses on with a theatrical shout.

“Bah! Puffed-up princeling. Show him, Nettle!”

Thorn was egging him on from overhead, but he could barely hear her over the cacophony of the arena.

“I’m... trying!” It was all he could do to hang on as they gained speed.

The fairy seemed petulant. “Weren’t you up all night getting lessons?”

Nettle looked up the track to the red charioteer who had offered to help him practice, remembering how he had last seen her that morning.

“We got distracted.”

He could almost hear Thorn roll her eyes.

The first turn approached, the walls of the arena closing in a gentle curve around the median, space opening up to the left. Ahead, the blue team took the turn hard, too hard, slipping just a little out of control at the sharpness of their turn, horses practically skidding over the sand as they fought to regain control.

Their master remained implacable but in his haste had given an opening, and the red charioteer threaded her roan stallions through it like a needle’s eye. The roaring crowd crescendoed.

Nettle hit the turning a moment later, yanking the reins. His horses tossed their ribboned heads but complied, dragging the chariot around the bend.

They took it gracefully, but the chariot did not fare the same. Forgetting to rebalance his feet beneath him at the turn, Nettle felt the world shift as the chariot’s left wheel lifted from the ground, the whole construction reeling like the deck of a storm-tossed ship. He hastened to correct his posture, leaning his full weight away from the single wheel now holding the vehicle aloft.

The chariot slammed back down onto both wheels, bouncing, the next straight dead ahead. Somehow Nettle’s horses were now abreast of the palominos on the inside lane, the two teams neck and neck, each fighting to leave the other in last place.

The white charioteer’s beard bristled, caught in the wind. He led his horses bearing left, pressing into Nettle’s chariot from the outside, forcing it against the median wall. Their wheels drew close, grazing each other with a sickening rasp.

Nettle wound his reins about one wrist with a swordsman’s flourish, and with his free arm reached across the divide, shoving the other racer bodily as though that might displace the entire chariot. It did not, but the pale man stumbled and mistakenly tugged his reins to right himself. That was all it took for his horses to whinny and turn away, almost colliding with one another, sending the chariot off course. In the confusion, Nettle sped away.

“Hah!” Thorn cackled. “Take that!”

An expanse of sand lay before them now, the two chariots in front already approaching the next turn, jostling for position in a cloud of dust. Noise filled the air and thrummed through Nettle’s bones, the horses straining onward. Their dark flanks worked like a bellows, hooves barely seeming to touch the ground now as they closed the gap.

“Nettle...”

“I know. We can’t come in last.”

“And we need to cross the line! Look!”

She fluttered down to his left shoulder, directing his attention downwards just as he felt the beginnings of a subtle shift beneath his feet. The left wheel wobbled.

“Shit! I came down too hard.” Nettle grimaced. In seconds they would reach the turn. The chariot would never make it on that wheel.

“Take the turn.”

Nettle sputtered. “We’ll go flying! And I can’t fly, Thorn.”

Thorn patted his cheek. “I can.”

And she launched herself into the air, keeping pace with ease and fluttering down to the chariot’s left side. Nettle saw her as a bronze blur in the corner of his eye. He only hoped nobody in the crowd had a clearer view.

But he held his breath and put his trust in Thorn. They took the turn.

This time he had left a berth and held the reins with a firm ease. The horses were able to glide around the end of the median in a sweeping leftward curve.

Risking a glance, Nettle saw the fairy lined up with the axle, her tiny hands forcing the wheel back into place. The wobbling didn’t stop, but neither did it worsen, and the wheel held through the turn.

Nettle could hear the white team’s horses gaining behind them through the din, but it was already too late. Back on the straight the green charioteer let his horses fly, speeding back round towards the end of the circuit and across the line.

Nettle slowed the horses, finally gaining some measure of control now that the race was over. The wheels kicked up a cloud of sand and dust, and Thorn flitted back up through it to hide in the plumed helm.

The charioteer looked up at the crowd again and let the storm wash over him. He could barely hear it now.

“Well done,” he whispered.

Then the left wheel fell loose from the axle, and the pair of them fell down onto the sand, quietly laughing together.

A shadow fell over them, and Nettle looked up to see the veiled charioteer standing solemnly, extending a hand. He took it, hoping that Thorn had thoroughly concealed herself. As the stranger pulled him up with ease, Nettle could feel the silver ring upon his finger.

“You ride with spirit.” The voice was a little higher than Nettle might have imagined, soft and smooth, loud enough to be heard but no louder.

“Thank you. Ah, so do you.”

“Not quite enough, though, in both our cases.” There was a smile in the voice now, and both racers looked over to the median where the winner was receiving her due adulation.

“She’s quite something,” said Nettle. He could picture Thorn’s face, grateful that the situation bade her remain silent.

“She certainly is.”

It was impossible to tell, but Nettle almost thought that those veiled eyes glanced over the tall green plume of his riding helm as the stranger spoke. Then he turned, and was gone.

Only then did Thorn admonish Nettle; this she did again when it transpired that their third-place share of the winnings was little more than enough to pay for the damages to their hired chariot.

The rest they spent on wine, and in a dark corner of an inn outside the city they drank late into the night.

THE END

NETTLE AND THORN WILL RETURN IN...

BROKEN BLADES