At the core, the Skora, a platform of stone, ringed by its ten-foot pillars, each plated with gold, each alight at the top with a crest of flame. At the very center of it, the eight markers, one for each chariot, each with their six gigantic arrows—one for each lap—each flighted with the color of the chariot they represented. One arrow would be pulled down for every lap that chariot completed.
As yet, the obstacles of the course were not set up. First we must parade, and let them see us as we were—still, whole, and in our pride.
That thunder, that roar now resolved itself into individual shouts and yells, and over it, the voices of the Speakers who called out the charioteers’ names and towns countlessly along the way, so all might hear.
Color white, team of matched chestnuts: Gillan of Soils.
Color purple, team of unmatched grays: Aldar of Neron.
Color yellow, team of matched grays: Barl of Andum.
Color black, team of matched dapples: Meddan of Sogotha
Color scarlet, team of matched blacks: Darros of Sigko.
Color blue, team of matched bays: Essandar of Coppain.
Color green, team (mixed) of two grays, one chestnut: Attos of Rens.
Color gray, team of unmatched bays: Valdur of Lascallum.
It was not quite a whole lap. We rounded the turn and came to that point above which the Warden’s gallery is set. This is called the String, the Bowstring to give its full title, and here a rope was stretched across from Skora to terrace bank, and held taut by two pulleys. At the Warden’s signal it would lift and the chariots would fly free like arrows down the Straight; until his signal, none might move.
Here we drew up, gave our salute to the Warden, and here, again, we waited. First, from a door in the side of the bank, the wall that was the Pillars of Earth was wheeled out ponderously. It took a team of twelve horses, harnessed two by two, to drag it into position across the Straight. It stood now just on the edge of the turn of the Skora directly in front of us—it would be the first obstacle we should meet. It looked as solid as an oaken cliff. Nothing could collide with it and remain in one piece. The gates were adequate to admit one chariot only, and, of course, there were only four of them. The crowd cheered as the great metal stays locked into place. The horses were released, led on, and harnessed to the stone blocks which covered the natural springs under the arena. This operation was partly obscured from us by the Pillars of Earth, and besides, it was a slow business. Voices yelled advice and complaints from the terraces because of the time it took. And then the blocks were free—and up, up, shot the cascading water which normally, prevented by the cover, ran down and away into its pits. There were four of these vast falls plunging up and back, with space enough between them, and a strong enough mesh over them, that if a chariot rode into them, it could not fall through. Nevertheless, the weight of that rushing water was terrifying. The twelve horses went on, this time to drag the blocks from the double Pillars of Air, five feet around, thirty feet down. We could not see this at all, for it was hidden completely by the Skora, but a cheer went up again, and the horses were led away. A team of men brought in the last of our enemies, and, turning around in the chariots, we saw them clearly, three vast pillars of wood, coated a foot thick or more with tar. They were locked into their places and the crowd held its breath. Out of the door in the bank, a young man came running. He was lean, brown, and on his head was a wig of long orange hair. In one hand he held up a flaming brand, and ran with it almost the whole length of the Straight until he came to the Pillars of Fire. Then, with a cry echoed and reechoed by the packed terraces, he struck one pillar after another. Up they went like yellow candles, spitting, stinking, and smoking, sparks flying between them in a net. The boy with the torch leaped sideways to the bank, where another door was opened for him, and vanished.
A trumpet sounded. The arena grooms ran out and stood waiting, one at the head, one at the rear of each chariot. The charioteers stripped their boots and cloaks and slung them down to the grooms; the archers did likewise. It was very quiet, but as I stripped my cloak a sound went up indeed—exclamations, some laughter, yells, and calls. Apparently not all Ankurum knew the scarlet chariot carried a female archer. The other archers along the line stared at me, one or two in open distaste. Essandar, sixth along and beside us, threw back his head and laughed ostentatiously.
I took my bow and slipped my shield onto my right arm, and a man’s voice sailed clear down to me from the crowd.
“That’s it—you guard those beauties well, girlie!”
This caused a riot of mirth. I turned to where the voice had come from and gave him the salute we had already accorded the Warden. They roared and clapped for that.
And then again the trumpet, and again the stillness. Great, great stillness.
The Warden rose, holding up the golden rod.
A moment—so hushed I heard a bird shrill high in the sky over the stadium.
Death? Now, death? Or what? Or what?
The golden light blistered in the air. Poised.
Then fell.
8
The String is a deceiver as it lifts between its pulleys—you feel you must wait for it, but there is no need.
The moment it cleared a certain height, the three blacks, trained to it, dropped down their heads and started off, Darak and I bowed low behind them. This is such an obvious trick it is surprising not all the charioteers had learned it. Essandar knew, Barl the Andumite, number four the black Sogothan, and seven the Renshan green. So the five of us leaped ahead, and the unstoppable wheel had begun to turn.
There is no time then to fear, for yourself, or another.
Wide white thunder underfoot, the terraces an abstract of color rushing by on either side.
I felt the first arrow before I heard it. The Sogothan archer on my right—pretty boy, a young lynx. Neck and neck, the blacks as yet not at full stretch. It was for our bodywork, to loosen the plates. I got it on my shield before it struck. The boy’s face seemed startled at my quickness, a pale blur now, pulling behind.
Ahead, the gates were rushing near, those four open mouths. Essandar had drawn to the left, across the Renshan, in a spurt of speed, crowding to get the first gate, the best place because it was nearest the Skora. The Renshan, pulling hard away to avoid collision, reared toward us, his team plunging and out of control. Darak, swerving in his turn to avoid them, took us fast as a whiplash across the Andumite’s path.
Dust clouded. I could not see back. I tossed an arrow off my shield, and in my turn fired blind along the Straight behind us and struck nothing. No time for more. The gate. Our swerve had cost us a lead—gray Lascallum was on our backs to the left, the Renshan, recovered, thrusting behind, while the Andumite had swung sideways and was headed toward the second gate. Essandar, beyond the chaos, could pick his gate with ease.
Damn them. The Lascallumite, the Renshan, and now the Sogothan were all trying for the third gate, as we were. The Lascallum bays were in front beside us, the other two a fraction behind. The gray archer was poised to take the turn, his bow slack. I drew a corded arrow from the pouch in our chariot’s side, leaned over and down to them, and fired into their wheels. Light! The whirling scarlet serpent caught.