DRAGON GAMES, page 15
“Your Highness,” Bertram said with a formal bow.
“Charmaigne,” Magador muttered. He jabbed his head to acknowledge Umber, and ignored the others. Hap was glad for it. Parley winked at him, as well as a one-eyed man could.
“Congratulations on your victory,” Bertram said.
Magador spat on the stairs. “Disgusting. A field of cowards. And the Running of the Harbor will be the same, you can wager.”
Umber leaned forward. “Your Highness, what is the Running of the Harbor?”
Magador sneered at him, as if Umber were a fool for asking. “A race, of course. From the docks to the castle.” Hap remembered the place: The castle sat high over the harbor, above a road that switched back and forth up the steep hill, with turns as tight as clothespins.
The prince glared at the crowd. “I can’t be beaten in that race. But nobody will even try. We ought to just cancel it and declare me the winner.” His gaze suddenly fell on Oates. “You look strong. Perhaps you’d like to enter?”
“I hate running,” replied Oates.
Always honest, thought Hap, but he didn’t like the way Magador glared at Oates. And then his head went numb when he heard the next thing that came out of Oates’s mouth.
“Happenstance could beat you, though.”
“Oates!” Umber cried. Happenstance felt dizzy, and he edged behind Umber, hoping to disappear. Bertram gave him a curious look, and Parley put a hand to his mouth and coughed, perhaps to hide a grin.
“Who? This green-eyed whelp?” Magador snorted as he brushed past Umber and loomed over Hap. He smelled like an animal.
“Yes, him,” said Oates, despite Umber’s stern glare and shaking head. “He can run like the wind and leap like a flea.”
“Is that so?” Magador flexed a fist as he looked Hap over from head to toe. “Fancy yourself a runner, boy?”
“Not really?” squeaked Hap. It came out like a question.
Umber spoke up. “Your Highness, we are merely visitors here. I’m sure young Happenstance would prefer—”
“Let him run,” Magador said. “What harm could it do?”
“Good prince,” Bertram began, “letting the boy run would violate your own rules. The entrants must submit their names before—”
Magador cut him off with a raised hand. “I can change the rules as I see fit. He will run.”
Two hours later they made their way down the steep road to the harbor’s edge. Parley explained the race as he hobbled beside them. “As I understand it, the first one to reach the top and ring the bell that stands before the castle is the winner. That is the one and only rule. A runner may take any path he wants. He can stay on the road as it zigzags, or scale the slopes between the switchbacks.” Hap looked at the course. The question was, could one climb fast enough to make the shortcuts worth it?
“One other thing you should know, young man,” Parley said. “Not everyone in this race is here to win. Some have entered to help their champion to victory, by sabotaging the other runners. You can be sure Magador has plenty of allies to guarantee his victory. And there are no rules forbidding contact between runners. The race can get violent.”
“Violent?” cried Hap.
“Pushing, punching, tripping, scratching, gouging … anything goes,” Parley said.
“Sorry about this,” mumbled Oates.
“That settles it,” Umber said. “Happenstance, just fall behind when the race begins, and stay out of harm’s way. Pretend your leg is injured if that helps. There’s nothing to gain by winning. And we know how Magador can’t stand losing to children. Agreed?”
Hap nodded. Even better, how about I turn around and run the other way? he thought.
“Could you really win this, Happenstance?” asked Bertram.
“Don’t doubt it for a minute, Bert,” Umber said.
They reached the bottom of the road, with the harbor before them. From there Hap got an eyeful of Brugador’s warships. They were even larger and more forbidding than he’d thought. From where he stood, he could see a ram that jutted from the prow of the narrow ship, the Eel, at the water line. It was obviously designed to punch a hole in any ship that it attacked and send it to the bottom of the sea. He saw the rows of dark slits in the side, where the oars would come out, and he wondered if the slaves who rowed the ship were inside right now.
Hap shaded his eyes and peered up at the castle looming at the crest of the hill. He could see the bell mounted at the top of the road. People hurried down the steep road, coming to watch. A few youngsters tried climbing the steep walls. Hap saw one lose his grip and slide down, landing on his rump in a cloud of dust while his friends laughed.
All work in the harbor had ceased, and crowds gathered on the docks and the roads while sailors clung to the rails of the vessels and climbed the masts. Runners prepared for the race, rubbing oil into their thighs and calves and stretching their legs. They were dressed in short leggings, and many were shirtless. Magador wore only a pair of light knee-length trousers. His body seemed chiseled from stone, and he prowled the ground with the power of a bear and the grace of a cat. His eyes had settled into their half-lidded stare, full of smug malice.
Hap wished the race were already over. His heart was beating faster by the minute, and the inside of his mouth had gone sticky and dry. Umber pulled Bertram aside, and they withdrew to a quiet spot and talked, quickly and seriously. Parley joined them, and he listened intently and nodded while Umber spoke.
“I really am sorry about this,” Oates said to Hap.
“I know,” Hap replied.
Oates sighed. “I’m causing trouble. I should just wear my muzzle the rest of the time we’re here, so nothing else goes wrong.”
Hap shrugged. He certainly wished Oates had been wearing it earlier that afternoon. “I’ll be all right,” Hap said. “I’ll just stay out of the way.”
“Still, I’d love to see his face if you beat him,” muttered Oates.
There was a blare of trumpets, and the runners headed for the place where the race would start, on a dock that extended into the harbor. Umber hurried back to where Hap stood. “Go on, join the rest of them, Hap. Bertram has gone to the finish in case you need him up there. Good luck, and don’t make it too obvious that you’re not trying!” He grinned and gave Hap a playful punch on the shoulder.
Hap made his way into the crowd of runners. There were a hundred or more, and they all jostled for position—all except Magador, who stood undisturbed at the front of the line, where a ragged line of chalk marked the starting point. He gets every advantage, Hap thought bitterly. He let himself be pushed toward the back of the mob, where he could hear whispers among the other runners.
“What’s the prize for second place?”
“Ten pieces of gold.”
“That’s better than the prize for first place: twenty pieces plus Magador’s revenge!”
Hap found an open space near the back of the pack. Within a few seconds a brute of a man pushed through the crowd and stood beside him. He didn’t look much like a runner. With his twisted nose and battered ears he looked more like a brawler. The man peered sideways at him. “You’re that green-eyed boy.”
Hap had no idea how to respond to such an obvious statement. “Yes,” he finally said.
The man cracked his knuckles. “I hear you’re quite the runner.”
Hap shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll win.”
The man pushed a thumb into one nostril and cleared out the other with a violent expulsion of air and snot. “You’re right. You won’t.”
When Hap saw the wicked mischief in the fellow’s eyes, he turned away.
“Who’s your little friend, Pitt?” said a snickering, high-voiced man beside the brawler.
“This is the brat from Kurahaven that everyone’s talking about,” Pitt said.
A voice called out from the front of the pack. It was a man with silver hair and a long, drooping mustache. He stood on a barrel with a trumpet in one hand, and the buzz of the crowd instantly died. “Contestants!” he bellowed. “You know the rules. Race to the top, and ring the bell. May the best runner triumph. The race begins when the king lowers his sword.”
Hap peered between the shoulders of the men in front of him and saw King Brugador for the first time, at the top of the road. He was a hulking bear of a man with a forked beard and a bald head gleaming in the sun.
The silver-haired man raised the trumpet to his lips. For a moment the only sound came from the gulls coasting on the breezes overhead, and then the instrument moaned a long, low note. Every eye in the crowd turned toward the king as he raised his sword. The trumpet’s mournful note echoed and died, and the sword slashed to the ground. The runners surged forward, and the crowd roared.
CHAPTER
19
Hap had a simple plan: drift along with the crowd, so that he didn’t get run over from behind, and then slowly let the others pass him. But he didn’t even make it off the dock.
Pitt, the brute beside him, stuck a leg in his path. Hap felt a searing jolt in his shin and tumbled hard onto the planks. His palms flared with pain as splinters pierced the skin.
“Oops!” shouted Pitt. Hap looked up and cried out. Pitt staggered over him, pretending to lose his balance, and let his dead weight drop onto Hap’s back. Hap felt all the wind forced from his lungs. He heard noise from the spectators: shocked gasps, empathetic groans, bellowing laughter.
Pitt laughed. “Sorry, didn’t see you down there!” He put a hand on the side of Hap’s head and used it to push off, grinding Hap’s cheek into the planks. Then he let himself fall again. Sharp pain stabbed at Hap’s ribs.
“Now I’ve slipped again,” Pitt cried. “Dear me, I hope I’m not hurting you!”
All Hap could do was whimper. With his head pinned sideways, he could see the rest of the pack flying away. Magador was already five strides ahead of the next runner and had turned onto the steep road.
Hap drew in enough breath to squeak out some words: “Get off me!”
“Can’t you see I’m trying?” Hap felt a knee press hard against the small of his back. “Whoops again!” Pitt shouted, and he let his full weight crash down for a third time. It was suddenly impossible for Hap to breathe, and a white panic flooded his brain.
The sound of the crowd changed abruptly. One minute it was laughter and catcalls. Then it was an astonished collective gasp. The crushing weight disappeared. Hap rolled on his side to look. He saw a bug-eyed Pitt pinwheel through the air and fall into the harbor, sending up a plume of water. The sailors on the ships howled and applauded.
Oates stood beside Hap with his jaw jutting and chest heaving. He lifted Hap by the arm and set him on his feet. Hap wobbled and steadied himself as pain flared in his chest and his back. “Thank you, Oates,” he managed to wheeze.
“I’ve had enough of these people. How about you?” Oates said.
Hap nodded. Everyone was staring. He saw Umber push to the front of the crowd.
Oates snorted. “To be honest, I think you should win this bloody race.”
Hap felt something like lightning course through his limbs. Umber nodded at him once, just a subtle jab of the chin. Hap saw the pack of runners spreading apart as the swiftest pulled ahead. Magador was on the third of seven switchbacks.
“Will you go already?” shouted Oates, and Hap was flying before the words were done.
He didn’t run like other people. It was another one of the odd gifts he’d been given when some mysterious process had turned him into a Meddler. His legs were strangely powerful—when he sprinted and pushed off with all his might, he covered three times the length of an ordinary stride. The ground fell away and rushed under him, until he touched down and a single foot propelled him again, picking up speed.
Hap glanced up and saw Magador at the fourth switchback. Fifty strides behind the prince a cluster of five runners tussled as they ran. One man was hurled over the side, and he tumbled onto a pack of runners below, bringing them all down in a heap. Hap gritted his teeth and ran harder. He didn’t head for where the road met the level of the harbor—he raced at the steep slope, bent his knees, and sprang high into the air, landing halfway up the first stretch of road. Shouts of surprise arose from the spectators.
A movement beside Hap caught his attention. It was the man with the high-pitched voice who’d spoken to Pitt—lying in wait, it seemed. The man rushed at him with wild, goggling eyes and spittle flying from his teeth. “Quit now if you know what’s good for you!” he squealed. Hap sprang again and heard a yelp of dismay as the villain clawed vainly at the air that he had just occupied.
Hap touched down on the second level of the road, already thirty feet above the harbor and amid the slower runners. Men rushed by, and a denser swarm threatened to trample him. Hap sprang again and soared to the third level. Magador was sprinting hard, two levels above, with his arms pumping and nose flaring like a bull’s. The prince looked down at his competition, and his face twisted with fury when he saw Hap. He called to someone behind him and stabbed toward Hap with his finger.
Just as he prepared to leap again, Hap heard a voice beside him. “It ain’t worth it, kid.” A man was lying nearby, clutching a broken arm. Hap ignored him and dropped to a crouch with muscles coiled. The road above was crowded with runners. Hap spotted a gap and timed his leap to land inside it. But he hung in the air too long. The moment he landed, a shocked runner collided with him, and they both fell.
“Where’d you come from?” demanded the runner, grabbing a bloodied knee.
“Sorry!” cried Hap. He scrambled to his feet and looked up. Magador was around the sixth of seven turns. Directly above, a man stood and stared at him, shaking his head is if to say, Don’t even try.
It was easy enough to avoid the man. Hap leaped at an angle, coming down several strides away. And when the man rushed at him, Hap sprang out of reach. Cheers came from below, and from people lining the top of the hill above. He landed off balance and stumbled forward to avoid a dozen men sprinting past. They were red-faced, panting, and exchanging punches as they ran. When they passed, Hap stepped into the middle of the road again.
Magador was rounding the last turn, with a straight sprint to the bell. He looked down as Hap looked up. Their eyes met, and Magador laughed.
Hap jumped. Without pause he touched down and soared again, landing in front of Magador. He leaped a final time, with all the force his legs could muster, and heard the wind in his ears. When he finally landed, the bell was before him, with an astounded King Brugador standing beside it. The king of Sarnica was the size of a bear and looked twice as savage. “What foul magic is this?” he growled.
Magador was nearly there, slowing as he arrived. His smile had turned to a snarl, and his breath hissed between his bared teeth.
Hap froze. The bell was within reach. All he had to do was pull its dangling cord, but he hesitated. He glanced around and saw, behind the king, a woman in a gold-trimmed gown leaning forward in a chair. She had a small face dominated by large dark eyes, framed by cascades of curling brown hair, and topped by a golden crown with glittering red gems. She’s lovely, thought Hap. Both she and the girl beside her gaped at Hap—whether it was because of his green eyes, his enormous leaps, or his reckless behavior Hap was not sure.
Magador arrived, looking ready to murder. The crowd that wreathed them fell strangely silent. The prince scowled at the woman and then growled at Hap, keeping his voice low even as his eyes bulged with fury. “Well? Do it already! Ring the bell!”
Hap sensed the king glowering down, and he looked into the merciless eyes of the prince. “I do this for Sophie,” he said, and he grabbed the cord and yanked. A clear, piercing note rang out. There were more gasps than cheers from the crowd.
A servant came to drop a cloth over Magador’s shoulders, but the prince shoved the poor fellow away and took a step toward Hap. “You’re not even breathing hard,” he snarled. Magador’s chest was heaving, and perspiration rained from his brow. Behind them other runners dashed up and touched the bell.
Hap gulped. He couldn’t think of a thing to say. Seconds passed that felt like years, as Magador loomed with his jaw grinding. Behind him the king’s breath sounded like a giant bellows.
A hand came down on Hap’s shoulder, and he nearly yelped aloud. It was Bertram, thrusting a cup into his hands. “You must be parched,” Bertram said, stepping between Hap and the prince. “Drink, Happenstance.”
Thank you, Hap thought, grateful for the timely intervention. He guzzled the water. Magador glared at a group of other runners who loitered at a safe distance from the prince. Hap understood why Magador was furious: It was their job to ensure the prince’s victory, and they had failed. But how could they have known that Hap would barely use the road at all, except as a springboard to the top?
“Your Highness! Your Highness!” shouted a voice from below. It was the silver-haired man who had started the race at the docks. He was riding a horse up the same road. The horse clattered to a stop beside the bell, and the man dismounted. He hurried to where the king stood, and bowed to the enormous man. They exchanged muttered words, and the king nodded. The silver-haired man went to the bell and tugged on the cord so that the bell pealed out loud and long, quieting the crowd.
“There has been an infraction of the rules,” shouted the silver-haired man.
“I thought there weren’t any rules,” Hap said quietly.
Bertram nudged him. “Shhh,” he whispered.
“At the start of the race the contestant from Kurahaven received assistance from a spectator,” the silver-haired man continued. “This is forbidden, and by rule that contestant is disqualified. The victory therefore goes to Prince Magador.” The crowd responded with halfhearted cheers, which soon fell to a gossipy buzz.
The prince’s men gathered around him, whooping and laughing. If the prince was happy with his victory, he did not let it show. He scowled at Hap with a look that sent chills through Hap’s bones.
