Genetically engineered for speed and endurance, the thoroughbreds strained at their leashes to unleash their power on the Grand National race course. Simultaneously, Magister Gulag weaved through the crowd, highly amused by confused trainers withdrawing spooked, spasming horses from the race. His long shadow cut a dark swath across the bookmakers. He entered the VIP section and slipped behind a partition. The servant’s stairs spiraled upward, carrying him toward the royal enclosure. Gulag ignored the queue of VIPs, pushing to the front. A woman in a ridiculous swan hat shrieked, “Pillock!” flapping her feathered fan at him.
He brushed her aside, confronting two guards at the entrance. One nodded curtly, while the other winked conspiratorially, as if they were privy to secrets far above their station, permitting Gulag to pass unhindered. In the royal box, waiters in starched white jackets served chilled champagne to guests, chilling on velvet chairs, shielded from the spring midday sun by a dark green awning decorated with the royal crest. The king glimpsed up from his binoculars momentarily, noticing the distinctive black cane and dark sunglasses. His stone-faced bodyguard asked, “Would you like me to remove him again?”
“Let him through,” said the king with an almost imperceptible nod. “Or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
When Gulag sat down in his rumpled suit. The king passed him over with apparent distaste. “Not now, Gulag. Your attire is wholly unsuitable for the royal box! You look more like a bloody undertaker.”
“I am here to watch the race day, just like anyone else.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you.”
The king graced his eyes over the incessant press box, where cameras flashed. Reporters scribbled notes, eyes glued, looking for any signs of a faux pas on his part, ready to plaster anything scandalous over the next day’s headlines.
“Look at them—it never stops. I’m one of the wealthiest men in the world, and yet I can’t get a moment’s peace.”
“Well, that’s the weight of the crown for you. You can’t have your cake and it!”
“You know, they have linguists from every corner of the globe, analyzing my every word. I told you. I wouldn’t discuss personal matters in such a public place—didn’t I?”
“It’s the message, not the messenger, that carries weight above all else.”
“You overstep, Gulag. Remember your place.”
Gulag captured a smoked salmon caviar blini from a passing tray. Hastily stuffing the tiny morsel, particles sprayed from his lips. He began to wipe his mouth on his sleeve before turning to the king.
“Now that I’m here,” Gulag said while draining a generous flute of champagne.
“Why not give me ten minutes of your time? I promise I won’t take long.”
Instantly, a racing program was plonked onto Gulag’s lap.
“Very well then, make it short. Keep your face down and read that why don’t you, while I watch the race. We’ll speak like we are punters discussing the Grand National.”
Gulag had no interest in horse racing but thumbed through the program, feigning interest for appearance’s sake.
“Is everything progressing as we discussed?”
“Our operatives in Cape Town have reported, this morning, that the shipments are loaded and dispatched en route to Dover as we speak.”
His Majesty nodded in approval, still fixed on the race-ground. “And the southern front? Are our allies standing firm?”
“For now. But the situation is…tenuous. Their foothold is slipping. One wrong step could see it all fall to pieces.”
“We cannot afford to lose such a precious bounty for the Royal coffers.”
“Of course, Your Highness, I merely wished to clarify the… sensitivity of the situation.”
“Sensitivity doesn’t fill my Royal pockets. Does it now? Resolve does! See to it. Beyond that, I need not concern myself with such details.”
Gulag resisted the urge to argue further. Instead, he thumbed through the racing program again. The cheers swelled around him.
“Have you finished the work on our little side project?”
“Of course, Your Highness. You need not concern yourself. Our plans will proceed without issues.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“See that they do.”
The king lowered his binoculars, glaring at Gulag. “Do not forget the vast resources that I have invested to bring your vision to fruition.”
His meaning was clear: Gulag’s ambitions depended on the king’s wealth and patronage.
“My work will cement your legacy—not as a king, but as a ruler of empires.”
“I could easily send you back to your dingy laboratory at Eaton where we found you, tinkering with your test tubes and Petri dishes!”
“And lose the greatest mind advancing your kingdom’s interests? I think a little demonstration of my progress is in order, don’t you?”
“What are you getting at, Gulag?”
“Simply watch the race unfold. The performance of your horse will speak volumes.”
The king considered Gulag’s statement with a look bordering on puzzlement. Still, he returned to his binoculars, as the race was about to begin. At this stage, the horses pranced in anticipation. Dwarfed jockeys sat as tall as they could, fighting to maintain control, sensing what was coming. The gates flew open, and then the Grand National began.
Gulag turned to the king and asked casually, “I trust you made a sizable wager on your horse?”
“What’s that even supposed to mean?”
“Watch closely, Your Highness. You may see things in a new light.”
The king zeroed in on his prized royal thoroughbred; a hearty black stallion named Shadowking. It didn’t surge into an early lead as expected, failing to keep up in 4th or 5th behind the favorites as horses flew over the first hurdle. Gulag grabbed another champagne flute from a passing server, downing it in one gulp. Then he snagged a large leg of roasted meat from another tray and began tearing into it with gusto, settling into his chair.
When the race progressed, the front-running horses began acting peculiarly. They bucked and sidestepped, biting and kicking at neighboring mounts. Frenzied foam flew from their lips. They collided, knocking other competitors out of the race. Madness rippled through the field, horse after horse succumbed to blind panic and fury. The crowd watched in horror as sport descended into a nightmare. Jockeys tumbled, trampled by swarms of crazed horses. Horses without riders hurled against barriers in hysteria. Panicked spectators shuffled out of the way. Horses jumped course rails, tearing loose, running amok. Many couldn’t escape in time, bowled over by horses charging at breakneck speed.
Ambulances sounded sirens. Medics rushed onto the track. One enormous thoroughbred, wildly bucking, turned its hooves towards the media section. Camera crews and reporters scrambled for cover. But it was too late. The crazed horse slammed full speed into a bank of cameras, sending equipment flying. Broken camera lenses and tripod legs rained around screaming journalists. It continued its rampage, destroying media desks with powerful kicks and charges. Papers and electronics went airborne. Desk legs snapped under the onslaught. Those few journalists fleeing did so in a panic. Gulag plucked a trifle from the king’s table, savoring it with infuriating calm.
“Quite the trifling race day, wouldn’t you say, Your Highness?”
“Gulag, you’re destroying my Grand National! Innocent people are losing their lives!”
“It looks beautiful, doesn’t it?”
The king’s face reddened like a radish. “Do you think this is amusing? I didn’t ask for your madness to be paraded in front of the entire world.”
“Oh, come on, it’s just a taster.”
“Do you realize how this makes me look?”
“Small sacrifices for the greater good, is it not… Your Highness?”
The king stared at Gulag, disgusted yet fascinated in equal measure. “So many dead. So many injured…for a horse race?”
“Have I not demonstrated what resources are truly at my command!”
Gulag set down his fork. “But fear not, sire. With our alliance, you will soon rule the entire world.”
The king’s anger subsided slightly. He understood Gulag’s savant ways could advance his kingdom—Gulag had been a good earner, although he despised his methods.
“That’s enough of your games. I will not tolerate such recklessness in a public setting.”
“Recklessness! I’m not even out of first gear—yet!”
In cold detachment, Gulag surveyed the race ground. As promised, the king’s thoroughbred ran swiftly and surely, untouched by the madness unfolding around him. The sleek steed dutifully followed the track, focusing solely on winning the race. While carnage reigned supreme and goodness lost its way, Shadowking galloped triumphantly over the finish line.
“It appears your wager will pay off rather handsomely,” remarked Gulag. “Though I suspect you should have made a larger bet.”
“I trust there will be no further… surprises today?”
“The race has run its course.”
A wry smile painted across the King’s lips. “Next time, I shall heed your advice and wager more heavily, if only to be entertained by the ingenuity of your methods.”
“As you wish, Your Highness. I live to serve; and occasionally amuse my king.”
“You will receive the required resources for your work. But under stricter conditions from now on. This discussion must continue, but discreetly, follow me.”
Gulag followed the monarch from the royal box. They walked through silent corridors until he pushed open a nondescript door, inviting Gulag to enter a platinum lounge devoid of people.
“Chief of Staff Robinson will authorize the resources for you. He will be in contact, at a time of my choosing. Got it?”
“Will I have access to a secure laboratory. To my specifications?”
“Yes, but invisible to the public, mind you.”
“You are most generous, Your Highness. I shall wield your resources judiciously, though beyond the scrutiny of lesser minds.”
“You may return to your work. Do not cause me any more public disturbances. I do not want more problems falling on my lap. I have enough as it is!”
“Of course!”
Gulag departed from the empty lounge, retracing his steps back through the corridors. The king understood Gulag’s talents served his realm. Gulag relied on the royal’s power and wealth. Their uneasy symbiosis, yet mutually essential. The king left into the stadium concourse. He encountered the sounds of sirens, rising from the racetrack—now in ruins. As royal procedure demanded, the king feigned disgustingness of the day’s events. He shook his head sorrowfully, nodding gravely at those he passed. Clasping his hands in prayer, putting on a show of grief for the public. His Range Rover pulled up, camera flashes intensified, forcing him to endure questions while trying to enter his vehicle.
The earlier celebration had curdled into squeals of dying horses, wheel-chaired disabled riders, and spectators never to return home. Gulag’s invisible hand had turned a day of sport into a day of tragedy.
