Chapter 1 A Day At The Races

The crowd roared as battle-hardened racehorses strained at their restraints, eager to charge onto the track into the chaos of the Grand National. Meanwhile, Magister Gulag arrived, crossing the floor of the VIP section. His shadow cut a swathe through the bookmakers, calling out the odds. A wineglass crashed to the floor when his shoulder knocked into a lady with a gregarious swan hat, prompting a muttered curse of "Pill-ock" under her breath.

He weaved between crowded rooms, slipping behind a partition, and spiraled up the servant's stairs until he arrived at the royal enclosure, where came face to face with two guards flanking the archway.

One guard dipped his chin while the other turned away with a wink, permitting Gulag to pass unhindered. In the royal box, waiters in starched white jackets served chilled champagne to guests reclining in plush velvet chairs, shielded from the spring midday sun under a dark green awning with the royal crest.

The king glanced up from his binoculars, focusing momentarily on Gulag's appearance. Seeing the snakey, long-legged stride, his cane and dark sunglasses glinting in the sunlight, he gave an almost imperceptible nod to his stone-faced guard to clear a path.

As Gulag sat down in his rumpled suit. The king glanced away from his binoculars, passing over Gulag with apparent distaste.

"Not now, Gulag. Your attire is wholly unsuitable for the royal box!"

"With respect, Your Highness, whoever is watching you are nothing more than just a bunch of parasites, in my opinion!"

"Those parasites are watching my lips as we speak, Gulag."

"I am here to just watch a race day, just like anyone else. Your Highness."

"Somehow, I don't believe you."

The king graced his eyes over the press box, where cameras snapped at him and reporters looked for any signs of a faux pas.

"Look at them. They take up any opportunity to dig up anything they can about me and photograph my every move! I told you I would not discuss our matters in such a public place, didn't I?"

"Your Highness, it's the message itself that carries weight above all else."

"You overreach, Gulag."

Gulag reached for a caviar blini from a passing tray. Hastily stuffing the tiny morsel into his mouth, particles sprayed from his lips as he chewed. After he washed it down with a large gulp from a snatched flute of champagne, wiping his mouth on his sleeve before turning to face the king.

Suppressing his disapproval of Gulag's crass manners the king tossed a racing program.

"Keep your face down and read that why don't you, while I watch the race. We'll speak like we are merely punters discussing the Grand National."

With a curt nod, Gulag began thumbing through the racing program without interest.

The king asked casually, "Everything progressing as we discussed?"

"Our operatives in Cape Town reported this morning that they have loaded and dispatched the cargo. It is en route to Dover as we speak."

His Majesty gave a hum of approval.

"And the southern front? Are our allies standing firm?"

Gulag frowned. "For now. But the situation is...tenuous. Their foothold is tenuous. One wrong step could see it all fall to pieces."

A flash of irritation crossed the king's face.

"I'll leave the southern strategy to you. Ensure that our allies hold the line. 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 does not fill my Royal pockets. Does it," the king shot back.

"Resolve does. See to it my plans proceed according to schedule. Beyond that, I need not concern myself with details."

Gulag resisted the urge to argue further. Instead, he thumbed through the racing program again. The cheers swelled around him.

"Have you finished work on our little side project?" the king asked pointedly.

"Of course, your highness," Gulag replied.

"You need not concern yourself. Our plans will proceed without issue, I assure you."

"See that they do," the king said, returning to the spectacle of the race.

The king lowered the binoculars, turning to Gulag once more. His tone became serious.

"Do not forget the vast resources 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 discoveries will place your name in history," Gulag said.

"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 mind advancing your kingdom's interests?" Gulag retorted.

"A demonstration of progress is in order, ensuring our partnership remains mutually beneficial!"

"What do you propose?"

"Simply watch the race unfold," Gulag said.

"The performance of your horse will speak volumes."

The king considered Gulag's statement. Without a word, he returned to his binoculars, as the race was about to begin.

The horses pranced in anticipation, their handlers weaving around their massive forms.

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The ground vibrated under the combined weight of the beasts. Riders sat tall and proud upon their backs, fighting to maintain control as the horses sensed what was coming.

The gates flew open then the Grand National began. Gulag turned to the king and asked casually,

"I trust you made a sizable wager on your horse?"

The king glanced at Gulag in confusion. Gulag nodded toward the chaos unfurling below.

"Watch close, Your Highness. You may see things in a new light."

The king zeroed in on his royal thoroughbred. It failed to keep up in 4th or 5th behind the favorites as horses flew over the first hurdle.

The king's prized steed, a massive black stallion named Shadowfax, did not surge into an early lead as expected.

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, watching the race.

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 with each other, knocking other competitors out of the race.

The ensuing madness spread like a virus through the teeming field, causing horse after horse to go wild with fear and fury.

The crowd watched in horror as sport descended into a nightmare. Jockeys tumbled from their mounts, numerous trampled under the swarm of crazed horses.

Horses without riders hurled themselves against barriers and fences in blind hysteria. Panicked spectators screamed and scrambled to get out of the way.

Horses jumped course rails, tearing loose from restraints and running amok.

Many could not escape in time, bowled over by horses charging at breakneck speed.

Ambulances sounded their sirens. Medics rushed onto the track amidst the mayhem.

One enormous thoroughbred, wildly bucking and rearing, turned its sights on 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. Flashes and sparks filled the air as 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 terror, abandoning thousands of pounds worth of equipment to the maddened horse.

Gulag picked up a trifle from an abandoned table beside him and began eating it daintily.

"A trifling spectacle, wouldn't you say, Your Highness?"

The king's face reddened in fury and disbelief.

"You destroyed the Grand National?" the king exclaimed in outrage, shaking his head.

"Innocent people are losing their lives due to your actions, Gulag.

I have not asked for such a public demonstration; you have brought unwanted attention to my doorstep. Do you realize how this makes me look?"

"Merely a taste," Gulag replied.

"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 and injured...for a horse race?"

Gulag set down his fork.

"Have I not demonstrated what resources are truly at my command, Your Highness? But fear not, sire. With our alliance, you will soon rule the entire world."

The king's anger subsided slightly as Gulag's explanation took hold. He understood Gulag's genius could advance his power, though he despised his methods.

"Enough of your games," he warned.

"I will not tolerate recklessness again."

Gulag met the king's harsh tone with icy calm.

"Recklessness, Your Highness?" he said flatly.

"I merely demonstrated the reach of my... efforts. The havoc I can wreak when provoked."

Gulag surveyed the race ground with cold detachment. As promised, the king's thoroughbred ran swiftly and surely, untouched by the madness that had unfolded around him.

The sleek horse dutifully followed the track, focused solely on winning the race.

While carnage had reigned and goodness lost its way, virtue proved its reward. The King's horse galloped triumphantly toward the finish line.

"It appears your wager will pay off rather handsomely," Gulag remarked.

"Though I suspect you should have made a larger bet."

The King looked warily at Gulag. "I trust there will be no further... surprises today," he said sternly.

Gulag merely shrugged. "The race has run its course," he replied cryptically.

A faint smile flickered across the King's lips.

"Next time, I will heed your advice and wager more heavily, If only to be entertained by the ingenuity of your methods."

"As you wish, Your Highness," Gulag replied. "I live to serve - and occasionally amuse - my King."

The king realized compromise was needed. "You will receive resources for your work. But under stricter conditions."

"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, gesturing for Gulag to enter a deserted platinum lounge devoid of people.

"Chief of Staff Robinson will authorize resources for your work. He will be in contact," the king said firmly.

"You will have access to a secure laboratory, invisible to the public, where you can continue your research with the requisite funds and assistance."

"You are most generous, Your Highness. I shall wield your resources judiciously, though beyond the scrutiny of lesser minds."

The King gestured dismissively. "Return to your work. But cause no more public disturbances." His tone carried a stern warning.

Gulag simply bowed. With that, he turned and exited the empty lounge, retracing his steps back through the corridors.

The king understood Gulag's talents served his realm, yet Gulag relied on the royalty's power and wealth. Their uneasy symbiosis, yet mutually essential.

The king left into the stadium concourse, he encountered the sounds of sirens and chaotic screaming, rising from the racetrack now in ruins.

As royal procedure demanded, the king feigned horror, overlooking the destruction as expected.

He shook his head sorrowfully, clasping his hands as though in prayer, putting on a show of grief for the tragedy.

Eventually, the king left, nodding gravely to those he passed.

His limousine pulled up, and the crowds and camera flashes intensified, forcing him to endure questions about the tragedy while trying to enter the vehicle.

The ovation that had greeted him upon arrival had now turned joyless. In its place, the screams of horses and riders alike rang out as they grappled with the invisible evil that Gulag had unleashed upon this once beautiful scene of sport and revelry.