Goblin Slayer, Vol. 15

“And who are you looking for exactly…?”

“A centaur,” Goblin Slayer said. “A princess of her people, I’m told. Beautiful, with a lock of hair that falls over her forehead like a shooting star.”

“…”

Sword Maiden found herself unable to answer immediately. She was gazing at the night that lay over the garden. The gloomy hour had come on so suddenly.

Could the stars and the twin moons be seen this night? Surely not. The air felt too damp for that.

After a long moment, she approached him gingerly. “I would be lying if I said I didn’t have a guess. Although I know not if it will help you…”

“I don’t mind,” Goblin Slayer replied decisively. “I must investigate everything, one thing at a time.”

“Yes, that’s just how you are…” He had been back
then
, too. Her lips softened into a smile as if she was sharing a secret. “Are you familiar with Silver Blaze?”

§

A dust cloud puffed up as someone kicked off—
smack!
—under the blue sky. There was a colorful flash, colorful figures, charging forward so quickly they were almost a blur.

The shrine maidens!

Red, blue, green, yellow, brown, black: The beautiful maidens were dressed in scintillating vestments of every color. Perhaps in imitation of the Trade God, the god of the wind, or maybe the Valkyrie, goddess of victory. They raced forward in line astern, these women so dear and so beautiful one could fall in love with them at first glimpse.

Those lower limbs that kicked off the earth, propelling them forward, were not human but equine. They were centaur women, running along the ground with their legs like wings.

The spectators packed into the coliseum let out a collective sound of amazement. The racecourse began wide enough for all six to run abreast, but after one or two turns, two of them side by side was the most they could manage.

The maidens pressed and pushed, shoulder to shoulder, vying to forge ahead or falling back to conserve their strength.

Out front was a delicate young lady, some of the hair on the side of her head parted toward the back. She had run at the front since the moment the race started, though it was impossible to say where in that small frame she kept such power and strength. Her performance seemed to say: If one could run flat out from the beginning to the end, then victory was guaranteed. But nothing is guaranteed.

Hot on her heels was a white—no, dappled—young woman, running easily. If the lady in front was running flat out, this girl seemed to have speed in reserve. That made her smile all the more overpowering—a smile that said she enjoyed nothing more than slicing through the wind like this. This dappled young woman, it was plain to see, was the star of this show.

Through turn two, turn three, the two of them battled, picking up speed, threatening to pull away—but there was someone behind them who refused to let them do so. A young woman with a yellow rose in her hair pressed forward, gritting her teeth. If the contest ahead was between the flat-out and the relaxed, perhaps we could say she represented pure determination.

Her otherwise cute outfit was spattered with mud, but she didn’t care; it seemed like her lungs might explode, yet she paid them no mind. It was not natural talent or lineage that supported this girl as she bore down on the front runners but sheer, unvarnished effort. Her arms worked furiously, her hooves veritably dragged her forward; she went onward, ever onward, thinking only of victory.

They rounded the final turn, and all that remained was the last straight. Whoever could pull ahead at this moment would receive the winner’s laurels.

Suddenly, there was a thunderclap from behind. A centaur in men’s clothing, a rather tall centaur at that, who had been holding station at the back of the field was suddenly making a move. Each time her hooves hit the ground, dirt flew everywhere and there was an audible crash.

One step, two steps, three steps—every stride ate up the distance as she closed in on the women ahead. In the blink of an eye, it was a four-horse race.

Traveling like a bolt of lightning, the woman in dark clothes spared a momentary smile for her worthy opponents. The noble-looking lady tried to ignore her. The dappled girl gave her a smile back. The girl with the yellow rose in her hair continued to push forward.

Each time someone pulled out in front, someone else would close in on them. They ran side by side, jostling each other, trying to gain that one step that would put them ahead. Who would win? Even the gods couldn’t know. The die had been cast.

It was impossible to blink; there was no time even to breathe. Every eye in the arena was fixed on the contest. Everything in the oval arena at that moment was for them, these young ladies, the aurigae.

And finally…

“
Ave Caesar!
Long live the king!” cried the winner, her voice resounding up to the spectators, who responded with cheering, showering her with glory.

§

“The king! Is he here?” Priestess asked.

“Naw. It’s just a tradition,” Dwarf Shaman said easily as confetti flew into the blue sky. He had grilled cat meat in one hand and a cup of wine in the other. Gambling he didn’t touch, but he still seemed to be living his best life.

He was a stark contrast to Priestess, who couldn’t get over the excitement of her first race. “Amazing!” was all she could find to say at first, until her question about the king finally made its way out.
Ave Caesar
, she heard, yet when she looked at the nobles’ seats, she saw no sign of the royal presence. It was understandably confusing to those not in the know.

They were at an oval coliseum; Priestess had heard there was a place like this in the water town, but this was her first visit. The structure was made of heavy stone, with seats that went up story after story, and almost all of them were filled today. Priestess had never seen so many people in one place, to say nothing of such excitement. She’d heard tell, of course, of how crowds thrilled at the centaurs’ races, but…

It’s still just…amazing!