Deltora Quest #4: The Shifting Sands (5 page)

F
or a long time they shouted and beat upon the door, but no one came. Finally Barda charged at the door in fury, trying to burst it with his shoulder, but the wood was thick, the lock was heavy, and his efforts were of no use.

At last they admitted defeat and flung themselves back on their beds.

“We were fools not to expect this,” Barda panted.

Jasmine was silent. Lief knew that she was fighting panic. For Jasmine, being imprisoned was the worst sort of torture. After a moment she sprang to her feet and ran to the window, shaking the bars and calling loudly to the blank sky. But the wind snatched her cries and blew them away unheard.

“Could Kree fit through the bars?” asked Lief. Jasmine shook her head, but the question had given her an idea. She snatched the cover from her bed and pushed
it halfway through the bars so that it flapped in the breeze like a flag.

The second bell rang. Time dragged on. Lief gritted his teeth. How their enemy must be laughing at the ease with which they had been tricked.

Suddenly there was a sharp knock at the door and the handle rattled. They all shouted and immediately heard the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open to reveal Mother Brightly, wearing a bright red dress and a sunbonnet tied with green and blue ribbons. Her cheeks were flushed and she was very short of breath.

“I was just leaving for the Games when what did I see but one of my coverlets flapping from a window!” she exclaimed. “I could not believe my eyes, and came running at once.”

Quickly Lief, Barda, and Jasmine explained what had happened. The woman listened with many exclamations of horror and dismay.

“Oh, I am ashamed that this has happened at my inn!” she cried. “I hope the upset will not affect your performance. I have told everyone that I think you will be finalists, at least.”

“But — is it not too late?” Lief asked.

Mother Brightly shook her head decidedly. “Not at all!” she snapped. “Follow me.”

Leaving Kree and Filli behind in the room, Lief, Barda, and Jasmine followed the woman down the stairs to the empty dining hall. There she served them food,
and great mugs of foaming Queen Bee Cider. “Eat and be strong,” she said fiercely. “We will show your spiteful enemy that Mother Brightly’s favorites are not to be trifled with!”

When they had eaten and drunk their fill, she led them through the training rooms at the back of the inn, along a covered walkway, and into an arena. The Games Opening Ceremony was still in progress, and many heads turned to look at the newcomers. Barda, Jasmine, and Lief lifted their chins and ignored the stares and whispers.

“Good fortune!” Mother Brightly whispered, and bustled away, leaving the companions alone.

The arena was a large, round field of sand surrounded by rows of benches that rose, tier after tier, high into the air. The benches were crowded with people, many of them waving red, green, and blue flags bearing the gold medal that was the symbol of the Games.

The competitors, clustered together on the sand, raised their hands, pledging that they would fight as well as they were able. Among them, easily seen because they were so tall, stood Joanna and Orwen. The scar-faced stranger was there also, not far from where Lief was standing. A ragged piece of cloth was knotted around his neck like a scarf.

Was it protection from the sun? Or to hide a wound made by Jasmine’s dagger in the hallway last night? Lief’s fist clenched as he raised his own hand. All his doubts and fears had disappeared. Now he was only
angry, and determined to show that he could not be defeated so easily.

Soon afterwards, pairs of names were read out, and the contests began. The rules were simple. All the pairs fought at one time. Each pair fought until one could no longer stand.

The loser was taken away. The winner, after only a few minutes’ rest, was paired with another winner to fight again, for endurance was considered as important as strength, agility, speed, and cunning.

Lief, Barda, and Jasmine soon learned that the idea of a fair contest played no part in the Rithmere Games. Competitors fought with savage fury, biting and clawing, butting with their heads and tearing at their rivals’ hair and eyes, as well as punching and kicking. Nothing was forbidden except the use of weapons.

The crowd roared, waving their flags, urging their favorites on, hissing and booing those who did not fight well. Sellers of sweetmeats, hot food, and Queen Bee Cider did a fine trade as they wandered up and down the aisles between the seats, shouting their wares.

As more and more defeated competitors left the arena, disappointed and nursing their injuries, the space between the struggling pairs grew greater. Each fight was harder than the last, but Lief, Barda, and Jasmine managed to survive every round.

Unlike most of their rivals they were used to fighting for their lives. They had all learned much since they
first met in the Forests of Silence. But even their early training helped them now.

Not for nothing had Lief spent his childhood on the dangerous streets of Del. As Barda had told Mother Brightly, he could dodge and run with the best, and use his wits to foil enemies far bigger than himself. He was young, but because of his work with his father in the blacksmith’s forge his body was strong, his muscles used to working hard.

From boyhood Barda had trained as a palace guard — and the guards were the most powerful fighters in Deltora, only defeated at last by the sorcery of the Shadow Lord. For many years Barda had wrestled and fought his fellows as part of that training. And even during his time disguised as a beggar outside the forge gates he had kept his strength, following Lief through the city and protecting him from harm.

And Jasmine? Small and slight as she was, no one in that company had faced what she had faced, or lived the life that she had lived. Shrewd Mother Brightly had seen the strength in those slim arms, and the determination in the green eyes. But Jasmine’s opponents continually mistook her smallness for weakness, and paid the price.

The sun was low in the sky when the eight finalists, the ones who would fight their last battles on the morrow, were announced.

Barda, Lief, and Jasmine were among them. So were Joanna and Orwen. The other three were a short, heavily muscled man called Glock, a woman, Neridah, whose speed had amazed the crowd, and the scar-faced stranger whose name the companions now learned for the first time — Doom.

“A fitting name for such a dark character,” muttered Barda, as Doom stepped forward, unsmiling, and held up his arms to the cheering crowd. “I do not relish the idea of fighting him.”

Neither did Lief. But he had thought of something that worried him even more. “I did not expect that we would all be finalists,” he whispered. “What if we have to fight each other?”

Jasmine stared at him. “Why, we will decide who is to win, then just pretend to fight,” she said. “As, in any case, we must do for all our other bouts tomorrow. We must let our opponents win, and so avoid injury. We are already sure of 100 gold coins each, because we are finalists. That is all the money we need, and more.”

Barda moved restlessly. Plainly, the idea of cheating to lose offended him as much as the idea of cheating to win. “It would not be honorable …” he began.

“Not
honorable
?” hissed Jasmine. “What has
honor
to do with this?” She spun around to Lief. “Tell him!” she urged.

Lief hesitated. He was not troubled, as Barda was, by the idea of deceiving the organizers of the Games, or
even the crowd. On the streets of Del, honor among friends was all that was required, and survival was the only rule. But part of his mind — the part that still simmered with anger over the warning note and the locked door — rebelled against Jasmine’s plan.

“Our rivals will know, if we do not try to win. It will seem that we are at last bowing to their threats,” he said in a low voice.

Jasmine snorted in disgust. “You are as foolish as Barda! Will you risk our quest for the sake of your pride? Oh, I have no patience with you!”

She turned her back and stalked away.

That evening the finalists ate together in the dining hall attended by Mother Brightly, smiling and bright in her ruffled red dress. It was a strange meal, for where only the night before the room had been busy and filled with noise, now it was empty and echoing. The defeated competitors, it seemed, had already been sent away. Lief wondered how they were faring, for many of them were injured and almost all without money.

Jasmine was still angry. She ate little and drank only water. “That Queen Bee Cider is too rich for me,” she muttered. “The thought of it sickens me. The air in the arena stank of it. The people in the seats were drinking it all day.”

Barda frowned. “It should not be sold to them. It is intended for use by fighters, who need massive energy,
not for those who simply sit and look on. No wonder they cry for blood.”

Just then Mother Brightly rang a small bell.

“One word before you begin retiring to your rooms, my dears,” she said, as all the finalists turned to her. “I want no tricks or trouble here tonight, so I plan to take your keys and lock your doors myself. I will unlock them in the morning immediately after the waking bell.”

There was complete silence in the room. The woman looked around, her plump face very serious. “So sleep soundly and regain your strength,” she went on. “Tomorrow you must show no sign of weakness or lack of purpose. The crowd — well, it is always very excited on the final day. Very excited, indeed. It has been known for finalists who do not perform well to be attacked and torn to pieces. I would not like this to happen to any of you.”

Lief’s stomach seemed to turn over. He did not dare glance at Jasmine or Barda. So this was how the Games organizers made sure that all the finalists tried their best at the last. The crowd was their weapon — the crowd, swarming, acting with one mind, excited to fever pitch and hungry for blood.

T
he arena was already growing warm when they reached it in the morning. The sun glared down on one side of the newly raked sand. The other side was in deep shadow. The benches were packed, the crowd simmering with excitement.

The eight finalists raised their hands and repeated their pledge to fight their best. Then they stepped forward one by one to choose a card from the woven basket held up by a smiling Mother Brightly.

Lief looked at his card, his heart in his mouth. The number upon it was 3. He glanced at Barda and Jasmine and to his relief saw that Barda was holding up number 1, and Jasmine number 4. So, for this round at least, they were not to fight each other. But who were their opponents to be?

He looked around and his heart sank as he saw scar-faced Doom walking towards Barda, holding his
card high so that all could see the number 1 upon it. The giant Orwen had drawn the second number 4 and was already standing with Jasmine, who looked like a child beside him. Glock and Joanna had both drawn cards marked 2. So the only one who remained was Neridah the Swift. And, sure enough, there she was, hurrying towards him showing the 3 card that proved she was paired with him.

The crowd roared as the four pairs of opponents threw down their cards and faced each other.

Neridah looked down at her hands, then up at Lief. “I am rather afraid, I confess,” she said in a low voice. “I really do not know how I reached the finals. And you are one of Mother Brightly’s favorites, are you not?”

Lief stared awkwardly back at her. He had fought several women the day before, and had learned that it was unwise to think of them as anything other than dangerous opponents. Besides, anyone who had seen Jasmine at work knew better than to underestimate a fighter just because she was female. But Neridah looked so gentle. She was as tall as he was, but slender and graceful as a deer, with a deer’s huge, dark eyes.

“The … the crowd,” he stammered. “We must …”

“Of course!” Neridah whispered. “I know I must try my very hardest. And I will not blame you for doing what you must. Whatever happens to me, my poor sisters and my mother will have the 100 gold coins I have already won. Mother Brightly has promised.”

“You need not fear …” Lief began gently. But at that moment the starting bell rang, and like a snake, Neridah’s foot lashed out and caught him on the point of the chin, knocking him flat on his back.

The crowd laughed and booed.

Lief scrambled to his feet, shaking his head stupidly. His ears were ringing. He could not see Neridah at all. With amazing speed she had darted behind him. Savagely she kicked the backs of his knees, and he stumbled forward, gasping in pain. In moments she was darting around him, leaping and kicking at his ankles, his knees, his belly, his back, making him turn around and around like a confused clown, flailing with his arms while always she stayed out of reach.

She was making a fool of him! The crowd had begun jeering, chanting his stupid false name, “Twig,” and laughing. A wave of anger cleared Lief’s head a little. If Neridah was fast, so was he. He jumped backwards, away from her, so that she was forced to face him. Warily, they circled one another. Then, without warning he sprang forward, catching her around the waist and throwing her to the ground.

She fell and lay gasping, one arm limp and helpless. All Lief had to do was finish her. Stop her from rising to her feet. Kick, or hit …

But tears were welling from her eyes as she struggled feebly in the sand. “Please …” she whispered.

For one split second, Lief hesitated. And that was enough. The next moment Neridah’s “helpless” arm was darting forward and her hand was seizing his ankle. Then the crowd was roaring as she leaped up, jerking his foot off the ground. Lief staggered, crashed to the sand, and knew no more.

Meanwhile, Barda and Doom were wrestling, trying to push each other over. They were very evenly matched. Barda was taller, but Doom’s muscles were like iron and his will even stronger. From side to side, back and forth, the two men swayed, but neither made a mistake, and neither gave in.

Wherever you have come from, Doom of the Hills, you have had a life of struggle, thought Barda. You have suffered much. And he remembered the sign that the scar-faced man had made in the dust of a shop counter, the first time he had seen him. The sign of the Resistance. The secret sign of those who were pledged to defy the Shadow Lord.

“What are you doing here, Doom?” he panted. “Why do you waste your time fighting me when you have more important work to do?”

“What work?” hissed Doom, the long scar showing white on his gleaming skin. “My work — now — is to grind you into the dust — Berry of Bushtown!” His lips twisted into a grim smile as he said the name. Plainly he was sure that it was false.

“Your friend Twig is down and will not get up again,” he sneered. “See, behind you? Hear the crowd?”

Barda struggled to keep his concentration, refusing to look around, trying to close his ears to the howls of the people. Yet he could still hear the frenzied chanting: “Neridah! Neridah! Kick! Yes! Again! Finish him!”

Doom’s grip tightened and his weight shifted. Barda staggered, but only a little. “Not so easy, Doom!” he muttered. He gritted his teeth and fought on.

Jasmine could see nothing but Orwen’s huge shape circling her, hear nothing but his savage grunts as he lunged for her, and the beating of her own heart as she sprang aside. Her mind was working as fast as her feet.

All the competitors she had fought the day before had been larger than she was, but none of them had been Orwen’s size and weight. If she allowed herself to be caught in this giant’s bear-like grip, he would crush her. She knew she had to be like a bee buzzing around the head of a great beast. She had to irritate him, tire him, so that he made a mistake.

But Orwen was not stupid. He knew what she planned. For a very long time she had kept out of his reach, spinning and jumping, landing sharp, painful little kicks on his ankles and knees. His face was running with sweat, but his steady gaze had not faltered.

Again she leaped away from him. For long minutes she had been trying to turn him to face the sun. And she had nearly done it. One or two more moves …

Then, suddenly, Orwen’s expression changed. He was looking over Jasmine’s shoulder, his eyes filled with horror. Was it a trick? Or …

Behind her there was a terrible sound — the sound of someone choking, in agony. And the crowd was roaring: “Glock! Glock! Kill! Kill! Kill!”

Orwen lunged forward. Jasmine darted aside, but almost immediately realized that the man was not looking at her. He had forgotten she was there.

Joanna was down, pinned to the ground. And Glock was kneeling over her, his huge, hairy hands gripping her neck, shaking, tightening, his teeth bared in savage glee as he watched her life ebb away.

Then Orwen was upon him, heaving him aside like a bundle of rags. The watching people shrieked with excitement. Glock’s snarl of shock and fury was cut short as he thumped heavily to the ground. Orwen threw himself down beside Joanna, cradling her in his arms.

She was so limp and still that Jasmine thought at first that she was dead. But as Orwen called her name, her eyelids flickered and her hand fumbled towards her bruised throat. Orwen bent his head with a groan of relief, unconscious of everything but her.

And so it was that he did not sense Glock staggering to his feet and coming for him. He did not hear
Jasmine’s sharp, warning cry. He paid no heed to the crowd rising in a fever of excitement. The next moment, Glock’s locked, clenched fists had pounded down onto the back of his neck like two great stones. Orwen fell forward without a cry, and did not move again.

Barda and Doom were still fighting, struggling in a grip that neither would break. They were alone in the arena now. Dimly, Barda was aware that two people had been carried away while Glock, held back by three strong officials, still raved at them with murderous rage.

“Glock is a madman!” Doom growled. His voice was full of loathing.

“And are
we
not madmen?” panted Barda. “Whichever one of us wins will surely have to fight him. Do you want 1000 gold coins enough for that?”

“Do
you
?” hissed Doom, his dark eyes flashing. “For my own purposes I am condemned to this. But you — surely you are not. We have given a good enough show. If one of us falls now, he is free to go on his way. Think!”

Barda thought, and faltered.

It was the smallest hesitation. One tiny gap in the concentration that had armored him for so long. But it was enough for Doom. A twist, a mighty thrust, and Barda was off balance and staggering.

The other man’s fist crashed into his jaw. Barda saw bright pinpoints of light. Then the ground was rushing up to meet him. In seconds he was lying on his face
in the sand, dazed, his head spinning, his whole body aching, listening to the crowd howling Doom’s name. Through his pain he wondered if Doom had tricked him, or done him a great favor. Had this defeat been because of Doom’s wish, or his own?