Михаэль Энде - The Neverending Story

At length Bastian reached the center of the city, where the tournament was already in full swing. In a circular open space that looked like a giant arena, hundreds of contestants were measuring their strength, showing their mettle. Around the edges a crowd of onlookers egged the participants on, and the windows and balconies of the surrounding palace-ships were packed with enthusiasts. Some had even managed to climb up on the filigree-ornamented roofs.

At first Bastian paid little attention to the tournament. He was looking for Atreyu, feeling sure that he must be somewhere in the crowd. Then he noticed that the onlookers kept turning expectantly toward one of the palaces—especially when a contestant had performed some particularly impressive feat. But before he could get a good look at the palace, Bastian had to thrust his way across one of the bridges and climb a sort of lamppost.

Two silver chairs had been set up on a wide balcony. In one sat an aged man whose silver beard and hair hung down to his waist. That must be Querquobad, the Silver Sage. Beside him sat a boy of about Bastian’s age. He was wearing long trousers made of soft leather, but he was bare from the waist up, and Bastian saw that his skin was olive green. The expression of his lean face was grave, almost stern. His long, blue-black hair was gathered together and held back by leather thongs. Over his shoulders he wore a purple cloak. He was looking calmly and yet somehow eagerly down at the arena.

Nothing seemed to escape his dark eyes. Who could it be but Atreyu!

At that moment an enormous face appeared in the open balcony door behind Atreyu. It looked rather like a lion’s, except that it had white mother-of-pearl scales instead of fur, and long white fangs jutted out of the mouth. The eyeballs sparkled ruby red, and when the head rose high above Atreyu, Bastian saw that it rested on a long, supple neck, from which hung a mane that looked like white fire. Of course, it was Falkor the luckdragon, and he seemed to be whispering something in Atreyu’s ear, for Atreyu nodded.

Bastian slid down the lamppost. He had seen enough. Now he could watch the tournament.

“Tournament” was hardly the right word. The contests that were in progress added up to something more like a big circus. There was a wrestling match between two giants, who twined their bodies into one huge knot that kept rolling this way and that; individuals of like or divergent species vied with one another in swordsmanship or in skill at handling the club or the lance, but none had any serious intention of killing his adversary. The rules called for fair fighting and the strictest self-control. Any contestant so misled by anger or ambition as to injure an opponent seriously would have been automatically disqualified.

Many defeated combatants had left the arena when Bastian saw Hykrion the Strong, Hysbald the Swift, and Hydorn the Enduring make their appearance. Hero Hynreck and Princess Oglamar were not with them.

By then there were scarcely more than a hundred contestants left. Since these were a selection from among the best and strongest, Hykrion, Hysbald, and Hydorn had a much harder time of it than they may have expected. It took all afternoon for Hykrion to prove himself the strongest among the strong, Hysbald the swiftest among the swift, and Hydorn the most enduring among the enduring. The onlookers applauded with a will and all three bowed in the direction of the balcony, where Silver Sage Querquobad and Atreyu were sitting. Atreyu was getting up to say something when yet another contestant appeared—Hynreck. An expectant silence fell and Atreyu sat down. Since only three men were to accompany him on his expedition, there was one too many in the field. One would have to withdraw.

“Sires,” said Hynreck in a loud voice, “I would not suggest that your strength can have been impaired by the little display you have just made of your abilities. Under the circumstances, however, it would be unworthy of me to challenge you singly. Since I have thus far seen no adversary up to my standards, I have not participated in the contests. Consequently, I am still fresh. If any of you should feel too exhausted, he is free to stand aside. Otherwise, I am prepared to face all three of you at once. Any objections?”

“No!” replied all three in unison.

A furious battle followed. Hykrion’s blows had lost none of their force, but Hero Hynreck was stronger. Hysbald assailed him from all sides like streaks of lightning, but Hynreck was quicker. Hydorn tried to wear him down, but Hero Hynreck had greater endurance. After barely ten minutes all three were disarmed and all three bent their knees to Hero Hynreck. He looked proudly about him, evidently hoping for an admiring glance from his lady, who must have been somewhere in the crowd. The cheers of the onlookers swept over the arena like a hurricane and could no doubt be heard on the farthermost shore of Lake Moru.

When the applause died down, Querquobad, the Silver Sage, stood up and asked in a loud voice: “Does anyone wish to oppose Hero Hynreck?”

A hush fell on the crowd. Then a boy’s voice was heard: “Yes! I do!”

All eyes turned toward Bastian. The crowd opened a path for him and he strode into the arena. Cries of amazement and pity were heard. “How handsome he is!” “What a shame!” “This must be stopped!”

“Who are you?” asked Silver Sage Querquobad.

“I will reveal my name afterward,” said Bastian.

He saw that Atreyu had narrowed his eyes and was studying him closely, but had not yet made up his mind.

“Young friend,” said Hero Hynreck. “We have eaten and drunk together. Why do you want me to put you to shame? I pray you, withdraw your challenge and go away.”

“No,” said Bastian. “I meant what I said.”

Hero Hynreck hesitated a moment. Then he said: “It would be wrong of me to measure myself in combat with you. Let us first see who can shoot an arrow higher.”

“Very well!” said Bastian.

A stout bow and an arrow were brought for each of them. Hynreck drew the bowstring and shot the arrow so high that the eye could not follow. At almost the same moment Bastian pulled his bowstring and shot his arrow after it.

It was some time before the arrows came down and fell to the ground between the two archers. Then it became evident that Bastian’s red-feathered arrow had struck Hero Hynreck’s blue-feathered arrow at its apogee with such force as to split it open and wedge itself into it.

Hero Hynreck stared at the telescoped arrows. He had turned rather pale, but his cheeks had broken out in red spots.

“That can only be an accident,” he muttered. “Let’s see who does better with the foils.”

He asked for two foils and two decks of cards. Both were brought. He shuffled both decks of cards carefully.

Then he threw one deck high into the air, drew his blade with the speed of lightning, and thrust. When all the other cards had fallen to the ground, it could be seen that he had struck the ace of hearts in the center of its one heart. And holding up his foil with the card spitted on it, he again looked about for his lady.

Then Bastian tossed the other deck into the air and his blade flashed. Not a single card fell to the ground. He had pierced all fifty-two cards of the deck exactly in the middle and moreover in the right order—though Hero Hynreck had shuffled them ever so carefully.

Hero Hynreck looked at the cards. He said nothing, but his lips trembled.

“But you won’t outdo me in strength,” he stammered finally.

A number of weights were still lying about from the previous contests. He seized the heaviest and slowly, straining every muscle, lifted it. But before he could set it down, Bastian had grabbed hold of him and lifted him along with the weight. Hero Hynreck’s face took on a look of such misery that some of the onlookers could not repress a smile.