Emily Rodda - The Shifting Sands

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?

Four finalists remained: Neridah, Doom, Glock — and Jasmine, for she had been pronounced the winner of her bout, even though Orwen had been felled by another.

Jasmine had only had a few brief moments to find out how Lief and Barda were faring. Both were poorly, but Mother Brightly, anxiously hovering over them, had told her that, like Joanna and Orwen, they would soon recover. Their injuries were not too serious, and they would be not much the worse for their defeat.

Seeing that her friends were in good hands, Jasmine allowed herself to be taken to the center of the arena to join Glock, Neridah, and Doom.

Foaming mugs of Queen Bee Cider were brought to them. The dark-haired young serving man was plainly excited to be serving such great ones. He offered the tray to Doom, who took a mug with a word of thanks.

“Why do you serve him first?” shouted Glock furiously. He snatched another mug from the tray, tipped it up, and drained it dry.

The young man, plainly startled and frightened, began gasping words of apology.