Emily Rodda - The Shifting Sands

“All is well,” said Doom quietly. “Do not upset yourself.”

Blushing scarlet, the young man held out the tray to Neridah and Jasmine. Neridah took a mug and drank it in a gulp. Jasmine, however, shook her head.

“Thank you, but I do not like Queen Bee Cider,” she said. “I have had water, and that is enough.”

As the young man stared, Glock grabbed the rejected mug. “All the more for me!” he crowed, gulping the cider greedily.

He turned to Jasmine, wiping his dripping mouth with the back of his hand. “Pray that you are not facing me next round, little water-drinking Birdie. I will crack your bones like egg shells. I will …”

A strange expression crossed his face. And at that exact moment, Neridah, beside him, gave a strange little sigh, bent at the knees, and fell to the ground. Glock gaped at her, then at the empty mug in his hand. His hand went to his throat.

“Poison!” he croaked. He turned, staggering, and pointed with a shaking finger at the young man with the tray. “You —” he croaked.

The young man dropped the tray and took to his heels. By the time Glock, in his turn, had crashed senseless to the ground, he was already lost in the crowd.

People were running towards them, shouting and pointing. Jasmine stared at Doom.

“This is your doing!” she hissed. “That boy — you knew him!”

“What rubbish you talk,” he snapped.

Jasmine narrowed her eyes. “You think that if the others are out of the way — if you fight only me in the finals — you will surely win,” she said slowly. “But you are wrong, Doom.”

He turned away so that she could not see his face. The officials had reached them now. They were shaking Glock and Neridah, gabbling and exclaiming. Only Jasmine heard Doom’s reply.

“We will see,” he said softly. “We will see.”

If fighting Orwen was like fighting a bear, this is like facing a wolf, Jasmine thought, as she and Doom circled each other in the center of the arena. A lean, cunning wolf.

The man was dangerous. Very dangerous. Her every instinct told her that. She feared him as she had never feared a human being before, yet she did not know why. She searched for a reason, then thought she had found it.

He does not care if he lives or dies, she thought, and despite herself she shivered with dread. She saw a tiny spark leap into Doom’s eyes and dodged just in time as he lunged for her.

The crowd, cheated of the semifinal contests and angry because their favorite, Glock, could not fight again, was in an ugly mood. A roar of boos and shouted curses rose up as Doom missed his prey by a breath. They were tired of this circling and dodging. They wanted action. They wanted blood.

Breathing hard, Jasmine whirled to face her enemy again. His mouth twisted into a mocking smile. “Where is your boasting now, little bird?” he jeered softly. “Why, you cannot master your fear enough even to put up a good show for the crowd. Run home and hide your head in your mamma’s lap!”

A flame of white-hot anger ran through Jasmine’s body, burning away the fear. She looked up at Doom, and with satisfaction saw the smile fade as he sensed the change in her. She saw his mouth tense, and a wary look creep into his eyes.

“You are tired, old man,” she hissed. “Tired to your bones.”

And as she said it, she knew that it was true. His long struggle with Barda had sapped his strength and dulled his reflexes. Why else had he missed her when he struck?

“Catch me if you can!” she grinned, and half-turned as if to run.

Taken by surprise, Doom took a stumbling step forward. She whirled around and kicked, whirled and kicked once more. She leaped away from him as he snatched at her, leaving him clutching the empty air. She jumped and attacked again and again.

With savage pleasure she heard his grunts of pain and anger, heard the crowd begin to cheer. Their excitement was mounting and so was hers. The game went on and on. Doom could not touch her.

The arena was a blur. She felt nothing but her own desire to punish and hurt. It was as though her blood was bubbling, as though her anger had turned into energy, surging around her body, making her feet and hands tingle. Laughing, she danced backwards as Doom came at her again, tall and glowering. The crowd howled. The roar was deafening. So loud … why was it so loud …?

She stepped back — and her heel hit solid wood.

She glanced behind her in shock and saw a wall, and above it, a mass of red, shouting faces. Only then did she realize how she had been tricked, how foolish her anger had made her. Little by little, Doom had pushed her to the edge of the arena. She had her back to the low wall that surrounded it. And he was closing in on her.

She sprang up, up and back, landing surefooted on the top of the wall as so many times she had landed on tree branches in the Forests of Silence. Behind her the crowd was screaming. But Doom was close, very close, leaning forward, and his hands were reaching for her ankles. Hands like giant spiders. Arms like thick, hungry vines …

Pure instinct drove her to jump, to spring up and out towards him. For a split second his bent shoulders were her tree branch. Then she had thrust backward with her feet, launching herself into the air once more, sending him toppling forward. She heard him cry out, heard him fall crashing against the wall as she turned in the air and landed lightly on the sand far behind him.

She landed poised to run. Her only thought had been to escape. But her leap for freedom had done far more than that.

Doom lay crumpled by the wall, unmoving. The crowd was on its feet, shrieking her name. Slowly, in wonderment, Jasmine realized that the fight was over. She had won.

“So — it is all over for another year! And what a thrilling contest our final was at the last!” laughed Mother Brightly, as she hurried Lief, Barda, and Jasmine back to the inn after the presentation ceremony. “A little slow to start, perhaps. But then the fun began!”

She patted Jasmine’s shoulder affectionately. “You are a popular Champion, my dear. There is nothing the crowd likes better than agility beating strength.”

Jasmine was silent. The gold medallion hung heavy around her neck. A bag of gold coins was heavy in her arms. And her heart was heavier than both.

She felt sick at the thought of what she had become for a short time in that arena. A beast who took pleasure in hurting and punishing another. A fool who forgot everything in the heady delight of battle. She had been as vicious as the loathsome Glock. As drunk with violence as that reeking, bellowing crowd. If her conceit had been her undoing, as it so nearly had, it would have served her right.

Lief and Barda glanced at one another over her head. They knew her well enough to guess a little of what she was feeling. But Mother Brightly could not imagine that Jasmine was anything but proud.

“To tell you the truth,” she chattered on, lowering her voice, “I was very pleased to see that person Doom brought down. A proud and glowering man — with an unpleasant past, I am sure. I am certain that it was he who arranged for the cider to be drugged. He skulked away, you know, as soon as he woke, not even waiting for his 100 gold coins. Surely this shows that he has a guilty conscience.”

“Have Glock and Neridah woken?” asked Lief.

Mother Brightly shook her head sadly. “They still sleep like babes,” she sighed. “They will not be able to leave here till tomorrow. But Joanna and Orwen have left already. Joanna was limping badly and Orwen’s head had a nasty lump, but they would not be persuaded to remain.” She sighed again. “It seems that having gotten their hands on the gold they had no further use for Rithmere.”