Escape from Evil (3 page)

A
somber night in the cells gave way to a morning that, for Decimus, passed in a complete haze. Argon and Ruma had both tried and failed to cheer him up. Even Olu had offered a few rare words of condolence.

After breakfast, the group walked out to their new trial like a pack of trained zombies. No conversation passed between them, and Decimus almost felt as though his limbs were being controlled by the gods. His legs felt heavy and his arms swung loosely at his sides. As they entered the arena for their fourth trial, he found himself missing Gladius's whining voice. Glancing around him, he suspected that Argon, Ruma, and Olu were missing it, too.

The slave line marched onto the hot sand, and was greeted with a sight that filled each and every boy with absolute terror. A row of what could only be described as
giants
stood before them. The men were all over seven feet tall and bare chested, with bulging muscles and hands like great slabs of meat. They each wore tattered loincloths and every one carried a vast, long-handled hammer.

The three trial-masters stepped forward, but it was only Mori who spoke.

“Today is the day when thirty-two slaves will be reduced to sixteen!” he cried. “Behold, the Trial of the Hammer!”

A gong sounded, and the entire slave line turned to face the direction of the sound. Decimus noticed that Mori, Hrin, and Falni had all lowered their heads.

Behind the gong, which had been brought out by the servants and positioned atop one of the lower stalls, was an arched doorway. Decimus had seen it many times during the trials, but he had never seen anyone walk through it . . . until now.

A collective intake of breath accompanied the arrival of two of the most distinctive figures Decimus had ever seen in his life. The first was a tall, dark warrior in a suit of golden armor. A dark face and beard were visible beneath a helmet crested with two winged demons bowed in submission. Beside the first man was a figure wreathed in shadow. A dark cloak with an overflowing hood betrayed not a hint of flesh. The armored figure took a seat on the nearest bench, its mysterious companion moving to stand behind it.

“You are indeed honored today, boys,” trial-master Mori continued. “Your trial will be witnessed by Grand Master Slavious Doom and the legendary Drin Hain.”

Decimus leaned toward Ruma. “Which one is Doom?” he whispered.

Ruma shrugged, a confused expression on his face. It was Argon who spoke.

“Doom is the warrior with the helmet,” he said. “Legend says he took it from an underground tomb. The other one must be Hain, but I've never heard of—”

“They call him the Wrath of Doom,” said Olu suddenly, prompting the usual surprised reaction from his fellow slaves. “He is an assistant to Slavious; a slave-taker. There are rumors that he once tracked an escaped slave to the edge of the world, and beyond . . .”

Olu stopped speaking, but Argon, Decimus, and Ruma had already turned their attention back to the frightening pair in the stalls. However, Mori's continued roar shook them from their reverie.

“On the sand before you are thirty-two golden shields. Your task during this trial is simple: Pick up a shield and form a line opposite these formidable gladiators. You will then need to stand your ground against the onslaught of the hammer. Those who fall will be eliminated from the trials; those who remain standing will go through to our last sixteen.”

Mori turned and bowed to Slavious Doom, and the contest was under way.

Decimus wasted no time. He raced forward and snatched up a shield, staggering slightly under the immense weight of the thing. He'd expected it to be heavy, but not quite this heavy. It was huge, too. When he held it against his chest, the circular plate just about covered his entire torso. There was barely enough room to see over the top.

Beside him, Argon had snatched up his own shield, while Ruma and Olu (who were both considerably weaker) struggled to even lift theirs.

“Chaaaaaaaaaarge!”

The scream had erupted from Mori, who dropped his hand in a signal mere seconds before the incredible line of giants tore forward in a determined rush.

Decimus waited with bated breath. Suddenly, there was a monstrous crash, and a slave three positions away from him flew back as though he had been fired from a cannon. The boy's shield clattered to the ground . . .

Decimus felt the blow drive him back. His heels threw up several sprays of sand as he quickly flattened his feet and tried to maintain his balance. He dropped the shield but didn't let go, allowing the edge of the plate to dig into the ground in an effort to halt his backward progress. It worked, and he slowed to a stop. Looking out, he saw that most of the slaves on his right were down. Only Argon still stood behind his shield, his face contorted with determined rage.

Decimus caught his breath and glanced to his other side. Incredibly, Olu and Ruma were also still on their feet, though Ruma's shield must have glanced off his head, as a nasty cut had opened above his right eye. Beyond the pair, three more slaves had gone down. Decimus tried to total the number of those who had fallen in his head, but Mori's voice rang out before he could complete the count.

“Only nine have fallen!” he boomed as the servants swarmed onto the sand to retrieve the fallen slaves. “Therefore, there will be a second round. Lift your shields and prepare yourselves!”

This time, Decimus had a few moments to think as the giants all took several steps back.

The key is to loosen up,
he thought.
Relax your muscles, let the strike drive you back and then . . .

The second strike hit him like a thunderbolt, as the edge of the shield was slammed into his shoulder. He let out a cry of pain as the blow drove him back. At first, he thought he might actually leave the ground, but he soon felt the spray of sand at his heels and was able to dig in the shield with renewed strength, gritting his teeth and spitting out a mouthful of saliva with the effort.

All around him, slaves were standing their ground. It had been a good showing for the boys, many of whom seemed to have formed the same strategy of using their shields as breakers. From what he could make out, only five had fallen. He glanced around him, quickly spotting Argon and Olu . . . but not Ruma.

As the trial-master's servants swept forward once again, Decimus threw down his shield and peered nervously over his shoulder.

Ruma lay on the ground several feet behind the line. Despite his cunning, the boy had evidently failed to apply the strategy that had seen so many of the others through. A second cut had opened in his forehead and he was clearly unconscious.

Decimus glanced back at Olu and Argon, but neither could meet his gaze. Their friend was quickly hauled away, and Mori's voice erupted once again:

“Seventeen slaves have now fallen!” he cried. “Therefore, it has been decided that one lucky boy will receive a pass for the next round. You may all return to your cells.”

As the slave line staggered toward the smaller portcullis, Slavious Doom and his ghostlike companion disappeared into the great archway without so much as a single glance back.

I
'm sick of this place!” Decimus screamed, rampaging across his cell and delivering a powerful kick to the wooden frame that had housed Gladius's hay sacks.

“Shhh!” Argon urged him, his face pressed against the bars that separated their cells. “Keep quiet, or they'll—”

“I don't CARE!” Decimus brought his foot down on the frame a second time, forcing a splintering crack from the wood. “I'm sick of evil trial-masters! I'm sick of losing friends and I'm REALLY sick of this food.” He kicked his soup bowl into the air. It shattered against the cell door and the spoon flew out through the bars.

“That wasn't too clever,” said Olu. “You know they probably won't give you another one.”

Decimus ignored the two slaves, dropped onto his own bed, and turned to face the wall. He'd arrived at Arena Primus with great determination, but he honestly didn't know how much more he could stand.

Sleep overcame him . . . and the shadows lengthened.

He awoke from a nightmare in which a dark figure in flowing robes was trying to force a dagger between his ribs. He wiped a trace of sweat from his brow, moved one of the hay sacks beneath him, and rolled over, trying to drift off once again.

“Shhhh! Quiet! You'll wake the whole section!”

Decimus raised his head and tried to see through the shadows. In the neighboring cell, Argon was snoring loudly, but there was movement from the third section.

Decimus rubbed the sleep from his eyes and climbed, spiderlike, out of the bed. He crawled across the dusty floor and crouched in the corner in order to give himself a better view of the distant cell.

Olu was kneeling at the barred door, whispering to a small shadow that was bent over a bowl in front of him. Decimus squinted into the darkness and recognized the familiar shape of Skrag, Jailer Truli's mangy, little dog.

Ah
, he thought.
So that's what Olu has been doing with his soup
.

He thought for a moment, then cupped a hand to his mouth. “Pssst!”

Olu almost fell as he spun around, toppling the bowl in the process. The dog shrank back into the shadows, then turned and trotted off along the corridor.

“Who's there?” Olu whispered back. “Argon?”

“He's asleep. It's me, Decimus.”

“You scared him away!”

“So? You're crazy, Olu! You should be eating that soup, yourself!”

“He likes it! Besides, that jailer is really cruel to him—the poor little thing is starving to death!”

In the darkness, Decimus rolled his eyes. “And? Better him than us, I say.”

Olu moved back to his bed. “Yeah, well—that's your opinion . . . and I didn't ask for it. Just go back to sleep, will you?”

Decimus watched the slave settle down, and returned to his own bed.