“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.
The 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.