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.
“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!”