The Shifting Sands

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.

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?