“What happens if we refuse your challenge?” asked Will.
“As we said earlier,” said Wangchuk, “you will be forced to join the order of the monks. And then, following the ceremony . . . we will prepare you for tomorrow’s sacrifice.”
“What?” Cordelia exclaimed.
“You—” started Will.
Eleanor cut them off. “So it’s finally out in the open, Wangchuk,” she said, stepping forward. “You are going to sacrifice us.”
“Only if you refuse to help,” said the monk.
“You’re a monster!” Eleanor yelled. “You’d throw all four of us to those things?!”
Wangchuk nodded.
“But I was under the impression you only sacrificed two monks at a time,” said Will.
“I’m hopeful that if we give the frost beasts four, they will give us an extra month of peace.”
The monks all nodded in agreement. Cordelia, Will, and Felix exchanged shocked glances. But Eleanor took a deep breath. Her plan was taking shape. “Hold on, every one! I know what we can do,” she said.
“What’s that?” Felix asked.
“Leave.”
“What?” asked Wangchuk. “You can’t leave. You’ll die out there!”
“Better than dying here,” said Eleanor. “We’re not fighting the frost beasts—and we’re not getting sacrificed. We’ll take our chances on the mountain. We’ve survived worse things.”
“Wait, Nell,” said Cordelia. “Remember how close we were to all dying of hypothermia?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Felix piped up. “Listen to this brave one. We’ll go out on our own terms instead of being pushed around by these monks. Eleanor has the heart of a great warrior!”
Cordelia looked at Eleanor as if to say, What are you up to?
Eleanor winked: You’ll see.
“If you insist on leaving, I’ll let you stay one more night, just to sleep on it,” said Wangchuk. “But then, once you step out the doors, I can’t help you.”
“Perfect,” said Eleanor, ready to put her plan in motion.
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Back in Rome the next day, Brendan stirred. . . .
“Wakey-wakey! Sleep well?” Ungil asked.
Brendan raised his head (upside down) and managed to mumble a curse. He had spent the night alternating between fitful sleep, the painful slicing of his own body, and the slaves coming in and flipping him around so he wouldn’t die. He stank of cheese and was surrounded by dead rodents. He held the hilt of his sword like a life preserver.
“You killed a few!” Ungil said. “I must say, I’m surprised.” He entered the dungeon with his two slave helpers and unshackled Brendan, who collapsed in a heap on the floor.
“Ah, look at him,” said one of the slaves. “He’s still a child, boss. All wiry and scrawny? Is he strong enough for this?”
“Of course,” said Ungil. “I’ve trained ’em younger. Pick him up!”
Brendan was carried through the dungeons and back up the stone stairs. Every muscle in his body throbbed with pain. He was plopped down on a bench and given a fork. He looked at the rotten wooden table in front of him and was scared out of his wits: It was crowded with smelly, shirtless gladiators-in-training.
The boys were Brendan’s age, but they had hulking, powerful bodies. They reminded Brendan of the people at school he called “scary jocks,” like Scott—the wrestling kids who looked forward to staying after school to pummel one another. There was one big difference, though—nobody ever died in school wrestling.
Ungil and the slaves stepped back. Brendan reached timidly for a piece of bread, took a bite—and immediately realized how hungry he was. His fear vanished in the presence of his desire to eat. The table might not have held last night’s feast, but it was piled high with roasted turkey, chicken, and beef, and Brendan dug in with the enthusiasm of a death-row prisoner, even though it wasn’t breakfast food. The other gladiators-in-training did the same, stuffing themselves with meat. None of them paid much attention to Brendan, and Brendan realized maybe he didn’t have to be scared of them. Maybe if he just minded his own business, they would mind theirs . . . And if I ever get back home, that policy might work with Scott too.
Brendan laughed inside his head: Or maybe no one is messing with me because I smell like cheese.
Then he got sad—he wished his sisters were there to hear that joke.
When breakfast was over, Ungil took Brendan to the baths, a collection of large underground pools. He stepped into the ice-cold water and scrubbed the cheese from his skin and hair. The water actually felt good, temporarily cooling the sting from the countless scratches and cuts on his body. Following his bath, Brendan was led with the others to a thin hallway with wide slits carved in the ceiling. Light poured in, and Brendan realized he was beneath the Colosseum, in the network of corridors that allowed gladiators to pop out of the floor in unexpected places and keep the games interesting. He wondered if there were any games today, and if he were going to be thrown to the lions. But there was no applause. That’s good, Brendan thought. I bet we’ve been brought here to practice.
Ungil nudged Brendan up some stairs and handed him a sword. Brendan stepped into the blinding light of day. Squinting, he saw that the stands were empty. The arena had been organized into a half-dozen fighting rings. Two gladiators were practicing in each ring, sparring with swords and spears.
“Emperor Occipus is pleased to see General Brendan!” called a voice from above.
Brendan looked up and saw Rodicus. Next to him was Emperor Occipus, yawning. Brendan glared at him. Only yesterday he felt that Occipus was a powerful and enviable figure; now, lounging shirtless with a bunch of grapes on his belly and a slave girl fanning his hairless, sweaty body, he looked more like a giant wet slug.
“Occipus!” Brendan yelled. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“‘The gladiator dares to speak?’” announced Rodicus. He turned and listened to Occipus, then continued: “‘The emperor wishes to remind General Brendan that he has been given the highest honor in Rome: the opportunity to fight in the Colosseum!’”
“It’s not such an honor now,” Brendan responded, pointing to the giant hole in the structure where the Nazi tank had busted through.
“‘No one is to look at the hole!’” announced Rodicus. “‘Now begin!’”
Occipus clapped like an excited child as Brendan began his first sparring match.
This actually doesn’t look so bad, Brendan thought. His sparring partner was an extremely skinny, weak-looking kid who resembled a sickly King Tut. He carried no weapon and just stared at Brendan with hollow, expressionless eyes. Brendan suddenly felt bad for him. He didn’t want to fight this kid, who looked like a refugee from Egypt. He wanted to give him a cheeseburger.
A guard beside them hit a small bell. Brendan took a few halting steps toward his adversary, but then realized there was a big problem here: He had a sword, but his opponent had no weapon at all.
“What am I supposed to do?” Brendan asked the guard. “Just start attacking him? I mean . . . I’m really gonna hurt him if I slash him. This is supposed to be sparring, right? We’re not supposed to actually—”
“Fight as you would for the crowd,” the guard intoned, and before Brendan could figure out what that meant, his face became an explosion of buzzy pain.
Brendan dropped his sword, held on to the side of his face, and looked at his opponent. The Egyptian kid was smiling. And that’s when Brendan realized . . .
The kid had spin-kicked him.
Brendan couldn’t believe it. His sparring partner stood in a boxer’s stance, bouncing his fists and waiting for Brendan to get close.
“Nice trick,” Brendan said, bending to retrieve his sword—
And the kid spin-kicked him again.
It was lightning fast: The s
kinny boy planted himself on his left foot and whirled around, bringing his right heel down like an ax on Brendan’s temple. Brendan hit the ground, almost knocked unconscious.
“What’s up with that?” he asked. “You can at least let me get—”
“‘Fight as you would for the crowd,’” the skinny boy repeated, whirling quickly, sending a swift kick into Brendan’s ribs while he was down. Brendan thought he heard a rib snap. He held up his hands and screamed, “I give up! Just leave me alone!”
“The emperor wishes to know what is wrong with General Brendan!” Rodicus called from the balcony. “Why will he not use his magic?”
Brendan saw that Occipus wasn’t lying down anymore; he was standing, his expression quite furious. Brendan struggled to get to his feet. A hush rippled through the gladiators as Occipus left his seating area and emerged into the arena to speak to Brendan.
“What is going on?” the emperor whispered. “How is it possible that this ninety-five-pound child from Thebes defeated you so swiftly? I thought you would become the greatest gladiator this arena had ever seen!”
The other gladiators all stared at Brendan, amazed that he was being granted a personal audience with the emperor. One large and hormonally imbalanced fighter, Gaius, cracked his knuckles.
“Emperor, I have to admit something,” Brendan said. “The power that I had . . . the magic . . . it came from a book. And the book . . . is gone.”
Occipus slapped him across the face.
“Ow!” Brendan grabbed his cheek. The other fighters laughed.
“Don’t make excuses,” Occipus hissed. “And do not embarrass me. I have given you special treatment, believed in you . . . and now you stand here like a quivering little child, telling me you can’t do it? You performed your special magic two days ago and you will do it again today!”
“I understand,” Brendan said, deciding to rely on the one thing that had worked for him in Rome: lying. “I misspoke, Emperor. What I meant to say is that I need to save my magic for the games. If I use it now, I won’t be able to entertain your crowds later.”
“Well,” Occipus said, “of course that’s reasonable—”
Slap!!
“Owww! What was that for?”
“Lying!” screamed the emperor. “Do you take me for a fool? Enough of your excuses. You’ll fight now!”
He turned to the assembled fighters: “Who is my strongest warrior-in-training?”
“That would be me, Emperor,” said Gaius, stepping forward.
“Lovely,” said Occipus. “Then let’s begin, the two of you.”
A tremendous clang sounded as Gaius swung his sword down at Brendan’s head. Only the reflex action of Brendan’s sword, blocking, ensured that he still had a head. The fighters and guards formed a circle around Brendan and Gaius, to watch.
Brendan gritted his teeth and began to stalk around Gaius, who he remembered reading about in Gladius Rex. The brute had a huge scar over his left eye, causing a thick flap of skin to cover a section of his eyeball, giving him an obstructed view. Brendan knew that if he triangulated his left-hand side, he’d be able to sneak in a blow. But Brendan found it difficult to concentrate. How did I get here? he thought suddenly. I should have stayed with Deal and Nell—are they even thinking about me? Do they even miss me? Probably not, because I’ve been such a horrible brother—
Gauis lunged forward, nearly slicing Brendan’s stomach open. If that were an inch closer, my guts would be spilling out, Brendan thought—and then he had a sudden, certain realization.
This isn’t like the other night with the Wind Witch. This time I won’t be coming back to life. This time it’s really over.
The thought came to him from a numb, flat place. A dull blur seemed to hover in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” Brendan said to no one—or to everyone. He was speaking to his sisters, to Will, to Felix—to his mom and dad. His simple words didn’t do justice to his thoughts, which looped: I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry, Deal, I turned into an awful person. I started to think about only myself. And I left you, I left you guys and I miss you—
“Brendan! Fight back!” Occipus yelled, but there was no fight in Brendan. Gaius was stronger, bigger, and faster.
Brendan fell to his knees and dropped his sword. He closed his eyes, about to pass out. Gaius stepped over him—
And pressed his sword against Brendan’s neck.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
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Back in the monastery of Batan Chekrat, Eleanor arose from her straw bed in the middle of the night. She had told her sister, Will, and Felix, who had all gone to sleep nearby, that she didn’t really intend for them to walk out on the monks the next day. But if they were going to fight the frost beasts, she needed to confirm something that she suspected. And she was going to do that now. She started to tiptoe out of the room when she heard “Psst! What are you doing?”
Cordelia was also awake, sitting up, with a book on her lap.
“I’m . . . well . . . ,” Eleanor started. “What is that?”
Cordelia hesitated—but then showed Eleanor the diary of Eliza May Kristoff. “I’m trying to get it open.”
Eleanor took a closer look. “It’s by the Wind Witch’s mom? You have to get it open!”
“I know, but the key must be back in Kristoff House—”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this? Deal! This is like a huge clue!”
“I know, but it may be a fake. I didn’t want to say anything until I actually get it open and read it. I’m trying to use this.” Cordelia held up a crooked bobby pin. “But apparently I’m not a safecracker. But more importantly . . . what are you doing? What’s your big, secret plan?”
“The library,” said Eleanor. “I’m going to see if I can get some information about this Door of Ways.”
“You’re going to sneak around in the middle of the night to check out a book?” Cordelia said. “You are my sister!”
Eleanor smiled. But Cordelia’s expression turned serious. “I’m going with you.”
“No, Deal,” said Eleanor.
“But what if you get caught?”
“There’s more of a chance that two of us will get caught than one. Besides, I’m smaller. I’m better at hiding.”
“Okay,” sighed Cordelia. “Just, please . . . be careful.”
Eleanor gave her a fist bump. “I will.”
Once she was out of the room, Eleanor snuck through the winding corridors and large, open spaces of the monastery. She thought about how mice move, always staying close to the wall, and tried to imitate that. She thought if she were out in the open, it would be easy to get caught by one of the monks—and to be tossed to the frost beasts prematurely.
She nearly shrieked as a monk with a huge forehead approached—then realized it was the shadow of a statue in the moonlight. She arrived at a hallway that split in two directions and tried to remember which way the library was located. After a few moments of deliberation, she decided to make a left turn. She passed two giant doors behind which she assumed there was some kind of indoor yak pen, because she smelled an earthy odor—but then she heard, “Aaarf! Rrraf! Rraaf!”
It was dogs. Louder and more vicious than Eleanor had ever heard. And she heard a thump as something big threw itself against the doors.
Eleanor ran away. That was larger than any dog! Maybe it was a yak. Maybe yaks can bark. But no, I could almost hear the spit in the jaws, just like you see on a pit bull. It was dogs! Giant attack dogs! Oh, stop being a baby and stop worrying!! Just keep moving!
Finally Eleanor came to the monks’ atrium and entered. She looked for the shelf that Wangchuk had pointed out—the one that featured books about the Door of Ways—but she couldn’t find it in the dark. So she just began examining all the books, checking out the titles: Martial Arts for Monks, Monk Folk Dancing, 30-Minute Meals for Monks . . . no
thing about the Door of Ways. Then she froze.
There was someone else there, standing by one of the shelves.
“Eleanor?”
Wangchuk. Eleanor was terrified—but she couldn’t show it. She had come too far to back down now.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it’s me.” She stepped forward.
“What are you doing here?” asked Wangchuk. “You know it is forbidden for anyone to be here after hours.”
“I came to learn about the Door of Ways,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” said Wangchuk. “But that is a sacred subject. The words are not meant for your ears.”
“Oh really?” asked Eleanor. “Just like the words I heard today?”
“What words?”
“What your ‘brother’ said. The one with the bamboo stick. I know this traveling warriors thing is a made-up story. You’ve been lying.”
“That isn’t true,” said Wangchuk. “There is truly a prophecy that someday, someone who arrives here will be able to defeat the beasts—”
“And they always end up dead,” said Eleanor.
“Well, yes. That has been somewhat of an issue. But it only proves one thing . . . that those who came were not strong enough. But I believe you may be.”
“You are so full of it. . . .”
Suddenly Wangchuk held up his hand and shut his fingers and thumb tightly.
Eleanor’s voice died in her throat.
She suddenly couldn’t talk!
What are you doing to me? she tried to say.
“The brothers of Batan Chekrat possess more than insight,” Wangchuk said. “I did not want to use my magic on you, but I also do not appreciate being insulted. Now wait here.”
Wangchuk turned and walked to a far corner of the library. He climbed a ladder and removed a book from the top shelf: a large, yak-fur-bound book. He opened it, holding it out in front of him.
“Our sacred text of ancient prophecies,” he said. “In it are the words that predict the coming of the traveling warriors.”
And as he spoke, letters began to magically lift off the pages. They formed sentences in midair in front of Eleanor.
House of Secrets: Battle of the Beasts Page 21