House of Secrets: Battle of the Beasts

by Columbus, Chris

  Back in Rome, somewhere in a dark room, Brendan woke up and immediately asked, “Deal? Nell?” He was certain that everything he had been through was only a bad dream. “Will?” he continued . . . and then the world flooded in on him and he remembered what had happened in the arena.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” said Emperor Occipus. “It’s only me.”

  Brendan heard a click and saw a flame above him. Will’s lighter! It was in Occipus’s hand, pointing up at his face, giving it an eerie glow.

  “Where am I?” Brendan asked. “What happened?”

  “Below the arena, in a sick bay,” said Occipus. “Many gladiators are brought here when they have been pierced or bludgeoned in battle. But you didn’t suffer an honorable injury. You passed out when your opponent had you beaten. It was one of the most cowardly performances I have ever seen.”

  Emperor Occipus let the lighter go out. Brendan was back in darkness. He felt something drip on his forehead and realized it was Occipus’s sweat. He tried to get up, but found that he was strapped to his bed, which wasn’t really a bed at all, but a stone slab.

  “How long have I been here?” Brendan asked.

  “Not even a day,” said Occipus, “but it has been quite a humiliating day. Word of your failure to fight has spread far and wide. You are no ordinary young man, after all; you are General Brendan, the lion tamer. You skyrocketed to fame. Your name was on everyone’s lips until those Nazis showed up. Even afterward, there were many who said that you would be the one to conquer them.”

  Brendan started to say, “But the Nazis haven’t come back, just like I told you, Supreme Emperor”—but then he thought, No more lies. Because whatever else had happened, he had been given another chance at life. He had a heartbeat; he could breathe. There must be a reason I’m still here, still alive. And when there’s life, there’s hope. Who told me that? Wasn’t it Will? . . . Yes, Brendan decided. And from now on I’m living my life differently. I’m going to get out of here and find Nell and Deal, and find a way home. And then I’m going to tell Mom and Dad I love them, no matter what.

  Emperor Occipus lit his lighter and menaced Brendan. “So put yourself in my position. Which is something I know you like to do—I see the way you look at me. I have created a superstar gladiator who has proven himself to be nothing but a liar and a charlatan. My people are now whispering behind my back, doubting me, losing faith in me. They have started to ask questions. There is even talk they are looking for my replacement!”

  “If I were in your position,” Brendan said, “I would stop these games entirely.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re wrong. People are getting killed every day. Not to mention helpless animals.”

  “I can’t stop the games. In fact, the games are the only way I can regain the trust and love of my people.”

  “How?”

  “By making you today’s star attraction!”

  Brendan gulped: “Star attraction” didn’t sound as great to him as it once had. He thought about that Twilight Zone episode he watched with Eleanor last year, titled “To Serve Man” . . .

  “This afternoon,” said Occipus, “will be the first and only day in Roman history that I will allow all Romans free admission to the Colosseum. And not just the citizens: the slaves, too. They will all crowd into the stands. I will serve them free, unlimited food and drink. And when all of their stomachs are full, when they have all had enough wine to make them giddy with happiness, you will be led into the arena.”

  “And . . . ,” Brendan said shakily.

  “I will make a speech,” said Occipus, “as I am wont to do. A very humble speech where I will beg for forgiveness. I will admit that I made a big mistake, that I misjudged your character. In my left hand, I will be clutching a sliced onion. And when I raise my hand to my face, this onion will bring tears to my eyes. Crying always manages to create sympathy. Then I will conclude the speech by making my usual empty promises that can never be fulfilled. But I will be so passionate and engaging, my people will believe every word. And they will trust me again. And then, to wipe away any doubts that may still be lingering about me, I will do something that will restore all of Rome’s belief in my power, ‘General’ Brendan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Feed you to the lions.”

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  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Will had a plan. He came up with it moments after spotting Kristoff House in the Italian countryside. It was comforting to see the house, to know that they were on the right course flying back to Rome. But something beside the house was more important: an American P-51 Mustang.

  “We need to get that plane,” Will told Cordelia.

  “No, we need to get to Rome and save Brendan.”

  “I agree,” said Will, “but we have no idea what the Romans are going to fight us with. Personally, I’d feel better arriving in a plane with artillery, rather than on a sled with flying dogs.”

  One of the Batan sled dogs snapped its teeth at Will.

  He whispered to Cordelia: “I forgot they could understand us. Anyway, I’d feel safer in a plane.”

  “You have a point,” said Cordelia, “but apologize to the dogs.”

  “I’m terribly sorry. I promise —” said Will to the dogs. He suddenly stopped midsentence, feeling very silly. “Oh, bloody hell, this is absolutely ridiculous! Talking to a bunch of mutts!”

  All the dogs turned and snapped their teeth at Will. And growled ferociously.

  “All right, all right, don’t worry . . . ,” said Will. “I truly am sorry. Won’t happen again.”

  The dogs ended up landing on green grass behind a hill a few hundred feet from Kristoff House. Their wings folded up beneath them and they curled up for some much-needed rest. Will helped Cordelia out of the sled, and the two of them reached the top of the hill and looked down. Below was Kristoff House. Next to it was a bored-looking pilot leaning against the P-51 Mustang.

  “Americans keeping guard,” Will said. “They know there’s something unusual about this house.”

  “Well, we’re not letting them occupy it either!” Cordelia said.

  “Relax,” said Will. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “What’s that?” asked Cordelia.

  “We’re gonna pull a fast one, kiddo.”

  Cordelia squinted. “Why are you doing an American accent?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough, sweetheart,” said Will.

  “It’s not half bad,” she said.

  “Thanks. All of us Brits can do Yank. We learned from your Westerns and gangster pictures, partner.”

  “That was a little forced,” said Cordelia. “That time you sounded too ‘movie cowboy.’”

  “Just what I had in mind, sister,” said Will, now sounding more like a Roaring Twenties cinema gangster.

  “You have to pick between gangster . . . and cowboy,” said Cordelia.

  “I’ll stay somewhere in between,” said Will. “Now, time to put your hair up, little lady.”

  Cordelia laughed as Will wrapped her hair up over her head. It wouldn’t stay put until he found a twig and stuck it through. Then he took the hood of her multicolored fur coat and pulled it over her eyes.

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Almost.”

  He smudged his finger in some dirt and smeared it on her face.

  “What the heck are you doing?” Cordelia asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I’m trying to make you look like a boy.”

  “By getting me dirty? For your information, girls get dirty too. We play sports, we—”

  “Just bear with me,” Will said. He pressed his hand against her lips. “What is this? Are you wearing lipstick?”

  “That’s my normal lip color! Leave my lips alone!”

  “Oh,” Will said. “Oh. Wow. Really?” He looked at her face again. Darn, he thought. She still looks complete
ly beautiful!

  “Hey! You two!”

  The air force pilot standing at the plane yelled up at them: “What’re you doing?! This ain’t lover’s lane!”

  Will put on his American accent: “Ya got me wrong, buddy! This isn’t my main squeeze, it’s my assistant.”

  The pilot aimed a pistol at Will: “Who are you?”

  “The name’s Marvelous Marcus, Master of the Mystic Arts,” said Will. “And this is Jimmy Hobbs.”

  “Jimmy?” said the suspicious pilot. “He’s no Jimmy. More like a Judy.”

  “Believe me, partner,” said Will. “This here’s a young man. He’s been my assistant for five years.”

  “Look, buddy,” said the pilot, “I don’t got time for nonsense. This whole area is U.S.-seized property and you have point-five seconds to explain what you’re doing, before I blow you and your ‘assistant’ away.”

  “I’m a world-famous magician,” said Will. “I’ve been sent here by the good ole U.S. of A. to entertain the troops with incredible feats of magic and illusion!”

  “Oh yeah?” said the pilot. “Well, I’ve been stationed here for the last two years and I ain’t seen any entertainment. Betty Grable was supposed to show up and never came. Neither did Bob Hope. And I sure as hell never heard of any Marvelous Marcus. So get down on the ground with your hands on your heads. Both of you—”

  “Let us show you something!” said Will. “Something so magical, so fantastic . . . that you’ll have to believe us.”

  The pilot paused, intrigued. Back home, he used to love going to magic shows with his father.

  “You’re going to love this,” said Will. “I promise.”

  “You got thirty seconds,” said the pilot.

  Will turned back and shouted: “Batan sled dogs! Fly!”

  A moment passed. Cordelia looked at Will. Uh-oh. Is this going to work? Maybe the dogs are asleep, or maybe they’re still ticked off at Will for insulting them.

  Then suddenly they appeared, flying over the top of the hill. Wings spread wide. Soaring high into the air. Like Rudolph and his reindeer friends, but a lot cooler.

  The pilot’s jaw dropped. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Will turned to him. “Convinced?”

  The pilot could manage only a small, shocked nod.

  “Would you like to see more?” asked Will.

  The pilot smiled, like a young child witnessing his first circus. Will turned back to the dogs: “Do a few more tricks for the chap!”

  “Hold on,” said the pilot, “why are you suddenly talkin’ like a Brit?”

  Will exchanged a startled look with Cordelia. Without missing a beat, she spoke up in a perfect British accent of her own: “It’s all part of the show, mate. When we’re onstage, we pretend we’re British.”

  The pilot was about to ask Will why Jimmy Hobbs sounded like a girl. But Will interrupted: “Fly, boys!”

  The dogs soared high into the air. The pilot watched, amazed, as they began to perform a stunning aerial show. They flipped, doing loop-the-loops, and then dove at an incredibly fast rate. Just moments before impact, they swooped back up into the sky, and the pilot actually dropped his gun and applauded.

  Will nudged Cordelia. They snuck away from the pilot and climbed into the cockpit of the P-51 Mustang. Will started the engines, causing the pilot to turn.

  “Hey! What do you think you’re doin’—?”

  But Will hit the gas and the plane sped off, toward the pilot. He leaped out of the way as the plane went airborne. The duped pilot picked up his gun, got to his feet, and shot at the departing craft, but it was too late. The plane disappeared into the clouds, flying toward Rome, with the sled dogs following close behind.

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  ..................................................................

  Back in the Himalayas, Eleanor was having a tense moment with Wangchuk. “What do you mean, ‘This is it’?” she asked.

  The monk shrugged at her. The two of them, along with Felix, were standing in the Batan Chekrat dining hall, staring at a pile of butter knives and spoons.

  Eleanor said, “You expect us to fight the frost beasts with butter knives and spoons?”

  “They’re not butter knives,” Wangchuk said, “they’re yak knives.”

  “I don’t want to hear that word ever again!” Eleanor tapped her finger on the knives. “Look at these! They’re not even sharp. We’re supposed to be getting ready for a battle, not a cookout.”

  “I apologize,” Wangchuk said. “But yak meat is extremely tender. We don’t require anything sharper.”

  “We. Need. Weapons!”

  Felix could see that Eleanor was getting worked up, nearing tantrum-level anger. Since Cordelia wasn’t around to put a hand on her shoulder, Felix did it.

  “We are men of peace,” said Wangchuk.

  “We’ve heard,” grumbled Eleanor.

  “You have already convinced us to join you in battle,” said Wangchuk. “You have to be reasonable. It is you, the warriors, who are responsible for bringing the weapons.”

  “And where should we get them?” asked Eleanor, slightly less angry. Felix’s hand was steady—and it helped her be, too.

  “You came in a war machine,” said Wangchuk. “Are there no weapons inside?”

  Eleanor could have slapped her forehead, it was so obvious. She had completely forgotten! And weapons weren’t the only thing that was in that tank. There was also the very special thing Volnheim had told them about. . . .

  “You’re right,” she said. “Wangchuk, we do have weapons. Gather your brothers, some warm coats, some Uggs—”

  “Uggs?”

  “Snow boots?”

  “We have snowshoes.”

  “Those will work,” said Eleanor. “Follow me.”

  An hour later they were joined by a bunch of monks outside the monastery’s great doors, all wearing shoes that looked like oversize tennis rackets, strung together with dried yak guts. Eleanor, Felix, and Wangchuk had frost-beast coats, but there weren’t enough for everyone, so the others wore yak-fur coats. Eleanor jumped as the doors closed with a thunderous clang. Anything could get her out here. At least I’m not alone, she thought, looking at Felix.

  “I’m staying close to you,” she told him.

  “We’ll stay close to each other,” he said. “I’ll watch your back. You watch mine.”

  “Lead the way, little warrior!” Wangchuk called.

  Eleanor started off, then stopped. “Wait a minute—what if frost beasts come?”

  “They only come out at night,” Wangchuk. “All we have to worry about is the cold.”

  “Oh. Just that. No problem,” said Eleanor. Wind screamed past her face and she could hardly see with the dizzying reflections of snow all around her. Her nose was running, forming tiny mucus icicles over her top lip. The cold made her move slowly, almost dreamily, and more than once she wanted to lie down and make a snow angel, but any time she stumbled, Felix helped her up, and a monk gave her fortifying tea from a yak-belly flask.

  “We’re getting close,” Eleanor said as they came to the edge of a huge ravine. Below them was a path leading down, like the narrow donkey path that snaked along the side of the Grand Canyon, which she had seen with her family two years before.

  “Look,” Wangchuk said, pointing to a mountain beside the chasm, where a large, vaulted cave sat in the rock. “That’s where they bring their victims.”

  A path beaten down by the frost beasts ran up to the cave. Eleanor turned away; she didn’t want to think about the frost beasts yet. It was easier to contemplate the long journey to the bottom of the chasm, where she could see a faint discoloration.

  The tank.

  Or what was left of it.

  It took half a day to get down. The Tiger I was epic in its annihilation. What had been a pinnacle of engineering was now a twisted hunk of metal that could be mistaken for a sculpture from a
modern art museum. The tank was burned and blackened; the housing was sticking out in several different directions. Snow had piled on top of it, turning it into a striking combination of the artificial and the natural.

  “Wow,” Eleanor said. “It looks like Fat Jagger crumpled up the tank and put it in a wastepaper basket.”

  “I hear so much about this Fat Jagger person,” said Felix. “When will I get to meet him?”

  “Not much chance of that,” Eleanor said, “He’s in a different book. But I think you’d really like him.”

  Eleanor turned to the monks: “Okay! So this is the war machine. And what we’re looking for are weapons. I’m thinking the Nazis probably stashed their knives, guns, and grenades . . . we’ll look for anything that could help against the frost beasts. Oh, this stuff counts as weapons too.”

  She dug a hunk of scrap metal out of the snow. It had been blown off when the tank hit the ground. It was torqued and sharp, like a spearhead.

  “Pieces of the tank are supersharp. If we come back with a bag full of this stuff, we’ll be able to mount it on sticks and make some pretty awesome weapons. So let’s get to it! Felix and I will go in first—”

  “Wait,” shouted one of the monks to Wangchuk. “Isn’t this against our code of conduct?”

  Wangchuk took a deep breath. “The rules have changed,” he said. “We’re living by our own code now.”

  “And we’re making our own legends,” said Eleanor. She walked up to the entrance of the tank, which was not really an entrance at all, just a blown-open hole, and stepped in.

  The inside of the tank was like an alien world, with arcs of metal and coils of wire and stenciled German letters peeking out of mounds of snow. It was graveyard-quiet; the only sound Eleanor heard was the soft pat of her snowshoes. She saw the steering column that Will had used to guide the tank, and the massive cannon that shot Volnheim, which was now sticking vertically into the ground. She even saw what appeared to be one of the cyborgs’ eyes—a mechanical orb with gears behind it and a wire leading off. It was connected to a charred battery pack. Eleanor saw a tiny stencil above the eye. It was the same golden swastika she had seen on Volnheim’s uniform. Is this Volnheim’s eye?