Eleanor didn’t understand everything the monk said, but she did realize that she spent a lot of time thinking about her past and future, instead of the present moment. It was only when her breathing was slow and regular, and she was thinking, Breathe, that she suddenly saw how, right here and now, she was perfect—she wasn’t hungry (she had found some non-yak tofu paste at lunch); she wasn’t cold; she wasn’t tired; she wasn’t in pain. She missed her parents—but getting them back was something she would do in the future; she wasn’t allowed to think about that now. She was only a body breathing in a room, and she was alive, and that was something to celebrate. The red balloon floated into the sky.
Cordelia, Will, and Felix had no such luck with their meditations. They immediately fell asleep, and the monk with the bamboo stick came up behind them—
“Stop,” whispered Wangchuk. “They need their rest if they’re going to face the frost beasts.”
“But master,” said the monk, “do you really believe that these four have the ability to kill such creatures?”
“Of course I do.”
“But every other time you’ve told visitors the traveling-warrior story, the frost beasts have killed them—”
“Hush! They’ll hear you!”
“They’re sleeping!”
“Not that one,” said Wangchuk, pointing at Eleanor.
The monk with the stick pushed Eleanor’s back. She fell forward, pretending to be asleep.
“See? She’s out too.”
“Well, don’t hit them,” Wangchuk said. “These four may truly be the chosen ones.”
On the floor, Eleanor was no longer picturing a red balloon. She was thinking, Wangchuk’s a liar, and we’re being set up!
At dinner that night Eleanor had a hard time keeping her mouth shut. She wanted desperately to get a moment alone with her friends and explain to them that Wangchuk wasn’t telling them the whole truth, but she couldn’t get away from the monks. They were constantly shadowing the kids. While they ate, they asked a bunch of overly nice questions about what it must be like to be traveling warriors. Then Wangchuk stood up:
“Esteemed guests, it is time to see what you will be facing!”
The monks rose from their seats and started leaving the dining hall, which was filled with soft-splintered benches lined up around huge tables. The kids couldn’t do anything but follow. They climbed a long stone staircase out into the freezing, whipping cold. They were on top of the monastery walls. And they heard a bloodcurdling roar below.
The noise was almost human, like the sound a person would make if trapped under a pile of collapsed rubble. But it was deeper, and incredibly long—whatever made this noise had huge lungs.
“Oh my God, guys, look,” said Cordelia. “Down there—”
Standing directly below them were two frost beasts. The first thing Eleanor noticed were the creatures’ huge hands, which were bunched into shaggy fists, pounding on the walls. The frost beasts were covered in an almost psychedelic color combination of blue, white, brown, black, and gray fur; the only place they didn’t have hair was at the tops of their heads. Their naked scalps steamed where snow melted off them. Presumably they were burning a lot of calories doing what they were doing, which was beating at the walls, scratching, and roaring. Eleanor looked into their mouths, which were bloody-looking Os, filled with giant, pearl-white teeth.
“They obviously floss,” said Cordelia.
“With human innards,” said Will.
The beasts continued to roar and pound against the monastery walls.
“Look at the tops of their heads,” Cordelia said in fascination. “That spot where they don’t have hair? It almost looks like they have fontanels.”
“Fontanels?” Eleanor asked. “What’s that?”
“They’re the soft spots on babies’ heads,” said Cordelia. “When you were a baby, Mom would always freak out if I got close to your head. Because she said if I accidentally pressed on your fontanel, it could really hurt you—oh!”
Cordelia fell forward as one of the frost beasts hit the monastery wall so hard, the whole building shook. Will caught her and pulled her back before she could tumble over the side. She immediately checked her pockets and breathed a sigh of relief. She still had the diary.
“It’s not safe for us to be here!” Cordelia told Wangchuk.
“Keep watching,” said the head monk.
“Why? You’re not . . .” Eleanor looked at the gathered monks. “You’re not going to feed them, are you?”
“Perhaps,” Wangchuk said.
“Are you going to feed them one of your brothers?”
“No.”
“Are you going to throw them one of us?”
“Of course not!” Wangchuk said. A few of the monks turned away and went over to a hand-drawn elevator that connected to the kitchens below. After heaving on a rope for several minutes, they pulled out a stretcher made of crisscrossed wood that held something huge and moving, covered in a sheet.
“It’s a yak!” Eleanor said.
“Of course,” said Wangchuk.
“But . . . he’s still alive!”
“Of course. His name is Savir.”
“He’s got a name? Awwww! That makes it even worse.”
It took ten monks working in unison to push the struggling and stubborn Savir up and over the wall.
The two frost beasts caught him in midair.
Eleanor looked away, hearing a squelch as Savir was torn in two.
Then the frost beasts walked off together, each carrying a half-a-yak meal.
“Are they gone?” Eleanor asked.
“Yes,” said Wangchuk.
“Are more coming?”
“Not today. But tomorrow, yes. And they’ll be demanding a human sacrifice then.”
“How many of these fiends are there?” asked Felix.
“Fifty.”
“Fifty?! And how exactly are we supposed to kill them?”
“We are men of peace,” said Wangchuk. “You are the warriors.”
Eleanor struggled to hold her tongue: No we’re not! You just made that up!
“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, everyone! 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 all were to 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 leavi
ng, 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.
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 skinny 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—
Gaius 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—
Battle of the Beasts Page 20