Vacheron continued. ‘The Sixth Challenge shall take place on the first and lowest combat stage. Two champions will step onto it at a time. Only one will leave.’ Vacheron grinned evilly. ‘But there will be a third element to these battles.’
The giant figure of Chaos stepped out onto the lowest combat stage. Dressed in his black Kevlar armour and heavy boots, he looked imposing and formidable. He carried in one hand a vicious-looking sword.
Vacheron said, ‘The two champions will fight while Chaos stalks them. To fight a man to the death is one thing. To do it while another threat lurks is another thing entirely. Only the most worthy champions will proceed beyond this challenge.’
Vacheron indicated a computer up on the observation balcony. It had seven screens attached to it.
The screens looked like EKG heart monitors found in hospitals: they each bore a champion’s name written above a beeping, pulsing line that represented that man’s heartbeat.
‘As you know, each of our champions has an explosive chip implanted in his neck. That device also gives us biometric readings, including that champion’s pulse and heart rates. Once a champion’s pulse has stopped, the surviving champion will be declared the winner and Chaos will immediately cease his interference in the fight.
‘Now,’ Vacheron paused, ‘it was hoped that at this stage in our proceedings there would be eight champions still alive, which would mean four fights. But, alas, the trials have proven too difficult, so only seven remain.
‘This being the case, in his wisdom, Lord Hades has determined that the champion who has won the most challenges so far will be granted a bye through this challenge. This champion is Major Brigham, representing the Kingdom of Land. I am sure he and his sponsor will be delighted to hear this news.’
Vacheron gestured to King Orlando up on the balcony. Orlando nodded back approvingly.
Vacheron said, ‘The other fights have been determined by lot, without manipulation or intrigue. And so, without any further ado, let the challenge begin! Let me go and fetch the first pair of champions.’
Jack sat alone inside a cell underneath the Observatory.
It had no windows. The door was solid steel.
He still wore his dirty jeans and t-shirt underneath the white Kevlar armour he had acquired from Fear. With his white chestplate, forearm guards and greaves, he felt like he was dressed in white police riot gear.
He also felt exhausted.
He had been going nonstop since the beginning of the Fifth Challenge: driving, fighting, fleeing, driving trucks into helicopters, and then observing the First Ceremony up on the summit—
With a squeal of rusty hinges, his cell door swung open and Vacheron sauntered in, escorted by four minotaur guards who quickly surrounded Jack.
‘No time for rest, fifth warrior,’ Vacheron said. ‘You’re up. Your next challenge is as pure as it is ancient: single combat against another champion. Either you live or you die. I must confess, I am hoping you die soon. I am tiring of your face.’
‘The Labours of Hercules,’ Jack said. ‘Is that what all this is about? Re-enacting some ancient myths?’
Vacheron paused, looked Jack up and down.
‘Re-enacting?’ He almost spat the word. ‘Captain West, as you of all people should know, history is a most inexact science. Just as in the children’s game of Chinese Whispers a simple statement gets warped in the retelling over the course of a few minutes, so too does a historical event get twisted when it is retold over centuries.
‘Take Hercules. The man you know as Hercules was not some half-god of ancient legend. He was the most famous champion of these Games. He is known throughout the ages for the simple reason that he alone won every single challenge of the Great Games.
‘From defeating the minotaur in the opening cell, to obtaining a sphere in the wall-maze of the Fourth Challenge, to these combat rituals, Hercules won them all. It was a singular and incredible feat and it rightfully attained for him eternal fame.
‘But the writers of history are sloppy.
‘Over three millennia, they mistakenly took the name of the Lord of the Underworld at that time—a cruel ruler named Eurystheus—and turned him into a petty king who created the Labours that Hercules had to perform. Not knowing the nature of the nine challenges or the metaphorical elements contained in them—bulls, stags, boars, even belts—these historians turned them into “labours” relating to Hercules.
‘The royal families watching these Games know the truth. Now, you know it. Come, it is time to fight.’
Vacheron nodded to the guards who shoved Jack down a dark stone passageway lit by flaming torches and lined with other cells.
After about twenty metres, the passage ended at a fork.
The minotaurs shoved Jack down the right-hand fork and shut a steel door behind him.
A whistling breeze buffeted him.
Jack turned and found himself standing on a narrow stone bridge high above the Underworld. He could see the vertical wall-maze of the Fourth Challenge perhaps a thousand feet below him.
A set of stone stairs led away from his bridge, curving up and out of view.
As he walked over to them, Jack heard Vacheron and the minotaur guards go back down the passageway and open another cell. More footsteps. Then the closing of the left-hand door of the fork.
Single combat, Jack thought.
But I don’t get to see who I’m fighting until I reach the platform . . .
With a long deep breath, Jack strode up the curving stairs to meet his fate.
Fifteen steps later, the combat stage came into view and Jack stepped up onto it.
A figure appeared from a matching set of stairs on the opposite side and for a fleeting horrifying instant, Jack thought it was Scarecrow, his new ally, his new friend . . .
But it wasn’t Scarecrow.
It was Sergeant Victor Vargas, devout Catholic and brutal ex-member of the Brazilian special forces. And Jack’s fellow representative of the Kingdom of Land.
At six foot two, Vargas was taller than Jack and heavier, too. He had about fifteen kilograms on him. With his unblinking black eyes and swarthy unshaven chin, he glared at Jack with the intensity of a psychopath, a psychopath who knows he must kill in order to keep living.
Already waiting on the platform beside a wide hole in its centre, was the tall black lion-helmeted figure of Chaos. While Jack and Vargas had no weapons, Chaos calmly held a sword pointed downward.
A small podium with a Golden Sphere on it stood at the rear of the stage.
Vacheron resumed his place up on the viewing balcony.
‘Our first battle will be between Sergeant Victor Vargas representing the Kingdom of Land and Captain Jack West, also representing the Kingdom of Land!’
He nodded to Hades.
Hades said, ‘Let the fight begin. To the death.’
Fight 1: Jack vs Vargas (vs Chaos)
Vargas immediately dropped into a strange low crouch and began to circle Jack like a jungle cat, moving unusually fast for a big man.
Jack recognised his technique instantly. It made sense that a Brazilian soldier like Vargas would utilise it.
It was capoeira, the Brazilian martial art. In a world of familiar Asian martial arts, capoeira was distinctive for one key reason: it was fast.
Its defensive techniques involved quick, evasive movements and its attacks were rapid, hard and decisive. If the first punch didn’t knock you out, the second one would.
Shit, Jack thought.
Lily watched from the royal balcony.
Beside her stood Iolanthe and Cardinal Mendoza.
Mendoza sighed. ‘This is so unfortunate. Three of our kingdom’s representatives make it to this phase of the Games and two of them must fight. What a pity.’
Iolanthe didn’t take her eyes off the combat stage. ‘Who will
win?’
‘Oh, Vargas will win,’ Mendoza said. ‘The fifth warrior is brave, of that there is no doubt, but Sergeant Vargas is a capoeira mestre, a master of the art. He is a trained hand-to-hand fighter. Besides, look at the fifth warrior. He is spent. His foolish escape attempt wore him out. There is no escape for him this time. If he is lucky, Vargas will make this short.’
On the stage, Jack and Vargas circled each other warily, sizing each other up.
In addition to each other, there were three further dangers on the stage that they both tried to keep clear of: the outer edge, the circular well-hole in the middle and Chaos.
Vargas was mumbling something as he moved, whispering rapidly in Portuguese:
‘. . . ave Maria, cheia de graça, o Senhor é convosco . . .’
It took Jack a moment to realise what he was saying.
‘. . . hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .’
The guy was praying.
Then Vargas pounced.
The move came so fast, Jack almost didn’t catch it. It was as if Vargas had lulled him into a rhythm and then exploded out of it.
A high kick came at Jack’s head like a bullet and Jack ducked right, and Vargas’s boot swished past his cheek, so close that Jack felt the air rush by.
Chaos did nothing.
He just watched from the side of the stage, gripping his sword casually.
Vargas followed up with a barrage of rapid moves—advancing on Jack with a blur of kicks, punches and elbows.
Jack danced backwards, avoiding and evading and parrying the blows.
And then one of Vargas’s punches connected, slamming into Jack’s jaw.
Jack fell, hitting the floor hard, his head overhanging the central well, and as he looked down through the hole at the crater floor far below, time stood still.
The edges of his vision went blurry.
All sound ceased saved for a ringing inside his head.
Jack knew this feeling. All boxers and mixed–martial arts fighters knew it: it was the terrifying reaction to being hit hard. You were concussed, stunned, and if you didn’t avoid the next hit, you were fucked.
He lifted his head, his mouth dribbling blood.
Vargas came in hard, driving downward with the next blow.
Jack rolled and Vargas missed.
Jack stood and turned—
—to find himself face-to-face with the impassive lion-helmeted face of Chaos.
Chaos punched him in the face.
This time Jack’s nose took the hit. Blood sprayed everywhere.
The royal spectators watched eagerly as the small wobbling figure of Jack found himself caught between Chaos and Vargas.
He looked like a trapped animal, glancing back and forth between the two predators.
Lily was furious. ‘This isn’t fair! The lion guy isn’t even trying to fight Vargas. They’re ganging up on him.’
Iolanthe also watched with tight lips. ‘Jack offended Chaos by killing Fear and taking his armour. And he offended everyone here when he tried to free the hostages. He’s being punished before he dies.’
Jack staggered backwards, blood pouring from his nose, breathing quickly through his mouth, caught between the two deadly men.
He kept an equal distance from Vargas and Chaos.
His mind fought desperately against the haze trying to overcome it. He had about four seconds to figure a way out of this, before he lost consciousness.
Think!
You can’t win this fight with muscle. You have to win it with your brains. You have to outsmart these two.
Every man can be beaten.
Okay. What are their strengths? What are their weaknesses?
That’s it, Jack realised.
It’s the same thing. Their confidence that they are better fighters than me is both their greatest strength and their greatest weakness.
I have to let them think they’ve won . . .
Jack turned his back on Vargas and lunged at Chaos with a weak desperate swing.
Chaos batted away his punch with one hand. The royals on the balcony laughed.
And Vargas made his move.
He grabbed Jack from behind, wrapping one of his thick forearms around Jack’s throat.
This was the move Jack had been expecting, precisely because it was the most effective move in hand-to-hand fighting: the choke hold.
By squeezing the carotid artery in the victim’s throat, you cut off the blood flow to his brain. Unconsciousness followed, and if you maintained the hold, death came soon after.
Jack scratched at the big hairy forearm squeezing his throat.
Vargas’s face was right behind his and he could smell the Brazilian’s foul breath as Vargas kept whispering his religious chant:
‘. . . ave Maria, cheia de graça, o Senhor é convosco . . .’
And as the choke hold began to take effect, Jack began to go limp.
‘It’s over,’ Mendoza said. He made the sign of the cross and turned away.
Lily didn’t take her eyes off Jack. His body was sagging now, held up by the big Brazilian from behind.
Chaos took a step back, letting it play out.
A tear trickled down Lily’s cheek. ‘No . . .’
Jack sagged fully in Vargas’s grip.
And for the briefest of seconds—the tiny half-second when Vargas realised that he had beaten Jack—Vargas momentarily released the pressure and grinned.
That was his weakness: the confidence that he’d won as he’d expected to.
And in that brief half-second, Jack sprang.
It wasn’t over. He hadn’t been unconscious. He’d sagged deliberately, making Vargas think it was over.
He jerked his head back in a powerful reverse headbutt, slamming his skull up into Vargas’s nose, breaking it, partially releasing the Brazilian’s grip.
Jack didn’t expect Vargas to release him fully. He was too good a fighter for that.
Which was why Jack did something else that no-one would have expected.
He reached forward, grabbed Chaos by the chest armour and, with all his remaining strength, pushed off with his legs and threw all three of them into the well-hole in the centre of the combat stage.
Every member of the royal audience lunged forward at the sight of the three combatants tumbling into the well-hole and disappearing from view.
Lily clutched the balcony’s railing.
She caught her breath when she saw a single figure drop out the bottom of the well-hole and plummet, screaming, all the way to the bottom of the mountain.
When the man hit the ground there—with a sickening whump—one of the beeping heart-rate monitors flatlined and issued a shrill squeal.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeep!
Everyone spun to see which champion had died, Vargas or West.
The squealing screen had one word written above it: VARGAS.
A moment later, Jack climbed out of the well-hole, crawling slowly and painfully on his hands and knees.
Once he was fully up on the stage, he fell flat onto his face, spent, exhausted.
A moment later, Chaos lifted himself out of the well-hole too. Jack lay before him on the ground, face-down, totally defenceless. But because Vargas was dead, Chaos was not permitted to touch Jack. Chaos just stood there above the flat figure of Jack, confused.
Then Jack stood, wobbling slightly, his face a bloody mess.
He looked up at the royal crowd, at Hades and Vacheron . . .
. . . and very, very slowly, he flipped them the bird.
As the three men had toppled into the well-hole, two things happened that Jack had counted on.
First, Vargas had released him.
Released him in the hope of grabbing a handhold. But the walls of the well-hole were shee
r and polished. They offered no handholds and Vargas just fell down through the hole, screaming all the way to his death.
And second, also to save himself, Chaos had grabbed the rim of the well-hole.
Jack had banked on that, and so he’d grabbed hold of Chaos as they all tumbled over the edge: which left Chaos hanging from the rim and Jack hanging from Chaos.
When he’d got his breath back, he’d just climbed up Chaos’s body and crawled back onto the combat stage.
For a moment, Vacheron was speechless.
He regathered himself. ‘So be it. Prepare for the second battle!’
Fight 2: Zaitan vs Depon (vs Chaos)
‘Our second battle will be between Zaitan DeSaxe, representing the Kingdom of the Underworld, and Brother Renzin Depon, representing the Sky Kingdom!’ Vacheron announced.
Equally formally, Hades once again said, ‘Let the fight begin. To the death.’
The second fight was much quicker than the first.
The Tibetan warrior-monk, Depon, was a skilled hand-to-hand fighter, but after a few exchanges with the equally skilled Zaitan, it was Zaitan who drew first blood.
Chaos lurked at the edges of the fight, only stepping forward when Depon strayed near him—but he hung back when Zaitan came close; he was favouring the son of Hades.
Then Zaitan unleashed two quickfire punches that sent blood flying from Depon’s mouth, and the Tibetan, stunned, fell to his knees.
Once he was in that position, it was all over.
Zaitan sprang behind him, wrapped his arms around the warrior-monk’s throat and snapped his neck.
Depon’s biometric screen on the royal balcony screamed.
On the stage, Depon’s body went still and Zaitan kicked it away from him.
The crowd cheered.
Dion clapped especially vigorously.
Two minotaurs scurried onto the combat stage and dragged Depon’s corpse away, pulling it by the legs, taking it back to the cells below.
Chaos left the stage as well, his work done.
Now alone on the wide circular platform, Zaitan stood, placed his hands formally behind his back, and bowed reverently to his father and the royal spectators.
The Four Legendary Kingdoms Page 25