by Katie French
Nada looks into my face for a moment. I wonder if she’s considering what it would be like to take my life. Finally, she shakes her head. “Merek wouldn’t want to kill off his work force. He’d be fine seeing them roughed up, sure, but it would be expensive to replace fourteen benders.” She looks down and starts retying her shoe. “We might not be worth much, but we’re worth something.”
I nod, taking some comfort in her words.
When I’m dressed, I take a moment to glance around the room at my competition. Nada was right, the other benders are shaving their heads or cutting hair with dull scissors. Dareen straps leather arm bands and shin guards on. Will other competitors have armor, too? I lean into the aisle to catch a look at Mister and find him lying in the aisle, doing push-ups.
Nada peers into the aisle with me. “Good,” she whispers. “Let him wear himself out.”
I watch Mister for a while, wishing I could smile at the alarming rate he’s slamming through push-ups. There’s no way around it; Mister is a beast and he hates my guts. Shivering, I follow Nada out of the bunkhouse and into the morning air.
Overnight the courtyard has been transformed. The dirt square now has two rows of benches on either side for observers. Annabell’s platform, now topped with folding chairs and an awning, sits at the end of the square. Someone, probably the wives, have decorated it with swags of colored fabric in gold and royal blue. How awful to have something so splendid on the same platform that was doused in Annabell’s blood the day before. A threadbare rug is thrown over the blood soaked wood as if that could wipe our memories clean. An image appears in my head as I gaze on the stage—her head rolling off her neck like a pumpkin, with her eyes still open as her neck fountained blood.
I pinch my eyes shut and try not to see.
When I open them again, we are ushered into a holding pen at the far end of the square—a twelve-by-twenty-foot rectangle of dust, sectioned off with rope. The benders who aren’t competing sit on one set of benches, and guards sit on the other. The final touch appears to be an old blackboard, cracked and missing a few corners, with each contestant’s name marked in chalk. I find my name halfway down the list. There are fourteen competitors. I have to defeat thirteen people, including Nada, to win.
Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?
As the sun climbs in the east, the wives, children, and their attendants shuffle out of the private courtyard. My eyes lock on Auntie as she limps out, holding a bundle that must be Mina’s new baby. Her good eye finds me in the crowd and she gives me a sad nod. If only I could hear her words of encouragement before I went into battle. Still, I take comfort in her presence. My Auntie. One person wants me to win.
Finally, Lord Merek enters with his entourage of men. His outfit is spectacular today, with big, embroidered sleeves, a red vest laced through with gold thread, and a crown of jewels on his head. But even with the fancy outfit, his slumped chin and thick glasses betray his weakness. What if he had to fight Mister? What if he had to fight me? I’m pretty sure I could take him.
Trumpet blasts draw everyone’s attention to the front. The announcer steps forward into the dusty square and lifts a cone to his mouth.
“Welcome, lord, ladies, and peasants alike to the first annual birthday celebration for our good Lord Merek.” He pauses for applause. None comes, so he starts it himself and the rest of us weakly join. If Lord Merek takes offense to this, he shows no sign. He is eating what looks like links of sausage off a silver platter next to his folding chair throne. We’ve not been offered breakfast. If gruel would stop my rolling stomach, I’d eat a barrel of it.
The announcer continues, the purple plume in his floppy hat fluttering in the wind. “Today is a day of sport and skill, challenge and championship. Today the best benders compete for the prize of a lifetime, freedom for himself and one other, traveling supplies, and a vehicle. It will be a day unlike any other. My Lord. Ladies,” he pauses to look into the benches at the guards and then up at the wives on the platform, “pick your favorites now.”
I see several guards point at Mister and pump their fists in encouragement. A few others pick Dareen. Coins, cigarettes, even food items get exchanged as they place their bets. No one points or waves at me.
“The games will range from strength to skill, pushing all of our participants to their limits.” He turns to us, penned in like cattle, and raises an eyebrow. “Contestants, are you prepared?”
What does he think we’ll say? We’ve been told we can’t back out, so what’s the point? I turn my eyes up to Auntie and then find Doc at the back of the benders. He raises an eyebrow at me.
I can do this. I can.
The announcer waves a red handkerchief. “Let the games begin!”
The crowd hoots and hollers. Merek looks up from his meal for a moment before diving back in.
But my attention is drawn to the two guards at the front, slowly picking out benders and waving them forward. My heart pounds. We’re not even going to get a hint about the game before starting? My hand fumbles for Nada’s. When I find her fingers, they are trembling.
“Be careful out there,” I whisper as we inch closer to the front. They seem to be dividing us up into two sets by size. My heart thuds hard against my ribs.
Nada’s fingers slip out of mine.
And then we are the last two standing in front of the guards. Everyone else has been sifted into two teams. We wait tensely, eyes floating around the compound for any sign of what horrors will be thrust upon us.
“You.” A guard waves me toward him and the other benders. Nada is waved to the other side. My guard begins walking us to the other side of the square, closest to Lord Merek’s platform. As we get there, another guard is wheeling out an old four-wheeler. Another drags out a five-foot-long spear of wood.
“Jousting,” a bender in front of me says.
I look back over my shoulder and realize he’s right. The other team has a similar four-wheeler and their own cone of wood.
“This is your lance,” the guard says, hefting up the wood by the whittled handle. “This is your steed.” He points his finger at the battered four-wheeler with missing headlights. “You ride the steed toward your opponent with your lance out.” He hefts the wood like a knight of old would, the lance parallel to his body and clutched at his waist. “Knock your opponent off by smashing the lance into his chest. The last man on his steed wins. Any questions?”
I have a million questions, but none I want to ask in front of my competitors. I glance across the square and to the other team. Those seven are the benders we’ll have to face. Nada’s over there. What if they square me off against Nada in the opening round? I bite my lip, thinking about how upset she’d be if she were eliminated in round one.
The guard on my end gets the first contestant up on the quad and hands him the lance. He’s a bender named Jordan, who has dirty blond dreadlocks, a thin mustache, and small round breasts rounding out of his ripped blue T-shirt. I don’t recognize the bender down at the other end, but he’s a similar size and build.
Jordan grips his lance and guns the gas.
They speed toward each other at amazing speeds. The four-wheelers look ancient, but it’s clear they picked out some fast ones. I watch, tense, as Jordan flies at the other bender, his blond dreads lifting in the wind. The quads kick up dust as they approach, gunning for each other. I hold my breath.
The lance hits Jordan in the chest like a giant punch. He’s thrown backward eight, nine feet. When he thuds into the dust, everyone gasps. His quad sputters and dies, but his opponent keeps on driving, hooting and waving his arm in the air. The guards cheer. The benders watch with nervous anticipation.
Jordan never twitches.
It takes Doc a beat, but then he’s racing out to the middle of the square. A few guards follow his example. Doc leans over Jordan, checking his pulse, running his hands over the downed man’s chest. When he raises his head and shakes it, my heart drops into my shoes.
The annou
ncer gets up, clearing his throat. “Lord and ladies, it appears we have our first casualty in the games. What a shame. It appears Jordan’s ribs are broken.” A guard runs over and whispers in the announcer’s ear. “Our doctor thinks one punctured his heart. Let’s have a moment of silence for Jordan.”
Dead. How can he be dead?
“And let’s have a hearty round of applause for our first winner, Michal!”
Guards whistle and cheer, but not one bender claps. Not even Michal, who stands stiffly in the holding area, his face pale. I’m sure he never thought he’d kill a man today. It’s a feeling we all might need to get used to.
Still, I wanna throw up.
The next two competitors approach the joust nervously. The tension in the square is a living, breathing being. The two benders look like they’re about to bolt or throw up as they mount their quads.
Behind me a bender named Sasha murmurs, “This is suicide. Real knights wore plated armor.”
The rest of us shift and swallow hard. Apparently armor is too good for the likes of us.
The quads roar to life, and I grip the rope in front of me. The quads tear toward each other like monsters, dust swirling up from their tires. The benders’ lances bob and weave as they angle down the course.
The bender from our side lunges forward just as the other bender thrusts out his lance. The bender from the other side loses his balance and falls off the back, his lance bouncing and rolling into the dirt. Slowly, he stands up, a little winded, but intact, and stares at the crowd of onlookers.
I blow out my breath in relief. The winner does a lap on the quad, looking dazed, until a guard comes over and retrieves him Lord Merek seems unamused. He likes the blood and gore, I think. Bastard.
The next contestants go, but this time a lance finds its mark and a bender falls to the dirt with a splinter of wood impaling his shoulder. Doc rushes onto the square and waves over guards. The bender screams as he is carried away. The wails turn everyone’s faces white, including Dareen, who is up next. And his opponent? Mister.
From the other side of the square, Mister stalks back and forth behind his quad like a caged panther. He’s stripped off his shirt; his muscles ripple and flex in the burning sunlight. Dareen tightens and retightens his leather cuffs, but I know he’s thinking it won’t matter. A chest plate is what he really needs, but none have been offered. For a moment he flicks a glance back to the three of us standing in line behind him, his eyes searching for…what? Compassion? Friendship? A last glance at humanity before he’s run through? I offer a kind look and his gold-green eyes soften for a moment. But then the announcer is calling him out. Dareen turns to face Mister. When he grabs the lance and mounts his quad, there’s no more fear. He looks like a killer.
Mister jumps on the quad and pulls the lance into a tight hold at his waist. He revs the quads engine and roars. Lord Merek sits up, his feast forgotten. This is what he’s been wanting, a real show with real fighters.
The flag is waved and the quads shoot dust as the tires tear into the ground. The quads race to the middle, lances aimed. The crowd holds its breath in the moment just before the two quads meet. Mister’s lance dips too low and catches on the quad’s hood. This jostles Dareen’s lance, and it goes wide, missing completely. Dareen’s quad skitters sideways, bucking like a wild horse before stopping in a cloud of dust. Mister and Dareen grip their steeds and pant, but both are still seated. No one wins.
Lord Merek frowns and waves the announcer over.
But as the announcer is walking to the platform, Mister jumps off his quad. He runs to his lance, picks it up, and charges his opponent. Dareen barely has time to get an arm up before Mister swings the lance like a baseball bat toward the stunned bender’s head.
The crack echoes through the square. Several of Merek’s wives and a few benders gasp. Guards jump to their feet in surprise and excitement.
They have to stop this, I think. Dareen will be pulverized. But Merek waves the guards on duty back to their positions.
Stunned and clutching what looks like a broken arm, Dareen glances back to the stands and realizes help isn’t coming. His eyes lock on Mister, who clomps over and raises the lance. Dareen rolls and the pole smashes into the dirt with such force it splinters. Dareen begins crawling toward the quad on his hands and knees, crying for help as he scampers through the dirt. Mister follows, broken lance in hand.
“Stop him!” I yell. Other benders pick up the cry. One wife puts her hand on Lord Merek’s arm, pleading. He shoves her away and turns greedily back to the scene.
Mister raises the lance like a club. As Dareen is scrambling away, Mister brings the club down on his back.
The crack is sickening. Dareen crumples into a heap. Mister, chest heaving, body glistening, raises the club again.
“Stop! Stop!” the benders yell, myself included. Mister pauses with the lance in the air and looks down at the beaten Dareen. Finally, he drops the club into the dirt.
The announcer steps up and draws the megaphone to his mouth. “We have a winner!” he yells enthusiastically. “A very unorthodox ending to a joust, but a winner nonetheless. Mister advances to the next round.”
Some people clap and cheer, mainly the guards and some benders who seem to be clapping more for his mercy than his win. Mister looks up to Lord Merek, but Merek isn’t clapping. He waves a dismissive hand at him, gets up, and exits the platform.
So, Merek frowns on mercy. Perfect.
Mister walks off, upset, and Doc runs out to collect Dareen. It takes four guards to carry the big bender to the infirmary. I wince as Dareen moans in pain.
And then, just like that, I’m up.
The guard shoves me toward the quad and I walk on jellied legs. The idling four-wheeler waits for me, growling in the dust. I straddle the quad and grip the handlebars. The last time I rode one of these was to rescue Arn. What would he think of me now? A pitiful slave, hoping to beat benders twice my size for the chance to save one of my family members. I swallow hard, realizing what a disgrace I am. I can’t even keep anyone together. I certainly can’t win this joust.
They thrust the lance into my hand. The weight is tremendous, like holding a telephone pole. I tuck my arm against my waist and try to squeeze the lance there. This helps a bit, but my muscles are already straining and we haven’t even been given the go-ahead. Then my eyes travel across the square to my opponent.
I’ve seen this bender before—skin like leather, he always reminded me of a scaly lizard. Now he glares at me from his seat and lifts his lance. He hefts the wood way too easily, like he’s been bench-pressing trees for years. Any side bets taking place in the guard’s stands have to be favoring him over me. Hell, I’d favor him over me.
I lower my head and try to focus. He can’t want it as much as I do. He can’t need the freedom like I do. I picture Ethan in my mind. Then Clay. Auntie. I picture Mama dying so we could live. But not like this. Mama never wanted us to live like this.
My heart pounds; my senses attuned. I rev the engine, grit my teeth, and roar.
They wave the yellow flag.
I gun the accelerator and feel the quad jerk forward under my rear. The front wheels come up off the ground and slam down again, eating up dirt as it tears forward. My vision jostles and so does my lance. The tip dips down, almost dragging in the dirt. I groan and lift the heavy wooden pole up to my waist. Goddamn it. I’m not going to mess this up. I’m going to win.
My opponent speeds toward me, a blur of wood and tires and dust. It’s hard to see where to aim, let alone actually maneuver. Instead, I focus on driving straight and keeping my lance level. We zoom closer, closer. When I see his face, gunning for me like a demon, I almost lose my nerve. I tense my body and hold on tight.
Wind whooshes by my face as an object whips by, brushing my cheek. My lance strikes something hard. It twangs out of my grip and sails away. I hear wood cracking and a gasp from the crowd.
And then it’s over. I’m past him. I take my hand
off the accelerator and sit, panting. When I turn the quad around to face the center, my jaw drops.
My opponent lies on his side. One arm is splayed out like a broken wing, a glistening bone fragment poking out below the elbow. He’s rocking back and forth in agony, legs pistoning like they can run away from the pain.
Shocked, I look back at my lance. Oh God, what did I just do? Is he hurt? Did I break his arm? I felt it hit him, but I didn’t think it was that hard. I glance back at the crowd in confusion.
“Well, folks,” says the announcer, “we have an unexpected winner. Everyone loves an underdog, right?”
The crowd begins clapping. Some guards push shrill whistles through their teeth. Up on the platform I find Auntie’s face. Tears are slipping down her cheeks and she blows me a tiny kiss. I smile, even wave a little. I didn’t kill my opponent and I’m not dead either. Relief puddles in my veins. But then my eyes track over to Lord Merek, who stands at the door to his compound, glancing back. He must’ve stopped to watch my joust. I wish he hadn’t. He’s looking at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. His gaze feels like a hand cinching around my arm. I duck my head, hop off the quad, and walk toward the other winners. As I pass by my wounded opponent, he lets out a tortured moan.
I did that to him. I lower my head, all good feeling draining away.
When I get to the winner’s circle, most of the other benders pat me on the back. Mister glares and paces the roped-off area like a caged animal. Doc and the guards escort the bender off the field and our eyes are drawn to the last contestants. Nada on one side and a bender named Crete on the other.
Maybe she has a chance. Crete’s about five-foot-seven with thin arms and legs. The lance looks comical in his arms, probably a lot like how it looked in mine, though I’m slightly shorter and thinner than Crete. Nada, determination written on her face, strides to her quad, jumps on, and holds her hand out for the lance. Even though it probably weighs as much as she does, she fits it against her body and doesn’t grimace when she’s forced to hold it there for long minutes.
