Escape from Evil

by David Grimstone

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER I - THE GREAT FALL

  CHAPTER II - CLASH OF THE HAMMERS

  CHAPTER III - FIST OF FURY

  CHAPTER IV - WOOD AND IRON

  CHAPTER V - THE SEARCH

  CHAPTER VI - THE DESCENT

  STOWAWAY SLAVES OUT NOW

  ARENA COMBAT

  CHARACTER PROFILE ARGON

  WEAPON PROFILE: THE HAMMER

  Other Gladiator Boy titles to collect: 1. A HERO’S QUEST

  2. ESCAPE FROM EVIL

  3. STOWAWAY SLAVES

  4. THE REBELS’ ASSAULT

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

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  Text copyright © 2009 David Grimstone. Illustrations copyright © 2009 James de la Rue. Published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hachette UK. First published in the United States in 2010 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. S.A.

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  eISBN : 978-1-101-44423-8

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  For Olive Tripodi, mother-in-law and creator of teddy bears!

  I would like to dedicate the entire Gladiator Boy series to Terry Pratchett. There is no writer, living or dead, for whom I have greater respect. Thank you for everything.

  ANCIENT ITALY

  PREVIOUSLY IN GLADIATOR BOY

  Captured by slave-takers, Decimus Rex is forced to endure a series of trials in the dreaded Arena of Doom. With his five cellmates, Decimus faces a race over burning hot coals. He is then forced into violent hand-to-hand combat with a fellow slave. Life can’t get any more difficult than this—or can it?

  CHAPTER I

  THE GREAT FALL

  Decimus closed his eyes. He was fighting for his life against a fellow slave. He wasn’t sure he was going to make it. Locked in a powerful choke hold and lifted from the ground, Decimus found himself rushed toward the edge of the combat circle in the mammoth hands of Boma Derok.

  Screaming with rage, Decimus shifted his weight several times to no avail—the big slave was so strong that it was like trying to struggle against a moving boulder.

  The two combatants had nearly reached the spikes when Decimus suddenly snaked down a hand and raked his fingernails across Boma’s eyes. The big slave dropped his opponent immediately, and raised both hands to his scratched face.

  Decimus landed on his feet, hopped around behind the wounded fighter, and threw all his weight at him. Boma staggered forward, palms still covering his eyes, and tripped on the line of spikes. He was doomed.

  As the fickle slave crowd roared its approval, Boma Derok plunged face-first into the sand.

  The combat was over.

  Decimus wasn’t quite prepared for the admiration and cheers he received that night in the cell section. Gladius couldn’t stop talking about the fight, Olu and Ruma both offered Decimus their own soup, and even Argon reached through the bars and shook his hand. Farther down the corridor, whispers and distant shouts could be heard. The name Decimus was spreading along the corridors like wildfire. Boma Derok’s fate would now be a subject few discussed, his name forgotten by all but his cellmate and presumably—in some distant town—his family. Meanwhile, he would rot in the underground prisons.

  Decimus knew he could easily have suffered the same destiny and, to Gladius’s surprise, decided to scratch the big slave’s name into the cell floor with his spoon. Boma didn’t deserve to be forgotten. No one did.

  “There’s something going on out there.”

  At first, Decimus thought the words had been spoken by Gladius, but his friend was staring past him. Turning, he saw that Gladius’s eyes were on Ruma, who had squeezed himself against the barred door of his cell and was straining to see down the far end of the corridor. Behind him, Olu had drifted off to sleep.

  “What’s up?” said Argon, getting to his feet and heading across to the front of his own cell.

  “Whisper,” said Ruma, holding up a hand in order to keep the others quiet. “Apparently, there’s a lot of noise coming from the arena.”

  “Fighting?” Decimus asked, sharing a hopeful glance with Gladius.

  Ruma shook his head. “No, more like building. You know, hammering and work noise.”

  Argon was now pressed against the barred door separating his cell from the corridor. “What’s that?” he said.

  “Just wait,” snapped Ruma as Olu began to stir. “I can’t hear anything with you talk—”

  “No, not the noise. What is that?”

  Ruma tried to follow Argon’s pointing finger and squinted into the shadows. “I don’t know what you’re looking at!”

  “On the wall! Just up the corridor!” Argon sneaked a hand through the bars and extended his finger as far as it would reach. “THERE!”

  Ruma squinted harder. “Keys,” he said, eventually. “It’s a hook. Truli keeps his ring of cell keys on it.”

  “Can you get to it?” Gladius hazarded.

  Ruma laughed. “Are you crazy? Do you think I have ropes for arms or something?”

  They all burst into fits of laughter . . . but Decimus said nothing. He was staring very thoughtfully into the shadows.

  When the slave horde arrived in the arena the following morning, Master Falni had taken control of the trials. From what Decimus could tell, this wasn’t good news. A series of giant poles had been erected, each supporting a circular wooden platform at its summit.

  “They get smaller and smaller,” said Ruma, his sharp eyes taking in the scene before him. “And they also get farther apart.”

  Decimus nodded. He had spotted a ladder next to the distant pole supporting the largest platform. It didn’t take a genius to work out what was expected of the slaves.

  “I notice Slavious Doom never watches any of the trials,” Olu whispered. He spoke so rarely that his voice caused everyone to turn toward him. “At least, if he is watching, I haven’t seen him.”

  “No,” Decimus agreed. “He hasn’t been here. I’m thinki
ng he probably won’t show up until the end of the trials.”

  “Ha!” Argon exclaimed. “Then the chances are none of us will ever see him.”

  “Decimus might,” said Gladius without a trace of humor in his voice.

  “Yeah,” admitted Ruma, smiling. “Decimus might.”

  A piercing cry shook the group from their huddled conversation. Master Falni was calling for silence.

  “This trial will test your agility to its very limits. In the next few minutes, I will ask you all to line up beside the ladder at the bottom of the far pole. Once assembled, each of you will climb the ladder and try to make it across the eight platforms that stand between the first and last poles. When the first boy reaches the finishing platform—or falls during the effort—the next boy may begin. Once you have completed the course, you will rejoin the line in order to go again. Our servants will ensure that no one escapes the line or tries in any way to drop back. ALL will be tested.”

  Falni took a few moments to let the rules of the trial sink in before he added, “The contest will end when seventeen boys have fallen and only thirty-two remain.”

  This time, several gasps rose up from the gathered slaves. Decimus and Gladius shared horrified glances with Olu, Argon, and Ruma.

  “Seventeen of us!” Argon spluttered. “That isn’t a trial—it’s slaughter!”

  “I don’t stand a chance,” Gladius muttered. He turned to Decimus and whispered in his ear, “Don’t suppose you have any good tips for this one?”

  Decimus shrugged. “Don’t fall?”

  “Ha! I’d worked that one out for myself, thanks.”

  “I still don’t really understand all this,” Argon confessed aloud. “How can he earn back the money our families owe if most of us end up in his stinking prison?”

  “It’s simple,” said Ruma. “He only needs one decent champion to attract a major crowd . . . and, let’s face it, anyone who survives this is bound to make a decent champion. He’ll probably make more Denarii from one event than the amount all our families owe him put together.”

  “Shhh!” Gladius interrupted. “We’re supposed to be lining up.”

  Forty-nine slaves lined up at the bottom of the first pole, watching as the first of their numbers began to climb the long ladder that led to the platform above. He was a boy Decimus hadn’t seen before: slow, ponderous, and even larger than Gladius. He was almost totally out of breath by the time he reached the platform, but was quickly spurred into action by the impatient roar of the aging trial-master.

  Decimus wanted to look away, but he found his gaze rooted to the slave, who took a running leap . . .

  . . . and fell before he reached the second platform.

  Gladius gulped.

  “He landed badly,” said Ruma. “He’s probably broken some bones.”

  The group looked on as several servants lifted the slave and carried him away. They could still hear the boy’s sobs of distress when he was halfway to the portcullis.

  “This is bad,” said Argon as the injured slave was carried through the gate. “This is really bad.”

  The next slave, who was considerably smaller than the first, reached the first platform and didn’t even pause before beginning his turn. He landed evenly on the second platform, receiving an unexpected whoop of cheers in the process. He leaped across to the next stage with equal skill, taking some time to catch his breath while his fellow slaves looked on.

  Decimus watched, silently praying for the boy while at the same time having to admit he would stand a better chance of getting through the round if the boy fell.

  Fourth platform—no problem. Fifth, sixth. It was looking good. Then, suddenly . . .

  Decimus knew the boy hadn’t taken enough of a running start for the jump needed to make it to the seventh platform. The gap was big for someone with such short limbs, and he just knew—deep down—that the boy’s jump would see him fall short. He was right.

  The boy plummeted to the ground, and was quickly dragged away by the servants. The trial continued. Decimus shuffled along the line, Gladius behind him, and Olu, Argon, and Ruma in front. He wondered which of their small group would return to the cells that night.

  By the time Olu stood next to the ladder, twelve slaves had fallen victim to the evils of the trial. Decimus found himself shaking with fear as Olu quickly climbed to the first platform.

  Rather than watch the quiet boy leap between each platform, Decimus chose instead to look down at the sand, relying on the gasps and sighs of the other slaves to inform him of Olu’s progress. Fortunately, there were a lot of gasps . . . but not a single sigh.

  Olu completed the course with a heart-stopping leap from the seventh platform. Despite missing the eighth platform, he managed to catch hold of the edge and drag himself to victory. A roar went up from the slaves, and Olu returned to the end of the line.

  Argon’s own trial got off to a speedy start, and the Gaul only encountered a problem between platforms seven and eight, tripping as he landed and almost toppling over the edge. Luckily, he managed to save himself—and Decimus heaved a sigh of relief.

  Ruma gave everyone an early scare when he missed the second platform and ended up clinging onto the wooden edge like a man trying to stop himself from tumbling over the edge of a steep cliff. Once he’d pulled himself up, however, the rest of his jumps were completed with comparative ease.

  Decimus took a deep breath, looked up at the platform, and began to climb.

  “Good luck,” Gladius whispered. “Remember—don’t look down!”

  His heart thumping in his chest, Decimus hauled himself onto the platform, paused briefly to take another breath, and sprinted up to the edge.

  Leap.

  The thing that shocked Decimus, when he landed safely on the other side, was just how unstable the platforms were. For a moment, he felt the wooden stage tilt beneath him and actually thought it might collapse. Then he found his footing . . . and the third platform loomed. He jumped it without a second’s hesitation, and only took a moment to steel himself when he landed on the fourth.

  Platforms five and six also passed without disaster, and Decimus finally found himself preparing for the jump that had claimed so many slaves before him.

  He took a final gulp of air.

  One . . .

  Two . . .

  Three . . . leap.

  CRASH.

  Decimus landed on the eighth platform with such force that he actually pitched forward and almost toppled over the opposite edge. Fortunately, his legs buckled beneath him and he crumpled onto the wooden stage, accompanied by a roar of approval from the crowd.

  As he climbed down and joined the slave line behind Ruma, Decimus saw that Gladius was about to take the trial. He couldn’t watch.

  Turning his eyes to the sand once again, he almost wished he could block out all sound as well. Gasps and sighs had accompanied the endeavors of just about every slave who had taken the trials . . . and Gladius’s own jumps were no different.

  Decimus watched the sand, hearing three sets of shocked gasps . . . and one very audible sigh.

  He looked up, sharp. Gladius had missed the fourth platform and was hanging from it, trying to haul his immense bulk over the edge with every ounce of strength he had in him.

  Decimus closed his eyes and prayed for the gods to give his cellmate the power to save himself. When he opened them again, Gladius was sprawled on the sand . . . and the arena servants were already gathering around him.

  Decimus clenched his fists and muttered a curse. The gods had ignored him, and now his friend would be thrown into some dark and foul-smelling prison in order to serve out his family’s crime. It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair.

  The line moved on. Gladius became the course’s thirteenth victim, but it would require more failures before the trial-master’s thirst for prisoners would be quenched.

  Fortunately for Decimus and his remaining companions, four boys had fallen before any of them reached the ladder fo
r a second run.

  The trial was over.

  CHAPTER II

  CLASH OF THE HAMMERS

  A somber night in the cells gave way to a morning that, for Decimus, passed in a complete haze. Argon and Ruma had both tried and failed to cheer him up. Even Olu had offered a few rare words of condolence.

  After breakfast, the group walked out to their new trial like a pack of trained zombies. No conversation passed between them, and Decimus almost felt as though his limbs were being controlled by the gods. His legs felt heavy and his arms swung loosely at his sides. As they entered the arena for their fourth trial, he found himself missing Gladius’s whining voice. Glancing around him, he suspected that Argon, Ruma, and Olu were missing it, too.

  The slave line marched onto the hot sand, and was greeted with a sight that filled each and every boy with absolute terror. A row of what could only be described as giants stood before them. The men were all over seven feet tall and bare chested, with bulging muscles and hands like great slabs of meat. They each wore tattered loincloths and every one carried a vast, long-handled hammer.

  The three trial-masters stepped forward, but it was only Mori who spoke.

  “Today is the day when thirty-two slaves will be reduced to sixteen!” he cried. “Behold, the Trial of the Hammer!”

  A gong sounded, and the entire slave line turned to face the direction of the sound. Decimus noticed that Mori, Hrin, and Falni had all lowered their heads.

  Behind the gong, which had been brought out by the servants and positioned atop one of the lower stalls, was an arched doorway. Decimus had seen it many times during the trials, but he had never seen anyone walk through it . . . until now.