Escape from Evil

by David Grimstone

  A collective intake of breath accompanied the arrival of two of the most distinctive figures Decimus had ever seen in his life. The first was a tall, dark warrior in a suit of golden armor. A dark face and beard were visible beneath a helmet crested with two winged demons bowed in submission. Beside the first man was a figure wreathed in shadow. A dark cloak with an overflowing hood betrayed not a hint of flesh. The armored figure took a seat on the nearest bench, its mysterious companion moving to stand behind it.

  “You are indeed honored today, boys,” trial-master Mori continued. “Your trial will be witnessed by Grand Master Slavious Doom and the legendary Drin Hain.”

  Decimus leaned toward Ruma. “Which one is Doom?” he whispered.

  Ruma shrugged, a confused expression on his face. It was Argon who spoke.

  “Doom is the warrior with the helmet,” he said. “Legend says he took it from an underground tomb. The other one must be Hain, but I’ve never heard of—”

  “They call him the Wrath of Doom,” said Olu suddenly, prompting the usual surprised reaction from his fellow slaves. “He is an assistant to Slavious; a slave-taker. There are rumors that he once tracked an escaped slave to the edge of the world, and beyond . . .”

  Olu stopped speaking, but Argon, Decimus, and Ruma had already turned their attention back to the frightening pair in the stalls. However, Mori’s continued roar shook them from their reverie.

  “On the sand before you are thirty-two golden shields. Your task during this trial is simple: Pick up a shield and form a line opposite these formidable gladiators. You will then need to stand your ground against the onslaught of the hammer. Those who fall will be eliminated from the trials; those who remain standing will go through to our last sixteen.”

  Mori turned and bowed to Slavious Doom, and the contest was under way.

  Decimus wasted no time. He raced forward and snatched up a shield, staggering slightly under the immense weight of the thing. He’d expected it to be heavy, but not quite this heavy. It was huge, too. When he held it against his chest, the circular plate just about covered his entire torso. There was barely enough room to see over the top.

  Beside him, Argon had snatched up his own shield, while Ruma and Olu (who were both considerably weaker) struggled to even lift theirs.

  “Chaaaaaaaaaarge!”

  The scream had erupted from Mori, who dropped his hand in a signal mere seconds before the incredible line of giants tore forward in a determined rush.

  Decimus waited with bated breath. Suddenly, there was a monstrous crash, and a slave three positions away from him flew back as though he had been fired from a cannon. The boy’s shield clattered to the ground . . .

  SLAM!

  Decimus felt the blow drive him back. His heels threw up several sprays of sand as he quickly flattened his feet and tried to maintain his balance. He dropped the shield but didn’t let go, allowing the edge of the plate to dig into the ground in an effort to halt his backward progress. It worked, and he slowed to a stop. Looking out, he saw that most of the slaves on his right were down. Only Argon still stood behind his shield, his face contorted with determined rage.

  Decimus caught his breath and glanced to his other side. Incredibly, Olu and Ruma were also still on their feet, though Ruma’s shield must have glanced off his head, as a nasty cut had opened above his right eye. Beyond the pair, three more slaves had gone down. Decimus tried to total the number of those who had fallen in his head, but Mori’s voice rang out before he could complete the count.

  “Only nine have fallen!” he boomed as the servants swarmed onto the sand to retrieve the fallen slaves. “Therefore, there will be a second round. Lift your shields and prepare yourselves!”

  This time, Decimus had a few moments to think as the giants all took several steps back.

  The key is to loosen up, he thought. Relax your muscles, let the strike drive you back and then . . .

  The second strike hit him like a thunderbolt, as the edge of the shield was slammed into his shoulder. He let out a cry of pain as the blow drove him back. At first, he thought he might actually leave the ground, but he soon felt the spray of sand at his heels and was able to dig in the shield with renewed strength, gritting his teeth and spitting out a mouthful of saliva with the effort.

  All around him, slaves were standing their ground. It had been a good showing for the boys, many of whom seemed to have formed the same strategy of using their shields as breakers. From what he could make out, only five had fallen. He glanced around him, quickly spotting Argon and Olu . . . but not Ruma.

  As the trial-master’s servants swept forward once again, Decimus threw down his shield and peered nervously over his shoulder.

  Ruma lay on the ground several feet behind the line. Despite his cunning, the boy had evidently failed to apply the strategy that had seen so many of the others through. A second cut had opened in his forehead and he was clearly unconscious.

  Decimus glanced back at Olu and Argon, but neither could meet his gaze. Their friend was quickly hauled away, and Mori’s voice erupted once again:

  “Seventeen slaves have now fallen!” he cried. “Therefore, it has been decided that one lucky boy will receive a pass for the next round. You may all return to your cells.”

  As the slave line staggered toward the smaller portcullis, Slavious Doom and his ghostlike companion disappeared into the great archway without so much as a single glance back.

  CHAPTER III

  FIST OF FURY

  I’m sick of this place!” Decimus screamed, rampaging across his cell and delivering a powerful kick to the wooden frame that had housed Gladius’s hay sacks.

  “Shhh!” Argon urged him, his face pressed against the bars that separated their cells. “Keep quiet, or they’ll—”

  “I don’t CARE!” Decimus brought his foot down on the frame a second time, forcing a splintering crack from the wood. “I’m sick of evil trial-masters! I’m sick of losing friends and I’m REALLY sick of this food.” He kicked his soup bowl into the air. It shattered against the cell door and the spoon flew out through the bars.

  “That wasn’t too clever,” said Olu. “You know they probably won’t give you another one.”

  Decimus ignored the two slaves, dropped onto his own bed, and turned to face the wall. He’d arrived at Arena Primus with great determination, but he honestly didn’t know how much more he could stand.

  Sleep overcame him . . . and the shadows lengthened.

  He awoke from a nightmare in which a dark figure in flowing robes was trying to force a dagger between his ribs. He wiped a trace of sweat from his brow, moved one of the hay sacks beneath him, and rolled over, trying to drift off once again.

  “Shhhh! Quiet! You’ll wake the whole section!”

  Decimus raised his head and tried to see through the shadows. In the neighboring cell, Argon was snoring loudly, but there was movement from the third section.

  Decimus rubbed the sleep from his eyes and climbed, spiderlike, out of the bed. He crawled across the dusty floor and crouched in the corner in order to give himself a better view of the distant cell.

  Olu was kneeling at the barred door, whispering to a small shadow that was bent over a bowl in front of him. Decimus squinted into the darkness and recognized the familiar shape of Skrag, Jailer Truli’s mangy, little dog.

  Ah, he thought. So that’s what Olu has been doing with his soup.

  He thought for a moment, then cupped a hand to his mouth. “Pssst!”

  Olu almost fell as he spun around, toppling the bowl in the process. The dog shrank back into the shadows, then turned and trotted off along the corridor.

  “Who’s there?” Olu whispered back. “Argon?”

  “He’s asleep. It’s me, Decimus.”

  “You scared him away!”

  “So? You’re crazy, Olu! You should be eating that soup, yourself!”

  “He likes it! Besides, that jailer is really cruel to him—the poor little thing is starving to d
eath!”

  In the darkness, Decimus rolled his eyes. “And? Better him than us, I say.”

  Olu moved back to his bed. “Yeah, well—that’s your opinion . . . and I didn’t ask for it. Just go back to sleep, will you?”

  Decimus watched the slave settle down, and returned to his own bed.

  The following morning, Olu didn’t seem to want to speak to either Decimus or Argon, and he quickly moved along the line when the cell doors were opened.

  Trial-master Hrin was waiting for the fifteen slaves in the middle of the arena. His fellow masters were watching from the stalls, but there was no sign of Slavious Doom or Drin Hain at the dark arch.

  Hrin stepped forward holding a sack, and raised it above his head.

  “Inside this sack,” he yelled, “are fifteen colored balls. There are two reds, two blacks, two greens, two yellows, two blues, two browns, two oranges, and one white. The slave who draws the white ball will immediately be allowed to return to the cells, and will not need to compete in the trials until tomorrow. Those that draw balls of another color will face each other in combat, red against red, green against green, and so on. The rules of the combat will then be explained. Form up, now!”

  As the slaves positioned themselves in a line, Hrin walked up to the first boy and held out the sack. A green ball was drawn, and the gangly trial-master moved on.

  Decimus watched the proceedings with a detached amusement. It almost felt to him as if he didn’t care anymore. Nothing mattered . . . things could only get worse now. There was no way out. Sooner or later, he would be hauled away to the underground prison. Ultimately, he was doomed.

  When the white ball was drawn, Decimus was so lost in his own thoughts that he almost missed the event. As it was, the ball caught his eye at the last second, and his gaze settled upon Olu . . . who stepped back from the slave line with a look of astonishment on his face.

  “Lucky boy,” said Hrin loudly.

  “You can say that again,” Argon whispered to Decimus as the trial-master proceeded down the line. More balls were drawn: green, black, yellow, red, brown, and orange.

  If Decimus had been paying greater attention to the proceedings, he might not have been quite so surprised when Hrin stopped before him and tossed the sack away.

  “There are only blue balls remaining,” he muttered. “You two will fight each other.”

  Decimus slowly turned his head . . . and looked into Argon’s determined face. The Gaul took a breath and stuck out his chin.

  “I hope you’re ready to lose,” he said.

  Decimus shrugged. He was ready.

  As Olu was escorted back to the cells, fourteen slaves paired up and strode out into the gaping mouth of the arena.

  “You will be unarmed for this combat,” Hrin screamed behind them. “You may use fists only. No kicks or wrestling are permitted. The object of the trial is to knock out your opponent. The victors will progress into the last eight . . . and will move to Arena Secondus in order to face Grand Master Doom’s public trials. The losers will be imprisoned here, like so many who have fallen before them.”

  Decimus glanced at Argon as they walked, but the Gaul was staring straight ahead and marching as if to his day of judgment.

  When the pair had reached a suitable distance from all the other combatants, Hrin cried out and the trial began.

  Decimus and Argon circled each other.

  “You cannot beat me,” Argon snapped, his voice cold. It was almost as if the two had never met, and his voice certainly betrayed no hint of friendship. “I’ve watched you in the trials. You’re not strong enough or agile enough to take me.”

  Decimus said nothing; he simply continued to circle the Gaul. Neither slave could remove his gaze from the other.

  “You’re weak, Decimus,” Argon continued. “Ruma was smarter, Gladius was stronger, Olu and Teo are both quicker. I’m better than you in every way.”

  Decimus could feel his anger building, but he knew deep down that the Gaul was speaking the truth.

  “Your biggest weakness is that you consider EVERYONE you meet a friend . . . even those who couldn’t care less whether you live or die. You pretend to be cold and hard . . . but you are the softest slave here. It really is no wonder your family racked up such debt if you—”

  Decimus exploded with rage. Roaring a battle cry, he thundered over the sand and threw a punch with all his strength behind it.

  Then, two very surprising things happened.

  First, Argon’s lips split into a resigned and happy smile. Then, the Gaul dropped his defense, letting both arms fall to his sides.

  Decimus tried to veer off at the last second, but there was too much weight behind the blow. His fist connected with Argon’s chin, and the slave collapsed onto the sand.

  CHAPTER IV

  WOOD AND IRON

  Decimus walked back to his cell in silence, a blank look in his eyes as Truli shoved him through the doorway and locked the barred portal behind him.

  Olu was sitting on his own bed in the third cell. The boy watched Decimus carefully as he moved over to the far wall and just stood there.

  “What happened?” Olu prompted, rising to his feet. “Where is Argon? Did he get beaten?”

  Decimus said nothing.

  “What happened to Argon? Is he out?” Olu repeated.

  Decimus finally turned his head, and two tired, tearful eyes regarded the inquisitive slave.

  “He just stood there and let me hit him,” he said, his hands still shaking. “He provoked me, going on and on about how weak I was . . . and then he just dropped his guard and stood there.”

  “You put Argon out of the trials!” Olu exclaimed.

  “No,” said Decimus sharply. “ARGON put Argon out of the trials. He could have taken me down at any time. He chose to let me hit him.”

  “B-but why would he do that?”

  Decimus shrugged. “You tell me. Maybe he’d just given up; maybe he thought he’d get to see the others again if he lost the trials. I just don’t know. The only thing I do know is that I want to get out of here . . . more than anything else in the world.”

  He collapsed onto his bed, put his head in his hands, and began to sob.

  That night, Decimus refused his soup. Olu eagerly claimed his own bowl but, as usual, ate very little.

  “Pssst. Wake up.”

  The call was soft and low, and barely audible even in the cell from which it had been made.

  “Decimus! Psst! Decimus! Wake up!”

  Decimus rolled over and continued to snore.

  “Decimus Rex! Wake up, or the gods can have you!”

  “Mmfhat?”

  Decimus sat bolt upright and stared blearily around him. The cell swam in and out of focus as the remains of a good dream drifted away.

  “Shhh! Don’t speak! It’s Olu—can you hear me if I talk like this?”

  Decimus licked his dry lips and stifled a cough.

  “I can hear you,” he managed. “Just about.”

  “Good.”

  Olu crept over to the barred wall between his cell and the one that belonged to Argon and Teo.

  Decimus climbed out of bed and tiptoed across to the edge of his own cell.

  “What time is it?” he asked, still trying to fight past a painful dryness in his throat.

  “Around midnight, I think,” Olu hazarded.

  “Right. What do you want? We should be getting some sleep. We’re on public trials tomorrow . . .”

  “You want to go back to sleep? Oh—I thought you wanted to get out of here more than anything else in the world?”

  “Of course I do, but—” he froze. “Why? Do you know of a way out?”

  Olu grinned in the darkness.

  “No,” he said. “But you might.”

  “Me?” said Decimus. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Did you split the wood?”

  “What?”

  “The other night when you flew into a rage and kicked Glad
ius’s bed all those times: Did you actually split the wood?”

  Decimus crouched down beside his old friend’s bed, removed one of the hay sacks, and felt around the frame.

  “Yes,” he said in conclusion. “Not completely, but it would come away if I pulled it.”

  Decimus tugged at the wood, and there was a soft crack as a length came away in his hand. He held up the piece to show Olu.

  “That might be enough,” said the slave eagerly. “Throw it to me!”

  Decimus crawled back to the bars, reached through, and cast the wooden slat toward Olu, who caught it. As he looked on, the scrawny slave hurried over to the front of his cell and began to reach out with the wood, prompting a sudden realization from Decimus.

  “Are you trying for Truli’s keys?” he whispered.

  “Yes. My arms are long, but not quite long enough. I was hoping that . . . with some extra help . . . I might be . . . able . . . to—”

  Decimus looked on, his mouth gaping in astonishment, as Olu lifted the jailer’s keys from their ring.

  “Be careful,” he whispered as the keys gave a tiny jingle. “The piece on the end is very thin.”

  Olu nodded, slowly withdrawing his arm. However, just as he was about to step back, a slamming door somewhere at the end of the corridor caused him to start . . . and the keys flew off and clattered to the floor.

  For a few seconds, both prisoners froze, praying that their silence would be echoed along the corridor. Fortunately, despite the clatter of the keys, nothing stirred.

  “Can you get them?” Decimus whispered.

  Olu dropped onto his belly and reached out with the wood: Decimus could almost hear his muscles straining. Eventually, he gave up and raised himself onto his knees.

  “They’re too far away now,” he said, shaking his head.

  Decimus thumped his fist against his leg.

  He hung his head in despair. “We were SO close. Now what are we going to do? When Truli finds those keys in the morning, he’ll—”