by Ted Dekker
Horns blared. The Chevy missed all but the last car, which was pulled out halfway through a right-hand turn.
“Watch it …”
The impact came along Silvie’s door, a loud clash of metal against metal. Sparks flew. More horns blared.
And then they were through, up over a curb, clipping a tree trunk, and back on the road.
Clear.
“You okay?” Johnis asked.
“Yes. We did it?”
“We caused a ruckus. They all stopped, but they’ll be after us, that’s for sure.”
The rising and falling horns of the warriors in pursuit wailed through the Chevy’s carriage.
“By the sounds of it, a whole horde of them are after us.” Silvie tried to calm the trembling in her hands but failed to.
“I think we should leave this car,”
“No, no, no, we can’t leave the Chevy. It’s …” Johnis’s eyes darted about, blinking at the towering lights by the road, then behind in the mirror. “You’re right. You’re right, we’re too obvious.”
Silvie settled enough to take in the lights that rose on both sides—an incredible display of reds and greens and every color of the rainbow. Massive squares the size of whole buildings were painted with moving faces and pictures.
She couldn’t make sense of anything she saw. Terrifying.
“Fantastic,” Johnis muttered.
Silvie twisted back and saw not one, not two, not four or six sets of flashing lights, but a dozen, racing up the empty road behind them.
“We have company.”
“We have to leave the Chevy. I see it; hold tight.”
Johnis whipped the car to the right through a crossroad that led to a massive pyramid structure. The sign read EXCALIBUR.
“See what?” Silvie demanded, looking back to see if the warriors had seen them make the turn.
“Excalibur. Hold on!” Johnis jerked the wheel hard, throwing her into the door. The car careened into a dark alley. They clipped a large green bin and slid to a stop. He killed the motor and extinguished the lamps.
The motor ticked in the sudden quiet. He looked at Silvie, eyes wide, face beaded with sweat.
“What do you think?”
The warriors’ Chevys wailed with increasing intensity.
“I think they saw us turning,” Silvie said.
They moved as one, each shoving open a door and scrambling out. The wailing from the cars in pursuit was now on top of them. Johnis grabbed her hand and pulled her into a sprint down the alley—away from their Chevy, toward the Excalibur.
he Excalibur was built like a castle, with red and purple spires lit brightly against the black sky. Massive. Everything in the Histories was colossal. And as brilliant as a colored sun.
They ran side by side, their feet pounding with the roar of the city—noise, noise, everywhere noise! It was as if sun had been captured by the Horde and was now hooked into this city called Las Vegas. The burning smell was enough to make Silvie blanch, though she suspected the odor came from the cars, not the buildings.
They saved their breath, but Silvie was too astonished by the sights and sounds and smells to speak intelligently. Having been stranded in a strange world only to find company in such frightful things as warriors screaming about in Chevys and mountains of lights that flashed overhead without pause, she was a twisted knot of mangled nerves.
She grabbed Johnis’s hand as they approached a flight of stairs leading into the Excalibur and pulled him to a stop, barely winded despite their last run.
A steady river of people flowed in and out of a dozen glass doors. They stood on the landing between the Excalibur and Las Vegas Boulevard, breathing hard.
“Good night! You ever hear so many sirens?” a large redheaded man exclaimed, facing the street. “That ambulances or police?”
“Cops,” said a shorter fellow wearing a sleeveless tunic and baggy shorts. “Some crash has the traffic piled up at Tropicana.”
Johnis pulled Silvie forward, then released her hand and took steps two at a time. Silvie glanced back and saw no immediate threat. Their best option was to enter a crowd and lose themselves. The authorities knew the city and would quickly cut off any avenue of escape. But if they could lose themselves inside the hunter’s net while they came to terms with their predicament, they stood a strong chance of slipping through that net later.
If they were to take Ray, the bald gas man, at his suggestion, they should fit in at the Excalibur. Smart, she agreed. But seeing Johnis rush up the steps now, she wasn’t sure they would fit in. None of the other guests wore battle leather or tunics similar to their own. Boots clacked on the stone behind her, and she twisted back to see five blue-suited warriors running past a fountain fifty yards away.
“Johnis …” She bounded up the steps and passed him near the top. “They’ve seen us! Hurry!”
They spun through the doors into a world even more frightening than the one outside: hundreds of machines situated in long rows, green-clothed tables, lighted wheels. The sheer number of people and the horrendous crash of bells and gongs made her head spin.
“Excuse me.”
Silvie turned to her right. A warrior in a brown shirt, bearing a club and a weapon in a waist sheath.
“Knives aren’t permitted in the main casino. You’ll have to take the fighter’s entrance on the west side.”
Silvie crouched and touched the knife on her right thigh. The warrior’s demeanor changed the moment her fingers made contact with the bone handle. Had she made a mistake?
For a moment neither of them moved. And then the guard lifted a black box to his mouth and issued orders. The man waited a second, and the box spoke back to him: “On our way.”
“Follow me!” Johnis whispered.
He ran over a soft red floor, woven cotton perhaps, past what he now saw were gaming tables, not so different from the more rudimentary betting cages that some of the Forest Guard played to waste their time between battles.
“Stop!”
Johnis flew through the aisles, and Silvie stayed hard on his heels. They raced the full length of one aisle before he cut sharply to his left and ran directly into a long table surrounded by eight players.
He could have stopped in time to avoid a collision, but in this state of anxiety dove over the table, landed on his hands, and rolled to his feet.
So Silvie dove as well. With all of her might, she launched herself into the air, soared ten feet, and landed on her hands as he had. She rolled to her feet and plowed into Johnis.
He staggered back a step, but his eyes were on the table. Stunned by what they’d just done with surprising ease.
“After me.” He sprinted to his right, glancing up. Silvie now saw what had caused him to turn in the first place: a sign bearing a warrior dressed in fighting leathers, armed with a sword.
CLASH OF THE GLADIATORS
They’d lost the guard and whatever reinforcements had come to his aide, and they’d done so with surprising speed. But Silvie didn’t have time to dwell on this small accomplishment at the moment. They were like two rats on a king’s banquet table; expecting to dash around from dish to dish without being soundly smashed and fed to the dogs was the stuff of fancy.
Johnis ducked into a hallway marked by the CLASH OF THE GLADIATORS sign and slowed to a fast walk. Silvie glanced back down the aisles as they rounded the corner. Three guards raced into the aisle a hundred yards behind.
She leaped into the hall. “They’re still coming!”
The hall they had entered was bordered with several white doors marked by lighted signs that made no sense to her: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The hall ended at a red wall with a large picture of a stately looking fellow wearing a crown on his head.
“Find an open door.” Johnis was already trying the handles.
“It’s a dead end, Johnis!” She stepped across the hall and tried two of the doors—both locked.
The guards boots pounded down the aisles.
“Johnis!” she whispered. “This is nothing! We have to get out of here!” Panic crowded her throat. They were trapped rats!
Johnis tried the other doors and found them all locked. Silvie grabbed his elbow. “We’re going to have to fight them.” She flipped a knife into her left palm. “If it doesn’t go well, I want you to know that I love you. I always have.”
The door behind them suddenly flew open, and a short, fat man with ruddy cheeks and cropped blond hair that had tinges of red in it held the door wide. He looked surprised to see them.
“Gladiators?”
Johnis hesitated only a moment, then shoved Silvie forward. “Finally!”
They hurried past the man into a dark hall that ran to a lighted door. “All participants use the west entrance, man,” the fellow said after them. “Second door on your right.” Then he dipped back out the door, leaving them alone.
From somewhere to their left a crowd roared. They looked to be in the innards of the building, behind the arena—this Clash of Gladiators. But for the moment they were safe.
“Did they see us?”
Silvie didn’t have to answer. Muffled cries reached them from beyond the door they’d just entered- “This way! This way!”
Johnis and Silvie ran down the hall, flew into the second doorway to their right, and slid to a stop in front of a long row of uniforms.
“Dress, hurry!” Johnis dashed to the line of battle dress and quickly shrugged into a red cape.
There were three things that all Forest Dwellers held in the highest regard, things Thomas of Hunter, their supreme commander, reminded them of often: their ferocity in battle, their gentleness in love, and their enthusiasm in celebrating at the end of a long day of both.
The celebrations consisted of all forms of song, dance, and the spinning of tales. And playacting brought it all together.
“Is this for real or is it a game?” Silvie asked.
“This, or that?” Johnis indicated the crowd’s roar from beyond the walls.
“That,” Silvie said.
“Killing for mere sport seems a bit barbaric, but this is the Histories.”
“Then this costume is ridiculous. Are we doing this to blend in or to fight? Because it won’t help our fighting.”
“I have no intention of fighting,” Johnis said, pulling on a metal helmet. “Hurry.”
Silvie threw on a cape like his, then a large metal helmet that covered her head like a gong. If they did get into a fight, the first order of business would be to ditch it.
“Good,” Johnis said, looking her over. “It’ll slow them down.”
“And us,” she said.
“Just till we get out of here.”
He led her quickly through the armory. Leather and metal fighting dress. Knives and mallets and swords. Enough armor and weaponry to outfit a whole division.
Silvie snatched up a sword and spun it in her hand. A long steel blade with a handle formed from wood. Not the best craftsmanship, and the blade was duller than she liked, but the balance was decent. For the first time since entering the fireball called Las Vegas, she felt a measure of confidence.
Johnis grabbed a sword and rushed forward without bothering to scrutinize it. Silvie had spent some time showing him the finer points of swordplay, and he was improving rapidly, but the lust for battle wasn’t what made Johnis great.
He tried a side door, found it open, and ducked in. Silvie followed him into what turned out to be a small white room with half a dozen stall doors and a row of white stone basins. Mirrored glass hung on one wall, reflecting them in their red capes and helmets.
“A bathroom.” Johnis’s voice echoed.
“Clearly.”
They stood undecided for a few breaths. The guards would now be coming through the armory. They were running out of time. Only one reasonable option.
“Hide!”
Silvie was halfway to the row of stalls when the main door pushed open. A man dressed in black slacks and a black shirt with a face that looked too long for the tuft of hair perched on its crown snapped at Johnis. “Enough heaving, man, it’s getting started.”
Then he saw Silvie, who stood facing them both. A grin twisted his white cheeks. “Oh, I get it. Save it for later, man.”
“She comes too,” Johnis said.
“You wish. Let’s go,”
They could either play along with this dimwit or take him out and face the guard. Clearly they should do the former.
“Wait here,” Johnis said to her. “I’ll be right back.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
He stepped closer and spoke in a hurried hush. “They’re coming! We can’t risk a disturbance. We have to blend. Hide in the stalls; I’ll break away as soon as I can.”
“Johnis!” The thought of separating from him filled her with a bone-jarring dread. “I can’t!”
“You have to!”
He spun back to the man who was plastered with a knowing grin. “Okay, let’s go.”
She watched him walk out. The man with the long face winked. Watched the door swing shut with a whoosh. And all the while she could not move.
Johnis had left her.
The sound of running boots reached her from somewhere in the armory. He was right; if we’d tried to make a run for it, we would have run into the guard.
The sound of the cheering crowd swelled. Johnis doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into!
Rushing water swirled in the stall on the bathroom’s far side.
I’m not alone.
he moment Johnis stepped into the doorway, he realized that he’d walked into a trap.
They walked onto a field similar in some ways to the stadium in Middle where they’d played with the Horde ball. Where challenges were made and fought. Bright lights lit an arena fifty yards in width. At the center rose a platform and a gallows. A circle of twenty warriors stood at attention around the platform.
The stands were filled with thousands of onlookers who’d gathered for the fight. An earsplitting roar swelled as the door behind Johnis closed. “Fight, fight, fight, fight! Kill, kill, kill, kill!” The chant rose to a crescendo.
He instinctively backed into the door, tried the handle, and found it locked. The walls that surrounded the arena rose ten feet before meeting rings of benches that ran the arenas circumference. No doors, no halls, no ladders.
This wasn’t good. He’d left Silvie, knowing that the guards were looking for two people who didn’t belong. Making a fuss in the bathroom would have only attracted attention. The guard had rushed past the bathroom just behind him. So his play had bought them a breath or two.
But none of this calmed his heart.
“It’s a good day to die,” the man said. He stepped behind a tall gate, locked it, and walked into a booth with bars.
When Johnis looked back at the platform, the warriors were spreading out in two lines. A quick glance around told him three things that were now as unbendable as the ground itself: One, the crowd was here to see someone fight. And perhaps be killed. Two, that person was him, unless his logic was failing him totally, which could be the case. He’d felt inordinately stupid since his arrival in the Histories—fast on his feet and full of passion but slow in his mind and as jittery as a trembling mouse crossing a table in broad daylight. Three, the crowd would see him fight and perhaps be killed because there was no avenue for escape that he could see.
A fighter dressed in black from head to foot, wearing a tight-fitting black hood, stood tall on the platform and clapped his hands three times. The crowd fell silent.
The executioner’s voice rang out: “Prisoner, you have been found guilty of fleeing justice and giving aid to the enemy. As is mandated by law, you have been sentenced to death. As is also permitted by law, you may either be hanged by the neck at the gallows until dead, or you may fight to prove your innocence in mortal combat with twenty of the king’s guards. Which do you choose?”
Neither, he tried to scream, but his t
hroat remained closed.
“Has the cat nipped your tongue, prisoner?”
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Johnis stepped forward, weighing his options, which were few, perhaps even nonexistent, in this death chamber. He could try to confound them and buy some time, but doing so would only give the guard more time to find him.
Or he could fight.
His limbs felt numb. This was it, then. He’d crossed the worlds to face his death in a chamber of bloodthirsty, scabless Horde—
Unless …
“I choose to speak to the king!” he called out.
“That is not an option.”
The warriors he was to fight now stood in rows of ten on each side. The executioner motioned them forward, and they began to advance.
“Then you will have his wrath!” Johnis circled to his right. “I am his cousin, and to kill royalty is death.”
His announcement stopped them cold. But not out of fear. Confusion at his audacity, more likely.
He picked up his pace, closer to the soldiers on his right and farther from those on his left. Better to take them head-on, a few at a time, than broadside, where the whole mass can club you to death, Silvie had learned the tactic as a child, and had also taught him.
“There’s been a mistake! I am not sentenced to death. I was kidnapped on my way to the lake … by the Horde … who then forced the Chevy that was carrying the prisoner off the road and put me in his place!”
His voice echoed to silence.
“Is that so?”
“That is so! Send for the king; he’ll tell you.”
Johnis wasn’t about to think his nonsensical little tale would earn him any more than a few seconds if the executioner had any wits, but he needed every advantage he could get. His mind spun, considering the odds of his survival in sword fight with twenty warriors.
None.
So what was he to do, kill as many as he could and then take a sword? He hadn’t come to the Histories to die in an arena, mistaken for whoever they thought he was!
“You care to entertain us with your stories, is that it?” The executioner demanded, unable to hide the humor in his voice. He spread his arms to the crowd. “What is your verdict? Fight or flight?”
