The Legend of the Rift by Peter Lerangis
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ELOISE, MARCO, AND CHINGGIS
“YOU’RE MY BROTHER!” Eloise screamed. “You can’t let them do this to me!”
She was pacing the small, stone-walled gladiator chamber attached to the stadium. Outside, Amazons were lining the walls, chattering and passing around baskets of food.
“Jack will figure a way out of this!” Cass said.
“I will?” I said.
Eloise glared at me. She looked like she was about to cry.
“I will,” I said.
It was about the least convincing thing ever out of my mouth. Eloise’s leather helmet drooped down to her ears, and the silk fabric Maximo had stuffed inside was flapping out the back like a tail. Every time she turned, her sandals slid off her feet, and her tunic kept falling down even though they’d clipped it to the strap of her quiver.
“Look at those freaks out there!” Eloise said. “Look what they’re eating! They’re gross!”
I peered outside. The Amazons were passing around buckets, reaching inside, and pulling out cooked animal heads and feathered bird wings. They were picking their teeth with armadillo tails and having contests over who could spit eyes the farthest.
“It’s . . . a different diet from ours,” I said.
“It’s heads and butts and guts,” Eloise replied. She took her helmet off and threw it to the ground. “I’m out of here. I am not doing this.”
The helmet rolled to Marco, who scooped it up. “Hey, this would fit me,” he said, putting it on his own head.
“Then you do it,” Eloise said.
I looked out at the crowd. Their backs against the wall, they were far away from the center of the stadium. There, Amazons in helmets and thick armored gear were throwing spears, sparring with knives, leaping, racing each other. In their outfits, they all looked the same.
“You know, Eloise, that might not be a bad idea,” I said.
“Ha-ha,” Marco drawled.
“Seriously, look at them,” I said. “They’re all about ten feet tall. You walk out there, Marco, all covered from head to toe, and they won’t know the difference. To them, we’re all shrimps, even you.”
“But Cynthia—” Cass said.
“Her eyesight is horrible,” I said. “Did you see the way she was squinting at us? She’s hundreds of years old. My dad’s, like, forty and he needs glasses to see the fridge. Also, look how far away she’s sitting.”
We gathered at the door. Cynthia’s throne had been moved to the far end of the oval stadium. She was at least fifty yards from where the action was going to be.
She stood, and the entire place went silent except for a few deep belches. Through one of the archways, a team of four Amazons carried in a platform on their shoulders, supported by wooden poles. On top of the platform was what looked like some kind of statue, shrouded in a thick, embroidered cloth. Behind the team, two more Amazons pounded a drumbeat on animal skins stretched over hollowed-out tree stumps.
They crossed the stadium and set the platform down before the throne. Cynthia slowly descended the stairs. With a flourish, she removed the cloth.
Sitting at the top of a golden base inlaid with red jewels was a pearl-colored orb. As it caught the glare of the overhead stadium lights, the Amazons oohed and aahed.
“Warriors, scholars, women of thought and courage!” Cynthia said, her voice robust and piercing. “It is with great happiness but a heavy heart that I inform you our Council of Elders has met and decided that we have reached, at long last, our day of reckoning!”
Torquin stared at the Loculus with greedy eyes. “So close . . .”
Marco took a deep breath. “Give me that Amazon uniform. Now. Before I change my mind.”
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” Marco winced as Eloise plucked hairs from his leg. “What’s up with the tweezers?”
“My foster mom used to do this,” Eloise said.
“I’m not your foster mom!” Marco protested. “The boss lady’s not going to see my peach fuzz. Besides, have you seen Maximo’s legs?”
Brother Dimitrios hurried in, carrying a huge leather sack—which he nearly dropped on the floor when he saw Marco. “By Massarym’s spear—what on earth?”
“Where’ve you been?” Marco asked.
“Our dear friend Herostratus gave me some extra weapons,” Brother Dimitrios said. “But I was expecting—”
“Today, the role of Eloise will be played by Marco Ramsay,” Marco said.
Outside, Herostratus had emerged from another tunnel and begun performing a kind of clown act, setting fire to a five-foot-high wooden replica of the Temple of Artemis. It was pretty amazing looking, even in a small version—with its rows and rows of white columns inside and out. As it went up in flames, Herostratus came out with a tiny bucket of water and tried to throw it on the fire, while Amazons rushed in from the entrances with massive hoses.
For a special crowd-pleasing finale, they quickly doused the fire and then turned the hoses on Herostratus—while he transformed into a pigeon, a cat, and a squealing monkey.
“I think they’re almost done with the opening act,” I said.
Cass was wrapping the sandals all the way up Marco’s calves to the knee. “You still don’t look dainty enough,” he said.
“I could wear a tutu,” Marco said, adjusting his helmet.
I tied a colorful silk scarf around Marco’s thick neck. Torquin pulled tightly on the tunic, trying to get Marco’s shoulders to look a little less broad.
“Don’t stand with your legs so far apart,” I suggested.
“Don’t pound your feet when you walk,” Brother Dimitrios said.
“Can you make your arms look less muscley?” Eloise asked.
“Don’t speak like boy,” Torquin said.
“Smile more,” Brother Dimitrios said. “You look pretty when you smile.”
Marco pressed his legs together, pulled his arms in, tiptoed toward the door, made a pained smile, and said in a mousy voice, “How’s this?”
“Terrible,” Eloise said.
“Ladieeees and ladies!” Herostratus shouted, to a chorus of boos and hoots. “Sit back and relax, ’cause now it’s time for the main event!”
A whinny sounded in the stadium, and a masked Amazon in full battle gear—helmet, armor, spear—came galloping out on a horse through one of the archways. The steed was brown, massive, and powerful looking, and it reared up on its hind legs to the roar of the crowd.
“Where’d they get a horse?” Cass asked.
“Where’d they get two?” I said.
Through the opposite archway, another Amazon yanked on the reins of a second horse. This one did not want to enter the stadium, snorting and rearing defiantly. Now another Amazon joined the first—two nine-foot-tall women pulling on a beast that didn’t want to move.
Finally the horse charged forward, kicking left and right and sending both warriors flying. It ran into the stadium, bucking and snorting, until three warriors lassoed its neck.
The animal shook its head side to side, but it knew it was caught. With a final fling of the neck, it turned its eyes toward our little archway.
“I think it likes me,” Marco said.
“Mounting the noble steed to my right will be your favorite Zon and mine—Maximo!” Herostratus bellowed.
Maximo climbed on the calm, powerful horse and took a galloping lap around the stadium, to a roar of cheering.
“And to my left, battling for the Loculus of Massarym, upon the notorious wild horse of Mongolia known as Chinggis,” Herostratus yelled, “let’s give a Za-Za-Zon welcome to the . . . er, precociously powerful Eloise of the mortal world!”
“Za! Za! Zon!” the crowd chanted slowly and rhythmically, then faster and a faster.
“Wild horse?” Eloise said.
Cass tapped Marco on the shoulder. “Go get ’im, Tex.”
Marco stepped out of the archway, taking tiny steps and keeping his arms tight to his sides. He lifted his right hand and
Cass was turned away, his eyes shut. “I can’t look. How’s he doing?”
“Very bad actor,” Torquin said.
The three Amazons who were handling Chinggis could barely keep the horse from bolting. They weren’t paying much attention to Marco as he walked closer. But Marco didn’t try to jump on, at least not right away. Instead, he walked up to it closely, mumbling words I couldn’t hear. The horse snorted a few times, pulling at the three lassos, but its eyes didn’t move from him.
He touched the side of its head and began stroking its forelock gently. Then, one by one, he unlooped the lassos from Chinggis’s head. Freed, the horse pawed the ground once and bowed.
Marco dug his foot into the stirrup and mounted, to an explosion of applause.
“And they’re off!” Herostratus shouted.
Well, one of them, anyway. Maximo was whipping her horse into action. Her entire face was covered with a thick leather mask; and as she leaned forward, she pointed a blunt-tipped wooden lance directly at Marco.
“They never gave me one of those!” Eloise said.
As Maximo charged closer, Chinggis reared up on her hind legs in surprise. As she came down, Marco gave her sides a firm kick.
Now Chinggis began charging, too. But Maximo had much more speed. I could hear her bloodthirsty “HEEEEAAAAGGGH!” echo into the dome—and the Amazons whooping with expectation.
Marco let go of Chinggis’s reins and threw his arms out to the side as if to say, “Come get me.”
And Maximo rammed her lance directly into his chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE WRATH OF CYNTHIA
MARCO’S SCREAM DEFINITELY did not sound Eloise-like.
With the blunt tip of the lance against his chest, Marco grabbed the shaft with both hands and yanked his arms upward. Still holding tight to the lance’s hilt, Maximo went flying into the air.
Her horse charged by at full speed, riderless.
With a loud grunt, Marco swung the lance over his shoulder—with Maximo still on it. The lance snapped in two, and the Zon leader somersaulted head over foot, landing in the dirt with a loud thud.
The place went dead silent. Most of the Amazons were slack-jawed with disbelief.
“Such action! Such courage! Hoooo-hoo!” Herostratus shouted. “This sort of thing has never been seen before in our stadium! Is Maximo dead, ladies and ladies? Ha! Of course not! Amazons are immortal . . . OR ARE THEY? Now the question is . . . for the lives of all the Amazons . . . will Eloise get the grand prize?”
Marco spurred Chinggis toward the Loculus. Cynthia sat up in her throne, watching stonily. At the other end of the stadium, Maximo was struggling to her feet.
Swooping down with his hands, Marco snatched up the Loculus and held it high over his head.
“Yyyyes!” Eloise screamed, jumping onto Cass and nearly knocking him over.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew the Loculus had to have the power of teleportation or time travel, and either one would get him out of there, so I called out, “Use it, Mar—er, Eloise! Use it!”
But he was on the other side, making Chinggis promenade before the Amazons. He held the Loculus under his arm like a football and shouted while pumping his fist, “We got it. We got it. We—we—we got it!”
“What the heck is he doing?” Cass said.
“WATCH OUT, MARCO!” I yelled.
Across the stadium grass, Maximo was racing on her own two feet toward Marco. Her stride was huge, her calves as muscular as an Olympic runner’s. With a scream, she jettisoned herself into the air, diving toward Marco.
Her hands closed around the Loculus and she snatched it away, knocking Marco clear off the horse. He tumbled to the ground and rolled, his helmet flying off and bouncing away on the grass.
Now Marco’s face was visible to the crowd. Seeing who he really was, they began screaming angrily, storming the field. Cynthia rose to her feet, her jaw hanging open.
Marco scrambled to put the helmet back on, but it was too late.
“Forfeit!” Herostratus cried out. “The mortals are disqualified!”
Cass, Eloise, Torquin, Brother Dimitrios, and I all ran out onto the field. “Grab the Loculus, Marco!” I shouted.
Marco dove toward Maximo, but she jumped away, holding tight to the Loculus. From his left and right, Amazons ran from the sidelines into the fray. Out of nowhere, a half-eaten roasted vromaski’s head flew through the air and landed on Chinggis with a dull splat.
The horse ran toward Marco, kicking at the attacking Amazons ferociously from both sides. I had to watch where I was running, because nine-foot women made deadly projectiles.
One of them landed next to me with a loud “oof.” As she sat up, dazed, Eloise leaped over her. She snatched up the broken half of Maximo’s lance and began swinging it wildly.
She clipped two of the Amazons at the ankle and tore through another’s weapon belt, which fell to the ground. Then, weaving under the legs of the fighting nine-foot warriors, she began yanking on their sandal straps, untying them.
I scooped up the fallen weapon belt and ran to the sidelines. There, out of the chaos, I was able to take out a blowpipe and stuff a leather pouch full of darts into my pocket.
In the middle of the stadium’s confusion, I saw the Loculus roll toward Brother Dimitrios. He picked it up, his face full of disbelief. “By the gods, I’ve got it. I’ve got it!”
Hearing this, one of the Amazons whirled away from the melee and ran toward him, brandishing a club.
I thought I heard Dimitrios muttering, “Oh dear.”
“Toss it over here!” Torquin shouted.
Over the moving scrum of bodies, all I saw now was the Loculus flying high over the crowd, into Torquin’s arms. I tried to see what happened to Brother Dimitrios, but the crowd was parting now to let someone through.
I froze.
Out of the madness, Cynthia was float-walking toward me, brandishing a bow. Before I could do a thing, she was on her knees and aiming an arrow at my head. “You do not cheat Cynthia,” she said.
“No-o-o-o!” Torquin’s voice boomed.
I heard the twang as the arrow left the bow. I saw the point heading for my eye. I knew I had no time to duck.
The line drive blur from my left was a total shock. It connected with the arrow in midair, creating an explosion that knocked it off course. I dropped to my knees, as Cynthia let out a cry of anger in Greek.
To my left, Torquin was staring slack-jawed, the Loculus no longer in his hand. To my right, Cynthia’s arrow lay on the ground.
All around it was a pile of shattered Loculus, being stepped on and kicked around by Chinggis.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LOSS UPON LOSS
THE SCREAM BEGAN as a tiny wail and grew to be the loudest siren I had ever heard. It caromed off the round dome, magnifying and echoing against itself so that it sounded like a chorus of the dying.
Cynthia was on her knees, looking at the broken Loculus in horror.
I ran up beside her and fell to the dirt, sweeping up the pieces of the Loculus in my hands. “Marco, Cass!”
They dropped to my side and tried to help. We all had to be careful to avoid Chinggis, who was still in a frenzy from all the commotion. The shards were sticking into my palms, drawing pricks of blood. “It . . . looks like glass,” I said. “Whoever heard of a Loculus made of glass?”
“Back!” Torquin ordered, pulling me by the shoulder just in time to avoid Chinggis’s flying hoof.
This Loculus was way more fragile than the one I’d thrown under the train in New York City. Instead of a few dozen thick, jagged pieces, there were millions. And whatever we could have collected was being kicked away and ground in the dirt by a wildly confused Chinggis. “What are we going to do now?” Cass asked.
I shook my head, speechless.
Now the Zons were gathering around their leader, falling to their knees, bowing t
“Come,” Torquin said. “Let’s go.”
“But—” I protested.
“Must get out of here,” he said. “Now.”
I stood, backing away. The whole thing was hopeless. Torquin was leading us through the jungle of Zons. They were trying to gather up the shards, rushing to comfort Cynthia, picking odd fights with one another for no particular reason. It was utter chaos. I knew Torquin was right. We had to leave now while we had the opportunity.
But as I turned to go, I caught a glimpse of Brother Dimitrios lying on the grass. Eloise was leaning over him, and she looked up in shock as we ran to her. “What happened?” Cass asked.
“He threw Loculus to me,” Torquin said. “And Zons hit him.”
Blood was pooling under Dimitrios’s head. His face was losing color, and as he turned to me, I could see a gash down the side of his face. “J—J—”
“We have to get him some help!” I shouted.
“No!” Dimitrios said with a grimace. “Too late. You must . . . continue . . .”
“Come on, Jack, let’s lift him,” Marco said.
“No . . . ! No!” Dimitrios said. His eyes fluttered and his words were halting. “J-Jack. I did . . . I was . . . wrong . . .”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “You threw the Loculus to Torquin. That saved my life!”
He made a coughing sound, and blood spurted from his mouth. When he looked at me again, tears sprang from his eyes. “Jack . . . Hero . . .”
“You’re the hero,” I said.
“. . . stratus . . .”
Dimitrios’s eyes fluttered again, and then shut.
“Dimitrios—wake up!” Cass said, slapping his cheek. “What did you mean by— Jack, why did he say that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Brother Dimitrios, what about Herostratus?”
The old monk’s lips quivered as if he wanted to speak, but instead his head rolled to one side. And his body went limp.
Torquin pressed his fingers to the side of Dimitrios’s neck, feeling for a pulse. “Dead,” he said.