The Rebels' Assault Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER I - THE CHOOSING

  CHAPTER II - THE UPRISING

  CHAPTER III - WAR!

  CHAPTER IV - EXECUTION!

  CHAPTER V - THE RESCUE

  COMING SOON

  ARENA COMBAT

  CHARACTER PROFIL

  WEAPON PROFILE: THE FLAIL

  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 : 978-1-101-44426-9

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  For Sebastian David Francesco Stone, my son.

  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

  Decimus Rex and Olu fled Arena Primus and managed to escape the clutches of Drin Hain, Slavious Doom’s shadowy apprentice. After following a grimy path through the sewers, they managed to sneak aboard a ship. Unfortunately, their fellow slaves were not so lucky. Ruma, Argon, Teo, and Gladius are all still in the power of Slavious Doom . . .

  CHAPTER I

  THE CHOOSING

  Ruma, Argon, Teo, and Gladius were led down from their cell at the top of Suvius Tower, dragged by the jailer’s guards with such force that several cuts and bruises were earned along the way. At one point, Gladius stumbled and fell headfirst down a flight of steps in the tower courtyard. However, rather than stop his momentum, the guards simply laughed and one even gave him an experimental kick to see if he would keep going. By the time the group reached the gates of the fortress, they had stored up enough hatred for their captors to last several lifetimes.

  In the courtyard, an eerie silence reigned. The guards assembled the slave line with a series of grunts and shoves. Then they withdrew, making space for the arrival of the spindly, gnomelike jailer who had so gleefully given the prisoners news of their pending executions. He climbed a wooden ladder beside the gates and hurried along a platform that spanned the gap just under the great archway. The slave line followed his progress and their eyes came to rest on the recognizable form of Drin Hain, draped in his trademark black robes and hood. The jailer cupped a hand to his face and whispered something to the ghostlike figure.

  Hain unfolded his arms and addressed the slaves.

  “As you know, Lord Doom and I are both very fond of games. You will now be given the chance to choose the order and manner of your executions.” He pointed a finger at Gladius. “YOU first.”

  The slave looked up at Hain nervously, his eyes moving from the dark assassin to the jailer, and then along the platform. However, there was no indication of the task he was being ordered to perform. The rest of the platform was clear and, apart from the assembled group and the guards, the courtyard was empty.

  The jailer motioned to the guard at Gladius’s side.

  “Show him the way.”

  Before Gladius could even turn to face the direction the jailer had indicated, he was slammed in the shoulder and almost knocked to the ground. He managed to right himself at the last instant, and quickly sidestepped a second assault before waddling backward with his hands held protectively in front of his face.

  There was no further explanation given and, at first, Ruma, Teo, and Argon all thought that Gladius would actually have to fight the guard. They were all taken aback when the big man suddenly lowered his spear.

  Gladius stopped dead. He didn’t have much choice, seeing as he was now backed against the base of the tower.

  “Wh-what do I have to do?” he asked when the guard made no further move to attack him.

  The silence continued, but the guard lowered his eyes to a point level with Gladius’s knees and nodded an indication.

  Gladius looked down, and then stepped away from a large, circular grate in the tower wall.

  “In there?” he said tentatively. “Y-you want me to go in there?”

  Drin Hain’s voice rang out across the courtyard like a crack of thunder.

  “You will descend the stone chute and swim through the submerged tunnel. At the far end is a deep well and, in that well, fastened to a sunken statue of the mighty Jupiter, are four golden torcs. Each of these neck rings has a value, ranging from the very expensive to the utterly worthless. Retrieve one, and one only. Then return to the entrance tunnel and call for us. A rope will then be lowered. Do not linger, for your friends will be made to stand in the baking sun until you return. You may begin.”

  Much to the surprise of the assembled slaves, Gladius didn’t even pause. He simply turned, wrenched open the grate, and plunged into the darkness beyond.

  A rush of air shocked the breath from him as he slipped and slid down the slimy stone chute with alarming speed, the glistening green walls rushing past him.

  He cried out, a wail that echoed throughout the entire courtyard and caused several of the guards to snigger, before landing with a heavy splash in a vertical tunnel beneath the tower.

  Realizing that the tunnel was a lot deeper than he had expected, Gladius immediately began to kick with all his might. Soon, he broke the crest of the water, sucking in a deep breath and trying to paddl the spot.

  The opening through which he’d fallen was far above him, well beyond his reach. The only viable exit was an adjoining, equally flooded channel that stretched off in an easterly direction. Gladius took in another deep lungful of the tunnel’s foul-smelling air, and dived under the water.

  A murk
y terrain greeted Gladius when he managed to force his eyes open. The channel seemed to go on for about thirty feet before turning left. As there didn’t seem to be any breathing space in this section of the tunnel, Gladius swam with all his strength in order to reach the bend. Then, bringing his arms tightly to his sides, he propelled himself along the new channel. The statue was visible now, standing at the end of the tunnel with weeds and other marine growth swirling around it. Gladius could just make out the golden glint of the torcs, which were all fastened around the statue’s neck.

  He dived deeper into the tunnel using blocks of sunken masonry to help his progress.

  Down. Down. Down.

  His fingers found the statue, but already he could feel the exhalation building inside him. There was no TIME to study the torcs, no TIME to do anything but snatch one, unfasten it, and then swim frantically for the entrance tunnel and its glorious oasis of breathing space.

  Gladius reached out a hand and took hold of the first torc he could reach. His chest now ready to explode, he swooped and turned in the water, propping his feet against the statue and pulling at the neck ring with all his strength. The torc came away from the stone with surprising ease, and Gladius began to swim madly for the entrance tunnel, kicking himself off the statue and spearing through the water. He spluttered, water flooding into his mouth and nostrils as he began to panic, flailing madly as he tried to drive himself back along the original channel. A terrible fear gripped him as the tension in his lungs grew, and he felt closer to death than he had throughout the trials that Slavious Doom’s hideous servants had set for him.

  He put on one last burst of speed and powered on. Unfortunately, Gladius was still too far from the entrance well . . . and his strength was leaving him.

  A series of gray images flashed before his eyes: downcast faces and cruel, cackling masks. He saw Ruma, Argon, and Teo all sharing his fate: a watery grave that swallowed them all one by one. He saw Slavious Doom and Drin Hain smiling down at the lifeless corpses of the slaves. He saw Decimus Rex . . .

  . . . who had taken on the arena, and triumphed.

  In the roasting courtyard, an uncomfortable silence had descended on the slave line. They were all thinking the same, dreadful thought: Gladius was too heavy to swim a network of flooded channels—he wasn’t going to make it. Ruma risked a glance at Hain, who was still occupying the platform over the arched gate. The cloaked assassin showed no signs of concern; his arms were still folded and his rigid stance had not altered in the slightest. Beside him, however, the jailer was darting furtive looks at the heavyset guard who’d marched Gladius to the opening. He was obviously of the opinion that Gladius had drowned in the waters beneath the tower.

  As Ruma turned to face his companions, Argon lowered his head. Even Teo looked away. Poor, clumsy Gladius had fallen before his method of execution had even been decided.

  “Maybe it’s better this way,” Ruma muttered. “For Gladius, I mean. He would never have—”

  “Out! OUT! Ouuuuuuut!”

  The cry echoed across the courtyard, causing several guards to start and all the slaves to leap back in surprise. There was a halfsecond pause before Gladius’s voice pierced the silence again.

  “I have a torc! Lower the rope!”

  The guard nearest the grate turned to Hain, who gave a quick nod of permission. Dropping his spear, he hurried over to a length of rope that was secured on an iron ring at the base of the tower wall. Then he heaped it onto his shoulder and, arriving at the grate, lowered the slack into the gloomy darkness below.

  When Gladius finally emerged, puffing, panting, and soaking wet, from the grate, none of the slaves could stop themselves from smiling . . . especially when he flopped over onto the baking sand and lay there like a beached whale, spitting out plumes of water as the guards advanced on him.

  “Well?” Hain yelled as the jailer scurried down the ladder and hurried across the courtyard. “Which torc does he have?”

  One of the guards reached down and drew the necklace from the slave’s unresisting grip. However, it was quickly snatched by the jailer, who practically fell over himself in his determined dash to place it in Hain’s gloved hands.

  “This torc is the most finely crafted of those we placed below,” the assassin decreed. “Therefore, Gladius has earned the right to be executed by my OWN hand.”

  Ruma gasped, while Argon and Teo shared a horrified glance.

  On the sand, Gladius raised his head slightly and stared at the distant shape of the man who would end his life. The icy depths of the well would have provided a preferable end.

  Hain beckoned to the jailer and pointed at Argon, who was next in line.

  “My turn, then,” Argon muttered as Gladius was dragged back to the line and dumped unceremoniously onto the hot ground.

  CHAPTER II

  THE UPRISING

  The Caveat rocked back and forth on the rolling ocean. In the depths of the ship, Decimus and Olu were both feeling incredibly sick, but the crew was used to the rhythmic pitching of the deck, and their slaves were so exhausted that any mere sickness would have been a luxury. However, Decimus and Olu weren’t simply sick because of the ocean—they were recovering from shock. A few seconds before, a trapdoor had been flung open and a dead slave had been cast down into their hiding place, thrown aside like a used rag and left to rot.

  However, the slave deck itself didn’t have many better sights to offer.

  A scarred brute of a man stalked between the rowers, barking abuse and stopping occasionally to whip those that he felt weren’t pulling their weight. This amounted to just about anyone who wasn’t already bleeding, and, occasionally, the odd unfortunates who were already bleeding and had stopped rowing briefly to try to staunch the flow of blood from their backs.

  Arriving beside the smallest slave on the deck, the hulking crewman raised his whip and grinned. The victim rowed for all he was worth, throwing what little strength he had into the gesture. Unfortunately, it made no difference: The whip came down upon him, birthing a glistening line of blood on his back as the little man cried out in pain.

  The brute was about to follow his attack with a second strike when another crewman appeared at the entrance to the deck. This one was shorter and had a single eye. The brute was covered by a rough patch of skin. His hair was long and matted, and he walked with a stoop.

  “What do you want?” the brute boomed, lowering his whip as the second crewman approached.

  “Keys,” said the one-eyed slaver. “Captain thinks we’re turning too fast.” He cast a glance around the deck. “And it’s your fault.”

  “Yeah? How d’you work that out?”

  “Because you’ve put a stronger crew on the port side. We need to swap some of ’em over.”

  The big crewman looked around at the heaving slave lines and nodded.

  “Better get the keys, then,” he said.

  “Are you deaf? I came to get them from you. Captain says you took ’em this morning.”

  “I didn’t; haven’t moved anyone around so I never needed ’em. Maybe one of the others has ’em?”

  The one-eyed slaver nodded. “Who did you take over from?”

  “Barius.”

  “I’ll go and ask ’im.”

  The brute waited until the little crewman had disappeared, and then he turned back to the slave who was still cowering before him.

  “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?” he growled, raising the whip once again.

  Olu had been in the bilge all morning, trying hard not to be sick. He and Decimus had argued long and hard about which of them should sneak into the captain’s cabin and steal the keys. Decimus had won. Olu was quicker on his feet, but Decimus was stronger. At least if Decimus were caught he might stand a chance; Olu was still far too exhausted to fight anyone. Besides, the young warrior was BORN lucky: The arena trials had proven that. Olu himself had a far simpler but equally dangerous task ahead: He would have to distract the crew so that Decimus could
free the slaves.

  The ship lurched suddenly, and Olu felt his stomach churn. He steadied himself on a barrel and tried to breathe. It was no good. He still felt dreadful.

  Decimus appeared at the entrance hatch and quickly scrambled down the ladder.

  “I’ve got them,” he said, hurrying over to Olu and rattling the ring of iron keys. “The captain’s asleep. I sneaked around for a bit, and got a decent look over the ship. I was lucky, though—at one point I thought one of the deckhands had seen me.”

  Olu coughed, still clutching at his stomach. “So what are we dealing with?”

  “The crew is pretty standard,” said Decimus. “There are four working the deck and two on the sails. The one who runs the slaves is a real animal; must be bigger than a wild bear. There’s also an oily little wretch with one eye who seems to run around barking orders and getting in everyone’s way.”

  “And that’s all of them, is it?” Olu asked. “The entire crew?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Are you ready?”

  The slave whistled between his teeth and nodded.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  The hulking brute proceeded along the line, occasionally lowering his whip and actually driving a fist into the faces of the exhausted slaves. He was reaching the end of the deck when the little, one-eyed crewman reappeared, limping toward him with a mirthless expression on his weathered features.

  “You MUST have those keys,” he snapped. “I’ve spoken to Barius and he told me he put them back in the captain’s cabin.”