Free The Rebels' Assault by David Grimstone Page 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 murky 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.
    â€œMaybe it’s better this way,” Ruma muttered. “For Gladius, I mean. He would never have—”
    â€œOut! 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