He was reading a play called The Banon Servant, about a servant boy who bravely faced his master’s taunts. Oland wished he had his courage and was eager to read what became of him. The light in the dungeon suddenly dimmed. Oland pushed the play back into his bag. In the entrance ahead, Villius Ren stood blocking out the sun.
“Get over here,” he roared. As Villius walked down the steps, the light again streamed in. Barely breaking his stride, he slapped Oland across the face.
“You will never run from me again,” said Villius.
Oland nodded.
“Speak!” said Villius. “Find your tongue! There’s nothing more pathetic than a cowering mute.” But he didn’t even wait to hear Oland. “Now, show me the starving monsters you have made me…”
Oland’s heart pounded. Barely half an hour had passed since the animals had eaten their largest meal of the week. They were curled up and resting in the back of their cells. Oland’s hands were still stained with the blood of the meat he had fed them.
Villius Ren walked past the cells, studying each animal. He rattled some of the bars, and got little response.
“They are weak with hunger,” said Oland.
“They should react,” spat Villius.
“There are bars between you,” said Oland. “They know that it’s pointless to attack.”
In a flash, Villius grabbed Oland by the wrists and held up his palms.
“Weak with hunger…” said Villius. As he spoke, each word was lengthened, its delivery darkly mocking. “Yes. That explains why a ravenous beast wouldn’t rush to feast on the blood-stained hands of a foolhardy boy.”
He flung Oland’s hands from his grip. “I’ll have Viande slaughter these worthless beasts… and you will help him.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you nothing to say?”
“I… I’m sorry,” said Oland.
“I… I… I…” spat Villius, pushing his face closer and closer to Oland’s. “Ha! Look at you – you’re paler than Wickham.” If Villius could insult more than one person at a time, it gave him great pleasure.
He spun around and walked away, leaving Oland staring after him, deeply ashamed of the single trickle of cold sweat that ran down his side.
The voice of Villius Ren boomed from above.
“Guards, for our final round, remove the females from the arena.”
The crowd was silenced by his feigned chivalry: Villius Ren excusing women from watching violent scenes of his own making, and standing in front of the Decresian people whose lives he had destroyed, to offer them entertainment of the kind only a twisted few sought.
Oland always knew enough of The Craven Lodge’s plans to fulfil his role as servant, but never enough that he could not be surprised by new ones hatched in his absence. Without the slaughtered beasts, Oland no longer knew what Villius Ren would do for the final round.
Around the arena, The Craven Lodge began to light torches as lines of women and girls were guided roughly along their rows.
“Oland Born!” whispered Villius, leaning over the edge of the box, stretching a hooked, gloved finger towards him.
Oland turned and looked up at him. “Yes, master?”
“I thought perhaps you might clean up after our next event. I’ll be watching, of course, because it appears that working unsupervised is something of which you are incapable.”
Oland had no plans to reply, until Villius’ eyes continued to bore into him. “Yes, master,” he said.
“You don’t have much ambition, do you?” said Villius. “There is not much point to you. But you do have a moderate talent for cleaning up. At the very least, I can remind you of that.”
He stood up straight, and gripped the edge of the royal box.
“Gentlemen!” he roared. “It is time for a test of… Agility! Time for a champion to step forward! For a true leader, one who can be declared the champion of all champions, and forever be seen as the ultimate power in Envar, someone the Kingdom of Decresian can look to with pride!”
It was clear to everyone that Villius Ren was setting himself up to garner this impressive string of accolades, because he would never bestow such praise on another man. Whatever he had planned, he was confident that he would be victorious.
Oland looked around and realised how easy that would be – there appeared to be no remaining contenders. Not one man had made it through the earlier rounds.
“I promised you a spectacle,” roared Villius, “and a spectacle I will deliver!”
To Oland’s left, at the entrance to the dungeons, a chained panther slowly made his way into the arena, dragging two guards behind him. As he struggled wildly against them, a shaft of torchlight struck the protruding contours of his ribs. Without warning, a thickset man was thrown into the arena from the gates at the opposite side. He was clearly no athlete. He appeared to be a simple villager, a hairy, stocky man, with a huge belly and small wide feet that turned inward. He was holding a sword as if for the first time.
As he came closer, Oland was struck by a sickening recognition. It was the butcher, Malachy Graham.
“Tonight,” roared Villius, thrilled by the rippling fear before him, “our panther will confront his opponent, a gentleman you may recognise as one who is used to slaughtering animals. Shall we see the panther’s fine haunches on his market stall by morning?” He laughed, joined only by The Craven Lodge, then gestured for the animal’s release.
The guards struggled again with the panther’s chains, fighting to keep their balance. When he was finally set free, he stood, blinking in the fading light, casting a long shadow across the dusty earth. Then, snarling and grunting, his belly close to the ground, he moved, painfully slowly, towards his prey.
Malachy Graham trembled before him, smelling, as he always did, of blood.
