Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) (4 page)

ESPITE THE MISERY OF HELPING TO SLAUGHTER THE
animals he had so carefully tended, Oland found relief in avoiding the cruel spectacle of Villius' version of The Games. But, when the ninth round ended, he was summoned to the arena. The sky had darkened and the sun was beginning to set. Oland stood where he was ordered to, in the shadow of the royal box.

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.

LAND
B
ORN LOST ALL SENSE OF HIS STATION
. H
E
started to run along the barrier towards Malachy, who was now stumbling wildly around the arena. As Oland reached him, Malachy turned his way with the terror of a thousand men in his eyes. The panther drew back on his hind legs. Oland watched as the butcher went limp and dropped to the ground, his arms over his head, his body curled into a ball, his eyes shut.

Oland was possessed by something that he had no time to comprehend. Before he realised what he was doing, he had jumped up on to the barrier, and was roaring. The panther spun towards him, whipping up a cloud of dust. The crowd gasped. A man who was clutching his young son to his chest reached out with his other hand to pull Oland back. But Oland broke free and he jumped into the arena. The panther pounced, but, as he moved through the air, Oland rolled underneath him, and was quickly on his feet. He reached down for the butcher's sword.

The panther pounced again, his jaws gaping. Oland vaulted into the air, wielding the sword above his head, swinging it swiftly downward, slicing through the animal's flesh. The panther howled. Oland stared, horrified at the depth of the wound; he had almost halved him. The panther slumped to the ground where he writhed briefly, whimpered, then died.

Oland could not speak. The first sound he heard was that of the sword hitting the ground as it slid through his sweat-soaked palm. The second was the thanks that coughed out of the fallen butcher. The third sound – the loudest – came from the cheering crowd. But it was short-lived; they quickly fell silent as the dungeon gates were opened and two more panthers were released.

As if possessed, Oland picked up his sword in one hand and, with the other, grabbed Malachy Graham and dragged him to the barriers, where people rushed to haul him over to the other side.

Oland ran towards the centre of the arena, drawing the panthers away from the crowd. He turned and roared as he ran towards them, swiftly engaging them in a converging fight. The battle between them was a blur of sword and blood. First one fell, then the other. And, in minutes, it was over.

The three panthers lay dead in the arena and, beside them, stood Oland Born, rigid in the smoking torchlight. The crowd was as silent as six in the morning. Oland felt as if he were among them, a spectator watching a boy he did not know. Slowly, their cheers filled the night sky. Oland's eyes were fixed on his own bare feet, mesmerised by the dark blood spattered across them. It led to a rich crimson pool that spread from beneath the animals. A violent image of a ferocious, towering beast flashed into Oland's mind, and his chest started to heave.

Cries broke out across the arena and, when Oland looked up, a boy no older than him was being wrestled from the crowd by a guard. He had short, choppy black hair and fierce, dark eyes that were almost black. He fought hard, struggling against the guard's bulging arm around his waist. Oland wondered what the boy had done. He watched as the guard carried him up to the last step. The boy struggled one last time. He raised his arm, tensed it, tightened his hand into a fist, then sent a sharp elbow backward into the stomach of the guard. The man's face contorted and he dropped him. A smile broke out across the boy's face and it was transformed. Oland's eyes shot wide. He knew then why the boy was being kicked out. For he was not a boy at all. He was a girl. A very pretty girl, in fact. And then she was gone.

A loud bell tolled over the uproar, until the still-cheering crowd was quietened. Villius Ren gestured for Oland to approach the royal box. Oland didn't move. Villius beckoned him again. Oland moved slowly towards him.

“People of Decresian,” roared Villius, “are we witnessing the historical first meeting of slavery and bravery?” He laughed loud.

The crowd was utterly silent as Oland walked up the steps to the royal box and stood beside Villius. Oland's heart pounded. He looked out at the people of Decresian. He knew that they had been cheering not because he had taken lives, but because he had saved one.

A rumbling noise grew from the crowd.

Ignoring it, Villius laid his hands on Oland's shoulders and turned him slowly towards him. He leaned down and whispered into his ear: “I will enjoy seeing if you can clean up the mess that will be the rest of your life.”

Oland thought about his mother and father, their goodness and badness, the terrible circumstances in which he was born: a night of violence and betrayal, of murder and flames and loss. Could any good come of a child born amid such devastation? Would misfortune forever shadow him?

A man's voice echoed from across the arena: “Champion!”

Another voice joined it. “Oland Born! Champion!”

And another. “Champion! Champion!”

“Enough!” roared Villius, raising his head, his eyes wild. “Enough! Enough! Enough!”

He was still gripping Oland's shoulders. His fingertips were white. As he pulled away, he locked eyes with his young servant.

In that moment, Oland could have sworn he saw, in the eyes of Villius Ren, a spark of fear.

HAT NIGHT, AT
C
ASTLE
D
ERRINGTON, THE BANQUET
had the grim air of a celebration that had persisted in the face of tragedy. The Craven Lodge shifted in their seats as Oland served them, nudging against plates and tankards, making no secret of the fact that they were inviting a transgression. Oland had hoped his earlier strength would stay with him, but the truth was that, amid the hostility, he felt nothing but weakness. He had saved a life, drawn more attention to himself than he could bear, and the only place he wanted to be was alone in The Holdings.

Villius Ren was turned towards Wickham as Oland passed.

Wickham was speaking. “Yes, Villius,” he was saying, “for how long?”

“No more than a week,” said Villius. “I suppose you could call it a commission. I am anticipating the arrival of many dignitaries to Decresian. They will expect after-dinner tales that reflect a more… Envarly view. Settings that go beyond small tales of Decresian.”

Oland could see Wickham's jaw clench and unclench rapidly.

“We must show these dignitaries that we understand their culture…” said Villius.

Wickham leaned to the side to allow Oland to fill his goblet. “Perhaps, Villius, as an alternative,” he said, “I could speak with the countless soldiers you have taken from all these dignitaries' homelands… and have them enlighten the dark recesses of my tiny mind.”

Oland's arm froze between Wickham's shoulder and Viande's on the other side. He had never heard Wickham so bold. He glanced at Villius Ren to see his reaction.

At first, Villius was silent. “You may leave immediately,” he said, after a moment. He stood up and walked away. This came as no surprise to Oland. Villius Ren delivered orders, never expecting them to be questioned, so he often left without registering a response. It was, in fact, Wickham's reaction that surprised Oland: he was sitting motionless, with an expression of utter panic on his face.

As Oland moved on to Viande, Wickham jumped up and fled. Viande had pushed back his chair and positioned himself with one leg bent to the side, the other one straight out in front as if he were poised to trip someone up. He had been throwing Brussels sprouts into the air and catching them in his mouth, and he was now gnawing on a bone, drooling, snorting through his cavernous nostrils. He came to a piece of gristle and he growled, spitting it out with such force that it shot forward, striking Oland's face, where it hung briefly from his jaw, then fell. Oland's stomach turned. He rushed from the room, ignoring the familiar discord of The Craven Lodge's laughter.

 

Oland scrubbed his face at the kitchen sink and, while he was there, took two plates of leftovers to eat in The Holdings – the second to keep for later that night. The Craven Lodge would not miss him for half an hour, and, certainly, he would not miss them. He took out his tinderbox and lit a small fire. He sat on a stool beside it with a plate on one knee and
The Banon Servant
open on the other. As he turned to the page where he had left off, something slipped from the play and fell to the floor. He glanced down. It was a teal-coloured envelope, sealed in gold wax stamped with the intricate royal D of Decresian. Teal and gold were the colours of King Micah's reign. Oland set his plate and the play on the floor, wiped his hand on his napkin and picked up the envelope. He turned it over. He froze. There was a name written across it. And the name was Oland Born.