Читать книгу Curse of Kings - Alex Barclay - Страница 12

LAND BORN LOST ALL SENSE OF HIS STATION. HE 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.