I set a line directly for the northwest corner of the stadium, praying Evander’s right, that they haven’t shifted things. And I don’t even care if I’m letting on that I know something. I should be smarter about it, but the setup is all wrong. I’m supposed to be fightingwithRobin. So where the hell is he?
“Captain Verus, your four-time Deathball champion, who kills for the love of the sport. If anyone can free our captured soldier, it must be him.”
Trees engulf me as I try to work my way through the forest. It’s strewn thick with vines, the like I’ve never seen before. I can’t see the crowd, and they can’t see me, but that gives me the sense I’m safer here than anywhere else in the stadium, because they wouldn’t let them miss my death.
An excited roar breaks out, and I fumble for the dagger Evander gave me, cutting my way through the endless foliage, moving twice as fast as I could have without it.
The speaker switches on. “Looks like the first course is served.”
With that comes a blood-curdling cry. A scream of horror, of agony, and far closer than the crowd. I dash toward it, slicing vines where I can’t get through, trying to scramble beneath them, but it’s woven, like a net, to slow me, reaching all the way to the ground from the highest tree branches.
“Oh, that is a mess!” the speaker laughs. “Can Marco save our poor soldier from the same fate?”
It’s not Robin.
He’s safe.
For now.
The thought propels me on, through the dark and thick green, until finally I break through to a clearing, and there, the horror reveals itself in full.
Six crosses, erected bold and fearsome, all but one hung with a different man, every face hidden by an expressionless bronze mask, staring back at me in silent judgement.
And between us… the beast.
It’s a lizard, of sorts, but larger than any other creature I’ve ever seen. As big as the elephants depicted in the history books the Emperor shoves at me. A monstrous thing.
The men, erected high on their posts, strung with arms out wide, are easy prey for it. The first victim has already been snatched down, his entrails strewn across the sand as the animal rips into his still-twitching body.
“Now quiet, everyone,” purrs the announcer. “Weknow which one is our soldier, hidden among the condemned. But can Marco figure it out? He’s going to need all the help he can get if he’s to slay this beast. Because these gates don’t open until it’s dead.”
The great head of the creature whips around toward me as it cracks the head off its meal, the skullcap landing with a dull thud at my feet.
I take a step back toward the relative safety of the forest.
Five remaining men, one of them Robin. The rest must be from Victora Prison, sentenced to this public execution for the crowd’s pleasure.
Each one pulls at his restraints, the sun burning down on their almost-naked bodies, each dressed in a similar version of my own costume. Some with more leather across their chests, some with arm guards or leg guards, probably there to suggest the muscles I know Robin has.
Masks cover their hair, and each man is bedecked with golden jewelry, a mocking beauty at odds with the violence of the scene. But only one man has…
No.
The man in the very center, the tallest of them all, leans his head back, that beautiful long neck I know, adore, have kissed, adorned with one shining bronze slave collar.
Robin.
I slam the dagger into my wrist cuff, then bolt from the trees. The creature lets out a shriek as it spots my movement, turning fast, its gigantic tail spraying sand into the air. I circle back away from Robin as it swivels, putting itself between me and its feast. I dodge right, and it strikes, sharp teeth, each one the size of my hand, snapping closed at me.
Left, and it launches its head the other way, the stinking breath of a hungry carnivore enfolding me as I stumble back, just out of its reach.
A deep, guttural roar breaks from the creature, and the arena falls as silent as if it were training morning.
They can’t know I have the dagger. I can’t fight it yet. And there’s no Deathball in sight.
The fiddle, that maddening music, hastens to a crescendo, then that same tedious, sickening top note.
Gates crash open, a scream from the crowd, and that infernal announcer: “Oh dear, looks like some of Victora Prison’s foulest, most deranged prisoners have escaped into the arena. And they’re armed! How do you think they’ll feel about finding one of our own brave soldiers all alone in the forest, with no weapons?”
