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 CASTLE DERRINGTON, 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.
LAND LOOKED AROUND THE ROOM AS IF HE WOULD find something or someone to explain how his name could be written on anything, how anything at all could be meant for him. With trembling hands, he opened the envelope and began to read the first letter he had ever been sent.
You live in the ruins of a once-proud kingdom destroyed by greed and misguided ambition. But fear not – Decresian shall be restored. And it falls to you, Oland Born, to do so. On such young shoulders, it will prove astonishing how light this burden will be.
Your quest is to find the Crest of Sabian before The Great Rains fall, lest the mind’s toil of a rightful king be washed away.
In life, a father’s folly may be his son’s reward.
In case this letter were to fall into the wrong hands, to guide you, know this:
Depth and height
From blue to white
What’s left behind
Is yours to find.
Be wise in your choice of companion and, by nightfall, be gone.
In fondness and faith,
King Micah of Decresian
The letter was dated the night King Micah died. Oland reread his name on the envelope. He reread it in the letter. He was utterly bewildered. How could King Micah have ever known the name of a boy who was born after his death? Oland read the ki
ng’s words several times more and, each time, new questions arose. Where was Sabian? Why was its crest important to Decresian? Why was he chosen to find it? Oland thought of the homeless man in the village, how only a crazy man believed that The Great Rains would return. A crazy man and a dead king. Whose ‘mind’s toil’ was King Micah speaking of? Who was the rightful king? King Micah and Queen Cossima had had no children; Oland knew that to be the absolute truth. What father, what son was King Micah talking about? Why was he to leave before nightfall? How could King Micah have even known what night he would discover the letter? How could Oland possibly just leave everything to go on a quest?
But what was ‘everything’? thought Oland. For years, he had been praying for release from Castle Derrington, but had always thought it would be linked to his mother. Instead, a dead king had responded to his prayer.
Now, his choice was to trade a world he knew but hated for a world he did not know and feared.
But, thought Oland, is there any place on earth worse than Castle Derrington?
And from that simple question came the simple answer, No. There could be nothing in the wider world that could eclipse the fear he felt, festering, as he was, in the black walls of Castle Derrington. Outside, surely, there could only ever be more light.
Oland folded up the letter and put it back inside the play, sliding it between two other plays on the shelf. Villius would be looking for him in the great hall. Before he could go anywhere, he would have to show his face. But, as he made his way down the spiral staircase, his first surge of excitement was replaced with thoughts of his mother returning to find that no son had awaited her, even though, for fourteen years, he had.
Oland quickened his pace and darted across the courtyard. Most of The Craven Lodge had left the great hall, though it was still an hour to midnight. On the table, he saw the toppled candlesticks, and the rivulets of wax that had bled from them, now hardened. Oland patted his pocket for his knife then remembered he had left it in The Holdings when he had changed clothes after The Games. He grabbed a candlestick from the table, lit it and moved as quickly as he could along the hallway.
As he passed the throne room, he was startled to see a figure clothed in black emerging. He must have been six-and-a-half-feet tall. Only his eyes were exposed; the rest of his face and neck was swathed in layers of fine black gauze that did little to conceal the strange contours of his bones. Oland and he froze, inches from each other.
In a flash, the man reached out and pinched the wick of the candle to quench the flame. In the windowless hallway, the darkness was absolute.
“Oland Born…” whispered the man. When he spoke, the air was filled with the scent of cinderberry. Oland noticed that the gauze was glistening. It must have been soaked in cinderberry salve. This man, whoever he was, had been wounded.
“Who are you?” said Oland. “What do you want?”
“You,” said the man.
They heard footsteps behind them, and, shockingly close, the voice of Villius Ren calling for Wickham.
Before Oland could react, the man in black had dragged him into the throne room and closed the door. Oland thought his heart would explode from his chest. He was in the forbidden room, with an intruder, and Villius Ren was only seconds away.
The room stank of stale breath and rotting meat. Oland had often seen Villius Ren walking towards the throne room with a plate of food, and he wondered if what he was smelling now were his rotting leftovers. After all, even those who cleaned the castle were forbidden to enter the throne room.
“What do you want?” said Oland.
“Shh,” said the man. His left hand was clenching the back of Oland’s neck, pressing his cheek against the cold stone wall.
Outside, Villius Ren’s footsteps were drawing closer. By the jangle of chains, Oland knew that Viande was by his side. The relief was overwhelming; Villius would not be coming in unless he was alone. Oland could feel the intruder’s grip slacken a little, as if he too knew about the sanctity of the room. Oland took the chance to push back hard, breaking the man’s hold. He could feel the same overwhelming sensations he had felt in the arena, a surge of strength and focus. The man grunted, and stumbled backward.
“No!” he hissed. “No!” He reached out to grab Oland, but Oland used his forearm to block his advance. In one motion, he turned, raised his knee to his chest and slammed his boot down on the intruder’s knee, with enough force to drop him to the ground.
Oland pulled open the door, slipped into the dark hallway and ran. He heard the man come out after him; he heard him lock the throne room door. He wondered who he was, and how he could have stolen the key from Villius Ren.
The advice in King Micah’s letter came back to Oland: ‘by nightfall, be gone’.
N THE HOLDINGS, OLAND GRABBED HIS BAG, AND IN IT HE quickly threw his book, his play, his knife, a tinderbox and a change of clothes. He wrapped up the second plate of food and added that. He read the king’s letter one more time, then put it in his breast pocket. He had hoped it would fill him with belief, or courage, or inspiration, but all he felt was sorrow and uncertainty. He looked down at his tin soldiers. His latest addition, bought from a stall in the market, stood holding an arquebus to his shoulder. Oland had never seen a real arquebus before; he doubted that anyone in Decresian had. He admired this new, magical weapon that fired balls of lead, and meant a soldier could be more than a sword’s swipe away.
Oland took the soldier and put it in his pocket for good luck. He left his room, locked the door and put the key in his bag. He was ready. Villius would be about to leave and The Craven Lodge wouldn’t be far behind him. At that moment, the nine hundred and ninety-nine screaming souls began their wailing, as if reassuring Oland it was the right time to go. He thought of his mother coming back for him, but he shook the thought away.
Then, rising over the screaming souls, Oland heard a tormented, wolf-like howl. He ran to the tiny window and looked down. He could see nothing or no one to explain it. He ran down the spiral staircase and along the hallway to the great hall. A chill overcame him, and he went to button his tunic at the neck. The button was gone. It must have broken off the previous night when Villius had pushed him towards the flame of the candle in the great hall.
As he was about to turn the corner, he heard the voices of Wickham and Viande. He stopped to watch their distorted reflections in a shield that was mounted on the wall. He had placed and polished shields on almost every busy corner of the castle, so he could see – and perhaps avoid – what lay ahead.
“I am telling you, he has gone insane,” said Viande, tapping his chubby fingers against the side of his head. “Those were the howls of a man gone roxley! This place is possessed! And I am telling you he said to me not to let the boy live one more night.”
“What?” said Wickham.
“I’m telling you Villius insisted ‘not one more night’!” said Viande. “I’m not going near him. You saw what he did in that arena! How am I to—”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand this,” said Wickham. There was panic in his voice. “I thought Villius wanted Oland bound in slavery to this castle for life. Why else would he have me invent a ridiculous tale to keep him here: oh, his tragic birth, and how one day his mother would return to claim him…?”
A fierce pain swelled in Oland’s chest. Everything he had believed about his birth was the product of a storyteller’s imagination. All the ideas Oland had ever had about who his parents might be were now worthless: anyone could be his father; anyone could be his mother. They could be living or dead, they could be looking for him, or they could have abandoned him with no further intentions. For six years, he had built hopes on these words, he had built a future on them. And now he could feel something deep in the pit of his stomach replace them: a dull and powerful aching anger.
It was at this moment that Oland knew he would never again spend a night in Castle Derrington. But one day he would return. And on that day the beast he would slay would be
a man named Villius Ren.
Wickham had trailed off. Oland could see why. Villius, looking more enraged than Oland thought possible, appeared in front of them, wild-eyed. His hair was flat and damp against his skull, his face greasy and ghostlike.
“Villius,” said Wickham, taking a step back. “Is everything—”
“What are you still doing here?” he roared. “I told you to go, didn’t I? I told you to leave! Is it that whatever I tell people to do, they do the opposite now?”
“Of course not, Villius,” said Wickham. “I was merely waiting to ask you if there were any territories in particular—”
“Everything is destroyed!” said Villius. “Everything is destroyed! Look!” He was holding up something small. “Look!”
Oland couldn’t make it out in the mottled reflection.
“A button?” said Viande.
“You don’t understand!” said Villius. “It’s Oland Born’s button! It was on the floor in my throne room! He was in my throne room! Everything has been destroyed!”
The intruder, thought Oland. He must have ripped it off when he grasped my neck!
“He left it unlocked!” said Villius. “He left it unlocked!” He was utterly crazed.
Oland was puzzled. The throne room door had been locked. He had heard the distinctive rattle behind him as he fled the intruder. But, as was often the case, paranoia had perhaps clouded Villius’ judgement.
Of course, he had not been completely wrong. Oland had been in his throne room. But what could possibly be inside that would cause an intruder so much interest, and Villius Ren so much rage at its disturbance?
Oland’s heart was pounding louder than the screaming souls, louder than the inhuman howls of Villius Ren, louder than his own footsteps as he ran down the hallway, ran through the stables, ran across the grounds and out into the world he did not know, but feared.
Curse of Kings (The Trials of Oland Born, Book 1) Page 3