Spectacle (Menagerie #2)(45)
If he won—and he would win if he fought—breaking his oath would kill him.
Regardless of the outcome, if Gallagher took the ring, he would die.
“And now...let the games begin!” Vandekamp threw his hands into the air, still holding the microphone, and the stadium erupted into applause. Mr. Arroway cheered around his mouthful of peanut butter, spewing crumbs all over his lap and the floor.
My stomach lurched toward my throat, and I had to swallow to keep from vomiting.
Vandekamp jogged out of the arena as the house lights dimmed even further, and I found myself holding my breath. A single spotlight appeared in the center of the arena, and the buzz from the audience swelled. I watched, fascinated, while two combatants were introduced. The first was an ogre in his midtwenties. He wore only a large loincloth, and in the close-up on a high-definition screen suspended above the arena, I could see that his body was scarred all over with whip marks and healed cuts and gashes. Several of those scars came from wounds that would easily have killed a human.
Yet this ogre was only the challenger.
His opponent, and the reigning champion in the “bipedal beast” category, was a giant in his late thirties, who towered over the ogre by at least three feet and outweighed him by a good two hundred pounds, by my best guess.
When they stood alone on the sand, facing each other, an eerie hush settled over crowd.
A high-pitched tone made my head ring, and even from Mr. Arroway’s box at the top of the stadium I could see the twin flashes of red when the combatants’ collars were stripped of all restrictions. Except, presumably, the one that would let them leave the ring.
The ogre and the giant ran at each other, massive lungs expanding with each breath, thick muscles bulging with every movement. They kicked up sand with each racing step, then crashed into each other near the middle of the ring, and the sound was like a clap of thunder. The impact sent a tremor through the arena, all the way up to the box where I stood.
The crowd roared its approval, hoisting overpriced bottles of beer and glasses of wine into the air, where the beverages sloshed onto patrons already drunk with anticipation, if not yet with alcohol.
Mr. Arroway leaned forward, littering the carpet with more crumbs, and shoved another cracker sandwich into his mouth, transfixed by every bloody blow, the full horror of which was captured in high definition on the screen overhead.
I made it through about ninety seconds of barbaric violence before I looked away in disgust, determined not to legitimize the savagery by granting it even one more set of eyes.
The gamekeeper wasn’t watching the match either. He was watching me.
Mr. Arroway was too absorbed by the fight to require any service, but the moment the house lights went down so they could drag the poor unconscious ogre out of the ring, he twisted in his seat to demand another beer and a bowl of butter-pecan ice cream.
Once again, the staff had anticipated his oddly specific request—I found an unopened pint waiting in the small freezer, as well as a bowl, scoop and spoon in the cabinet.
The second match pitted a manticore—a huge red lion with the tail of a giant scorpion—against a hydra—a snakelike dragon with multiple heads. This particular specimen only had two heads, which was the most common genetic variation, despite the fact that the topiary version in Vandekamp’s garden was of the rare seven-headed variety.
Though I watched as little of the fight as possible, I could tell every time blood was spilled based on the roar of the crowd, including Mr. Arroway’s inarticulate, full-mouthed grunts of pleasure.
Before the third and final round of the evening, I poured another beer for my client, but my thoughts were on the ring. I’d assumed Gallagher would face someone near his own size and strength and number of limbs, but what if I was wrong? Redcaps were truly fearsome warriors, but they weren’t fireproof, and they only had one head.
As I served the full stein, a spotlight appeared in the center of the ring again, where Willem Vandekamp had reappeared to introduce the final fight.
“As most of you have already read in your programs, tonight we are excited to bring something extraordinary to our finale—a creature brand-new to the Savage Spectacle’s stables—and we’re thrilled to be able to tell you that he is the only member of his species currently in captivity in the entire world. But we’re so confident in his ability to take down our reigning champion that rather than make him work his way up through the lesser fights, we’re going to start him at the top. Tonight he will either spill blood and emerge a champion or leave the ring in a box.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I present to you one of the least-studied varieties of fae, the only redcap confirmed to exist not just in captivity, but anywhere on the planet. Please put your hands together for our challenger...Gallagher!”
Delilah
A second spotlight appeared in the ring, and Gallagher stood in the middle of it, bound in enormous chains and staring at the ground. He wore only tattered black pants and his traditional red cap, his feet and enormously muscled chest and arms bared to the crowd.
For one long moment, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t feel or hear a thing. I couldn’t drag my focus from his form standing on the sand, until I realized the screen overhead offered a much closer look.
“No...” I murmured, and Woodrow stepped closer with his remote control in hand, anticipating whatever fit he thought I was about to throw. “Please don’t make him do this,” I whispered. “You don’t know what this will do to him. You don’t know anything about him.”