Section F: Fairy Tales & Physicists

Interlude

Elsewhere, a little earlier...

"Who is today's sacrifice?"

The bespectacled man standing just behind the high-backed chair—the sole piece of furniture in the velvet-lined stadium box—wrung his hands.

"Champion, please, Lady Gelara—not sacrifice. You know the high council is very keen to maintain a positive spin on the contest. To keep the vibe upbeat and hopeful."

"Hopeful?" The woman seated in the chair, gowned and made up to perfection, the very image of regal dignity, blew a very undignified raspberry. "What a crock. Some poor sap versus that vicious, nightmarish hellspawn? I'm hopeful they last more than ten seconds, so the mob actually gets a bit of entertainment out of the whole debacle, but that's about it. Call it a contest all you like, but you and I know precisely what it really is."

"But, ma'am, surely you must concede at least the possibility the sacri-...the champion could win? Do not the legends tell of mighty warriors emerging victorious from their battles with the beast, far back in the mists of time?"

"Legends? Oh, please. I expected better of an experienced servant like you, Scrumshanks. This ain't no legend. And that"—the woman pointed down to the stadium floor—"sure as hell doesn't look like a mighty warrior to me."

Despite its sword and armour, there was no denying the diminutive figure trudging towards the centre of the sand-covered arena floor did not make for an imposing sight.

"Nope, sacrifice it is. Or trade, I guess. A business transaction, if you will. The price we pay to lessen the monster's attrition on the kingdom. And a very fair price it is, too. Livestock losses are down at least 20%, and all for the very reasonable cost of one worthless nobody every few weeks or so. All things considered, we're really quite fortunate that human flesh is so effective at sating its appetites. And that the great, overgrown lizard seems to understand the arrangement." The woman paused to drink from a silver chalice. "At least they remembered to give the snack a weapon this time. It's a little hard to maintain the charade of a contest when our supposed saviour is reduced to bad language and throwing rocks."

"Ah, yes." Scrumshanks cleared his throat. "The person responsible for that little oversight became the, uh...volunteer for the next bout. Needless to say the stadium staff have been more attentive to their duties since."

"Ha! I'll bet. So, to return to my original question, who's on the menu today?"

Scrumshanks consulted a piece of paper. "It appears we have a genuine volunteer, Your Grace. A young lady from the western provinces."

"A real volunteer?" Lady Gelara shook her head. "How these fools delude themselves. Idealists, Scrumshanks. Zealots. Saviours. Convinced that they're different, that they're special, that they're the chosen ones. The ones who will deliver the kingdom from the beast's curse. Braindead idiots, the lot of 'em. Still, at least it saves us having to persuade someone to volunteer. So much less messy."

"Indeed, ma'am."

"Anyway"—the woman stifled a yawn—"what's the latest from the lookouts? Lord Skump has a party tonight and I need to get some stretching in beforehand. That man's post-dinner orgies are legendary and I'm not as young as I once was."

"Uh"—the servant swallowed and tugged at his collar—"I...er...quite, Your Grace. Um, the beast was seen over the city's outskirts several minutes ago, ma'am. Its arrival should be imminent."

"I sincerely hope so. There's only so much tedium one can take. Hello, what's going on down there?"

"It would appear the champion is removing her helmet, ma'am."