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The wolves were off in both directions, some racing towards the Tintagel soldier and the others towards the one from Lyonesse.
The soldier from Tintagel already had his blade unsheathed. It was a plain, worn sword, but he held it well. Keeping it steady in both hands, he moved in a circle, trying to remain with his back to the wolves.
As one of the beasts ran forward, he shouted and darted towards it, slicing its shoulder with his blade. It yelped and slunk back, letting the next beast try.
I looked at the other soldier. The man holding Excalibur was not doing nearly so well.
Instead, he seemed almost ensnared by his own weapon. As the wolves ran forward, the prisoner from Lyonesse tried to strike, but the blade seemed to pivot backwards when he wished it to go forwards. The wolves around him were still hesitating, but only because he was shouting fiercely at them, not because his blade had actually made contact.
I watched in horror as a bold wolf crept closer. The man seemed to be thrusting Excalibur forward with everything he had, but the sword would not go. It was as if the very essence of Excalibur rebelled against him.
I glanced down the row of seats to my right at where Arthur sat. He and Fenyx were hunched forward intently, watching the scene below while speaking to one another in low voices. I wondered what they were saying.
Shouts rang out from the crowd.
The soldier from Tintagel had bravely taken down one of the wolves, thrusting his weapon through its gaunt ribs. He plunged his blade towards a second wolf creeping up on him, but as he did so, another of the beasts leaped on him from behind.
With a panicked cry, he fell to his knees.
And that was all it took. In an instant, the rest of the wolves were on him.
Across the arena, the man bearing Excalibur had held the wolves off so far by simply holding the blade out in front of him.
Around and around he went, holding the blade thrust forward. But as the wolves grew bolder and one finally raced towards him, he could do nothing. We watched as he tried to strike the wolf and was again met with inexplicable resistance. It was a bizarre dance, the sword moving back when it should have moved forward, retreating when it should have struck true.
A ripple of horrified realization went through the crowd.
As the man with Excalibur flailed in vain, the starving wolves seemed to sense his impotence. Worse, they caught the scent of blood, their eyes darting across the arena to where their comrades slurped and sucked at the body of the Tintagel prisoner who lay prone in the sand.
The prisoner from Lyonesse cursed fruitlessly, lifting his voice to the sky. His face became more and more panicked.
And then, the wolves surged forward, a wave of fangs and fur.
The prisoner let out a bone-chilling cry, futilely raising his arms to shield his face as the frenzied wolves descended.
The shouts of the crowd quieted as the sickening sounds of tearing flesh filled the arena accompanied by the sickly-sweet scent of fresh blood.
I stole another look at my brother. His face was a mask of frustration. Clearly, he had been hoping for something more. Lifting his hand, he gestured to someone. Instantly, the air filled with the whistling of arrows again.
Before they could even finish their gruesome feast, the wolves were dispatched, dying with pitiful gasps and howls.
The crowd was displeased. A murmur of dissent filled the air. Whether the people had pitied the two prisoners or the wolves more, I could not have said, but certainly the spectacle had been disappointing.
Arthur and Fenyx seemed disappointed, too. They conferred in low voices. Then Fenyx stood up and gestured.
Immediately, Arthur's soldiers ran out from the arena gates, dragging away the dead men and dead wolves. A few more soldiers carrying brooms and rakes ran out and cleared the blood from the sand until no trace of the “entertainment” remained.
All was still for a moment. The crowd seemed tense and expectant. So was I.
Then the drums began to play again.
The arena, bathed in the hazy light of the setting sun, seemed to hold its breath as a long procession of prisoners was ushered onto the sand, the clinking of their heavy chains filling the air. The prisoners’ bodies bore the marks of beatings and deprivations. Some were older than Sir Ector. Others looked only a few years older than Kaye.
The herald who had played the trumpet earlier stepped forward again, his voice booming out over the crowd.
“People of Camelot, these prisoners of war are your enemies.” His voice cut through the air like a chilling wind. “Do not pity them, good people of Pendrath. Hold no compassion within your hearts for our foes. Our noble and gracious king, Arthur Pendragon, in his unceasing wellspring of benevolence has hereby decreed a singular chance. Whosoever wields the blade Excalibur and metes out the fate of death upon their fellow captives shall, in turn, be gifted with a rich boon. Life!”
Cheers and boos erupted from the crowd. Pity for the prisoners? Or did they think Arthur was being too lenient?
