All the greater, then, is Radelfer’s admiration for Adelwülf when, seeing that his father has caused his friends, his “comrades,” to become thus silently fearful, the youth finally frees himself from his father’s grip, takes a few steps from the concrete pillar, and spits into the sand, declaring loudly:
“Yes—Father! And why should we not declare ourselves the equals of such men? What would you know of it? When have you ever faced the dangers of the arena, perils undertaken without the armor and heavy weaponry your precious legions take with them whenever they go into battle? You bully my friends and me with your position and power, but what do you know of mortal danger, as you sit in you tower and count our clan’s money, plotting new ways for other men to see to the safety of this city and this kingdom? I have endured this humiliation long enough — give me some proof that you yourself are the equal of those legionaries of whom you speak, and perhaps I will listen to more; but if you cannot, put an end to this endless dissatisfaction with those who risk their safety and honor upon these sands, as Kafra’s priests long ago taught them was a righteous way to prove their devotion to the tenets of the golden god!”
A few daring members of the crowd about the arena dare applaud this defiant and unprecedented outburst — until, that is, the Merchant Lord again turns his deathly stare upon each section of the benches and stalls. As for Radelfer, his satisfaction at Adelwülf’s daring is quickly extinguished by the strange look of satisfaction that enters his lordship’s face. There is no admiration in the gaze, no sense that Rendulic Baster-kin has finally provoked a manly response from the son who has so eternally disappointed him; rather, it is the aspect of a man whose final lingering doubts about a course of action he has been debating in his own mind have been silenced.
“Well,” Baster-kin says, in a much more even yet no less menacing voice. “Perhaps I have been mistaken, then. Perhaps all of you are more than capable of taking your place among the ranks of men who must, at this hour of need, defend our kingdom. And yet …” The Merchant Lord takes a few steps away from Adelwülf, then raises a hand to signal to the attendant with whom he had spoken earlier. “I shall require, I fear, some demonstration of courage and valor greater than words, before I can accept you”—he glances at his son, then up into the crowd—“before I can accept any of you, as actual warriors.”
A commotion becomes audible from one of the doorways that lead down to the maze of cages and storage rooms beneath the arena; and before long, the attendant and two of his fellows appear, each holding the end of a separate length of chain with one hand and a spear in the other. The three long sections of chain all meet at a common end: a heavy iron collar, one that surrounds and (from the look of the missing fur and the irritated skin beneath) has long surrounded the neck of a large Davon panther.
The animal is a female, one who has grown mature but far from defeated during many years of imprisonment within the Stadium. She attempts occasionally to lash out at one or another of the handlers, if he lets his section of chain go too slack, but has become wise enough to avoid the prodding spearheads that are thrust forward in response to these outbursts of anger. That she is unusually large is easy to determine; less so is the true color of her coat, given the filth that she has been forced to live in for so long. To one with an experienced eye, able to see through such discoloration, it would yet be possible to determine, from the parts of her body that she can and does clean with care, that the fur is unusually golden, perhaps even containing a silver or white tint that makes it catch the light of surrounding torches and braziers in an unusual way.
One identifying characteristic, however, is plain for all to see: the unusually light, even brilliant, green of the eyes, which seem to peer directly into the heart of whichever human she fastens her gaze upon.
“So,” Adelwülf says, as the animal becomes visible. “I might have known. The eldest of our panthers. It is the female that you brought from Davon Wood, years ago. Or so we are told.”
“Yes,” Baster-kin says, taking several steps toward the animal as it draws close to the concrete pillar. “And how have you treated a beast that had more heart than you possess now when she was but young? Locked her away in the cells beneath this ridiculous theater, and allowed her to be attended by such men as these — although, whatever their seksent shortcomings, they are likely superior to the useless children of wealth who surround me now …”
Adelwülf is only paying partial attention to his father’s latest tirade, for he has noticed a curious thing: the panther, always known among the Stadium’s athletes as one of the most dangerous and bloodthirsty of the beasts kept therein, seems to recognize the Merchant Lord, even these many years later, despite his infrequent trips to the place; more remarkable still, she shies away from him when he draws close. It is not the sight of any weapon that frightens her, for Baster-kin, while he keeps his right hand upon the pommel of his short-sword, does not draw it; no, whatever fear his lordship inspires is caused by his steady gaze and his voice, which seem to create in the panther’s mind the idea that the tragedy he inflicted upon her family in Davon Wood so long ago will somehow be replayed in this very different place these many years later.
“Chain the animal!” Baster-kin orders the attendants, who begin to fix their three lengths of iron links to one great loop of similar metal that is sunk deep into the concrete of the pillar. The men then dash off as quickly as they can, each pausing only long enough to catch one of the three pouches of silver coins that Baster-kin tosses to them. “And you, whelp,” Baster-kin says, turning on his son. “Select your favored weapon — for if I am any judge, you will need it, and soon …”
Adelwülf smiles at this comment, for he apparently believes he is to be tested by the Stadium’s usual standards, against a beast of great power whose chains will prevent her from doing him any real harm. Seeing this, several of Adelwülf’s “comrades” dare dash out onto the arena’s sands, each bearing a different weapon — the long spear of the southernmost tribes, the usual Broken short-sword, a single-headed axe of the northern variety — that he believes their friend must use to impress his father, not only with his own abilities, but with the prowess of all the athletes in the Stadium. Adelwülf, however, only smiles in appreciation to these young men, taking little note of their weapons; rather, he waits for one young woman in particular, a singular Broken beauty, who bears upon her upturned hands a gleaming blade of the later Lumun-jani style: longer than the short-sword by a hand or two, with a tapered blade. As Adelwülf accepts the weapon and exchanges words of affection with the woman, Lord Baster-kin walks with purpose to the edge of the arena, a look of the same unhealthy delight upon his face. He seeks out Radelfer, whose own face, his lordship is happy to see, still displays deep apprehension.