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."

"Yes, I can see that for myself, you idiot. The question is, why?"

"Perhaps she intends to say something, Your Grace?"

"Hmm. You know, I think you may be right. Wants to get in some last words, no doubt. Bugger, these fanatics tend to be the long-winded sort. Let's hope our imminent guest moves its scaly arse."

Down on the stadium floor, the object of their attention stood and regarded the packed stands surrounding her. Raising her sword above her head, she held it there for a moment before tossing the weapon away, it's silvery blade flashing and spinning in the bright sunlight.

"People of Dunaria!" Although faint, the young woman's voice was quite distinct. "My name is Shari and I am not here to fight."

Scattered boos emerged from the stands.

"Instead, I have come to enlighten you."

The boos increased.

Lady Genara rolled her eyes. "Here we go. Let's see which hare-brained delusion is flavour of the month."

"Our real enemy is not the dragon." The 'champion' removed her gauntlets. "But I will tell you who the real enemy is."

"This should be good." This time the aristocrat didn't bother to cover her yawn.

"The real enemy"—the young woman unbuckled her cuirass and let if fall to the sand—"is our very own high council!"

Lady Genara sat bolt upright. "Why, that little—"

"Oh, yes," continued Shari, "they play the role of our protectors, of our guardians, of our betters. But all they care about is themselves. Why else would they send us out here to die, time after time?"

"Scrumshanks, do we have archers in place who could take her out?"

"Yes, of course, Your Grace. But in front of an entire stadium of citizens?"

The aristocrat clenched her fists. "So, the treacherous cow has traded her life for the chance to speak. Where's that bloody dragon?"

Divested of her armour, clad only in a simple tunic and leggings, Shari turned and addressed the masses surrounding her. "They should defend us instead of offering us up for sacrifice. They should muster their forces and hunt the dragon down. They could put an end to this sick and twisted charade, if they decided to. Is that not what kind and just rulers would do? But they don't. And why not?"

"Who cares?" yelled one spectator

"Take off the rest of it, love," called another.

"Shut up and fight!" bellowed a third.

"I'll tell you why not," cried Shari. "They don't, because there's nothing in it for them." She raised her voice to be heard over the increasing boos and catcalls. "The don't because it's far easier and more profitable to simply let us die."

Scrumshanks pointed. "Look, Your Grace."

At the sight of the dark shape arrowing towards the stadium, Lady Genara's frown became a lazy smile. "And about time, too."

"You must listen to me!" Shari wiped away tears of frustration. "Listen, please!" When the jeering continued unabated, she stamped her foot. "Fine, don't bloody listen then. You're all a pack of useless morons, anyway, who wouldn't know the truth if came up and bit you on the arse."

After a moment's searching, she turned her attention on the occupant of the box high above her. "And then there's Lady High-and-Mighty-I'm-So-Bloody-Special Genara, with her permed hair and her pompous ways and her gilded stick up her gilded backside. She's nothing but a bloody parasite." Lady Genara felt the force of the girl's glare, even from that distance. "Mark my words, woman, your days are numbered."

The stadium darkened beneath the shadow of leathern wings, eddies of sand spiralling about Shari's legs, as the colossal beast descended from the blue sky above.

"And as for you, you great big scaly vermin" she cried, enraged and undaunted, pointing up at the monster as its jaws widened in anticipation of the fatal bite, "you can bloody well go to hell."

And in a flash of green, the dragon was gone.

Silence reigned. The stadium remained. The spectators remained. Shari remained, pointing upwards. But she pointed at nothing.

"She magicked it away." It was a child's voice that rang out from the hushed stands. "She beat the dragon. Hooray! Hooray for Shari!"

Lady Genara blinked. "Scrumshanks?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"What just happened?"

Looking down at the stadium, the servant took in the pandemonium breaking out in the stands. He took in the sight of Shari being hoisted onto the shoulders of her now adoring fans. He took in the angry-faced section of the mob making their purposeful way towards the box. He was forced to raise his voice to be heard above the rising waves of cheers.

"Well, Your Grace"—keeping the movement as surreptitious as possible, he began to edge towards the door—"it would seem you got screwed a littler earlier than planned."