131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Bone cracked.

  Borchus retreated from the display, wary of the widening pool of blood and conscious of his good boots. The stones had been well dappled, and Borchus found himself stepping back a few more paces, minding where he placed his feet. He had no issue with Garl avenging painful memories upon the dead predator. Borchus would’ve done the very same thing. He looked up and took in the night, appreciating the starry heavens and trying hard to ignore the disturbing pummelling in front of him.

  When the spy exhausted himself, he fell back against the wall, breathing heavily.

  Borchus regarded the stones and sighed. There’d be no escaping that mess. “All done?”

  Garl nodded.

  “Care to stomp on those final pieces? Hm? Shatter them just a little more?”

  “That’s unfit.”

  “Well, you’ve gone halfway on the poor bastard. Why stop now?”

  “I’m tired.”

  Borchus shrugged and glanced around. “Well, then. Suppose I should’ve expected to get dirty this night.”

  “You mean there’s a clean way to do a stabbing?”

  The agent leveled a look at his companion, not appreciating the sarcasm. “Where’s this grate you talked about?”

  Garl waved a hand. “Behind you.”

  The agent turned and spotted it. “Damnation. I should have stabbed him back here.”

  “Well, whose fault is that?”

  “Nobody’s fault. Just stating the obvious. The man’s huge.”

  “The man’s a punce.”

  “Yes, well, he’s a dead punce now.”

  “You don’t understand––”

  “Yes, yes.” Borchus cut him off, not wanting to hear it. Seddon above, Garl could prattle on once he got started. “Why don’t you go to the corner there and keep watch? Send any wanderers on their way.”

  Borchus struggled with a grip on the iron grate. Once he had his hands in place, he pulled the porous barrier free, exposing the dark hole.

  “Will he fit?” Garl asked.

  The agent sighed. “Not right now.” He brandished his shortsword. “But give me a moment.”

  Drawing back from the sight, Garl collected himself and righted his crutches. He moved further away from the smaller man and stopped at the corner, peering down its deserted length. Fabric ripped wetly behind him. Limbs thumped, and gastric delights slipped from holes.

  Garl lifted a hand to his nose.

  “He smells worse dead.”

  “Yes, well,” Borchus said in a strained whisper. “Be even worse in a few moments. He’s isn’t going to be buried in flowers, this one.”

  There was a meaty whuk, followed by a short period of silence.

  “Well, dying Seddon,” Borchus swore.

  “What?” Garl turned and saw the man poised above a dark lump.

  “The bastard’s bones are thick too.”

  “You should’ve brought an axe.”

  “Or a saw.”

  “Or a saw.”

  “Oh.” Borchus winced, the raw smell of offal offending his finer senses. “That’s simply terrible.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Just keep watch. I’ll finish this. Oh. Dying Seddon. Dying Seddon.”

  Steel filleted flesh. Fluids spattered stone. Sinews snapped, and bones splintered. Garl screwed up his face at the butchery at his back and kept his eyes focused on the alleyway.

  Then everything stopped.

  “Garl.”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s this?”

  “Hm?” Garl turned around and saw the bloody torso in front of the glistening hole, the shirt ripped free of its back. The pallid flesh gleamed despite the gloom of the high walls, revealing the intricate drawings etched into the skin all the way down to the man’s wrists.

  Borchus stood above the carnage and glared.

  “Oh.” Garl swallowed.

  “Who is this man?”

  “He’s a pisser––”

  “These markings make him an important pisser!”

  Garl fidgeted and nervously licked his lips. “There’s been whispers. Rumors.”

  An impatient Borchus waved him to get on with it.

  “We never knew exactly,” Garl explained. “No one did. There was only Strach. But sometimes, there might have been two or three others with him.”

  Borchus sighed with dawning realization. “He’s part of a gang.”

  Garl didn’t say a word.

  “We’ve killed a punce belonging to a gang,” Borchus repeated, inspecting the bleeding body at his feet. He shook his head in disbelief. “Dying Seddon, take me now.”

  “You don’t know…” Garl whispered.

  “How many?”

  Garl clearly didn’t understand.

  “How many are in this gang?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right,” Borchus huffed. “Which gang? It’s been a while, so refresh my memory.”

  Garl didn’t immediately respond. Recognizing hesitation when he saw it, Borchus scrunched up his brow and dredged his memory for names. “The Twisted Pikes?”

  “Long gone.”

  “The Fists? Zarbastus?”

  “No. Neither.”

  “Cholla?”

  Garl stiffened and held his tongue.

  An incredulous Borchus arched his head back on his shoulders. “Cholla’s pack still exists?”

  “Cholla’s long dead,” Garl said. “But his sons have taken over the family trade.”

  “Cholla’s sons?”

  Garl shrugged. “They call themselves the Sons of Cholla now.”

  “Why not?” Borchus scratched his brow, feeling sick to his stomach.

  “Most of the gangs and cutthroats were crushed by the Sons years ago,” Garl continued in a whisper. “They rule the undercurrents of Sunja without challenge. Well, until recently. A while ago, a pack of Sujins entered the black trades.”

  “Sujins?”

  “Aye that. Right and proper evil animals. They bled just as many men as the Sons. Perhaps even more.”

  “How could Sujins be doing this?”

  “I don’t know.” Garl groaned miserably. “I’ve only heard whispers. They don’t rightly walk around in armour when they’re breaking necks or digging out tongues.”

  Borchus supposed that made sense. “All right then. What about these Sons of Cholla?”

  “As I’ve said, some whisper that they control most—if not all—of Sunja’s undercurrents, that they’ve tortured, stabbed, and throat-slit all their adversaries or meddlers and disposed of them. At least to the point where any survivors fled the city.”

  A reflective Borchus regarded the body once more.

  Garl nodded at his reaction. “The Sujins, however, they keep to the shadows, and there are rumors they have influence over the Street Watch. Some say the Sons have an agreement with the Sujins. Others say each pack is aware of the other and are already wrestling for control over certain areas of the city. But it’s all either rumors or outright lies.”

  A wave of dizziness assailed Borchus, and he struggled to clear his head. The smell wasn’t helping, so he started pushing Strach’s cut-up carcass into the sewer. He kicked at shoulders and wrestled with flopping arms. The body sank deeper into the ground. Sections that didn’t fit entirely required more effort, so Borchus cut off the troublesome parts, his breath becoming gasps and curses.

  Garl watched the alley, ensuring no one approached while this gruesome work continued.

  In short time, Borchus released the dead man’s legs, and the body slipped from sight. A distant splash echoed far beneath the streets. He stood over the chute and marveled at its depth.

  “I can see why Strach chose this place to rid himself of bodies,” he said with a touch of disdain. “This hole must be directly over a drop in the sewers. It’s quite deep.”

  “We should be going.”

  Borchus inspected himself. He stripped off his stained vest and the white tu
nic underneath, exposing a body not yet fattened by age. He bunched the clothing into a ball, swipe-cleaned his blade, and dropped the bloodied garments into the sewer.

  Garl glanced back. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying not to look so much like a butcher,” Borchus said, naked from the waist up but much cleaner. He returned his shortsword to his scabbard and replaced the heavy grate over the sewer chute.

  “You still have the trousers,” Garl pointed out.

  Borchus joined him at the corner. “And the boots. All of which you’ll be replacing. Don’t worry about the cost. My tastes aren’t so grand. You can pay me out of your wages.”

  Garl kept his mouth shut.

  “And, Garl?”

  The spy regarded him.

  “Don’t ever do this to me again.”

  Borchus glowered at his henchman, waiting until the man reluctantly nodded. For a fleeting moment, the agent wasn’t so sure if he should trust Garl. Suspicion could rot a man’s mind, so he made the mental effort and pushed it aside. Having done that, he led his one-legged companion out of the alley of death.

  It had been too long a day.

  And a murderous night.

  2

  Under the same night sky, three wagons rattled through unmoving fields of tall grass, breaking the quiet with creaking wheels, squeaking wood, and half-hearted flicks of reins. A single horseman with a torch held high guided the wagons along the pockmarked road. The first wagon’s driver glanced away from his team of four horses and cast his attention toward the starry horizon, where shadowy islands of forest sprouted from vast plains. A wheel dipped into a deep rut, and the driver shifted in his seat, turning his gaze to what lay ahead.

  The passengers crammed into the rear of the vehicle huddled without conversation, their faces somber as they reflected on the past few days’ events. Their dead filled the last wagon in the tiny procession.

  Clavellus sniffed, swiped a trembling hand over his face, and glanced at Machlann sitting across from him. The trainer’s eyes drooped with sleep. Koba sat beside him, a motionless lump of scarred muscle. Goll was across from the big trainer on Clavellus’s right. None of them spoke. Words felt like lead, so no one bothered with them.

  Tumber dead.

  Kolo dead.

  Sapo deserted.

  Of the three, the desertion bothered Clavellus the most. Sapo’s intimate knowledge of the Ten’s house fighters would be a concern. It wasn’t unheard of for a warrior to leave one house for another, but it was understandably rare. Gladiators remembered those breaking ties and took it personally, if not with vicious intentions. The brutal consequences of such perceived betrayals swayed most men from ever switching houses. Clavellus recalled one hellpup, who amazingly changed houses twice before being butchered upon the sands in exceptionally violent fashion.

  Gladiators remembered. That alone kept most from ever changing houses.

  But every now and again, one attempted to do that very thing.

  The wagon’s jostling stirred the taskmaster’s thoughts. Clavellus knew Borchus would keep track of the big Sunjan’s whereabouts. The House of Ten would meet Sapo another day, of that the old taskmaster had no doubts. It would not be a pleasant reunion.

  Pushing Sapo from his mind, Clavellus returned to happier thoughts. The House of Ten had taken more victories than losses, and even with Junger sparing his opponent, a message had been sent. The house would give as good as it received. Clavellus’s shaking hand hid his little smile. He couldn’t wait to tell his wife the news. Nala would hate it.

  Clavellus smoothed the white bush covering his jawline. Three victories—over Free Trained mongrels charged with killing the Ten’s pit fighters. The other heads of houses wouldn’t be too concerned with the Ten’s fighters.

  Not yet.

  Another flicker of a smile spread across Clavellus’s aged features.

  It was a good start for his lads, a good showing, one to build upon, to build confidence and to remember before they fought the other house gladiators.

  But first, the House of Ten would honor their fallen sword brothers. Seddon help him, Clavellus had already prepared for such a solemn occasion. No one came through a season without losing at least one life. Both he and Goll had previously agreed that their dead would not be cooked in the fire pits of the arena. Not one corpse would be dumped in those foul flames. Thus, the bodies of the Ten’s deceased had been prepared for travel and loaded into the third wagon.

  Machlann’s eyes had finally closed. The trainer snorted and loosed a short and sleepy mumble. Clavellus felt the same way.

  The day’s fights had awakened him with a jolt and energized him, but unlike his dozing companion of many years, the taskmaster eagerly looked to the future. These men had potential. With Clavellus overseeing the training, he could perhaps make his name respectable once again in the blood sport he so loved. He reached out and parted the canvas flap just a crack, enough to peek over the driver’s shoulder.

  The fiery star of a torch burned, held high by the lone horseman.

  The road ahead could not be seen.

  *

  The wagons stopped atop a low rise in the meadow, leaving tracks in tall grass. The lone rider plodded ahead while the others unloaded themselves with groans and stretches, forcing blood back into limbs that had fallen asleep. The weary travelers saw the rider lighting an arrangement of four torches. The flames burned high above a small clearing encircled by a sea of grass. Eight graves waited within the yellow light, some dug underneath a tree with wide, far-reaching limbs. Mounds of dirt separated the deep holes. Those pits silenced the returning gladiators, and they quietly unloaded their fallen from the third wagon. They laid the cloth-wrapped bodies of Kolo and Tumber into two of the holes. Once the dead were in place, Brozz and Junger shovelled dirt atop the corpses. For moments, the earthy tempo of their efforts filled the warm night air while flies with glowing bellies buzzed around the onlookers’ heads.

  The burial troubled Halm. The torchlight colored his brutalized face. Clavellus studied the devastation wrought upon the Zhiberian and mentally cursed in morbid wonder. The fat man was a gruesome mess: a broken nose for certain, while his left profile was distorted and swollen to the point where the taskmaster doubted the man would ever get a helmet over his head. The eye on that side was nothing more than a black slit, and it amazed the taskmaster Halm still managed to keep all those terrible fangs intact. And that was just the face. The body and arms beneath had been equally punished in the day’s contest, adding more cuts and bruises to a devastating record of pain—a litany of punishment.

  After the Zhiberian’s fight, the sight of him had paled even Shan, the healer. That was never a good sign. Clavellus doubted if Halm had seen worse and wondered if his victory over the Free Trained Targus had come at a great cost. It might very well have been his last of the season. It certainly appeared so. Corpses seemed in better shape than the bulky warrior.

  The Zhiberian met the taskmaster’s gaze, the left eye cracking open against the fleshy sludge surrounding it. The chubby man offered a ghastly smile.

  Tight-lipped, Clavellus smiled right back, admiring the man’s raw push. Though his body looked broken, his spirit remained hard as iron. Clavellus liked that.

  The last shovel of dirt tossed upon Tumber’s grave invoked a period of silence while the lit torches flickered in the faintest midnight breeze. Some faces looked expectantly to Goll, but the Kree remained quietly focused on the ground.

  Clavellus cleared his throat. The words flowed easier than expected. “Remember this,” he said gently, regarding each gladiator in turn. “Tumber and Kolo rest with Seddon—or whatever gods they prayed to—this night. If they prayed at all. Remember them. Remember their strengths, their weakness, their manners, and even their voices when you have a moment. Do that, and they will never truly be gone. Do that, and if you were friend to them in this life, perhaps they’ll help you on your own journey when the time comes. So remember every time you
enter Sunja’s Pit. Tumber and Kolo will most certainly not want you to perish there.”

  Clavellus paused and drew breath to continue.

  Goll, however, found his own voice. “Sleep well this night. Tomorrow, once again you’ll sweat and strain and bleed upon the training grounds. There’s no time to waste.”

  The men waited for more, but Goll had none to give.

  “That’s it?” Torello blurted in shocked disbelief, his face partially hidden in the tree’s long shadow. “That’s all you have to say? Sleep well, and training continues? Truly?”

  Goll faced the pit fighter.

  “Don’t die.”

  3

  Snoring woke Pig Knot.

  He scowled, for his sleep had been a pleasant one, filled with dreams of chasing young women through smoky taverns. He’d been happy and whole again, and wenches with beaming smiles had nuzzled his neck. All yanked away in a gurry snore. Pig Knot despised waking from his dreams to the nightmare of no legs, and he cursed the scant few bars of light penetrating his private quarters. Pig Knot lay on his cot, fingers laced together atop his head. His nose itched, so he rubbed it. Sounds of sleeping men came from beyond the curtain of his alcove, and for a moment, the immolating blend of self-loathing, pity, and volcanic anger lessened.

  The lads had returned late and hadn’t disturbed him at all. He mentally thanked them for that. Another snore ripped from beyond the alcove’s curtain, an explosive, piggish snorting that widened Pig Knot’s eyes and summoned anger.

  He dearly wanted to plug that noisy hole.

  The muscular snakes of his forearms flexed as Pig Knot pulled himself up, fighting the urge to open his mouth and move his broken jaw. The cuts in his left shoulder and arm stretched and strained dangerously. He didn’t care. The ugly yellow and purple blooms covering his midsection––bruises sustained during his short fighting season––had faded. The stitches in his forehead itched while his nose ached and remained clogged. Pain. Every moment of his day ached, itched, choked, or outright crippled him. He fixed his eyes upon the space where his legs would’ve been. The bruised stumps vexed and horrified him, as they had every morning since returning to Clavellus’s estate. He hated the knobs of sawed-off bone and meat covered in stitched flaps of skin.