The taskmaster sat on his balcony, leaning forward and effectively concealing his face behind a silver mug resting on the railing. One hand held the vessel while the other rubbed his bald scalp. At times, his forehead rested on the railing. He barely watched the morning’s action.
Goll was nowhere in sight.
“How does Clavellus look to you?” Muluk asked.
“Like the wet hole of a dead man,” Pig Knot grunted.
“He’s swinging that stick hard,” Halm commented, returning his companions’ attention to Torello.
“Think you can do better?” Muluk smiled.
“I could if it wasn’t for fear of bursting apart at the seams.”
“Unpleasant thought,” the Kree muttered and scratched at the fresh bandages lashed to his person. Shan had tied them off rather tightly. The healer had checked on the long stitches and slapped on gobs of the smelly saywort. Shan had assured Muluk that his cuts were healing well—wounds the Kree had sustained while preventing thieves from stealing the future House of Ten’s coin. Muluk felt somewhat sad this day and glanced at his right shoulder. A red mass of tissue had filled the depression of missing meat there. Shan warned him that his right shoulder might never be as strong as before, but the arm would still function. Shan could not do anything for Muluk’s missing left ear, however, which was now a knot of ugly tissue surrounding a spider’s hole, a battle scar concealed by the Kree’s black bush of hair.
No, Muluk didn’t want to think of anyone bursting apart at the seams. It would remind him too much of his own barely kept-together body.
“Stop!” Machlann bawled, breaking the Kree’s thoughts.
Junger and Brozz did as told, but Torello delivered three final strikes to his target before relenting.
“Furious this morning, my missus?” Machlann asked when the man stepped back.
Shoulders heaving, sweat dripping, and glaring at the trainer, Torello didn’t bother with a reply—not even so much as the dirty, petulant look he might’ve given a few days earlier.
“Well, that’s good,” Machlann said, realizing he’d be waiting a very long time for an answer. Koba stood near the dark-haired Torello and eyed him warily, as if no longer trusting the man. The lad had certainly changed since Kolo’s death. Muluk could see it. Anyone with eyes could see it.
“That’s good,” Machlann repeated and regarded his gladiators. “Today, we practice more combinations. Combinations. A skilled gladiator knows hundreds of combinations that’ll slice you open and let slip the red, purple, and pink, an unfit deluge of spikes and edges that will overpower most hellpups and rip the meat from their very bones. Combinations. Right and ready to unleash upon his opponent in an instant. When you fight, the basic strikes over and over will not assure victory over your opponent. You must be different every time, to confuse your foe, to keep him at guard long enough for your weapon to find its mark. You mustn’t worry about being faster, although speed is helpful, but rather focus on striking… the exact moment the opportunity arises, to steal the initiative, and unleash your weapons before your foe can initiate his own combinations against you. Eeeee! Here, we devise and practice those sets of pain and punishment. We’ve started with simple breezes, you miserable hellpups. As of today, we’ll begin raising blood-chilling storms! Ferocious bell-wringing squalls meant to ravage maggots and leave them thrashing in their own shite!”
The word hung in the air as Machlann marched away from the wooden practice men to a rack filled with wooden swords. He selected one and walked to the uncluttered sands in the middle of the training area. There, he turned and regarded his three gladiators.
“Now then, my missuses,” Machlann growled. “I’ll show you what I mean… Brozz. Stand over there.”
The tall, swarthy Sarlander complied, the forks of his long mustache soaked in sweat. He stopped five paces away from the wiry old trainer. Machlann fixed him with a withering look, a gaze of sheer flesh-burning acid. It was harsh enough to make one wonder what Brozz had done to deserve such a hateful look.
“All right. Come at me,” the trainer commanded. “And I mean swing for all you’re worth. If I sense anything less, the pinch you feel will be my boot between your sun-scorched cheeks. Understood?”
Brozz nodded behind his upraised sword.
The imposing Sarlander lunged, his arm streaking for the older trainer’s heart. But Machlann deflected it to the side and nimbly retreated a step. Brozz recovered quickly, sizing up his opponent while gripping his sword with purpose.
“That’s it, my missus. Eeeee, whatever you can give.”
The big man again stabbed for Machlann’s heart, only to have the trainer deftly parry and twist, taking control of the other’s weapon. The unexpected move almost put Brozz into the sand, but he lurched out of range and quickly retreated, placing distance between himself and Machlann.
“Good,” the old trainer said. “He’s trying to use his combinations, but I stopped them. You see that? And he’s kept enough sense to get out of reach before I could counter. Watch, now, watch.”
Pig Knot, however, admired Ananda’s slender form.
“You still eyeing that one.” Halm nudged his companion.
“You have to ask?”
“The trainer’s been eyeing her as well.”
“Koba, you mean.”
“Aye that. Koba.”
“Man’s a punce,” Pig Knot grumbled.
At that moment, Machlann deflected yet another of Brozz’s attacks before striking back in a flourish of stabs and slashes. The Sarlander parried one thrust and another, but then Machlann pressed forward, taking away the taller man’s advantage of reach. Short cuts and ruthless thrusts erupted, a startling, probing series of expert attacks punctuated with grunts and yells. Silence fell over the onlookers.
Brozz gave up ground, no longer countering and entirely on the defensive.
Machlann’s sword smoothly sliced the air, flowing from one attack to the other. A jab to the gut would flick up and transform into a slash for the jaw. A cut would revert into a spin and slanted chop. The onslaught backed Brozz up several strides, well out of reach of the whirling sword.
“Eeeee, you see that? You see that?” Machlann gasped, his chest heaving.
Junger and Torello nodded.
“Stand away, Brozz,” the old trainer huffed, gesturing with his sword and struggling to compose himself. A sheen of sweat coated the older man.
“Eeeee, you see… how he retreated… when I started swinging? Hm? That’s intelligence. Intelligence! I tell you now that only the experienced, the skilled, and the thinking will have the sense to get out of the way of a set of strikes. If a dog thinks he’s up to the challenge, he might stop the first blow. Maybe even the second. May even get lucky and stop the third, but if he stays in front of you…you’ll eventually get through. The stupid ones will bleed. The big ones will bleed. The overconfident ones will bleed.”
Machlann waved his wooden blade at the attentive pit fighters. “They’ll all bleed. Remember that. Sharpen your strikes, always be aware, and don’t be afraid to get out of the way. Do anything less, and by Saimon’s black hanging fruit, I’ll pummel you so right and proper you won’t feel a thing when I juice your bells.”
From the safety of the barracks, Muluk swallowed. “That man frightens me at times.”
“I think that’s his intent.” Halm glanced at Pig Knot. “Has that honeypot moved at all?”
Pig Knot didn’t answer.
“Not so, ah, subtle about it, is he?” Muluk knew full well the pit fighter was taken with the woman.
“Like a starving dog.” Halm grimaced in annoyance, displaying his horrid, overlapping teeth. “A good thing he doesn’t have any legs. He’d be at her this very moment.”
Muluk cringed. Halm’s face slackened in shock as he realized what he’d said. “I spoke too quickly, good Pig Knot. No offence was intended. I’ve many things on my mind.”
Pig Knot appeared not to have heard. “Not offe
nded.”
“Well, apologies again.”
Halm squirmed and traded a worried look with Muluk. Machlann lectured in the background as Pig Knot sighed. “Said I’m not offended, Zhiberian. I’m not some old woman here. Don’t concern yourself with me. As for the wench, you watch what you will, and I’ll do the same.”
But the downcast look on Halm’s shameful face spoke volumes. “Shan has said my season’s done,” he abruptly reported.
That drew surprised looks from both men.
“Told me this morning.” Halm sighed.
“Does Goll know?” Muluk asked.
“He was standing right there when the healer said it.”
“You were doing so well.”
“Undefeated this year,” Halm said. “And yet done in by this old body of mine.”
“What will you do?” Muluk asked. Pig Knot’s drawn features spoke of deep thoughts.
The Zhiberian shrugged. “My season’s done. I’m a master in this house, or so Goll informs me, so I’ll have a say in matters, I suppose. I have coin now, food on my table, and a roof overhead—for a short time anyway. I have much more than when I started his season, much more than before I met any of you. I’ll talk with Goll.”
Pig Knot looked at his stumps before returning his gaze to the training men.
Muluk remained speechless, crestfallen. Of them all, Halm had managed to keep on winning, defeating those who should have beaten him, defying the odds. The man was inspiring, and learning that he would no longer be fighting saddened them. Muluk felt almost as if he’d just learned of the man’s death instead. He shook that morbid thought loose and wished all four of them were in an alehouse somewhere, with women in their arms and pitchers filled to the brim.
“I’ll talk with him,” Halm repeated. “He’ll suggest something.”
“Don’t trust him in the least,” Pig Knot muttered, squinting against the daylight. “Not in the least.”
“I won’t argue it.” Halm chose his words carefully. “But…despite everything he’s done, he’s brought us here. Here. He’s provided us with shelter and food and even coin. He’s given us direction—dare I say a future with this place? Would any of this have happened without him?”
“It’s not ours,” Pig Knot muttered. “He’ll never let it be ours. In his mind, it’s his. That man has plans of his own.”
That made the others think.
“Aye that,” Halm reluctantly agreed.
“Truth be known.” Muluk shifted on his mat and scratched at his beard, not entirely certain where to take the conversation from there. Then it came to him, as plain as rain. “Time for something to drink.” He waved until he caught Ananda’s attention.
Smiles appeared on the bandaged faces.
All three men knew a bout of drinking would not help solve their problems.
But it certainly wouldn’t hurt.
*
After a lengthy session in the latrine, Goll climbed the stairs of Clavellus’s home, seeking to join the taskmaster on his balcony and watch the morning’s training. Concerns for the future weighed heavily on his mind, plaguing his sleep. He’d twisted and turned the night before like a snake with a spike through its middle. Yesterday’s victories had introduced the House of Ten to this season’s games, but with a pair of deaths on his hands, Goll had to carefully consider how to proceed. Two deaths and a desertion. The desertion couldn’t be helped, but it bothered him more than he cared to admit. Goll had no doubt that Sapo would be disgorging everything he knew about the Ten’s warriors. That thought alone made Goll’s blood boil. The Ten would deal with the Sunjan.
The deaths, however, would have to be avenged, and Goll questioned who would do the killing. Halm couldn’t. Goll was no stranger to the horrific wounds and injuries sustained in a fight, but the Zhiberian’s condition was appalling. He should never have participated in that unacceptable night of brawls called the Iron Games. The cuts and bruises from that mockery had finished him. The Free Trained warrior called Targus had only made it official.
Goll had to choose another to avenge the house’s fallen, to send warning to any who might attempt the same.
Blood matches. No doubt it would prove to be an interesting topic of discussion with the taskmaster.
The smell of wildflowers enveloped him as he reached the second floor. He walked along a short hall, musing that he’d stepped into a fragrant cloud.
“Good morning, Master Goll.” Clavellus’s wife, Nala, stepped out of a doorway and smiled. Long white robes covered her frame, while her silver hair, long and lustrous, hung tastefully over one shoulder. Her fingers fiddled with the ends.
“My lady.” Goll noted her warm hazel eyes and how they sparkled. “I hope the morning has found you in good spirits and health.”
“They most certainly have. Waiting for my husband to return last night wasn’t a pleasant affair. I don’t like him traveling to the city, even with a troop of trained gladiators.”
Goll kept his thoughts unspoken. He knew of Dark Curge’s warning to Clavellus, but he wasn’t certain how much she knew. “We returned safely.”
“Oh, I know. And with some measure of success on the sands, I hear.”
“Some.”
“I am very sorry to hear about the deaths of those two men.”
Goll nodded.
“I truly don’t understand what any of you see in such blood sport. Master Goll…why do you do it?”
Why indeed? Goll had asked the question of himself once. He studied the art for several reasons, he discovered. He was drawn to the discipline of the sport, the dedication, the training, and the lifestyle. He enjoyed learning how to use weaponry, discovered he had a talent for it, just as much as a vase maker was drawn to pottery, or a carpenter to wood. He enjoyed the challenge of competing in perhaps the most dangerous event of the age—against others like-minded and similarly trained—and surviving.
And somewhere in there, he wanted to become a master at what he did. Whatever he did.
“I have my reasons,” Goll stated with a rare smile, “as does every other gladiator. Wealth. Fame. Women. The danger. The… rush of competition.”
“It’s no better than war.”
“Ah…” Goll dipped his head with respectful sympathy. “I believe it is better than war. There are many deaths in war. In an arena fight, perhaps only one. Think of the lives saved if only kings fought in an arena.”
“You sound like my husband now.”
That didn’t surprise Goll at all.
Nala straightened. “Although my husband returned late last night, I must say, he was in the best spirits I’ve seen him in for a very long time.”
“I suppose he drank his fill before retiring to bed.”
“Retiring?” Nala questioned with a knowing look. “My good Master Goll, he never came to bed at all.”
Her reply stunned Goll as effectively as a plank to the face.
“Don’t be too upset with him, please. I’m not. As much as I despise the games, they’ve given me a comfortable life and my husband a purpose. When he was exiled from the games, a part of him perished, one I was powerless to replace or heal. Many a day I kept him in sight, you see, for fear of him taking a blade to his wrists or deciding to hang himself from a rafter. Foolish thoughts, I realize. He would never do such a thing, you understand, but when a person reaches the very bottom of despair, of misery, it changes one. He turned to drink just as much as he turned to me. Spirits kept him sane—dare I say it—while I kept him focused, or at least tried to, until he found his will to return to the world once again. That all happened a long time ago, a dark time in our lives. But since your arrival, he’s slowly gone from existing, as he’d been doing for a very long time, to actually looking forward to the next morning. So thank you for that, Master Goll, and more. You may not see it, but your presence has lifted my husband’s spirits in ways I never could. He’s probably still drunk from last night…”
Goll looked to the balcony.
Goll saw that she waited for him to speak, but words failed him. Drinking since last night? Was the man even alive?
Somehow, he managed a semblance of a smile. It convinced Nala, who returned it with one of her own. Having spoken her mind, she pardoned herself and disappeared into the house. Goll watched her white robes glide along polished stone until she was out of sight.
Dread stole over him as he continued to the balcony. He took a steadying breath and went to his taskmaster, hearing Machlann’s shouts from outside. Goll didn’t want to see the state Clavellus had gotten himself into. Memories resurfaced of first arriving at the taskmaster’s walls and subsequently being driven away. That verbal lashing alone could have turned stone to dust.
Things had certainly changed.
Goll smelled the man before he saw him: that sickly sweet aroma that seeped from a man’s pores when he’d had far too much to drink far too often.
Clavellus leaned over a table, his head on folded arms. The taskmaster didn’t stir, so the Kree studied the picture of inebriation before him. The old man’s shirt and trousers were stained. A pitcher stood next to Clavellus’s bald head while his right hand lay relaxed around his silver mug. Sweet, rancid sweat hung on the warm morning air and wrinkled Goll’s nose. Seddon above, he thought, casting a look at the training grounds and seeing Halm, Pig Knot, and Muluk sitting at the sand’s edge.
They hadn’t noticed Goll standing behind the white railing. Or if they had, they hadn’t made a spectacle of it. Not yet.
Sensing he was under scrutiny, Clavellus snorted, shivered, and sat up as if being hoisted by hooks. He blinked at the sun in confusion. Half of his snowy beard was soaked with something. Goll hoped it was beer.
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 6