“They’re not all here, but eight of them are.”
“Eight? How many in total do you have?”
“Rare to have any Nordish as prisoner, but we managed to gather nineteen as permanent guests. The largest group, numbering a dozen or so, arrived about a month back.”
“Infantry?”
“Ah…” Runson searched his thoughts. “I believe so. Jackals, I think.”
Jackals. Soranthus scoffed. Among these prisoners, the name seemed to fit well enough indeed. “Move them all to the arena. Squeeze them into the same cell if you must. You understand these men are to fight and die upon the sands.”
“Aye that, I do.”
“Bear in mind that they must be able to fight, so continue feeding them scraps along with whatever else you’ve been throwing to them. Try not to starve them too badly. And no severe beatings. The audience will greatly enjoy seeing them killed in the Pit.”
“Imagine so, Master Soranthus.”
“Try not to maim or kill any before their time in the arena,” Soranthus cautioned, knowing the Nordish warriors would be a high point in the games. “If they’re being unreasonable, you have my permission to execute one to bring the rest to heel. And if you do that, replace them with the regular fare from the larders of the king’s dungeons. Keep these cells full.”
Runson nodded that he would do as instructed.
Soranthus thought for a moment. “I’ll trust your judgment in such matters, but bear in mind, this fighting season has been lengthened, by order of the king, and we only have so many gladiators.” He waved at the surrounding cells. “These will be the bloody prelude to the real games.”
Runson’s forehead crinkled in puzzlement. “Wasn’t that the role of the Free Trained?”
“To a point, yes. But it appears their worth has just doubled—in comparison to this lot.”
“The Skarrs will be present to march them to the surface?”
“All the way to the white tunnels and portcullis leading to the sands. Have no worries about that. Do you need more guards here?”
Runson shook his head and smiled. “I have twenty jailors with me here. We won’t have any trouble. I’ve made a profession doing this.”
“I don’t doubt,” Soranthus deadpanned. The unfit to guard the unfit. Soranthus saw no issue with allowing the jailor’s chest swell a bit in self-worth. A man should have some pride in his profession. Even if it was caging a savage pack of hellpups.
“Ah, one last thing, Master Soranthus,” Runson asked with a touch of concern.
“What is it?”
“When do they fight?”
Soranthus looked about the corridor. The scant glow of the braziers revealed spying faces and white-knuckled hands gripping iron bars. The thought of this rancid stew of human meat befouling the most prestigious of all the games filled him with loathing. His features twisted. Only Seddon above knew what was going to happen.
“Soon.”
7
“This is your first match… with a quality opponent.” Salwark peered into Blacktooth’s eyes as if they’d been blinded by hot pokers. The son of Vavar Slavol, of the Stable of Slavol, possessed much finer teeth than Blacktooth, but his demeanor sickened the veteran fighter. Excitement shook the man’s frame, and Blacktooth knew an unchecked stream of flattery would soon gush forth, intended to build his confidence, one last rush as ill timed and unnecessary as the forced enthusiasm in Salwark’s voice.
Not that Blacktooth didn’t need words of encouragement. He did, especially in the twilight of his career, but old Slavol had a much better way with words than his son. It was a shame that the years had taken away the strength in the owner’s legs. The man spent all his hours in bed, surrendering his livelihood to the care of his only son.
Vavar Slavol’s voice possessed a soothing note. He could calm his gladiators with just a whisper. His measured words, spoken almost lyrically, channeled his pit fighters’ energies to all the right places, readied them to crack open skulls and snap bones, charged them to perform at their very best. When he spoke, men listened, for they knew Vavar cared. They knew Vavar wanted them to fight their best fight. The owner of the Stable of Slavol conjured magic with the resonance of his voice. He inspired pit fighters, charmed monsters, dispelled thunderheads, and summoned the sun.
Vavar knew how to talk. Knew when to talk, as if life itself was an act within a dramatic Perician play. And his gladiators would fight to win because they knew Vavar watched, and they so very much wanted to please him.
Blacktooth missed the old man.
Salwark, however good his intentions, did not possess his father’s gift of speech. And his breath smelled of fish and beer.
“You’ve had an easy run thus far,” said the younger man. “You fought a handful of Free Trained and one unseasoned gladiator who probably let slip a cow kiss before he walked out onto the sands. Now, however, you have your work before you. Now, you have no room for sloppy strokes or slow defense. Brontus has had more days at this than you, and he’s two years younger, which tells me he’s faster of foot. If there’s anyone who could end your undefeated run, it is this man, today. Don’t think about how he’s defeated you twice already in years gone by. And don’t think about the two ass lickers he’s already executed this season. I’ve placed a considerable amount of coin on your head, hoping you can defeat this sick topper from Ustda. A considerable amount. Keep that in your head. You can defeat this man. You can. It’s your time. Your time. He’s nothing more than a crust of scab fallen from Saimon’s black hanging bells. You must win. You must. Remember the strategy. Remember what we talked about.”
Blacktooth’s expression remained unchanged, unmoved, but inside, he thought, Sweet Seddon, embarrassed at the flow of shite issuing from Salwark’s toothy mouth. The man would do more good if he’d simply shut up and slap the pit fighter on the shoulder.
As if Salwark sensed a bout of physical contact would do wonders, he hesitantly lifted a hand, studied Blacktooth’s armored form for the best place to make contact, and struck. Hard.
“Considerable coin,” he squeaked, trying hard to keep a brave face, his pained hand clenching and unclenching by his side. “The remainder of your season rests on this match’s outcome. Don’t allow it to slip by. Do not!”
Blacktooth absorbed the uninspired, nerve-rattling rant. If only Salwark were ailing and bedridden. The man didn’t know when to shut up or when to allow a moment of silence. Lords above, Blacktooth missed Vavar.
“Now go!” Salwark yelled.
Left cold by the mildly insulting outburst, Blacktooth glanced at the other fighters in the private viewing room. Aidas wore that blank expression whenever he attempted to hide his disdain. A faint smirk skewed Villari’s features, brazenly showing what he thought about the older pit fighter’s chances. Blacktooth wished he could smash the arrogant Marrnite bastard into the floor. A few others filled his side vision, but Blacktooth walked past them all, toward the open door and the mind-cleansing serenity of the white tunnel. Punder held out a spiked fist, and Blacktooth pressed his own armored knuckles against it. Punder wasn’t as old as Blacktooth, but he traveled the same road.
Blacktooth, however, was going to enjoy it more.
“Victory!” Salwark shouted, the sound blasting past the departing gladiator as he turned a corner, escaping the brunt of the windstorm.
Blacktooth walked the white tunnel, taking his time, savoring the experience. The depths of the underpass muted the screaming crowds above. That would change the closer he got. At thirty-five years of age, his career as a gladiator was nearly over. He knew it, though there was the part of his mind that scoffed at the notion, telling him he was still young, that hard training would sharpen his mettle and keep him competitive. His body ruefully said otherwise. Wounds ached more these days and took longer to heal. The strength was still there, but somehow he’d gotten slower, or the younger lads had become faster. But the worst, the absolute worst, was seeing his flesh age, like fruit blackening in
the sun. That disturbed him.
Still, he’d give what he could this day, even though the man he faced had defeated him twice over the years in the Pit.
Skarrs stood with their backs to the walls, shields and swords at the ready, their visors worn but gleaming. Blacktooth nodded casually at one and marched on, relishing the moment. These days, he wrung every drop of enjoyment that could be had out of life, well aware that one of these walks to the arena would be his final, one way or the other. Every walk was potentially the last for any fighter. Now, however, in the sunset of his career, that haunting feeling of becoming too old had fused itself to his bones.
Blacktooth took his time, tasting the dust-tainted air and relishing it. His twin short swords swung at his side like faithful dogs. Lightning and Thunder, he’d secretly named the blades. He gripped Lightning in his left hand and Thunder, the splitter of skull pots, in his right. He remembered the weapons merchant, the haggling, and how they’d finally settled on ten gold apiece. No finer purchase had Blacktooth ever made. He lifted Lightning halfway, torchlight rippling along the fine lines of the steel. Nicks and scratches pitted the weapon, and he recalled how they got there.
A vest of ringmail covered Blacktooth’s body, while bronze greaves protected his muscular legs. Bronze bracers appeared nailed to his formidable forearms. A cage screened his helmet. A single battered fin, iron and screaming respect, adorned the top of his helm to the nape of his neck. Most of the scars lashing Blacktooth’s person were below the neckline.
Most of them. Except for one match. When he was twenty-two, he’d fought a Free Trained bastard, who’d bashed his head with two solid strikes. The first blow, from a sword, smashed the protective cage from his face. The second one, from a fist made from steel, struck him in the mouth and removed all of his upper teeth—except his right incisor.
His lucky tooth, Blacktooth snorted, remembering how his sword brothers had howled over his ruined mouth. He’d chuckled as well. His smile had never attracted any ladies before, but at least after losing his teeth, he’d received sympathy, if not outright curiosity. And on more than a few occasions, blatant horror. He pursued the women who pitied him and knew Seddon frowned on him for doing so.
Twin swords. Armor. Subdued and focused. The blood rose. Quickened. Eager.
Blacktooth turned a corner and walked toward the gatekeeper. He didn’t worry about how many fights Seddon had remaining for him. Didn’t care. The only one that mattered was the one ahead.
And he’d enjoy it as such.
*
Inside the private chamber assigned to the House of Ustda, Burco Ustda inspected the timbers holding up the ceiling and the mortar between the red brick.
“What do you think?” Brontus asked, the caged visor of his helmet hiding his features. As was his habit, he rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his spiked mace and shield pull on his thick arms.
“Fine work.” Burco slapped a callused hand against the window arch. For a flicker of time, the opening framed the owner’s upper body perfectly as he gazed upon the sands.
“How many others have looked out this very window? How many, I wonder? This is history, you know. We fight within history here, cut from rock. Stacked with brick. Dusted by the years. Marvelous.”
Brontus had figured Burco would say something of the like. In his fourteen-year career, all spent within Ustda’s walls, he couldn’t remember Ustda’s oldest son ever uttering a negative sentiment about anything. In this business, Brontus thought that spoke volumes about Burco’s character. Old Ustda had raised his children well.
“You’d best remember that,” Burco said, mischief twinkling in his eyes.
Brontus chuckled softly. Only a year after prime, and Burco was already nudging him toward another profession—one with less blood. Some of the older fighters took up employment with the Ustdas as guards around their private residences, training grounds, or warehouses. Perhaps Burco would offer him the same opportunity when the games were over or Brontus could no longer fight.
The Ustdas didn’t have a long or rich history with the games. Unglo enjoyed the sport enough to establish a house of pit fighters, a stark contrast from his family’s legacy with procuring and selling cloth. The Ustdas were wealthy, comfortably wealthy, and successful enough to believe they could manage a house of gladiators. They didn’t have the same success in the Pit, however, despite hiring good trainers and taskmasters. The House of Ustda consistently placed somewhere within the third rank, along with the usual occupants of Razi, Vandu, and the Stable of Slavol. Coin wasn’t an issue for the Ustdas, but good fortune within the Pit was. Unglo had never really attained an eye for sifting through ranks of potential fighters and developing them. Missed opportunities and bad fortune abounded. On the rare occasion they did find a warrior with the potential to advance all the way to a championship round, the other houses found someone better.
Burco was somewhat better than his father at overseeing the business of gladiators, but he was still, by and large, a man of cloth learning a very different trade.
None of the house gladiators disliked the owners. Even though they normally finished the season ranked low, their living and training conditions, as well as the opportunities after the Pit, were second to none. The Ustdas treated their fighters well.
Brontus wasn’t the only one wishing he could claim a title in their name. But with the years pressing in, he didn’t believe he possessed the time or the skills to do so, much to his quiet chagrin. This day, his path crossed with Blacktooth from the House of Slavol, an older dog of the games, perhaps three or four years Brontus’s senior. He’d defeated the man twice already over the years. The first time they’d clashed, Brontus’s speed gave him victory. The second time had been much closer, as Blacktooth remembered his opponent’s speed and attacked his legs in an effort to take away that natural advantage. Even when Brontus had recognized the strategy and began countering it, Blacktooth had pressed, refusing defeat—even when the blood truly began to fly.
Burco and Master Torgul believed this fight would be just as close and perhaps even more dangerous. Blacktooth was nearly finished with the Pit. The gladiator would want to steal a victory from Brontus.
Brontus knew he would. And for the House of Ustda and all they’d provided for him, he would do everything he could to take a third fight from the man called Blacktooth. That included killing him.
“Fight hard,” Master Torgul growled. “Fight smart.”
Lines crossed the old taskmaster’s face, deep enough to make one think he’d pulled an angry cat off it.
Brontus would do as told. He checked his vest of hardened leather and the bronzed greaves protecting his lower legs. Long spikes protruded from metal cups covering his knees.
“Bring us back something.” Burco smiled, his meaning clear. “And we’ll share a drink this evening.”
Brontus grunted that he’d do that as well. Having their leave, the gladiator walked for the door. A handful of armored men showered wishes of good fortune, bolstering the fighter’s determination. The door opened, and he marched into the white tunnel. He’d traveled the way so often he could do it in his sleep. In a short time, Brontus stopped beside the gatekeeper without realizing it. The gatekeeper was a younger sort this day and didn’t so much as acknowledge the pit fighter. Brontus didn’t care. All his thoughts focused on that bottom step, the first leading to the portcullis at the end of the stairs, the deep blue stamped with bars of iron.
Blacktooth.
Brontus inhaled deeply. The Orator bellowed far above, followed by the approving crash of thousands packed into the Pit. They were eager to witness a match fought by professionals. He’d give them one. Blacktooth would do the same. The people would see a spectacle. Brontus had no doubt.
The Orator started his introductions. The portcullis rattled open.
Sniffing hard, Brontus shrugged and climbed the stairs, focused on the blazing sky. Thousands greeted him with a cheering roar as he stepped into dayli
ght. The stands teemed with people. Arms, open hands, and fists waved like a colorful, maddening mass of worms.
Brontus shook his shoulders, the day’s heat already cooking unprotected flesh. Moisture fattened the air, heavy and ominous, and over the din of the spectators, he heard the Orator.
“…Sunjan born. He is an accomplished reaper, a collector of skulls, and a breaker of wills. Already this year, he’s taken two lives in Saimon’s name. His mace is a thing of nightmares, a black moon spiked with iron teeth, fashioned to smash bones and flesh alike. Children fear him, as do any and all within his freezing aura. You called upon Saimon’s name, and you have summoned… Brontus! From the House of Ustda!”
The cheering spiked in volume, staggering in its power.
In the beginning of his career, the gladiator had gushed at the Orator’s epic introductions. After the first two years, however, the colorful speech only brought a smile to Brontus’s face. At times, he might’ve even shaken his head at the fearsome accolades. Now, understanding the theatre of the sport for what it was, Brontus knew better, and concentrated on the other side of the arena—and the figure emerging from an iron-and-wood maw.
Blacktooth.
“Men and women of the Pit,” the Orator began, holding out his arms, “this gladiator turns my blood cold. This man is a hellion with his twin blades. Once he starts swinging, his foes drop in spouting chunks. He too is Sunjan born, but he won’t hesitate to hack the head off a fellow countryman. He is not a man but a fiend freed from enchanted chains, released upon this existence, knowing only war, smelling out flesh to slaughter and blood to sup. You wished for a beast? I give you… Blacktooth from the Stable of Slavol!”
The portcullis dropped in Blacktooth’s wake as he casually, confidently, walked toward his opponent. His shadow stretched across the ground as if attempting to free itself. Blacktooth took his time, and Brontus remembered that he did the very same in their previous battles.
“Both are undefeated this season.” The Orator strained to be heard. “You wanted a war, men and women of the Pit? I give you one!”
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 8