131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  He didn’t fight in these games. He was unleashed.

  The Orator finished introducing the warrior at the other end of the Pit, a man called Parek.

  Gastillo had already provided information about the warrior, gleaned from his spies. Parek had been a veteran of the games for a respectable seven years, a true warrior in his prime, mauler of flesh, and an agent of revenge to be respected and feared.

  Prajus couldn’t care less who the punce was. Whoever Parek had fought to earn his reputation didn’t include him. As far as the Sunjan was concerned, Parek wasn’t sent to avenge the School of Nexus. Parek had been sent to die.

  The famed gladiator wore a vest of carefully fashioned leather sculpted to an impressive physique. His shoulders and elbows bore barbs of black iron. He carried a long-necked mace sprouting five spikes in his right hand while a short sword trembled with anticipation in the left. A faceless helmet, dull gray under the sun, had a happy smile punched broadly across its surface. Parek wasn’t tall by any means, but he was broad across the chest and powerful looking, a bull trained for splitting heads.

  That helm regarded Prajus in a sour moment of silence with an unspoken promise of pain. As the Orator heaped praise upon Parek’s name, the School of Nexus fighter turned to his benefactor and lifted his mace.

  Prajus did nothing of the sort to acknowledge Gastillo.

  “Begin!” the Orator shouted to a burst of cheers.

  Rolling his head, Prajus walked toward Parek, and the pair met in the center of the arena. Parek didn’t say a word to him, and Prajus had to admit he liked that.

  “No gurry out of you about life or death, eh?” Prajus said with an appreciative nod. “I like that.”

  Parek didn’t answer. His baleful black eyes stared above that iron-freckled smile.

  “Your he-bitch of an owner sent you to your death this day.”

  The words seemed unheard, but Parek’s muscular chest and shoulders heaved ever so slightly.

  Prajus brought his sword to guard and hefted his shield.

  The movements unlocked something inside of Parek. The Nexus warrior mirrored his opponent’s actions but did not attack. Both men circled each other to subdued cheering, warily, taking their time.

  Despite what Prajus might have thought of his foe, a feeling of caution seeped throughout his person. Parek wasn’t a man to be taken lightly. And Prajus wasn’t a man to care.

  He stepped into a powerful thrust aimed for a leather-bound gut. Parek parried the blow with his mace. The forceful deflection pushed Prajus’s sword to the outside, and Parek stabbed for a head. Prajus ducked while swinging his shield up, connecting with the blade in a rattle of metal—only to see the mace fly at his face.

  Prajus jumped back as spikes flashed before his eyes. He retreated three steps, surprised at the last attack and wary of any more unexpected combinations.

  “You’re more careful than that punce I put to earth,” Prajus taunted.

  But Parek didn’t attack. Instead, he walked forward, stoically closing the distance and forcing Prajus to back away. Only for a few steps.

  Prajus surged ahead, blade coming alive and chopping. Parek retreated. His stance widened and braced before meeting the onslaught head-on in a ferocious clanging. Neither man backed away, and for heartbeats, they eagerly traded blows, each man seeking to take the other’s head off his shoulders. Prajus moved his shield up and down and side to side, anticipating half of Parek’s strikes, dodging the rest. Three times, Parek stabbed for his face. Twice, Prajus’s shield saved him from the mace. The blows crashed into Prajus’s shield, bruising his arm and ribs, and he winced behind his face cage.

  To the crowd’s delight, Parek forced Prajus back toward the wall.

  *

  Watching the furious pace below, Gastillo leaned forward and lifted his golden face. He dabbed a cloth at his wrecked mouth. His posture suggested nervousness—understandable considering the mounting pressure being exerted upon Prajus.

  Nothing was further from the truth.

  Gastillo hoped with every fiber of his being for Prajus to be killed. He wanted Parek to break the man’s skull with one blow. The death of that troublesome hellpup would brighten his spirits considerably and grant a short reprieve from this miserable existence. He’d even allow Nexus every opportunity to gloat, while he, feigning bitterness at having lost, would secretly work events to his advantage.

  “That’s it!” Nexus exclaimed, bony fingers gripping the low wall of the viewing box. “That’s it! Press him! Press him, and take his head off! Press him, Parek!”

  As if hearing his owner’s voice, Parek doubled his efforts. His sword and mace flashed, battering his foe with an unrelenting rhythm of cross slashes, powerful stabs, and decapitating swings. Prajus stooped and swayed, bobbed and parried, seemingly without time to even draw breath, desperately working to keep the attacks at bay.

  Nexus glanced at Gastillo with wicked glee. “Not this day, good Gastillo. Not this day.”

  *

  Prajus ducked under a savage sweep of his adversary’s mace, rose, and put his entire body behind a backhand cut that half-removed Parek’s head from his shoulders in a spectacular mist.

  *

  Nexus’s mouth dropped open in a thunderclap of shock. His entire frame froze. His eyes bulged, and the only sound escaping his lips was guhh, as if his very heart had just exploded.

  Curge heard it all.

  He missed Gastillo’s paralysis entirely.

  *

  Blood erupted from the horrific gash of Parek’s neck in a thick and pulsating arterial spray. He dropped his weapons and fell to his knees, the stoic mask splashed with red. For an instant, it seemed as if the man sought to rise. His hand lifted to mid-torso, but then the brain realized death had severed all control over the body.

  Parek toppled, his neck a dying fountain.

  With bloodied blade held steadily at the very end of his stroke, Prajus stood as if time had ceased. Ignoring the disturbing shiver of the dead man at his feet, the victorious gladiator retreated three paces and stopped, lapping up the raucous applause.

  His victory had been every bit as unexpected as it was bloody. Shoulders heaving, Prajus raised his sword to the crowds. And turned his back on his owner.

  *

  “That he-bitch.” Nexus spat in undisguised loathing.

  Gastillo’s posture stiffened at the surprising finish.

  Nexus whirled upon him, red-faced and livid. “You unfit pisser! You orchestrated the entire thing! Seddon’s kog and bells, I had no idea I shared a seat with such a devious manipulator of flesh and bone. War, is it, Gastillo? Is it war you desire? With me? You blackened cow kiss. I might be as fresh as a babe to these games, but I’m learning fast, and you’ll find that what I lack in talent, I make up for in resources. That is a dead man basking in the adoration of the people, Gastillo, a dead man. Seddon above, I swear this.”

  Gastillo had no reply and only stared at the figure of Prajus departing the sands. Cold settled in around his pounding heart and slowly squeezed. Hatred oozed for the pit fighter disappearing through the far gate. Prajus, the owner seethed. Gastillo had warned the man of consequences if he disobeyed orders. He would have to be disciplined. Punished.

  That thought curled in his mind as Nexus swore bloody revenge right beside him.

  Punish Prajus, Gastillo thought darkly. Punish perhaps the greatest gladiator ever to train under his roof.

  All the while, Dark Curge sat and smiled in contentment, playing with the goblet in his fingers.

  *

  Gastillo walked back to his home after the games, choosing not to be escorted by his trainers, guards, and gladiators, and ignoring looks from people and the children pointing fingers. He’d long since become immune to their attentions. He walked to clear his head, to cool the hot coils of anger building at his core. At times, he stopped and tossed a few coins to the unfortunate beggars holding out their hands without hearing their words of thanks.


  Prajus. That insolent smiling bastard.

  Instead of draining his fury, the walk intensified it. When he reached his property, he immediately went to the middle of the training grounds and commanded a guard to summon Prajus. Taskmaster Sowin, bent over like a broken reed in a windstorm, approached from the edge but halted when Gastillo held up a hand. The trainers Berlis and Pius, both valued staff, stopped their conversation and lingered nearby.

  Prajus appeared a short time later, stripped to the loincloth and glistening with bathhouse waters.

  “Master Gastillo.” Prajus leered. “Something on your mind?”

  Gastillo didn’t immediately reply. He allowed the silence to swell like a ripe and angry boil.

  “You disobeyed me, Prajus,” he finally said, the words livid with heat. “You disobeyed the master of the house. I commanded you to not kill that man, and you did. What do you think happens now?”

  “Nothing. Another dead dog is all. It’ll make Nexus hesitate to send another after me.”

  “Wrong, you arrogant maggot. You’re confined to your quarters this night. Tomorrow morning, Master Sowin will double your training, and you’ll suffer through it under penalty of being cast out of this house entirely.”

  Prajus appeared unmoved. “That’s my punishment?” His face cracked into a smile. “By the Lords, Master Gastillo, I have sympathy for you. You can’t really beat me, can you? And you certainly can’t dismiss me, for fear of the other houses recruiting me. So what’s left? Nothing really. I’m your strongest man for these games, your best chance at riches and glory. Double my training. Triple it. I don’t care. Confine me to these walls? After a good day upon the grounds, I’ll need the rest anyway.”

  Brazen ass licker. But Gastillo held his tongue. If he’d spoken, the man would probably have laughed in his face.

  Behind Prajus, the entrances to the common rooms and the bathhouse filled with the other gladiators training under Gastillo’s roof. The owner recognized a few of the leering faces belonging to the little pack of admirers—and perhaps even friends—of Prajus.

  “All of you,” Gastillo barked, “because this disrespectful topper ignored my orders this day, you’ll all be put through double paces tomorrow. He’s part of your pack. You’ll share in his punishment. No baths either. Sleep in your own filth tomorrow night. And no food. Only water.”

  That removed the light from a few faces, and Gastillo took some guilty pleasure from it. Still, the punishment, the threats all seemed light to him.

  “Get out of my sight,” he whispered at Prajus, very badly wanting to beat the man down. The temptation burned even more as the near-naked gladiator leered back, unmoved by the inclusion of the whole roster.

  Worse still, the man stood before him, smiling that intolerable smile.

  “Go!”

  Prajus didn’t, not right away. Three heartbeats later, he returned to the bathhouse, taking his time.

  “Out of the baths,” Sowin took up the cry, nodding at Gastillo. Thank Seddon for some support. Gastillo looked at his head of guard outfitted in leather and mail. “Jaco.”

  The tall man trotted to his employer’s side.

  “Have your men remove whoever’s in the baths. And make certain the armory is locked up tonight. Post double the guards, and make certain no one leaves the grounds. If they do, you have my permission to beat them until they bleed. Understood? That includes Prajus. Especially Prajus.”

  Jaco nodded, a hand already on his shortsword.

  “If one disobeys me, all will be punished,” Gastillo announced to the night. “All will suffer. And at the end of the games, I’ll cast out the repeat offenders and make certain no other house of worth will take you in on grounds of dissension. You’ll be Free Trained or forced to fight in the lesser games. Go!”

  The gladiators slunk back to their quarters. Gastillo hated doing it, feeling his house had suddenly come under siege. Lines had been drawn. His ranks had probably already fractured into segments, some loyal to him, others to Prajus.

  Gastillo hoped he had the greater numbers.

  10

  The House of Ten gladiators focused on pummelling the wooden practice men, devising and slowly perfecting combinations under the watchful eyes of their trainers. Halm sat with Pig Knot and Muluk, all three watching and drinking from the most recent round of wine pitchers. Ananda had been quite willing to provide them with cups, but the three healing men––on their way to being well and truly pickled––declared that pitchers were much more suitable. They went through the first round slowly, enjoying the drink, and even Pig Knot’s mood seemed to brighten. They eyed the pit fighters still in competition. Regret, envy, and even relief coursed through Halm. He wondered if Pig Knot and Muluk felt the same but dared not ask. Pig Knot seemed subdued with Halm’s and Muluk’s presence, and the periodic raising of a silver mug from the balcony, aimed directly at the three gladiators, lightened the mood considerably.

  The wine helped. So they sat. And drank. Drank until their senses swam.

  “Care to see how a legless man pisses?” Pig Knot asked in harsh tone, despite the red hue to his face. Neither Halm nor Muluk had a chance to reply before the Sunjan screwed his pitcher into the sand and steadied it as best as he could. He pawed a hole out of the sand and rolled over onto his side.

  “Not certain I care to see this.” Halm cringed.

  Muluk shook his head as well.

  Pig Knot cursed for a moment before barking laughter. “See that?”

  Neither man looked, but they heard the hissing stream.

  When Pig Knot finished, he tucked himself away and sat up, slamming his back against the barrack’s wall. He swept sand over the puddle he’d made, grunting all the while.

  “Feel better?” Halm asked.

  Pig Knot reached for his pitcher. “Aye that. Be even better after a few more of these.”

  “Wonder what the limit will be?” Muluk looked toward Clavellus’s balcony and the two figures still there.

  “We’ll know soon enough.” Every word spoken through Pig Knot’s clamped jaw sounded ripe with anger.

  At midday, Ananda brought them warm bread and dried meats on a platter, and they tore into the food with drunken enthusiasm. Machlann and Koba herded their three gladiators to the common room for something to eat as well, and Pig Knot took the opportunity to nod and wink at the scarred trainer. Koba scowled back.

  While the men ate inside, the three drinking masters stayed outside in the sun. The wine truly soaked into their brains. After they devoured the food, the Zhiberian, Kree, and Sunjan continued to empty pitchers through the afternoon, conversing amongst themselves as drunken men do. And though Halm and Muluk cringed at Pig Knot relieving himself in the sands, they joined him after the fifth pitcher.

  That drew murderous looks from Machlann.

  Goll instructed clay bedpans to be brought to the three men, delivered by a former Sujin called Clades. Pig Knot attempted to get the man to join them, but Clades declined with a good-natured chuckle. A bedpan rested near each man’s mat, and Halm wondered who would be first to try drinking from them.

  Red-faced, insanely drunk, and mouth hanging open for unsuspecting sand flies, Halm sat and observed Junger going through his paces under Koba’s watchful eye. Somehow, the three pit fighters had returned to the training grounds without him noticing. Sorcery! The Perician’s striking was beyond compare in Halm’s pickled mind. Never had he witnessed such skill. Even in the Zhiberian’s smashed state, Junger seemed to perform magic with the drills. The warrior did not make mistakes, and the trainers didn’t correct his form. There was no need.

  While Halm drank and gawked, Shan’s words floated in his mind and haunted him.

  He’s done, the healer had said.

  Halm knew it to be true. Junger’s frightening display of skill and his lean, untiring muscular body reminded the Zhiberian of his own aging bulk.

  He’s done. The words would not leave him. Perhaps he was done in more ways than one.<
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  So this was how it felt when one could no longer do what he enjoyed, or so Halm thought in a fit of thinking so deep it made him dizzy. His senses dulled and bubbled and popped while Pig Knot and Muluk cackled in his ears like hellions. He’d known he couldn’t fight in the games for much longer, but now that his season had finished, he wondered what to do next. As much as he enjoyed the company of Pig Knot and Muluk and felt the lure of a future with the House of Ten, it still shocked Halm that the end had finally descended upon him.

  The end of his best run ever in the games…

  He’d gotten through with his life, coin, limbs, and even more surprisingly, undefeated.

  Undefeated and with a major role in a new house. The reality of it all shocked him. He should be dead three times over, yet there he sat, drinking good wine, eating bread and sliced meats, and feeling the need to once again empty the bull. Wine! He should tie a knot in his lad.

  He’s done. Shan voice repeated in his head.

  “What’s that… that dreamy look about?” Muluk’s face bobbed atop his shoulders as if ready to fall off.

  “Dreamy?” Pig Knot repeated. “Dreamy. Bedded down several dreams. Curvy, lovely dreams. Nightmares were the best.”

  A bleary-eyed Muluk dismissed that with a wave and focused on Halm. “Really, now, spit it out, and be done with it. Seddon above. Almost done with this pitcher. I should be squeezing the grapes myself. Now then. What’s… what’s on… your mind?”

  “I’d like her on my mind,” Pig Knot said.

  “Not asking you.”

  “I’m done,” Halm said, and that quieted his companions.

  “You said that.” Muluk studied the Zhiberian with all his might. “Earlier.”

  “My season’s over.”

  Muluk nodded, attempting to understand. “It is.”

  “Done,” Pig Knot added. “Unfit. I’m getting tired of this wine. Old Clavellus must have something better in his cellars. Something with more bite.”

  “Like you need more bite,” Muluk muttered before shifting his attention back to Halm.