131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Garl stared as if the man had sprouted a second head. “You’ll die, then. They’ll find you and gut you. You’ll bob from the ceiling timbers by your own…”

  The spy couldn’t finish and clapped his hands to his cheeks.

  “I’ve only just come back,” Borchus said firmly. “I’m not letting the Sons of Cholla run me from the city. I have work here.”

  Garl shook his head. “Your work finished the instant they tried to kill you.”

  “Saimon’s black hanging fruit! You brought this upon us! You never said Strach belonged to a gang!”

  “Wait…” Garl’s eyes widened. “Wait… wait. You didn’t examine those men?”

  “No.”

  “The ink! That’s one way to be certain. Strach had the ink upon him. All of the Sons wear it. If those men you killed have markings, we run—run and do not look back. If they don’t have the ink, it was a chance happening. They were a pair of cutthroats hunting for your coin.”

  “Are you saying I should go back there?”

  Garl thought it over. “Possibly very dangerous.”

  “Ah-ha.” Borchus nodded with sarcasm. “I’m glad you said it.”

  “I don’t think you should go back. We should leave right now before the sun rises, just to be safe.”

  “Didn’t you just say the Sons have eyes everywhere?”

  “I did.”

  “Then if those punces did belong to the Sons, they’ll probably have eyes on the gates, wouldn’t you think?”

  Garl actually whimpered, the sound as disturbing and pitiful as that of a trapped animal.

  “Some time has passed. If they know about their lads failing to kill me, they might suspect we’ll attempt to leave,” Borchus reasoned. “They might have someone at the gates. If so, leaving the city isn’t an option.”

  “Oh, sweet Seddon…” Garl slumped against the wall, almost losing his crutches. “We’re dead men. There’s no way out.”

  “There’s always a way. We just haven’t thought of it yet.”

  But in his mind, he cursed.

  *

  Dawn broke the horizon in a flare of light. Sunja’s southern gates opened inward with resounding squeals and groans, revealing an inner corridor of stone. The people sleeping outside of the entrance came to their senses upon hearing that discordant sound and blinked at the thick moving timbers of the gate. Chains rattled deep within as an inner portcullis lifted at the end of the tunnel. Murder holes in the ceiling checkered the cobblestones with sunlight. A knot of battle-ready Skarrs marched through the tunnel with practiced formality and took up positions on either side of the square opening. Six soldiers separated from these forces and stood at attention around a wooden table where a single official stood ready to register the name and purpose of each individual seeking entry into the city.

  The people struggled to their feet. They had arrived after the gates had been closed for the night and, rather than descend the long winding path to the flatlands below, chosen to make camp on the road itself or along its narrow shoulders. They hefted their belongings or climbed into the driver’s seats of wagons or huddled around carts stuffed with food and other goods. Low grumbles, conversations, and morning yawns filled the silence while the day’s traffic waited to be processed and admitted into the city, hoping to be inside well before the sun scorched the land.

  Among the flow of flesh, wood, and metal stood a pair of men, their clothing ordinary and dusty and smelling of dried sweat. Suntanned and weary looking, they stood in line with all the others, waiting for their turn to be questioned. When the city official finally greeted them and asked for their names, the two men identified themselves and their purpose for entering the great city. They were travelers from Anvar seeking their cousin, a merchant of leather goods, who had requested their presence so that they might discuss joining his business.

  The official recorded all information in his ledger, including the merchant’s name and whereabouts, while a pair of Skarrs searched the two visitors’ persons. The soldiers forwent confiscating the shortswords the Anvar men carried, as it was common knowledge the journey from easterly Anvar to westerly Sunja was lengthy and fraught with bandits, Dezer horse barbarians, and Seddon only knew what else. A pair of blades would not trouble Sunja. As the travelers had nothing else in their possession, not even a change of clothing, the official waved them through, advising the two men to stop at the public baths.

  The Anvar said they would and, without another word, they entered the city.

  Their youthful expressions remained slack, expertly masking their true vicious nature.

  And their bloody intentions.

  13

  Halm woke at dawn and rubbed his eyes.

  Snores cut the morning stillness, and he rose with a grimace and a grunt. A wave of dizziness nearly toppled him, but he gripped the edges of the cot, held on, and rode out the feeling. Wine, beer, and some feral mixture that might have been firewater but probably was spiced horse piss that mule-kicked one’s senses to the ground had been the stuff to finally knock them down. Whatever old Clavellus had in his cellar, he’d shared with the Zhiberian, Muluk, and Pig Knot, not caring in the least what Goll might say. And to the man’s credit, Goll said not a word. By late afternoon, the three of them were right and properly senseless. Halm didn’t even know how he’d found his bed.

  The shuttered window above his head barred the light. He smacked his lips, felt the dryness of his mouth, and shuddered at the unholy poison nestling within his guts. He gulped down air and sat on the edge of his bunk, staring at his sandals where he’d kicked them off the night before. The smell of body odor wrinkled his nose. He’d wash later, after the journey to Karashipa.

  Karashipa.

  Seddon and Lords above, was he really thinking about riding a horse out that way to see Miji once again? A shuffle to the nearest latrine seemed daunting. A powerful chill shook out all parched and sleepy thoughts. Halm didn’t know if she’d even remember him, but the idea of traveling with a full purse and a clear destination was damn near overpowering and much more appealing than sitting and drinking himself into a pickled state with the others.

  Not that he had anything against drinking himself pickled. Far from it.

  In fact, he rather enjoyed becoming pickled as often as possible, even when such spectacular states of unfitness waited for him at the end––like this morning.

  But the thought of Miji pulled, and he didn’t think there was any harm in seeing what she was all about. He wore the title of master now and of an established house. That might even impress her, much more than his usual profession. His ample cloth sack containing his gear rested in a corner of his alcove, festering, badly needing to be aired. He wouldn’t be taking it with him.

  Feeling much better about the future, Halm gingerly slipped his hairy toes into his sandals and ran a hand around his belly and the cloth of his black breeches. Knees crackled when he rose. He stood and took a deep, settling breath. There was a water barrel in the common room, and he knew he’d have to be careful not to piss there by mistake. Or drink from the latrine.

  Once he knew he wasn’t about to fall apart, he reached for the fancy leather scabbard containing the Mademian broadsword. Eyes fixed upon the shuttered window and the tracery of light around the edges, Halm strapped on his belt and scabbard.

  Heaving his bandaged mass through the doorway, he bounced off the doorframe and lumbered into daylight. The blanket of heat slapped him across the face, bringing forth a frown and a hiss. The sun was only a bright sliver over the eastern wall of the villa, but it was already imposing its will upon the land. Halm marveled at the breaking dawn and the surrounding emptiness. Not a cloud could be seen, and the sky was a blue deep enough to make one’s heart ache. He stood there with a small sack containing his gold, a sealed jar of saywort, and a change of clothing––a second pair of old breeches––and checked on the numerous dressings keeping his person togethe
r.

  “You’re up early, Master Halm,” a voice called.

  Halm straightened and looked around, locating the white beard of the taskmaster. Clavellus sat atop his balcony, mug in hand, shirtless and damned near branded by the sun. He smiled pleasantly and lifted that familiar piece of metal in a greeting.

  “Aye that,” Halm answered, baring his teeth. “Looking to do a bit of traveling this morning.”

  A puzzled silence answered that as a frown darkened Clavellus’s snowy face.

  “Traveling?”

  “Traveling,” Halm repeated, taking his time crossing the training sands. The stables were just past the taskmaster’s preferred perch.

  “Where, might I ask?”

  “Karashipa.”

  “Karashipa? That’s a half a day away—or more, in your condition.”

  “Aye that,” Halm agreed, pain flaring throughout his frame with grim foreshadowing. “My condition has worsened.”

  “That’s always the way of it.” Clavellus lowered his voice when the Zhiberian stopped. The taskmaster leaned forward and rested his upper torso against the railing. “The hurts and aches and bruises rise to the surface after the fight when all’s done. Flesh swells. Joints seize. Well. The healer’s looked at you, right?”

  Halm nodded. “Even have a container of that saywort to take with me.”

  “Saywort. Ever there was a gladiator’s friend, it’s that ripe concoction.”

  “It is that.”

  “Why Karashipa?”

  Halm smiled, remembering the fury Clavellus had released upon them weeks ago, when the Free Trained fighters first visited his villa. How things had changed. “Shan’s said my season’s done. Truth be known, I feel that it’s done with every swallow, breath, piss, and step. I… I can’t bring myself to watch the training here, Master Clavellus. I feel I should be training with them. Doing something. And I’ve other things on my mind. Some time away from all this will do me well, I think. I’ll return, however.”

  Clavellus listened, his brow knotted in concentration. Sounds of people rising reached them: thumps issuing from the pit fighters’ barracks.

  “You have coin?” the taskmaster finally asked.

  “I do.”

  “You’ll need it.”

  “Master Goll has given me everything I’ve earned.” Halm lifted the cloth bag he carried.

  “All that?”

  “And a change of clothing.”

  Clavellus chuckled. “I know I haven’t known you for a long time, Master Halm, but it seems to me you rarely wear clothing, except for those rags you’re wearing now.”

  “Ah, I was going to leave a few pieces of gold in payment for a horse.”

  “I don’t have many,” Clavellus pointed out.

  “Well, name your price. It doesn’t have to be one of your better horses, just one that will carry me where I want to go and back again.”

  The taskmaster considered it. “If you’re coming back, there’s no need to purchase the animal. Just borrow it and return it when you’re ready.”

  “I may not return, Master Clavellus.”

  That amused the man. “No, you may not. I took a chance on you once. I’ll do so again. And this time, with much more favor.”

  Feet crunched on sand-sprinkled brick, and Machlann came into sight, his tuft of gray hair bouncing like a lit flame. The trainer stopped in his tracks.

  “Master Machlann,” Halm greeted.

  “So you’re leaving, then?” Machlann asked in a near-civil tone.

  “I am.”

  “He’s borrowing a horse,” Clavellus said.

  “Be sure to bring it back,” the trainer muttered with a hint of warning. “And safe journey.”

  “Apologies again for yesterday.”

  But the trainer scowled and waved a hand, dismissing it. “Heard better, Zhiberian. From better people.”

  “Well, then.” Halm nodded at Machlann then Clavellus. With nothing more to say, he took his leave.

  The stables smelled of fresh hay and well-tended animals, a level of cleanliness that impressed the Zhiberian. Halm explained his intent to a stable hand, who eventually brought him an older gelding standing a little over sixteen hands with a back just beginning to sag under a worn saddle. The horse regarded the Zhiberian’s girth with a critical eye and snorted.

  “Oh, we’ll get along fine, saucy one.” Halm smirked, taking the reins and handing the stable hand a single gold coin. “Does the animal have a name?”

  “Lish.”

  “Lish. Like the dish?”

  The stable hand didn’t comment.

  “Lish the Dish, then.” Halm chuckled at his own humor and fiddled with a saddlebag, filling it with his few possessions. A moment’s guilt ran its course, as the saddle and reins alone cost coin, but Clavellus had to have known that. Frowning, he positioned himself to take the saddle and pulled himself into it. Pain lanced through his gut, hands, and every other place cut and healing, while a nightlike swirl of stars gave his head a spin.

  Lish took the weight but snorted again as Halm righted himself, its ears twitching as if the animal had just taken a blow to the head.

  Or the back.

  “Anything I should know about him?” Halm asked when his discomfort had passed.

  “He’s twenty-four now, so walk him when you can,” the stable hand explained with a concerned look. “Otherwise, he’ll take you where you want to go. Enjoys apples if you have them.”

  “What horse doesn’t enjoy a bit of fruit?”

  The stable hand had nothing to say to that.

  “What hot-blooded punce doesn’t like a bit of fruit for that matter, eh?”

  The stable hand had nothing to say to that either.

  Halm decided Lish wasn’t the only saucy one around the stable. He flicked the reins, and the animal sauntered toward the training area.

  The sight of companions gathered surprised him—even Pig Knot, sitting rather uncomfortably with his back against the living quarters’ wall.

  “I thought to be away without notice this morning,” Halm remarked, eyeing the three men.

  “These Zhiberians,” Muluk said to Goll, “they don’t really say goodbyes, do they?”

  “This one doesn’t,” Goll said. “And he isn’t saying goodbye. He’ll return one day, once he’s sown whatever it is passing through that fat slab of his.”

  “Harsh words.” Halm glowered. “You won’t bring me back that way.”

  “But we’ll send you off that way,” Goll countered and stepped up to Lish. “You didn’t pay anything for this cow kiss, did you?”

  “Clavellus wouldn’t let me.”

  “Hm. You’re truly going to leave us?”

  “For a short time, at least.”

  Goll remained silent for a moment. “Remember, you have a place now. Here. If you want it.”

  Halm nodded.

  “Safe journey, then.” Goll stepped back.

  The other Kree took his place. Dark haired and shaggy looking, a hungover Muluk squinted at the overweight pit fighter and marveled at the mess of him. “Half a day on that beast will rip you apart.”

  “Well, good for me Karashipa is only half a day away,” Halm reminded him. “Maybe a young lady will have pity and put me back together.”

  Muluk wheezed a short laugh. “You have a way about you, Zhiberian.”

  “And you look very much like a Paw Savage, now that I see you from above.”

  They pressed fists, smiling fondly at each other, before Muluk backed away.

  “Tell the lads… best of fortunes with the remainder of the games,” Halm said. “Ho, Pig Knot. Until the next time we meet. Mind the women but never the pitchers.”

  But Pig Knot sat and simmered on his mat, appearing none too happy.

  “You’ll see me again afore too long,” Halm went on. “Have no fear of that with my luck, anyway.”

  “Safe journey,” Pig Knot muttered and lifted his fist as if to tap another. Halm did the
same, a pang of unease going through his heart and mind at the downcast man. He kept his eyes on his friend’s face and not his missing legs.

  “I’ll return,” Halm said, surprising himself.

  Having said his goodbyes, he tugged on Lish’s reins and glanced up at Clavellus. The taskmaster nodded agreeably, as if knowing the pit fighter would return before too long. Halm wondered if he wouldn’t be back in the villa by tomorrow. Or this day’s evening.

  Nothing more to say, he guided Lish toward the villa’s gates, where a pair of Clavellus’s sentries opened them.

  Halm of Zhiberia passed through. He did not look back.

  *

  “That’s it then,” Goll said to no one in particular when the departing man winked out of sight.

  “Too early in the morning for such goodbyes.” Muluk groaned and held a hand to his gut.

  “Agreed,” Goll said. “He’ll return before too long, perhaps after the games. There’s too much for him here to simply give up. And that man is a fighter if ever I met one.”

  Goll cast his attention to his taskmaster. “Good to see you survived the night.”

  “It is good.” Clavellus sounded amazed himself.

  “I hope that’s water you’re drinking.”

  “Hope is a good thing.” The taskmaster took a mouthful.

  That set Goll’s head to shaking in disapproval. He frowned at Muluk for his part in the daylong drinking session. Muluk wilted with guilt and averted his eyes.

  Message delivered, Goll looked at Machlann’s bearded features. “Today… we prepare for war.”

  The trainer liked the sound of that.

  *

  Later that morning, Torello placed his bowl of warm stew on the table shared by Junger and Brozz and plopped down beside them. “Halm’s gone,” he said, spooning breakfast into his mouth.

  The other gladiators exchanged looks. Neither had expected Torello to join them.

  “So he has.” Junger moved his elbow to accommodate the man.

  “Never expected,” Torello mumbled as he chewed, “him to leave. Not this. He’s a housemaster, even. What else is out there?”