Junger glanced at Brozz, but the big Sarlander had nothing to say. They’d only known the Zhiberian for a short time, and while it would be strange not to see him about, they never really knew the man. The games would carry on without him.
As would they.
As if sensing that very sentiment, Torello shrugged and continued eating.
14
Muluk and Pig Knot sat on their mats, watching the remaining gladiators being put through their paces by the trainers. Goll wandered the fringes of the sands, scowling at things only he saw. Clavellus remained nearly stock-still on his perch above it all, the goblet in his hand flashing whenever he lifted it to his lips.
“Lords above,” Muluk commented, “that man can drink.”
The words stirred Pig Knot to life as, up to that point, he’d been sitting in the sun’s grace like charred meat dropped from a skewer. Pig Knot’s squinting eyes flicked to the taskmaster, lingered for a hateful moment, and returned to the training. Machlann had the men practicing the same four- and five-strike combinations as the day before.
“You see him?” Muluk asked.
“Clavellus?” Pig Knot slurred though his bandages. He sipped from his own half-full pitcher of beer, wanting to return to his pickled state. “Aye that.”
“He finishes whatever he has there and leaves for a heartbeat, just a beat, and when he returns, he’s drinking from it again. The speed is damn near magical.”
Pig Knot grunted.
“Oh, his missus comes out to check on him every now and then, even to steal a taste of whatever is in that shiny cup, but…” Muluk trailed off with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Lords above, that lad can drink.”
“It’s his wine and beer to drink.”
Muluk looked around. “I’m wondering where it all comes from.”
“The man owns farmland. Grape orchards.”
“But that’s wine. I’m drinking beer now. You’re drinking beer. Where’s it all coming from? Does someone bring it here or make it in the villa? Or outside these walls?”
“It’s puzzling,” Pig Knot said with the barest lick of interest. “Ask him if you’re so curious.”
“I will. I will. When I’m in his presence again.”
“Why not now?”
“Now? Pah. I don’t have the will or energy to walk over there. Unfit that I’m even drinking after yesterday.”
With Halm’s departure fresh on his mind and having consumed just enough beer to not give a good damn, Pig Knot lowered his pitcher, straightened against the wall, and shouted. “Clavellus! Clavellus! Where is it you get your beer? Muluk is curious!”
The bandages holding Pig Knot’s lower jaw in place trembled. Spittle flew. Cheeks reddened. Muluk froze in mortified fright as the attention of the entire villa fixed upon them. Machlann’s and Goll’s combined gazes alone were strong enough to ignite a forest. Pig Knot realized he’d failed the address the taskmaster with the proper honorific, but he didn’t care. Interrupting the all-important training gave him a tickle. After Halm’s leaving, he needed one.
Clavellus took his time in answering.
“From Sunja. When I can afford it. Usually from some nearby villages. My man Clurik makes the wine. He dabbles in mead as well, if there’s enough honey.”
“Your man Clurik does good work,” Pig Knot bellowed, the cords of his neck protruding.
Another pause. “Many thanks.”
“His man Clurik no doubt heard the entire conversation,” Muluk muttered.
“You wanted to know.” Pig Knot’s jaw throbbed from the effort. “So, now you know.”
“I’ll keep my thoughts private from here on.”
The idea sounded like a fine one to Pig Knot.
Machlann stood with hands on hips, waiting for either Pig Knot or Clavellus to continue. When neither man did, he looked at Koba and then the taskmaster above. “Permission to continue, Master Clavellus?”
Nala appeared next to her husband and draped an arm over his shoulder. The taskmaster raised his mug. By all means.
“Master Pig… Knot?” Machlann yelled.
In answer, Pig Knot sent a thin stream of beer through clenched teeth into the sand and raised his own pitcher in salute.
Visibly unimpressed, Machlann returned to his gladiators.
“You’re unfit,” Muluk directed at Pig Knot.
The legless Sunjan already knew it.
Looking ready to kill, Goll strode toward the pair sitting in the shade. He stopped halfway upon seizing Muluk’s attention. The Kree master of the house gestured for his fellow countryman to join him.
“Now you’ve done it,” Muluk moaned. “You’ve brought Goll down on us.”
“He wants you, not me.”
“Oh, you’ll have your turn. I’ll insist upon it.”
“My thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Sweet Seddon. Near-pickled again. Not looking to trade barbs with him today.”
With that, Muluk rose with a groan and limped toward Goll, lumbering around the edge of the training sands. Goll led him to the smithy area.
Pig Knot watched them for a while, thoughtless but pulsating with weariness, a despair from which there was no crawling out.
Hurt. The world hurt. And he was alone in it.
He hefted his pitcher and drank deeply, throat working until he dropped the container by his thigh and gasped. The pitcher shone in the daylight, but its brightness failed to move Pig Knot. Clay, he thought, hardened, but drop it, and it would shatter.
Just like life.
Pig Knot regarded his absent legs once again, thinking of the women in his life—too many faces and all without names. He decided he’d watched his limit of gladiators training. Leaving the pitcher, he dug his hands into the sand, palms sore from shuffling himself along, and eased through a nearby doorway. His bottom slid across the stone and wood of the common area. Tables and benches went by as he strained and sweated, moving his weight along in an awkward stop and go, mindful of his bits. A pebble bit into his left hand, the sting distracting him enough to ram his right stump into the nearing doorframe. A jolt of sheer agony blazed up his spine, and he collapsed on the threshold, black stars exploding in his vision. He bent over, swept away by a tall wave of nausea.
In time, he regained his senses. A soothing slab of rock pressed against one cheek, and he rested there, waiting for the pain to subside. Pig Knot stayed there for what felt like a year and eventually inspected the bandage of his stump. The tight wrap appeared fine, but he knew, just knew, stitches had been broken somewhere underneath. The knowledge infuriated Pig Knot, and he used that anger to power himself to his alcove.
Inside, he yanked the curtain across and stopped before his dishevelled cot. A thick blanket covered the straw, unchanged so far this day. He recalled waking and being covered in sweat from the night’s thrashing, but on the blanket rested a knife, one he’d used a day ago to slice apples. He was alone. No one watched. Just as well. It would be better this way. The short knife caught the scant light. The steel was dull, worn, but sharp. Sharp enough to do what needed to be done.
Machlann bawled commands in the background. The shouts sounded far away, as if emanating from a deep, dreamy tunnel. Pig Knot gripped the small knife, considering its purpose. The outside noise bled away into a fever-blunted hush. The blade’s straight edge fascinated Pig Knot as never before. For him, it was no longer a weapon but an escape, an escape that would hurt for a short time, perhaps a very painful short time, before… well, whatever came next.
Pig Knot realized Halm had it right. The Zhiberian’s season was over. To watch Brozz, Torello, and Junger preparing for the games would torment him, aggravate that sense of loss, of defeat, especially when he’d been experiencing the best season yet. Seeing them sweat and strain and work would frustrate him and leave him in a bad mood. Halm understood what he had to do. He’d left. That Halm could leave infuriated Pig Knot. Unlike his friend, Pig Knot had no choice but to stay. The rest of his days
would be here, watching warriors prepare for their contests, battles that would no longer involve him. He would sit and watch people with all their limbs go about their lives.
Or so he’d thought.
The blade shone in his hand, the old metal scratched by the years, the edge sharp against his thumb. One cut. One quick, deep lick, and Pig Knot could leave, leave this place, this ruined existence. Perhaps he’d even be whole again in the next life. Hope flickered at the thought, an ember glowing in the faintest of breaths.
Pig Knot placed the edge of the knife to his throat, felt the indifferent metal upon his skin. The edge prickled the stubble of an unchecked beard.
His mouth became a line of concentration. The steel didn’t waver.
So easy to do, the words blew into his mind. So easy. One deep stroke.
Do it.
Blood thumped in his temples. His vision narrowed and centered on shadows that spread across the walls, drawn to death. Pig Knot took the deepest breath of his life and set his jaw.
One cut.
But he couldn’t flick the knife across the thick string in his throat. He willed his hand to obey, but it refused. The coldest sweat coated his flesh. His hand trembled. He gripped the knife with both hands, as if his right had betrayed him, and still couldn’t open his cheese pipe, could not slash and soak the cot with his life.
Machlann bawled again, right in his ear this time, a hateful whisper, urging him to do it. Just do it. And Pig Knot wanted to do it. His hands shook from the stress. But like a bar of steel refusing to bend, he did not.
An idea struck him, and he braced the knife’s pommel on the cot’s wooden frame. He angled the tip straight up and held the knife firmly. Pig Knot leaned forward and positioned his bandaged chin directly over the point. He lowered himself until the prickly contact brought a grimace. The knife pushed, almost penetrating his skin. All he needed was one great shove to drive himself down upon the weapon.
But something stopped him again.
Snarling, Pig Knot shut one eye and dipped his face right over the knife.
One thrust, straight to the brain.
DO IT.
He huffed and whined. His grip weakened. The knife fell from his hands and landed on the floor. Pig Knot collapsed upon the cot, miserable. Death, he wanted… but he couldn’t do it himself. Why couldn’t he perish right there and then? He regarded the knife with loathing. Seddon above, it should be easy to take his own life after all of his practice killing right and proper bastards.
Pig Knot lay and stewed, badly wanting to die, yet unable to finish his life. Perhaps it wasn’t meant for him to take. He didn’t care for that thought at all. A second idea occurred to him, one that lifted hope in his beaten muscular frame. If he couldn’t kill himself… perhaps another would.
With or without provocation.
Pig Knot mulled, exploring dark threads uncoiling in his mind. In time, he became aware of the training outside. Machlann bellowed a command and shouted for Koba, the big, scarred one-ear trainer.
Pig Knot’s eyes narrowed.
*
“Junger!” Machlann shouted.
The man jerked awake from a personal daze.
“I suspect you’ve done all of this before. Am I correct, you cheek-spreading Perician?”
“I have,” the Perician answered, unoffended by the insult.
“Then step over to me, my missus, and take up guard.”
Junger didn’t hesitate and moved as ordered, drawing all eyes onto the trainer and the nearly naked man who’d amazed them all in his opening match. He stopped in the middle of the sands and faced the trainer.
“Where exactly did you train?” Machlann asked.
“Pericia. Vathia. Some games in the Territories, not as well known. Minor compared to these.”
“Where exactly did you learn the sword?”
“From a teacher in Balgotha.”
“Pericia. Vathia. Balgotha. The Territories. You’ve done some traveling, my son.”
Several of the onlookers noted that ‘my son’ was a significant improvement over ‘my missus.’
“I have.”
“I want you to defend against my attacks,” Machlann said, “for as long as I’m able to swing at your head, not as long as you can. I have a suspicion I’ll exhaust myself long before you. Understood?”
Junger hesitated, appearing somewhat uncomfortable. “Understood, Master Machlann.”
Machlann turned a suspicious eye to Clavellus on his balcony. Goll sat nearby, intently watching the Perician.
“You impressed us with your level of skill yesterday, lad,” Machlann said, mouth barely detectable underneath his thick beard and mustache.
A flicker of concern darkened the Perician’s face.
“A damn fine display. Fine enough to make me wonder how good you are, you nimble bastard. Something I have to determine for myself.”
Junger said nothing, his initial unease disappearing.
“Don’t worry,” Machlann said. “They’re wooden swords.”
Without warning, the trainer pressed ahead, sword stabbing, slashing, chopping, running through a masterful sequence of moves. Machlann flowed without pause, didn’t overextend himself or place his person at a disadvantage. Despite the years upon his frame and the incident with Sapo, the grizzled trainer swung his wooden blade like a man of twenty, yet also wielding the weapon with years of learning behind it. Anyone else would have been immediately caught by its edge.
Not Junger.
As brilliant as Machlann was, Junger simply dazzled.
The swordsman, for this was no mere gladiator, parried, blocked, ducked, and dodged, and in the end, simply avoided the most dangerous of Machlann’s cuts. He broke away from the older man and gave up space, not bothering to check where the practice men stood but inexplicably avoiding them all the same.
Machlann strode forward, cutting down the distance. His shoulders heaved, but he showed no sign of relenting as he went after the Perician again.
Junger met him in the middle of the sands. Machlann’s feints failed to move the Perician. Razor-close slashes were deflected, and thrusts stabbed nothing but air.
Goll’s features grew pensive as trainer battled student. Clavellus couldn’t tear his eyes from the spectacle. At ground level, Koba and the remaining gladiators stood and stared in growing awe at the exchange.
The trainer whirled with a backhand cut, failing to connect with Junger’s head. His left hand slammed into the Perician’s chest, sending him flat on his back with a bark of escaping breath. Both legs kicked up in a wide V, and the startled look upon Junger’s face informed the watchers Machlann had caught the pit fighter off-guard.
Machlann scrambled to cover the fallen man, placing his sword’s tip fingers away from the grounded gladiator’s chin. Junger relaxed and dropped his weapon.
Face flushed with sweat dripping from a soaked beard, Machlann struggled to catch his breath, but he didn’t relax his stance. Deep gasps raked the air.
“Thank you, Master Machlann,” Clavellus said loudly, scratching at his bare head. “Well done, Junger. Well done.”
Machlann backed away and allowed Junger to stand, each man wary of the other.
“You want to inform them of the challenges, or will I?” Clavellus asked.
Goll grunted and stood. “We’ve decided who will fight our blood matches.”
Torello’s head perked up at the words.
“Torello, you’ll fight Kolo’s killer. No mercy is expected.”
The announcement seemed to please the Sunjan. Goll hoped the man would avenge his friend’s death for the house.
“Junger, you’ll fight Tumber’s killer.”
“Bubruk,” Junger said, giving the man a name.
“That’s right. Bubruk. And I expect you to bury him. It hasn’t escaped our attention that you didn’t kill your last opponent as commanded. You kill this man. Make him dead for the slight against the House of Ten, and make no mistake doing it.
A message must be sent to any other house, any other gladiator thinking our house is weak. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Junger said without pause.
“Good,” Goll added. “Continue on.”
“Master Goll,” Koba said after receiving a look from Machlann. Koba shouted at the three gladiators and got them to their places. Goll watched Brozz for a reaction, but the tall Sarlander showed no indication of being disappointed with the selection. That pleased Goll.
The gladiators paired off with their practice men, and Koba gave the command to strike.
“What do you think?” Clavellus asked over the clatter.
Goll returned to his seat. “The fight just now?”
“Aye that.”
“Junger’s a very good actor.”
Clavellus nodded.
“I think he realized halfway through that dance that he had to lose, somehow, and convince us it was genuine, that Machlann had him.”
Clavellus chewed on a thumbnail in thought. “I think you’re right.”
“There’s no point in questioning him. The Perician would only deny it.” Goll’s thoughts churned. “I only wonder why…”
“Why the performance?” Clavellus asked.
“Why the performance.”
“Well, in this case, I’m glad he did it.”
This interested Goll.
“Remember what I said to you some time ago? About a trainer?”
“The trainer must always exhibit an image of strength,” Goll immediately answered.
“And?”
“And it’s the responsibility of a taskmaster to keep that image intact.”
“Very good, Master Goll, very good. Well, this day, for whatever reason, Junger decided to keep Machlann’s image intact.”
“But why?”
“To save Machlann embarrassment? Perhaps it serves no purpose to Junger?”
A thoughtful Goll held his chin, wondering if that was truly the case. “You think Machlann knows?”
“I think if you ask, he’ll tell you Junger spared him. Machlann is my last remaining true friend and companion. I know that man as well as this silver charm of mine. Between us, he’ll tell you because it’s his purpose in these games to prepare the men, to judge when they’re ready. Machlann won’t let pride cloud his judgement. As good as Machlann is, he knows he’s getting older, as we all are.”
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 16