His thoughts returned to all the coin he’d just won and the potential gold Olibo would bring.
18
Torello punished the practice man, savaging the wooden frame with strike after battering strike. Dents appeared upon the outstretched arms and trunk. Fibers splintered and flew. Sweat fell from Torello’s slick torso with each connection, and he paused at times to violently shake his black hair. When he did stop, he took a quick moment to refocus, scarred features set and stern, before resuming smashing the target.
“Flow,” Machlann bawled over the barrage. “Flow, I say! Eeeeee, one murderous strike to the other. Take off that arm, take off that head, but Seddon squeeze my bells and make me sing, flow from one to the other. If you aren’t flowing, change the strike that’s hindering the combination, and start anew. Don’t make me repeat myself, my missuses! Change it, and Saimon take you, work it. Until your arm drops off. Until your legs feel dead. Work! Only then will it benefit you. Only then will your body remember of its own accord, and when you’re in the Pit, slashing for that leg or chopping for that arm, your own limbs will move as if possessed by hellions. Hellions!”
Machlann stopped alongside Torello and watched with furrowed brow, gauging the pit fighter’s every motion. And surprisingly, instead of saying something entirely saucy to the trainer, Torello labored on, smashing the practice man and making the frame shiver.
“Shorten up your stance,” Machlann instructed. “Mind the extension. Keep at it. Pretend it’s that sorry shagger who took Kolo’s life, the same unfit rat-pig-bastard you’ll be paddling to death ’afore long. Eeee, whatever gives you push. Eeee.”
The trainer walked to Brozz.
Sitting on his mat, Muluk shook his head at the exchange. He watched Torello increase his pace, slamming the target until…
Seddon above. That lad’s sword’s going to––
Torello unleashed a flurry of strikes into the practice frame, breaking his sword on the fourth blow. The shattered piece spun end over end and landed in the sand. The connection turned the trainers’ heads.
“Shattered that slab, did you, my missus?” Machlann yelled.
Sweating, glowering, Torello kept his thoughts to himself.
“Well, go get another one, my furious he-bitch, unless you like standing there like one fishhooked through both bells. Break five more like that, and I’ll personally make arrangements for a keg of your favorite.”
Surly but keeping his tongue under control, Torello walked off to a nearby rack for a replacement.
Muluk giggled in unchecked disbelief before he covered his mouth. Machlann wasn’t so bad when one was watching from a ways back. In fact, the man was belly-shaking comical at times. Muluk didn’t say this aloud, however. Nor did he ever want any of the lads seeing him chuckle at the raw storm Machlann rained down upon them. Though Muluk no longer trained, he had no doubt if Machlann caught him with anything more than a smile on his face, he’d hear about it. Damnation, the trainer would probably unleash hellfire upon him. It was wiser––safer––not to draw the trainer’s attention.
The Kree lowered his head in an effort to hide the rumbling laugh in his belly. He realized that Pig Knot had been gone for quite a long time. A very long time. It was nearing evening. That seemed odd to Muluk, so he struggled to his feet, embracing the aches and pains of his healing carcass. The open door of the living quarters beckoned, so he lumbered inside. Tables and benches filled the common area but nothing else.
“Pig Knot?” Muluk studied the chamber for clues. The door that led to the sleeping quarters lay open. Slanting beams of light pierced the shadows.
“Pig Knot?”
Muluk unconsciously clenched his hands, feeling the skin stretch uncomfortably over the knuckles of his missing fingers. He leaned on the tables for support as he limped toward the open door. Dread enveloped the base of his skull and chilled his back. His stomach twisted and coiled as if he’d swallowed a snake.
Where was the Sunjan?
He hurried to the doorframe and leaned against it. Stitches pulled taut and gave warning. The chunk of meat cut from his shoulder burned at the press of wood, prompting him to straighten. Inside the corridor, warm air felt as dense as water. The curtain to Pig Knot’s alcove had been drawn across.
“Are you sleeping? Pig Knot?”
Behind Muluk, Machlann’s voice carried on, giving out instructions and reciting bits of wisdom from the arena. Muluk concentrated upon the curtain. A dull ringing started in his head, where his left ear had been removed and a knot of scabs remained. His forehead beaded sweat.
“You’d best be sleeping, you unfit topper,” Muluk growled, half in humor and half in growing unease.
The curtain didn’t move.
Muluk hobbled to the curtain and yanked it back.
Pig Knot lay on his cot and regarded him with a look of annoyance. “How can one sleep with your long tongue bawling?”
Relief flooded Muluk, and it showed on his face. “Well, answer me next time. Save me from wandering the halls like a mother.”
“With a mother as ugly as you, perhaps I don’t want to be found.”
“Well, then,” Muluk said, unable to parry that last jab. “If you’re sleeping, I’ll leave you be.”
But the knife in Pig Knot’s hand caught his attention.
“What?” Pig Knot asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve something to say?”
“No. Well…”
Pig Knot waited, resting the knife upon the fading bruises of his toned belly. “You look like you’ve something to say.”
Muluk hesitated. “Ah, we’re nearly out of beer.”
That put a poisoned look on Pig Knot’s face.
“The young one,” Muluk explained, “Ananda. She told me just a while ago when she brought another pitcher.”
“Damnation.”
“I thought so.”
Pig Knot deftly flipped the knife to an underhand grip and punched it through blanket and straw. He left it hilt up and folded his hands across his stomach. Shouts reached them from beyond the walls.
“Is all well, Pig Knot?” Muluk asked with genuine concern. “With you?”
“No. Not really.”
“What is it, then? That troubles you?”
“You’ll think it foolish.”
“You won’t know for certain until you tell me.”
Pig Knot considered it for several heartbeats. “I… miss the Zhiberian.”
Muluk gave a rueful smile.
“What’s that for?” Pig Knot demanded in annoyance. “Seddon’s rosy ass, man, you asked.”
“No, no, I understand,” he managed. “The Zhiberian’s a presence, certainly a character. It hasn’t troubled me yet, but I imagine I’ll be missing him as well. Soon enough. But he’ll be returning.”
“Perhaps.”
“I think it’s a better chance than perhaps.”
Pig Knot studied the ceiling. “Have you ever wondered, Muluk, what it’s all for?”
The unusually solemn question put Muluk on guard.
“What do you mean?”
“This. All of this. And… this.” Pig Knot indicated the ceiling, the walls, and finally the stumps of his legs. “Before, I lived from day to day, season to season, and woman to woman. Never thought any further than the end of the week, and even that didn’t happen often. Always thought about where the next few coins were coming from. And who I might have to break or kill to get them. Honorably, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But here I am. Finally. Cut up like a bad ham and left to rot in the sun.”
Muluk blinked. “You’re hardly rotting.”
“But without purpose. I have no purpose anymore. I’m no use to anyone, unless it’s emptying beer kegs so that fresh ones can be brought in. I don’t even know why I’m still here. Goll doesn’t need me.”
“You helped establish this house,” Muluk pointed out. “You’re a part of it.”
/> “By losing on his orders.” Pig Knot scoffed. “History won’t remember me. I’m worthless, tortured by daily routines I should doing, not watching. Daresay it’s only a matter of time before Goll realizes I’m a drain on his resources, a bother best cast out.”
“I don’t agree. He doesn’t think that. Or like that. Goll might be many things, but…” Muluk couldn’t finish the thought, so he started a new one. “Your …boredom is twisting your thoughts.”
“You’ll be fine,” Pig Knot carried on. “You’ll be looking after that smithy.”
In answer, Muluk held up his crippled hand.
“Well then, he’ll find you someone to help.”
“So…” Muluk concentrated on the thread of thought. “Goll will help me… but he won’t help you?”
“No. He won’t.”
“I’m not entirely certain why you might think that, but you’re wrong.”
The silence swelled, aching to burst.
“I’m tired, Muluk,” Pig Knot whispered. “It’s been almost two weeks for me like this, and I’m very, very tired.”
The words worried the Kree. “You’ll get used to it, Pig Knot. You’ll get used to it and learn to live again. In time, you’ll find a purpose. It might not be bashing heads and breaking bones or soldiering or guarding or whatever else you might’ve done. But you’ll find it. And only you will recognize it for its worth.”
Pig Knot didn’t comment.
“Goll will not cast you out.”
“I don’t want to speak of it again.”
“If you ever do…”
But Pig Knot shook his head.
Muluk hesitated, sensing the moment passing. He nodded and glanced to the common room. “Clavellus’s cooks are bringing in the evening meal. Get some hot food into you, something other than drink.”
“They’re serving now?”
“Not quite now, but they’re getting ready.”
“I’ll be along when they are.”
Not wanting to depart, Muluk lingered for a short while then conceded and drew the curtain across.
He walked away.
He hoped the man would think about their short conversation. He hoped Pig Knot would feel better in the days to come. And he felt he spoke the truth about the Sunjan finding his purpose.
Whatever that might be.
*
“Well?” Goll asked Machlann after the gladiators had been dismissed for the day. Clavellus, still without a shirt, had been lured off of his balcony and lingered beneath it, along with the pair of trainers.
“Well,” Machlann said, “the Perician is ready. That one could fight any number of matches in a single day, no doubt in my mind. Torello has certainly shown improvement. He’s right and proper motivated to fight Cota. Whether he can kill the man is another question.”
“You believe he can?”
“I believe so. Koba and I will devise a strategy for Cota tomorrow and put Torello to it. Nothing fancy, considering the shortness of time. After that…”
Goll didn’t like to think it was out of his hands.
“That’s all?” Clavellus asked, red-eyed and unwell looking. His condition amused Machlann.
“Not a word, you gray bastard,” the taskmaster grumped. “Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
The approach of the former Sujin named Clades disrupted the conversation. The guard led a man who appeared well and truly spent.
“Ah,” Clavellus said. “Borchus has sent word.”
Clades stopped just short of the gathering and indicated the messenger should start talking.
To his credit, Naulis quickly composed himself. “Masters of the House, Borchus sends word.”
“Let’s hear it, then,” Goll said.
“Ah,” Naulis began under the wilting gazes of Machlann and Koba. “The one called Brozz is scheduled to fight the day after tomorrow. He fights a warrior called Zilos from the House of Tilo. Borchus doesn’t have any information about the fighter, but he will try to discover something. The Madea has informed me there are no other matches.”
“The day after tomorrow?” Goll repeated.
“Aye that.”
“Then that’s when we’ll have our blood matches.”
“One moment,” Clavellus said. “You said the Madea informed you. Borchus didn’t speak with the Madea?”
“Not this time, no,” Naulis replied.
“Why not?”
The messenger shook his head. “I don’t know.”
A look of confusion crossed Clavellus’s face.
“When are you going back?” Goll asked.
“As soon as my horse has recovered.”
“And you’ve had something to eat,” Clavellus threw in. “Go on over to the living quarters. Clurik is my cook. Tell him to feed you.”
Naulis brightened at the prospect.
“When you return,” Goll said, handing a pair of coins to the messenger, “inform Borchus that we’ll be in the city the day after tomorrow with Brozz as well as Torello and Junger. Tell him to make arrangements for the blood matches. Torello will fight Cota, and Junger will fight Bubruk. See me once more before you leave.”
A revived Naulis took the coins and departed for his meal.
“Clades, have someone look after his horse,” Clavellus ordered and sent the soldier off.
The remaining four men absorbed the news.
His blue eyes shone, and Machlann’s great moustache barely moved when he spoke. “Well. Our first fight with a proper house.”
“Our first fight with a proper house,” Clavellus repeated, eyeing Naulis as he trudged toward the living quarters.
“And not the last.”
19
The horse’s short, chuffing strides set Halm’s hips and hurts to aching practically as soon as he left the villa. His belly and lower ribs complained. The cuts and healing bones protested with Lish’s every movement. The swaying of the saddle caused Halm to clench his jaw, and even that hurt. It occurred to him he’d been wise to leave so early in the morning before the day’s heat truly cooked the land, but he wondered if a wagon might have been more comfortable, and a touch more stable, than noble Lish.
“Lish, you dish.” Halm held the reins slack in his good hand. His left, the one Skulljigger had feasted upon, was wrapped in the same strip of cloth bandage from two days ago. Shan had been occupied with Pig Knot, and Halm felt the wound would take care of itself.
“Ever fight in an arena, Lish?” Halm stared across a high-growing sward of grass, imagining Sunja to be somewhere to the north. Picturing the city alleviated some of the pain. Not much, but it helped.
The horse ignored him.
“Well, you’re fortunate, you ancient beast, you. You never had anyone try to take your head off. Not that I’m complaining. It’s the life I chose, the profession I’m bound to. It’s also the reason I’m so battered this morning. My own blossom feels like it’s been split by someone’s crusty boot. If you saw me all healed, you’d have a different opinion of me.”
Lish’s head bobbed as he trekked toward the face of the sun. His ears twitched, dislodging a black fly.
Halm leaned forward in the saddle, groaning softly as he did, and patted what horseflesh he could reach. Lish snorted at the contact.
“I’m not so good with animals, Lish, you painful dish.”
Enjoying the name put a smile on his face. He thought it fitting, especially since the Dish might be deliberately making the ride uncomfortable for him.
“But if you can, I swear by Seddon’s rosy red ass, I’ll feed you whatever you want once we get to Karashipa if you would… just smooth the ride. Just a little. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been right and proper fishhooked.”
No response. Perhaps he needed wine on this trip. Halm chided himself for not bringing along a bottle or two of something. The saddlebags would have held them. Missed opportunities, he thought, and pictured Pig Knot without his legs. That poor bastard. As well as he knew Pig Knot, Halm didn’t
know what the Sunjan would do with himself in the years to come. Perhaps, upon his return to Clavellus’s estate, he’d find the man in better spirits.
If you return, a voice whispered in his skull.
“If I return,” Halm said, drawing comfort in the sound of his own voice on such an empty plain. Clumps of trees grew from the tall grass, appearing small in the distance, but Halm had traveled this way before. He knew those beasts towered over himself and Lish. Lovely countryside, however. And a lovely day for traveling.
“If,” Halm repeated, wondering what was hidden over the next rise—and the days to come.
“Stop. Stop, you ripe Saimon-spawned bastard. Seddon above, stop before I kill you.”
At midmorning Halm drew back the reins and halted Lish. They had traveled westerly until joining with a southerly road, and were currently stopped on a narrow dirt strip. Halm bent over in the saddle, cringing, his miserable bulk hammered with long nails of agony. He was certain if he placed a hand to tender parts, he’d color his palm with blood. Worse, he knew the trip had barely begun. Breathing as if on the cusp of giving birth, he hauled one leg over Lish’s back and slipped off the horse, groaning as he fell. His sandals slapped the earth, flattening grass and sending shots of agony up his thighs and torso. Halm swore softly at the flood of discomfort and leaned over to grab his knees.
“You wretched, unfit hellion.” Halm dabbed fingers here and there and wondered if he leaked blood. When he straightened, he wished for a bottle of drink again and discovered he’d released Lish’s reins.
The horse remained by his side.
“Well… good Lish.” Halm panted and stroked the animal’s neck. A sheen of sweat came away on his palm. He frowned and rubbed it off on his breeches while Lish’s breathing slowed. The tall grass to the side of the road tempted the horse, and he nibbled on select strands. Halm took it upon himself to take a blanket from a saddlebag and wipe off the horse’s sides, making a face as he did so. Seddon above, he thought, the horse sweated more than he did. When he finished, Halm regarded the blanket, gave it a tentative sniff, shrugged, and draped it over his shoulder. He glanced back into the shine of the sun and shied away from its hateful brilliance. The day had hardly begun. The heat would damn near kill them both later. Halm shook his head and wondered if he should have taken a wagon instead.
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 20