Zilos lunged, stabbing for the taller gladiator’s face. Brozz slapped the spearhead away, only to have Zilos spin the butt of the shaft. The length of wood crunched into the Sarlander’s knee. Brozz crumpled to the arena floor. Zilos rushed in, spear poised to stab downward.
Brozz whacked the descending blade, sending it over his shoulder––but not far enough. The weapon pierced armor and grazed flesh, punching free of the leather and leaving a runnel of red.
With momentum carrying him forward, Zilos’s eye widened as Brozz crunched his knees up. His feet caught and launched his attacker.
Zilos landed on his chest in an explosion of dust and grit. One hand still gripped his spear. Much slower to rise this time, he still recovered quicker than Brozz. The Sarlander stayed on his knees, stunned, and ripe for butchering.
The arena called for death. And Zilos shouted back.
Spear poised to skewer a heart and eyes narrowed into knife slits, Zilos kicked up a sheet of sand as he stabbed, seeking to end the fight with the Ten man. The spear lanced forward in a streak of light and got deflected into the arena floor. Zilos’s body continued forward, and Brozz slammed the cage of his helmet into the unprotected face wrapped in red cloth. Zilos’s nose squashed. Brozz pushed his head backward, his spine cracking like a whip.
Both men fell.
A ghostly chanting reached Brozz and summoned his wandering consciousness from the back of his skull. For a moment, he couldn’t see clearly, so he gouged his fingers into his face cage, raking the helmet from his head. His eyes watered, blinded by grit.
Not a stride away, Zilos climbed to his feet. The pit fighter’s face seemed to hang in bloody tatters, but then Brozz realized it was the cloth.
Zilos swayed without his spear, and his eyes fell upon Brozz’s rising form. Without waiting, the warrior stepped up and smashed a heavy right fist across the Sarlander’s chin, rocking it to one side. Zilos crashed a left fist into Brozz’s face, mashing a nose with a distinctive pop. A third punch slammed into a cheek, breaking skin to the thunderous approval of the onlookers.
Brozz’s watery vision cleared. He caught the fourth blow and heaved Zilos to the arena floor, slamming the smaller man onto his back like a sack of wet grain. And with the frightening nimbleness of a spider, Brozz pounced onto the stricken pit fighter. He punched the face beneath him twice and then a third time just because the fury was upon him. Breaking flesh, breaking bone.
Zilos stopped moving after the second blow.
Pushing himself back, a gasping Brozz reached for a weapon and grasped the spear that had bled him. He spun the weapon around and, with teeth traced in blood, pressed the tip to the soft spot under Zilos’s chin. The man’s bloodshot eyes cracked open and saw his predicament.
Brozz applied pressure, drawing a throaty grunt from the spearman. Blood beaded and flowed, tracing lines in flesh.
Zilos gripped the spear shaft. “Yield,” the stricken pit fighter whispered, forcing his mouth to work. “I yield.”
The word found Brozz’s ears, slipping through the din of the audience. Zilos’s hands dropped to his sides.
Three long heartbeats later, Brozz cast the spear away. He sat back, wondering if the storm crashing down would bring rain. As his senses returned, Brozz realized there was no storm. He sat and marveled how the crowds could make such a stunning volume of noise.
Once his senses finally righted themselves, he stood. The Orator’s voice boomed overhead, declaring Brozz the victor. Zilos sat and plucked away the cloth from his battered head, unwrapping the strands as if they were leaves off a soggy cabbage.
“Well fought,” Zilos muttered through smashed lips.
“Well fought,” Brozz returned.
And to the surprise of all, the towering pit fighter bent and offered his hand. The gesture froze the defeated spearman. He considered it, and for a brief twinkling in time, Brozz thought he would take it.
But Zilos did not. He looked away instead.
The dismissal stung Brozz, and he withdrew his hand. Perhaps one victory over a house gladiator wasn’t enough for such respect. But at least you offered, a voice informed him, and Brozz supposed he had indeed. That knowledge lessened the burn.
Perhaps next time would be different. Perhaps not.
Oddly enough, he believed the crowds would remember him anyway. And he believed he knew how they would judge him. That knowledge felt comforting.
Picking up his helmet, Brozz walked slowly to the rising portcullis.
*
When Brozz entered the door, both Machlann and Clavellus cheered.
“You didn’t kill him,” Goll said flatly, diffusing the merriment.
“He did worse,” a beaming Clavellus said and indicated the arena over his shoulder. “Zilos has to live with the knowledge that Brozz not only bested him, but Zilos embarrassed himself by not taking the hand of a house warrior, even one so lowly as us.”
“They’ll see it as an act of defiance,” Goll said.
“A few. More will say it was a moment of spite. Mark my words, the arena will remember Brozz’s honorable gesture.”
But it was plain to see that Goll would as well.
Neither pleased nor disappointed but dripping blood with each step, Brozz sat down heavily on a bench. Machlann retrieved a wad of cloth bandages and moved to the Sarlander’s weary side.
“I’ll bind the lad up until we can get to the infirmary,” the trainer declared. “Or our healer.”
Goll turned to Junger, who lounged against a wall near the door.
“You’re next,” Goll said as if marking the pit fighter for disaster. “Return here once you’re done. If you’re able.”
Showing no emotion in the least at the jab, an unarmored Junger straightened. He stepped close to Brozz and gently patted the big man’s shoulder, receiving a tired look of gratitude from the fighter. Junger’s dark eyes regarded Goll.
“You want us to be remembered?”
“Remembered,” Goll answered, his jaw set. “Not slaughtered.”
“Don’t worry then.” Junger pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. Wearing nothing but his black breeches and a pair of high boots, he walked to the door.
Goll shook his head at the lack of protection.
“Don’t worry,” the swordsman repeated and paused on the threshold. “They’ll remember.”
He took care closing the door behind him.
In the ensuing silence, a puzzled Clavellus wiped away a single bead of sweat from his forehead. “He’s walking out there a bit early, isn’t he?”
26
Junger strolled along the white tunnel, glad to be free of the confines of the house’s private room. The whitewashed brick ran left and right of him, and he stood a few strides away from the door to the Ten’s chamber. An intersecting tunnel a short walk away led to the portcullis. It was much cooler in this part of the arena, and he appreciated the calmer atmosphere. Sword and scabbard in hand, Junger waited to be called.
Show them something to remember, Goll had said.
Don’t worry. They’ll remember.
That wasn’t wise of Junger to say, but as with some thoughts, the words leapt far too quickly to his tongue. Junger chastised himself for saying such and promised to be more cautious in the future.
The white wall became a scrolling fog that freed his mind of worldly concerns. The mortar remained firm in between the brickwork, the floors surprisingly free of dust. Say what one might about the Sunjans, they treasured their arena. Junger couldn’t understand, however, why the engineers built the tunnels so that they ended in the far-off hell of general quarters.
The wall hypnotized him. White memories drifted though his mind.
Memories.
Somewhere, a door opened and slammed. Voices spiked the quiet. The door to the Ten’s chamber opened, and Junger turned around to see Machlann and Brozz emerge, no doubt heading to the infirmary. Junger nodded at the perplexed men. Then the arrival of an arena attendant caused the P
erician to look away.
“It’s time,” the man said.
Show them something to remember.
Junger decided he would, after all.
He walked the tunnel, paying no mind to the Skarrs along its final length, and stopped at a gatekeeper with an impressive beard.
The old man sized up the warrior. “I remember you.”
“You should,” Junger replied, leaving the by now unsaid.
“You don’t wear any armor.”
“No.”
“Why is that?”
“Too hot.”
“Too hot?” The gatekeeper cackled. “You’ll risk dying because of the heat?”
“I suppose.”
“Seems unfit to me.”
“Imagine there are many who think the same.”
The gatekeeper inspected the undrawn sword gripped by the scabbard. His head moved this way and that, as if attempting to detect some sorcerous enchantment. Junger didn’t comment on the glaring scrutiny. The Orator started introductions, breaking the gatekeeper’s none-too-discreet inspection.
“Off you go then,” the older man said. “Good fortune to you.”
Junger made subtle side-eyes at him. “Many thanks.”
The gatekeeper pulled the lever he worked. The portcullis at the top of the stairs cranked open, allowing the full might of the sun inside.
Junger went to the light. The day washed over him with its hateful heat. The expectant audience filling the arena to capacity cackled with recognition. The noise grew in volume until a virtual wave crashed over him, stunning in its strength. They remembered him, remembered his disregard for stifling armor and the sword that stayed within its scabbard, free of a belt. He looked over the collage of faces, settling his gaze on a few of the more attractive ladies in the masses.
The Orator announced the fight. Junger directed his attention to his first foe.
Cota stood on the other side of the arena, armored in a leather vest and with twin short swords ready. The killer’s tusked helmet regarded Junger curiously, perhaps wondering why he chose not to wear armor.
The Orator bawled for the battle to commence, and Junger casually walked toward his foe. Taking his own cue, Cota marched to meet him.
The gladiators slowed neared the center of the arena, and Cota made no move to raise his blades to defend himself. This struck Junger as odd.
“Greetings, Cota,” the Perician said over the din of the crowds. “I’ve been sent to avenge a death at your hands.”
“I know,” Cota replied. “I expected no less. Not from a house. Even if it’s Free Trained.”
Junger smiled, knowing that response would poison Goll’s sensibilities.
“Did it for the coin,” Cota went on, his eyes barely visible above his visor. “And, truth be known, I regret killing the man.”
“You think that will save you?”
Cota surprised him. “No. But if I’m to die this day, at least you’ll know the truth of it.”
“Well said.”
They stood there for a moment, the cheers and curses of the gathered people failing to move things along.
“Ready, then?” Junger asked, dusky features scowling from the heat.
Cota rolled his shoulders and brought his blades to guard. “Aye that.”
Junger nodded. He could respect this man.
The Perician blurred ahead at a speed that damn near rendered him invisible and clanged his leather-bound sword against the tusked helmet. The impact was so fast and so hard that Cota’s knees gave way in spectacular fashion. Both swords dropped from nerveless fingers as the pit fighter crumpled backward, arms thrown wide. A knee awkwardly pointed toward the sky, the ankle twisted at a cringeworthy angle under the unconscious man’s weight. Cota’s chest heaved once as if he’d been stabbed in the back then settled.
A single hair could’ve settled on that stressed ankle, and it would’ve been enough to snap it.
The audience gasped, disbelieving the prompt dispatching of the Free Trained fighter. The Orator stood high in his podium, gawking at the fallen warrior. The owners and nobility attending the games in their own privileged viewing boxes stopped in shock.
Junger paid them no heed. He frowned at the twisted ankle, wondering if it might already be broken. He stepped in close to the senseless Cota and, with his weapon, hooked the crook of the man’s leg. Junger lifted it, easing pressure off the joint until the foot sprang back to a more natural angle. He carefully laid the leg to rest on the arena floor and studied the fallen man once again.
Satisfied he’d made his point, Junger chose not to return to the House of Ten. It would take too long. Junger decided the sun wasn’t so hot after all. Instead, he took a walk around the arena.
*
“What… is he doing?” Muluk asked, returned from the Domis and crowding around the others in abject awe.
“He’s… walking,” Clavellus stated quietly, a hint of wonderment in his voice.
“Walking,” Muluk repeated.
Attendants hurried out onto the sands and gathered up the crippled Cota. Junger let them be and strolled around the north end of the arena.
“Walking.” Goll took a deep, settling breath as an uneasy mixture of wonder and envy filled him.
*
“Seddon above,” Nexus breathed, his hand stopped midway to his face as if confused about what to hold.
Gastillo, the golden-faced owner sitting on the other side of Nexus, didn’t say a word.
An equally stunned Curge sat and squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. For once, he was thankful he didn’t possess a full goblet of wine. If he had, he would have surely spilled it.
Who was that half-naked pisser?
Dark Curge’s agent and spies hadn’t been able to discover anything about the gladiator called Junger. No one knew a damned thing except the glaringly obvious. The man fought for the newly formed house of Free Trained hellpups. And he was terrifying to see in action.
Those thoughts made Curge fidget. He lifted his goblet to his mouth, only to discover he’d somehow already drained it. Nexus and Gastillo were too captivated by Junger to notice.
Curge licked his lips and supposed Nexus spoke for them all.
Seddon above, indeed.
*
Faces. Some beaming with excitement, others ruined by anger. Underneath bright banners and streamers hanging in the hot air, Junger strolled along the walls of the Pit. He watched his boots mostly but glanced into the crowds at times, just to see if there was anything interesting—ladies in particular. After residing at Clavellus’s villa, he’d forgotten how lovely the women of Sunja could be. They waved to him, and he smiled back, welcoming their attentions.
The bellowing of the Orator made him stop, however, just below the rich hardwood platform reserved for royalty.
“Men and women of the Pit…” The old man lifted his skinny arms to the sky as if to pause time itself. “It seems Junger of the House of Ten is no ordinary gladiator. He is a man of vengeance, of a hate hell-deep and chained by vengeful intentions. The House of Ten has sent their best man to fight twice in one day, to avenge yet another sword brother taken by the very Free Trained they once were and now strive to rise above.”
Junger frowned at such dramatic liberties, wondering why the Orator inflated the introductions with such storytelling gurry. That last line about the Free Trained would rankle Goll to no end. Taking a deep breath of humid air, Junger proceeded to walk to the portcullis.
“You saw how he quickly defeated Cota. I draw your attention to the next opponent, a Free Trained slayer who doesn’t care about houses, doesn’t care about vengeance or coin. All he cares about is the man standing opposite him within Sunja’s magnificent Pit.” The Orator paused with evil delight. “A man he fully intends to kill.”
Junger frowned again and regarded the old man high upon his podium.
“Junger!” The Orator exclaimed, his voice carrying over the rumblings of thousands. “From the house birthed
in a Free Trained darkness faces Bubruk, a rabid dog hungry for fresh meat!”
The audience made their delight known. Their cheering threatened to bring down the very stands they sat upon. At the west end of the arena, the portcullis rose in jerks.
The cheering wilted when Junger’s opponent stepped into daylight.
Battle scars decorated Bubruk’s torso and limbs in a horrific verse. He stomped upon the sands as if attempting to awake whatever terrors might rest underneath. The pit fighter threw his arms wide and bellowed, shaking his curved sword and one-spike club at Seddon above, calling the god down and promising to make it hurt. A face cage lit by the sun hid Bubruk’s face, but his powerful body glistened from exertion. He turned around as the portcullis descended and thrust his blade at the spectators cursing him. Then, losing interest in the audience, Bubruk slowly turned his attention to his opponent. He straightened to his full imposing height, bringing in his arms like some mythical predator retracting its wings.
“Begin!” the Orator yelled.
Bubruk hunched over and moved from side to side, his weapons slowly churning up the air like the cogs of a brutal, primitive machine.
Junger sniffed. He walked toward the hellpup who might’ve been whipped at childbirth and mangled every day since. Junger didn’t know whether he felt the sun’s heat or raw rage radiating off Bubruk’s bulk.
Bubruk huffed, his shoulders heaved, and he broke into a jog. His battered frame aimed at Junger. The crowd’s voice rose in pitch, signaling they were eager for the clash. Bubruk’s arms chugged, his pace quickening, weapons flashing in the sun. The last few strides, the Free Trained pit fighter roared. The sound ripped through several hundred spines. Bubruk charged, striving to take his foe’s head clean off his neck.
Except Junger, holding his sheathed sword by the hilt and mid-blade, ducked under the scything sweep of his attacker’s weapon and crushed the Free Trained’s abdomen, stopping Bubruk in his tracks.
The audience cringed, both visibly and audibly, at the force of the blow.
The pit fighter’s forward momentum halted as if he’d struck a wall. He turned away from Junger, one awkward foot precariously rooted to the earth, before landing hard on his back.
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 26