131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  The larger one stopped Clades, planting a hand squarely on his chest. “You pull that steel in there, and I’ll run the whole length of it through your pisser.”

  Despite being partially armored by the alcohol, Clades nodded as if underwater. “Understood.”

  “Right then. Carry on.”

  Clades carried on.

  More people. More smoke. Laughter brayed, pleasant yet disturbing. The music was louder, played by a four-man band, assaulting their ears like a storm of hornets. More women, some of which eyed the once Sujin upon entering. More cleavage, which widened Muluk’s eyes. Clades didn’t bother with the ladies and moved quickly to the bar, passing crowded tables.

  Clavellus was there, at the counter, and he was talking.

  No, the old man was shouting, and not only the barkeep but the drinkers lounging in the general area were listening.

  “Ten!” Clavellus said and hoisted a mug. “To the Ten! Free Trained all. Remember that at the end of the season. Remember! Here, Clades, I kept this one for you.” He held out a drink.

  Clades took it, not minding in the least, but eyed Muluk magically appearing at his side. He glanced over his shoulder, back toward where he thought he’d lost the Kree to the women, and decided it didn’t really matter.

  They drank again.

  Clades sputtered and choked on the first gulp, much to the amusement of those around him.

  “Eeee,” Machlann chuckled, sounding like some distant fire giant basking in a volcano.

  “What was that?” Clades gasped, wiping at his face.

  “Sunjan firewater,” Clavellus growled, smacking his lips.

  “Firewater?”

  “Don’t care for firewater?”

  Muluk said something then, but damned if Clades could understand what it was. Firewater, he thought and felt his guts rumble with annoyance. He’d only taken a mouthful, but that fearsome concoction equaled at least five mugs of beer. Men had died drinking too much of the overpowering brew. The drink didn’t just kick one in the face, it stomped on one’s skull.

  “Is there anything you’re not going to drink tonight?” Clades asked.

  The taskmaster chuckled and took another shot.

  “I wasn’t lying about that lad outside the door,” he said to Machlann when he finished. “Frightful man. He had… he had the look… of a butcher. Enjoying his work. I tell you.”

  “Who was the most frightful man you’d ever encountered during the games?” Muluk asked, getting the question out without slurring or spitting.

  What scared Clades the most, however, was that he suddenly, quite clearly, understood every last syllable.

  “Roshdon,” Clavellus said while Machlann said, “Bivek the Six,” in the same sloppy breath.

  That got the two men arguing. Machlann became the steadiest, growling his reasons, spittle flying, while Clavellus sought to talk over the trainer, spraying even more.

  In the end, they agreed to disagree.

  Then they grabbed rags from the barkeep to clean their faces.

  “Who was the worst killer you’ve ever known in the games?” Muluk asked when the froth had stopped flying and the whiskers were wiped clean.

  “Luttros,” the trainer said.

  “Mendil the Axe,” Clavellus said more loudly and shook his head at Machlann. “Luttros was a right and proper daisy.”

  “Nothing wrong with daisies.”

  “Never said there was anything wrong with daisies. There’s not.”

  “Daisies can be vicious.”

  “Daisies can be vicious,” the taskmaster repeated with scorn. “Listen to yourself.”

  “Jundal the Vathian,” Machlann immediately countered.

  That sobered the taskmaster. “Forgot about that monster. He was a right vicious one. Point taken. Pleasant enough sort to talk with. But once… in the Pit… vicious. Vicious.”

  “And he’s still alive,” Machlann said, his speech steadying with practice.

  “He is?”

  “Returned to Vathia. Works the ground now. Grows vegetables of some sort. With some blade work on the side.”

  “Jundal,” Clavellus said fondly, remembering times gone by. “Truly vicious bastard. All the same.”

  “All right,” Muluk said, his brow knotting up with effort. “Who was the most frightful, most deadliest killer in the games?”

  “Tardus Tan,” both men said in unison.

  “Right and proper killer,” Machlann said.

  “Hellion born,” Clavellus added and had to steady himself by the bar. “Used a pair of hand axes.”

  “Spiked,” Machlann said.

  “Spiked,” the other agreed.

  “Used them well. Guaranteed.”

  “Until he came up against that one, Vinndar the Vice.”

  Muluk’s drunken face lit up. “Who was he?”

  Clavellus shook his head. “The man who… who killed Tardus Tan. That’s who.”

  “All he needs to be,” Machlann added. “And all he’ll be remembered for.”

  “A lesson learned from that fight,” the taskmaster said.

  “What was that?” Muluk asked.

  Clavellus laughed. “Never fight Vinndar the Vice.”

  And on it went.

  Until the firewater hit.

  Hit them all.

  Hard.

  “A toash,” Clavellus said and swung his mug left and right, spilling beer—he’d switched back after two shots of firewater. The spillage annoyed the barkeeps. “Apolo… apolo… sorry about that. Now then. Lads. A toash, I said. All of you.”

  He fixed his three companions with a wet look that warned they’d better listen. “I have… a toash. To you. Three of you. Lads. Thank you. For coming with me. This night. I appreciate. The gesture. You’ve made… you’ve made an old man happy. And me as well.”

  Machlann muttered a sentence positively soaked in firewater.

  Clavellus chuckled and shook the man’s shoulder, and all seemed well because of it. “Apologies, always, old friend. Haveta make a jab. Every now and then. Keep you alive, you know.”

  Machlann nodded weakly and flopped a hand, meaning Clavellus should think nothing of it.

  “So, thank you for entertaining,” Clavellus said. “On such a happy night. I feel better than years. Than I have in years. The Ten will prevail. The Perician will avail. And I say here. Now. The Perician will win the games.”

  He drank, and the others joined him, even Clades because, after the firewater, nothing really mattered anymore.

  “Who are you?” asked the barkeep, an older, heavyset man wiping out a mug.

  “The House of Ten.” Clavellus drew himself up. “And I’m Clavellus of Sunja. Taskmaster. Of the lot. That man there”—he pointed at Machlann—“is the most gifted. And unfit trainer. You’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting.”

  Machlann frowned at the introduction, but Clades could see the man was pleased.

  Clavellus pointed again. “That one. Is the noble house master.”

  Muluk glared, on the verge of toppling to the floor.

  “And that one…” Clavellus stopped at Clades. “I forget.”

  Muluk abruptly laughed and sprayed beer, catching half in his hands.

  Clavellus looped an arm around Clades’s neck. “I joke, of course. This one. Is our enforcer. An honorable man. Who’s putting up with us. When he could be… with his missus. I’ll remember that.”

  Clades sighed, somewhat touched himself.

  “Where’s the one called Junger, then?” the barkeep asked.

  “He’s not here,” Clavellus said.

  “Heard that name twice this night,” the barkeep admitted. “And not from you. Different folk.”

  Machlann and Clavellus exchanged looks, both pleased, but the taskmaster more so. Then his smile wilted under that white beard of his, and his muddy brown eyes widened in surprise then narrowed in disappointment. He looked past Clades, who turned around to see Goll standing there behind him.
r />   Clavellus lowered his mug with drunken guilt.

  “Master Goll,” he said. “You’re… late.”

  The Kree stood glaring, seething, with the Perician at his side. Men and women whispered and turned at the pair’s appearance, especially Junger. More than a few patrons quieted in respect for the warrior standing in their midst. Clades saw the stares fasten onto Junger.

  The Perician, dressed in a common shirt and breeches, with his sword sheathed and hanging from his waist scabbard, appeared unconcerned with the sudden attention.

  “Enjoying the city’s delights I see,” Goll observed, jawline twitching.

  “Yesh,” the taskmaster said, drawing himself up. “I am.”

  “A good thing I found you.”

  “For one of us,” Clavellus muttered and blinked slowly, as if the collective power of everything he’d downed finally hammered him all at once. He pursed his lips, exhaled as if winded, and swayed ever so slightly. “Probably you.”

  Goll studied the others. An unfit Muluk fluttered fingers at his fellow countryman in weak greeting.

  “Couldn’t resist, could you?” Goll asked.

  Muluk shrugged innocently and pointed at Clades. “Thadasmisseses.”

  “What?”

  Muluk frowned and went over the line again in his head. “The lad… has… a missus. The lad. Him. Clades. Has a wife. Hasn’t seen the woman since…” Muluk blinked very slowly. “Since he joined us. That’s wrong, Goll. Very wrong. We talked. About that. Clavellus offered them a room. At the villa. If she wants it. If he wants it. I said it was fine. Phsst.” He fizzled, wetting his lips and surrounding facial hair.

  “Very generous,” Goll remarked and considered Clades. “I don’t remember you saying you had a wife.”

  “I don’t remember telling you,” an apologetic Clades said.

  “Seddon above.” Goll glanced around the alehouse then told Junger, “Help me get them back.”

  Machlann frowned but kept his tongue. Clades liked the old man for that.

  “We’re leaving, now,” Clavellus announced in a drunken blast that startled the crowd. “We’re leaving. Take one last look. Before we leave. This place. This fine establishment. I mean that. When next you see this man, he will be champion of this year’s games.”

  Clavellus presented Junger, startling him that time.

  Goll’s face puckered up tighter than a dog’s blossom.

  “A champion!” Clavellus shouted, daring anyone to challenge him. “Most of you don’t know who I am, but some of you do. Some of you know me very well. I’ve overseen the training… of… a thousand war hounds. Bred for the arena. And I tell you. Now. In all honesty. The House of Ten… will achieve greatness this season. Greatness! Because of this hellion standing before you all. Mark my words!”

  He finished with a drunken smile. “And remember to wager.”

  His speech subdued the alehouse’s festive mood. Someone coughed. A woman blinked as if kicked in the head. A man slurred some nonsense before his face struck his table’s surface.

  Message delivered, Clavellus gestured for Goll to lead the way.

  Gathering themselves up, the group left the alehouse. Junger led the way, his hands loose and swinging. A swaying Clades guarded the rear though he sensed no ill will from the gathered people. All the same, he watched the shadows, scanning recesses where indistinct shapes lingered.

  Along the walk back to the healer’s house, Goll’s unimpressed words rang clear on the summer night air. “Satisfied, Master Clavellus?”

  The taskmaster walked with his head held high, a smile on his face. “Without question, you brazen. Dew-sack. Of a Kree.”

  *

  No sooner had the group of men departed the drinking establishment than one man straightened in his chair. He’d been sitting at a round table with a few other men, drinking, talking—but also watching. When the men from the House of Ten departed, the watcher finished his drink, slapped his nearest companion on the shoulder, and left the alehouse.

  He filled his lungs with night air, warm and inviting, and watched the little group stagger away at best speed.

  Taking his time, the watcher wandered out into the street, evading passersby and drifting toward wherever the shadows seemed thickest.

  When the Ten had reached a comfortable distance, he sniffed and followed at leisure, so as to not draw attention.

  He wasn’t supposed to be working, but with his job, he supposed he was working all the time.

  Clavellus. The entire alehouse knew the old topper’s name by the time he’d finsihed his first pitcher. The House of Ten. The watcher knew them. There wasn’t a working spy in Sunja who didn’t.

  Clavellus and the Ten had enjoyed Arbin’s Row that night. The spy would pass that information along to Bezange, personal agent of Dark Curge.

  *

  Later that night, with Goll’s permission, Clades left the healer’s house and made his way through Sunja’s streets, where the torches and street lamps burned low and the darkness hid the drunkards. The drink was still in his system, but he managed walking through the great city’s eastern quarters, threading the surest path to his little hovel, nearly indistinguishable from the dozens on the same road. The shadows didn’t help much, as most of the street lamps had burned low. In comparison, the starry heavens above brightened with every passing moment.

  Kura would be sleeping by then, he knew, and he hated to wake her.

  He hated staying away even more, though.

  Glancing around and ensuring the street was empty, Clades tried to ignore his heart’s quickening beat. With the amount of beer and wine he’d consumed, the first real bout of drinking in years, he knew he would regret it in the morning. He didn’t like coming home in such a condition either, but this would be the first and last time.

  He knocked on the door, softly.

  The streets remained empty. Soft snores ripped somewhere behind him. No one answered the door. The windows were shuttered, barred from within as he’d known her to do. She’d locked the house the very same way for years while he served on the Sunjan-Nordish front.

  Clades knocked again, the wood stinging his knuckles. Nervous energy built up inside his chest and legs. Weeks had passed since he’d left, but she’d known he would be away for a while, the only solace he’d given her being that he wasn’t fighting some Jackal in the dead of night.

  He knocked a third time, put his mouth to the door’s seam, and whispered, “Kura. It’s me. Clades. Open the door.”

  No response.

  Seddon above. He couldn’t remember her having slept so soundly before.

  Clades lifted his knuckles for a more urgent knock when the door opened. His wife peeked through the widening crack. She was sleepy eyed, with blond hair tumbling unchecked over her face and shoulders. She pushed her hair back from her narrowing eyes, those blue gems that had hypnotized Clades so many times. She stared at him and saw that it was truly was him and not a dream. Her lips trembled ever so slightly.

  She reached out and clutched his shirt.

  And pulled her husband in close.

  6

  Breakfast for the Ten consisted of hard-boiled eggs, cold cuts of honey-crisped ham, apple slices sprinkled with sweet spice, and goat’s milk for those who could keep it down. Not surprisingly, Clavellus and Muluk avoided the goat’s milk and only nibbled at the food. Muluk’s usual exploding bush of hair had been flattened on one side, and his eyes were pained slits. Machlann’s eyes seemed deep inside his head. The three of them looked as if they’d been steeped far too long in pisspots and were suffering from the taste. The old taskmaster and trainer took most of their morning meal in the form of water, drinking it often. Clavellus’s left hand trembled uncontrollably, but he was in better condition than his Kree drinking companion, who looked as if he’d died sometime during the morning.

  Shan’s wife fluttered about the room, her gray hair tied back. She wasn’t too pleased about her husband’s recent absence, but she wa
s the consummate professional to the wounded Brozz and the incapacitated Torello nevertheless. She tended to the men with forced pleasantry, her button eyes casting dark looks toward Shan only when she thought no one was looking.

  Goll saw it and knew trouble was near. He said nothing, however. He even left the three drinkers alone, hoping their morning misery would be lesson enough.

  He doubted that, though.

  With breakfast finished, the house master mustered the group outside, allowing Shan a last moment with his wife. While the men helped Torello and Brozz into their transports, voices rose from inside the healer’s house, turning heads. Goll looked at Clavellus, who sipped frequently from a personal water bag. The fluid intake seemed to be working for the old man. He appeared to be in much better working condition than Muluk, who remained unfit to look upon.

  The taskmaster noticed Goll’s inspection and smiled. “Still alive, Kree. Have no worries.”

  Goll frowned.

  “We’ll need to purchase a few strongboxes,” Clavellus said, his voice hoarse for reasons he couldn’t remember. “With locks.”

  “With locks,” Goll repeated. “Why?”

  “For your coin. Unless you want to keep it in a bank.”

  “Perhaps that would be best.”

  Clavellus studied his shaking hand and winced as if tasting something foul. “You don’t want a bank. Not in Sunja. We’re at war, after all.”

  Goll’s eyes narrowed. “What’re you saying?”

  “I’m saying… purchase a few stout strongboxes with quality locks. Made by a professional with a good reputation. We can empty those four sacks into the boxes––four heavy sacks that might be far too tempting to the wrong people––and transport them all back to the villa. I’ll mark them and store them in my strong room. If you wish.”

  “How many guards do you have at your villa, again?”

  “Including your three once Sujins? Thirteen.”

  “Will that be enough?” Goll asked.

  Clavellus frowned. “You do remember we school gladiators? Only the truly unfit would attempt to steal from us. And if they did, daresay the lads would welcome some live exercise.”