131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

“Only the unfit,” Goll repeated.

  “The truly unfit,” Clavellus said and rubbed his belly. “Though I suspect we have one or two amongst us. Regardless. Strongboxes, Master Goll. We’ll carry it all back home. It’ll be as safe as anywhere. Unless you don’t trust me, of course.”

  Goll glared, uncertain if that was a jab or not. He looked at Muluk, whose eyes resembled knots scorched from tree trunks. The man exhaled mightily, declining to speak for fear of grabbing his knees and voiding right there.

  “All right,” Goll said, unimpressed. “Strongboxes. You know of someone?”

  Clavellus gestured to Pratos and Valka. “You lads know of a strongbox maker? One who does quality work?”

  “I do,” Valka answered.

  “Then take us to him. Master Goll wishes to make a purchase or two.”

  “Or three or four,” Muluk added, breaking his silence.

  “If he wishes,” Clavellus said, eyeing the Kree with distrust and taking a step back, for fear of being splashed. “But if he doesn’t, I don’t think you’d need worry.”

  “Why is that?” Goll asked.

  “Because of him.” The taskmaster pointed at the Perician, standing in the house’s shade.

  Junger frowned at the commotion coming from inside the house as Shan and his wife continued to clash.

  “The masses will remember him now,” Clavellus continued with a note of sadness. “Especially when they place their wagers with the Domis. We might’ve won a vast sum yesterday, but we’ll never win it again. Not at those odds.”

  Goll sighed and studied the Ten’s gladiator.

  Just then, Shan emerged from his home and gently closed his door. He smiled wretchedly before pressing a hand to his chest and walking over to Goll. The healer’s face was long and worrying. “Apologies for that. She’s not so keen on me staying away for extended periods. We’re losing business here.”

  Goll frowned. “But I’m paying you.”

  “And I told her. She never was very good at arguing but exceptionally good at sad faces. Those always defeated me.”

  Clavellus clasped the healer’s shoulder. “We’ll make it right, won’t we, Master Goll?”

  “Get everyone onto the wagons,” he said, ignoring the question. “And let’s be off.”

  Well before midmorning, the two wagons carrying the Ten rolled their way through thickening crowds. The wheels clattered over the street’s fitted stones, rattling those travelling inside. More than a few had missed their morning wash, and as a result, the pungent stink of body odor tormented Goll. The rear flap had been raised and tied, so he glanced out the back, toward the following wagon, and noticed how some of the faces in the fleshy wake watched them. Some of the Sunjans even halted and pointed fingers.

  The Kree’s lips tightened into a line.

  Junger was back there, walking behind the second wagon. Both transports were cramped, so Junger had volunteered to follow behind to make room. Since the man would be well out of his sight, Goll didn’t protest the idea in the least.

  At the moment, however, he regretted allowing it.

  Valka sat in the driver’s seat alongside the fat Bagrun and his equally fat moustache. Following the soldier’s directions, Bagrun steered the wagons down a side street not as wide as the main road. They stopped twice for Clavellus, Machlann, and Muluk to get out and empty the bulls, something which annoyed Goll to no end. He was especially annoyed with Muluk. The man moved like a sick cow.

  In time, the wagons halted before a storefront weathered by years of frequent business. Wide shutters were flung open, and a wide canopy drooped over the entrance. A head bobbed beyond an open window.

  Valka pulled back the canvas separating the driver’s perch from the wagon’s interior. “Here,” he said.

  “Trouble, Master Goll?” Clavellus asked. “Your mouth looks tighter than a dog’s blossom.”

  “Nothing of your concern.”

  “Still angry with me?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ll buy one of those boxes for you.”

  Goll looked out the back. “Three.”

  “Two.”

  “Done.”

  Clavellus made his way past Torello’s prone figure, actually placing a hand on the man’s head. Once at the wagon’s gate, the taskmaster lowered himself to the street.

  “Get ten,” Goll called after him.

  Clavellus raised a hand, indicating he’d heard.

  “Ten,” Torello said. “Seems to me there’s a word for that.”

  “Yes, there is,” Goll said, still in a sour mood. “It’s called ten.”

  “No, I mean the House of Ten buying ten strongboxes,” Torello said, marking the air with his fingers. “There’s a word for it. Not good fortune.”

  “I’ll call it good planning.”

  Torello still hadn’t picked up on the house master’s surliness. “No, something else. What is it…?”

  “When you think of it, keep it to yourself,” Goll said and moved to the front of the wagon. “Valka, get below and help Master Clavellus.”

  The once Sujin immediately stood, smoothed out a graying beard, and did just that.

  “I mean it’s a good sign,” Torello continued from behind. “Of improving fortunes. We’re ten, ten boxes…”

  Goll ignored him and got out of the wagon.

  In short time, Clavellus inspected and purchased the strongboxes, hardwood made and bound by iron. Clavellus voiced his concern that Goll didn’t need so many, but upon a single black look from the Kree house master, he conceded that being prepared wasn’t a bad thing, just in case.

  The craftsman, an older man with hands covered in cracked skin, provided keys for the locks. Once the boxes were aboard the wagons, Goll poured the Ten’s winnings into three and locked them. Their coin secured, everyone squeezed into the crowded wagons and rolled in the direction of the city gates.

  Goll sat beside three stacked strongboxes and smoothed a hand over the wood’s fine surface, feeling the grain.

  “Cramped in here,” Torello noted through clenched teeth.

  “No more jumping out the back for you,” a nearby Clavellus advised, still recovering from his night of drinking.

  “No more alehouses for you,” Torello said with a glare.

  “I’ve said that myself several times.”

  “And yet to listen.”

  The taskmaster frowned and spoke then, but Goll didn’t hear it as the rhythmic pounding of metal hammering metal attracted his attention. He rose, grabbed onto a rib of the canvas-covered wagon, and made his way through the confined interior, eliciting grunts and hard looks from the others. He pulled the sheet covering the back, and a warm blast of moist air penetrated the interior.

  The wagons were passing a forge on the left side of street, almost hidden by the shifting mob.

  “Stop here,” Goll shouted, glaring at the crowded street.

  The lead wagon halted, causing everyone to lurch. Torello found himself squished against a bench and hissed with discomfort.

  The wounded gladiator and taskmaster looked to Goll for an explanation.

  “We need an armorer,” the Kree explained. “And a weaponsmith.”

  With that, he swung one leg over the rear gate and lowered himself to the street.

  A forge was nearby, just behind a moving fence of sheep. Goll waited for the animals to pass and strove ahead, not appreciating the tight bustle of the city.

  A low wall with a single gate ringed the work area surrounding the forge. Other walls enclosed the space as well, but they were of a sliding variety, easy to shut at the day’s end. Three men worked beneath a vaulted roof held up by four stout-looking logs. An assortment of anvils, work benches, and barrels of scrap metal filled the area before a large hearth. Two of the men were burly sorts, their thick arms soot stained and their faces tanned. Both wore leather aprons heavy enough to stop spear thrusts. One man hammered a length of glowing steel while sweat dripped from his shaved face.


  The other apron-wearing man was red-faced, his chin concealed by a shovel of a beard. He brandished a pair of tongs while shouting at the third individual working at a bench.

  “You insufferable little pisser!” the man with the shovel-styled beard yelled, jabbing the tongs. “Did I tell you to do that? Did I tell you I wanted a five weave? I did not! I said four. Four links, you deaf piece of shite. Why are you plaguing me this way? Why? You’ve wasted a full day’s material on that mail shirt! A full day! Dying Seddon above. Start again. Again, I say.”

  The smaller man wasn’t very small at all. Bare chested, blocky with muscle, with thick hair and a neatly trimmed beard, the armorer sat and waited, appearing utterly indifferent to the thundercloud raging over his shoulder.

  The forge master, as Goll assumed him to be, gathered breath while waiting for a reaction from his initial volley.

  Nothing came.

  The armorer draped the beginnings of a mail shirt across a work table, next to a metal rod, cutters, and a small hill of iron ringlets. The fellow then straightened in his chair and, with a stoic expression, gazed ahead at nothing in particular, squinting in the daylight.

  Goll stood at the forge’s gate, waiting for the confrontation to pass.

  The Kree’s presence distracted the angry forge master. The man huffed, did a double take of the potential customer, and dropped his tongs in a water tub. With a withering glare at the armorer, the forge master walked over.

  “Apologies for that,” he muttered and slap-wiped his hands. He took a heartbeat to compose himself. “That little punce has been nothing but a thorn in my pisshole since the day we took him on. A barbed thorn.”

  The little punce studied his work, unconcerned with his employer.

  “What’s he done wrong?” Goll asked as the armorer picked up the hem of the mail shirt.

  The forge master followed Goll’s eyes and looked back. His face flared red with fury. “Stop that, you miserable shite scrub!” The forge master bounded across the floor and slammed the worktable with a hand. Ringlets jumped.

  Any other person would have been startled. Some might have been embarrassed. A few would have flashed anger right back at the source while one or two might’ve even fought.

  The man sitting at the table, however, did nothing. Eyes downcast, the armorer sucked on a tooth and waited for the latest barrage to pass overhead.

  The forge master retreated a step, shaking with angry bewilderment. “The topper doesn’t speak a word of the language,” he explained. “If he does, he doesn’t pay heed to what I say. Not a lick. Oddly enough, he understands ‘done for the day,’ which puzzles me to no end.”

  The armorer reached for a pair of pliers.

  The forge master slammed the table again, and everything shivered.

  The armorer didn’t release the tool. Eyes still downcast, his chin lifted just a fraction. Goll detected the barest flicker of irritation.

  “You see that?” asked the red-faced forge master. “You see? Not a word.”

  “Leave the lad alone,” said the smithy as he flipped over the length of steel he was holding and inspected it. “You’re only upsetting him.”

  That mollified the forge master. “I’m only upsetting him? Me? The ripe little bastard hasn’t even looked at me since I started shouting at his gurry-rotting hole! He’s just––”

  The armorer once again attempted to work.

  Bam! The forge master smashed the table hard enough for either bone or wood to break.

  The armorer stopped and glanced away, at some point farther along the street.

  “See!” the forge master shouted, gesturing at the man. “He doesn’t listen! He won’t listen. Saimon below.”

  “Ah, he just doesn’t understand,” the smithy reasoned. “He’s doing things the way he’s been taught.”

  “I know that!” the forge master screamed. “You think I don’t know that! Dying Seddon! I know! And I don’t care how he was taught! I only care about him doing what I tell him to do. And Seddon as my witness, he understands well enough. He understands. I’ve already showed him how to piece that shirt together, and what does he do?” Red-faced, he rattled his head to clear it.

  “Perhaps Ajik knows of a better way,” the smithy suggested, dropping one hammer for another.

  “A better way?” the forge master nearly shrieked.

  The smithy shrugged and focused on his work.

  Goll studied Ajik. The man had a familiar look about him and a reserved but sturdy air of dignity. “Where are you from, good Ajik?”

  The forge master waved his hands, breaking up the not-quite-yet-a-conversation. “There’s nothing good about that tongueless little savage. I believe he’s from the Territories. Or the Harudin. One of those damned places. He doesn’t speak Sunjan. Or if he does, he chooses not to. I’ve tried talking to him. Tried talking plenty of times. All I get are grunts. Grunts the best of times and stares any other. Pissy little bastard. He understands firewater, though. Don’t you, you unsightly stream of piss? Firewater, yes? You like much much, yes? And any other form of drink, for that matter. From the Black to the Gold and any other brewed cow piss in between, he’ll pour it down his gullet.”

  The forge master fumed. “You know something? I don’t need this little shagger. I don’t. I’ve had enough of this git. You hear me? Off with you! Leave! Be gone! Gone!”

  The cords on the forge master’s neck threatened to burst. He grabbed a second set of tongs and waved them about Ajik’s frowning face, backing his head up on his shoulders. Unversed in Sunjan or not, the armorer wasn’t unfit in the head. Sensing he’d been dismissed, Ajik stood with a distinguished grace rivaling royalty. He retrieved a gray shirt, pushed his chair in with great care, and looked about his person before selecting the best path.

  “That’s right, get on!” the forge master yelled. “You unfit punce––and don’t think I’m paying you a single coin for this! Not one, bloody, gurry-dipped coin!”

  Ajik walked into the crowded street.

  “So you’re releasing him?” Goll asked, keeping the armorer in sight.

  “Releasing?” the red-faced forge master huffed, his anger subsiding. “I’m cursing him to Saimon’s hells. Any one of them. Or all! That’s even better. Hard enough to find anyone to do the work I need done these days, as quickly as I need it done.” He thrust his tongs at Ajik’s departing back. “That’s what available. Shiftless rat-pig gurry from parts unknown. I’ll tell you this––”

  Goll left the ranting forge master and pursued Ajik into the masses of people.

  “Ajik!” the Kree yelled. “Ajik!”

  People parted, and the little armorer stopped and turned with a frown not entirely caused by sunlight.

  Goll stopped before him. “You speak Sunjan?”

  The man gave the blankest of looks.

  “What about Kree then?” Goll asked, switching to his native language.

  Nothing. However, Ajik didn’t outright turn away.

  “Those are my wagons,” Goll pointed and explained, reverting back to Sunjan. “I’m with a house. A house of gladiators called the Ten…”

  On impulse, Goll ceased talking and mimed working metal. He again pointed to the wagons. Then he signed Ajik joining them. The rudimentary message got through to the man as his attention switched from the transports to Goll. Ajik’s back straightened as if he were taking a deep breath. He considered his options and, a heartbeat later, nodded cautiously and walked to the first wagon.

  Goll placed a hand on the armorer’s shoulder.

  Dark eyes regarded the Kree’s hand then his face. Releasing him, Goll gestured for the man to follow him to the second wagon.

  Ajik reluctantly obeyed.

  Goll led him to the wagon. When he pulled back the canvas covering the rear, the men inside stared at the newly acquired armorer.

  Ajik, with that gaze of regal indifference, stared back.

  “Little space in these beasts as it is,” a sweating Muluk groaned
from amongst the strongboxes. He glanced from the smaller man to Goll. “Did I hear you bellow? Something sounding like Ajik?”

  “You did. Dying Seddon.” Goll made a face. “Did you empty your guts in here, Muluk?”

  “I did not.”

  “Then what’s that smell?”

  “I stuck my head outside and emptied my guts,” Muluk explained, elbows to knees and his eyes looking dead. “Some might not have cleared the gate.”

  Annoyed, Goll drew back and inspected the wood. He shook his head. “Make room for him,” he said, indicating Ajik.

  “We’re taking him along?” Muluk asked.

  “Aye that.”

  “We’ll have to get another wagon,” Machlann added, sitting on a bench during the entire exchange.

  Goll didn’t rightly know what the trainer meant by that. The space was tight inside the wagon, perhaps even uncomfortably so, but they could make do. A bandaged Brozz sat next to the trainer, holding his midsection and leaning against one of the wagon’s ribs. Sweat glistened upon the Sarlander’s face, and a concerned Shan hovered nearby.

  Goll reconsidered the extra wagon.

  “So we’re in the business of taking on castoffs, are we?” Muluk asked, drawing an arm across his forehead.

  “We’re all castoffs,” Goll countered as a stoic Ajik sat amongst the men. “But if that man can work metal, then perhaps we can get Clavellus’s forge going. With your help, that is.”

  “You’re a hopeful one. I like that.”

  “I’m determined.”

  Muluk didn’t comment.

  Unimpressed, Goll released the canvas, and the men disappeared from sight. He made his way back to the first wagon and pulled himself up over the rear gate.

  “Got him aboard, did you?” Clavellus asked.

  “Aye that. We’re off.”

  “Not quite, Master Goll,” the taskmaster said. “I have a few extra errands to attend to, ones I neglected yesterday, being occupied and all. Nothing much, but I do have a list of purchases to make. Very quick, I assure you. Provisions, drink, clothing. Ah… gifts.”

  “Drink?” Torello asked, brightening. “What kind of drink?”

  “Never you mind what kind of drink,” Clavellus warned.