131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  The house owner had better things to do than wait for those aging frames of meat to appear. The Chamber members fancied themselves royalty of a most brutal realm and carried themselves as such. They had studied King Juhn for far too long, in his opinion. In any case, Curge wasn’t happy.

  He wasn’t the only one.

  Other owners had gathered about the chamber, casting shadows upon the creamy marble floor. No one bothered conversing, perhaps sensing the growing tension. Dark Curge’s eyes flickered about, taking in the collection of self-styled rogues and arrogant asslickers fully invested in the games and calling themselves owners. Most of them sickened Curge while others merely annoyed. Gastillo avoided him, standing to the far right while Nexus occupied a space near the back, well away. That suited the Dark One just fine. Sharing a viewing box overseeing the sands was enough for him, but since the fighting season had been extended, Curge would have to endure the gold-faced punce and villainous wine merchant even longer. Gastillo was bearable, but Nexus… No doubt he would murder Nexus well before the final eight. The wine merchant’s smug arrogance and self-professed expertise on games he was only just embracing annoyed Curge—greatly.

  The big owner scuffed a boot, took a breath, and released it with a flutter. His impatience was swelling to dangerous limits. He stopped looking at the others. They’d all received the same message the previous day. The Chamber invited them to their court that morning, to hear and address any questions and concerns regarding the season’s surprising extension.

  The night had been a long one for Curge. He most certainly had questions, and he’d get answers.

  The main doors attracted his attention. He thought he heard a sound, perhaps heralding the arrival of the House of Ten. The Free Trained maggots hadn’t yet appeared. Curge wondered why. The brazen he-bitches were about the city. Bezange, with his usual weaselly nonchalance, had brought the news of their drunken adventures to Curge’s attention the night before. Clavellus’s blatant dallying in the city’s drinking establishments had infuriated Dark Curge so much that he sent away his female companionship for the night.

  And he enjoyed his female companionship.

  The very notion of that old bastard cavorting and prancing about Arbin’s Row, boasting, toasting, and otherwise pissing in Dark’s Curge’s face, caused a muscle to twitch in the one-armed owner’s forehead. That bearded topper had defied his warning, and the knowledge salted his innards.

  Ancient Tilo wandered over to Curge’s side, hobbling along with a walking stick, distracting him from simmering thoughts and dangerous impulses. Of all the owners, Tilo was one of the remaining few who remembered a better age of gladiatorial combat, back when Curge’s father ruled the Pit and when Clavellus was a taskmaster in his employment. Vavar Slavol could also recall those golden years, Curge supposed, but that stable owner was not present. Slavol was close to death and constantly bedridden, another old warrior almost caught by time. Lately, his son was overseeing the well-being of the stable and was suffering for it, in Curge’s opinion.

  Tilo stopped alongside the Dark One’s greater frame and gave him a once-over. “Strange business, Curge,” he remarked, keeping his voice low, his great beard barely moving.

  Curge thought he saw pieces of food speckling that gray hanging mass. “Strange business,” he muttered in agreement, not really wanting to talk.

  “Something’s afoot, mark my words,” Tilo persisted, his voice fine and clear and probably capable of carrying a tune. “Never in all my days have I heard of a season being lengthened. Or the rats of the king’s dungeons being released in the Pit. Dark days, Curge. Dark days.”

  Curge grunted and focused upon the door behind the dais, knowing the Chamber members would enter from there.

  “Halfway through the season, no less.” Tilo rattled his head as he ruminated aloud. “The king’s behind it all. Guaranteed. Old Juhn has his hand in this. Right up to the shoulder. And he’s holding onto his pisser with the other.”

  Curge grunted again, a touch distracted, wondering how to escape the ancient topper. Tilo should’ve died ten years before, but somehow the dusty dog blossom managed to keep living. Even the man’s breathing sounded like rusty ass whistles.

  Tilo leaned in close and whispered, “Keep staring where you’re staring, but when you have a moment, you see that preening kog over there?”

  Tilo was speaking of Grisholt. The lowly owner had entered the chamber earlier with his chin hoisted just a little bit higher, his clothing just a little brighter, reveling in his recent run of fortune within Sunja’s Pit. Curge didn’t really have to see Grisholt to know he’d arrived. The last time the main doors had opened, a breeze wafted through, carrying the stink of whatever damned perfumed water that walking shite trough habitually wore.

  Curge rubbed the dry skin covering the stump of his left forearm. “I try not to, good Tilo.”

  That brought Tilo’s furry face in closer, almost placing an ear to the Dark One’s chest, far too close for Curge’s taste. He forced himself to not step back.

  “That bastard’s been doing well over the last few matches,” Tilo whispered, his lips barely moving in that foul face bush. “Doing very well. Not sure what his trainers have been doing to incite that level of rage amongst his dogs, but they’re doing it. Brutally effective as well. Have you ever seen the like?”

  Curge scowled and shook his head. Too much was happening this season to keep track of it all.

  “My lads have spotted him,” Tilo continued, his white grub of a tongue flicking, wetting his lips, which Curge did not need to see. “Him and his pack of scroff meandering about the markets. Strutting like they just sampled the finest honeypots. Spotted them last night and this morning. That one in particular stayed in a very good alehouse last night. All paid in fresh coin. He’s tossing gold about like dirt. And here I was, hoping this would be the dog’s final season. How Seddon grabs one’s bells and gives them a twist, eh?”

  Tilo raised a sound point. Seddon did work in strange ways. Curge’s nose twitched. The old man’s rancid breath assaulted him like some foul black cheese dug out from a dead man’s hole. He also glimpsed the sludge gathered between the eroded marbled nubs the old man called teeth.

  “Look at him when you have the chance,” Tilo murmured, the words damn near poisonous. “Look. Those are new clothes he’s wearing. Went to a tailor and ordered an entire new wardrobe. Even purchased buckets of that damned scent he’s wearing.”

  “It’s usually,” Curge took a breath, “lavender.”

  “That’s not lavender,” Tilo whispered bitterly, causing Curge to wince. “That’s some other scent. Probably squeezed from some exotic root resembling a rat’s topper. Who’s he trying to fool here?”

  The chamber’s side door opened, and the distinguished members filed in, a dull stream of white robes, balding heads, and discolored scars. Their entrance distracted Tilo, allowing Curge to retreat from the noxious hole of the old man’s mouth.

  The members took their seats without ceremony, appearing somewhat reluctant to face the owners. Master Odant, the recognized speaker for the Chamber, sat and studied the gathered men with all the interest of discovering insect bites upon his ballsack. Odant leaned over the panel low enough that his short gray whiskers almost touched the wooden surface.

  “Illustrious owners of houses, schools, and stables,” he said and finished with a throaty rumble. “We, the Chamber, are both pleased and honored by your visit this morning. Without further delay, we will get to the matter at hand––the recent decree you all received.”

  Straight to the meat. Curge wondered if Odant believed he was fooling anyone with his speech. The Chamber members didn’t want to be there either, but they were using the pretense of appearing mindful of the owners’ time, just to keep the meeting short.

  “King Juhn,” Odant announced with a throat-clearing rattle, “wishes the season to continue for the foreseeable future, until such a time he deems suitable to conclude the event. In
order to accommodate these additional days and to prevent the expected toll upon your resources––meaning your gladiators––the king has graciously allowed his dungeons to be farmed for additional participants. Every thief, cutthroat, and wanderer imprisoned within the king’s dungeons, who still possesses the capacity for combat, will be transported to the Pit and await their time before the crowds. We will tentatively schedule ten matches a day, perhaps twelve even, but the house gladiators will be scheduled for no more than half that on any given day. The criminals will be used as meat. A bloody spectacle for the crowds. A prelude to the real pit fighters.”

  The original role of the Free Trained, Curge thought with contempt.

  “This is new for you,” Odant carried on, “and us.”

  Piggish Vorish raised his hand.

  Odant stared daggers at him before finally, and with great reluctance, nodding. “Master Vorish.”

  Vorish hitched his hands to his belt, something which he couldn’t jingle. “The question that rises to my mind is… why?”

  Odant continued to stare unkindly at the owner.

  “Why exactly is the king doing this?” Vorish asked with a trace of impudence. “I’m curious.”

  Curge didn’t like Vorish, but he appreciated the punce asking the right question.

  “Because it’s the king’s will,” the Chamber member replied stoically.

  Vorish looked amusingly skeptical at the reply, a gesture Odant clearly didn’t appreciate.

  Nexus spoke up, his voice a touch impatient. “What about finances, then? This will impact my resources. I haven’t prepared for a longer season.”

  Curge smirked inwardly. Of them all, Nexus would unquestionably be the least affected by the games’ ongoing costs. The merchant obviously didn’t want to crack open an extra coffer when he’d already counted out one or two to cover the season.

  “The king will grant extra funding if you require it,” Odant answered. “Depending on the nature.”

  That got Curge’s attention.

  “What kind of funding?” Nexus asked.

  “To be determined. Likely armor, cost of weapons, food… anything to aid a house through the longer season. As long as the house’s finances are in order.”

  Taxes, Curge realized, and whether or not the owners had paid them.

  “And King Juhn still intends to award gladiators and the houses?” Vorish asked.

  “He does.” Odant nodded imperiously. “Fully.”

  “Until this mysterious time when he’s had enough?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And our gladiators’ records? What of them?”

  Odant frowned, growing impatient. “You mean their victories and losses? And how it will affect their standings?”

  “For the final eight, yes.”

  “In the past, only the gladiators with the best records have advanced to the final sixteen, the final eight, and onward. With this extended season, that will remain unchanged. However, in the past, the best records usually belonged to the undefeated. We anticipate some gladiators will sustain losses leading up to the season’s final days. As long as he’s able to fight when the time arrives and, of course, he’s not dead, one or two defeats should not affect a fighter from advancing to the last sixteen. From there, however, one loss will remove the gladiator from competition. Getting to that point will be the challenge. Consider it as… a true test of skill. And endurance.”

  Odant offered a tight-lipped smile, allowing that last statement to sink in.

  “What about these criminals, then?” Vorish asked, again taking the floor. “And the Jackals? You have Nordish Jackals in your cells? Underfoot?”

  “We do indeed have a handful of our Nordish enemies,” Odant answered with a darkening scowl. He cleared his throat. “Captured prisoners of war who have festered underneath the city for some time. King Juhn especially wishes these prisoners to fight. And perish. Preferably in spectacular fashion. He believes seeing a few Nordish heads rolling upon the sands will be uplifting for the audiences.”

  That set Vorish to thinking, but not before he cast a venomous glare in Grisholt’s direction. The look was not lost upon Curge.

  Razi, of the House of Razi, stepped forth. “Our lads won’t have to lower themselves to fight common criminals, will they?” he asked, lifting the white robes covering his bulbous belly and frame, from shoulders to sandals. “Or even the Jackals? It’s bad enough having to endure the Free Trained. There’s always a risk involved. Nothing certain in the Pit.”

  A Chamber member leaned into Odant and whispered in his only ear.

  Odant roused his vocal cords once again, as if they’d quickly gather rust if left unused. “We don’t know at this time. We are considering it. Especially if a prisoner excels in the games. If a man somehow survives several of the Pit’s contests, we may decide to schedule a regular gladiator… for the sole purpose of dispatching the upstart.”

  That bit of news received headshakes and groans amongst the owners.

  “King Juhn wishes to see some semblance of sport, not straight-out executions,” Odant growled, not appreciating the dissent.

  “The king’s rarely in attendance these days,” commented Burco Ustda, of the wealthy House of Ustda. The man was middle-aged and moderately handsome with well-combed blond hair and, unlike half of the owners, in some degree of physical fitness. His optimism, however, strained Curge’s nerves.

  Odant didn’t appear pleased. “If your gladiators are matched against a prisoner, be it criminal or Jackal, inform them to butcher the man in whatever fashion pleases them. Make it a single thrust to the heart or take their head clean off. Make it exciting. Memorable. However… understand that the prisoners will be armed. They will fight back. To the best of their ability. If your gladiators can kill one quickly, then so much the better, but don’t play with them. I can’t stress that enough. Especially the Jackals. Whatever you might think of them, just remember, above all else, they are soldiers. They will have training. And probably some amount of experience.”

  Curge could no longer contain himself. “This all smells like shite, Master Odant. First you grant permission for a rabble of Free Trained to establish a house and now this? What direction does this take the sport? Where’s it leading? Where will it end?”

  Odant’s beard lifted in a half smirk. “No doubt you’ve looked around you, Master Curge, and taken notice there’s no representative from that particular house. We are well aware of the… tension… the House of Ten might cause amongst the games’ more established houses and its veterans. Simply put, however, they’re here because they paid the fee. And truth be known, we didn’t believe they’d actually survive, thinking your gladiators”—Odant included all the owners with a nod—“were superior. We still think that way. It shouldn’t be a problem for your fighters to decimate the Ten. Decisively. However, that hasn’t happened. Has it?”

  Odant’s phlegmy tone dripped scorn, and Curge didn’t appreciate it. Worst, he was embarrassed by the rhetorical question. The Chamber was correct. The House of Ten should’ve been wiped clean from the games long ago.

  “Not yet,” Curge granted, his blood simmering.

  “In fact,” Odant continued, working that dagger into a raw wound, “as of yesterday, I think we were all surprised by the skill displayed by the Ten’s fighters. Very surprised. Their numbers defeated a pair of house gladiators. The one called Junger caught our attention in particular. Yes, we’re very aware of what he did yesterday. Did any of you know that no other gladiator in the illustrious history of the Pit has ever fought three opponents in one day and lived to speak of it? Well, you know one now. You might calm yourselves by saying he only defeated Free Trained and a single house gladiator on that afternoon. Some measure of comfort might be pulled from that. From our perspective, it’s still a mockery of the games.”

  With one scalding breath, Odant reprimanded them all.

  “Think of it. A Free Trained whelp has made… history. Of the m
ost memorable kind. Let it be known we won’t record yesterday’s episode, but please. Please. On behalf of the Chamber”—Odant eyed them all with stony countenance—“don’t let it happen again.”

  The closing remark left the assembled owners silent. Some fidgeted uncomfortably, glancing here and there. Someone cleared his throat. His own face and pride burning, Curge glanced at a wall, wishing he’d never heard of the House of Ten—or a hellion called Junger.

  Odant came to life once more. “Now then, are there any other questions?”

  No one spoke.

  His golden face gleaming, Gastillo raised his hand and cleared his cheesepipe.

  “Master Gastillo,” Odant said.

  “When exactly will these prisoners fight, Master Odant?”

  The Chamber member didn’t hesitate. “Today.”

  9

  Qualtus, the games’ official orator, stood in his podium and contemplated the day’s schedule. He was in a sour mood. The very thought of criminals fouling the sanctity of the Pit rotted his guts right and proper. Once again, he wondered why they were bringing criminals to the games. It was beyond his understanding. He didn’t mind a longer season. Have them fight right up to winter, was his opinion. The games were his opportunity to shine, to set the theatre, to conjure grand images and quicken the blood. Time crawled by when the fighting season ended, when he retired to tend to his gardens in the east.

  Here was where he wanted to be.

  Not with this rabble, though.

  Still, the games went on. Qualtus studied the extravagant viewing box fashioned from rich hardwoods and polished to a very fine shine. Banners of color drooped and waved in the early afternoon breeze, drawing attention to the magnificent platform. King Juhn, however, was not in attendance. The king had appeared at the beginning of the games but was absent of late. Qualtus gave it no further thought. His orders came from the Chamber, who acted upon King Juhn’s words.