131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  All good attempts. Fast attempts.

  With the last strike, however, Heelslik spiraled Anjo’s sword to the outside and stepped inside the Sunjan’s guard. He punched his sword through the man’s gut, the bloody tip bursting from Anjo’s back. Dark matter sprayed the air.

  The Sunjan wilted upon the steel and collapsed.

  Heelslik released the sword and didn’t bother taking it back. The blade was a piece of gurry to begin with, the tip as sharp as a boot toe. His shoulder ached from the extra strength needed to stab the man, or maybe he was just out of practice. A long time had passed since he’d actually used a weapon, since he’d had to kill someone.

  That didn’t interest him, though.

  He was in the Pit.

  Curlord above. He was free.

  Jeers and curses rained down upon his person, but he didn’t care. He didn’t understand any of them and felt strangely armored because of it. His rugged, bearded features split into a harsh smile, and he raised his hands. Enjoying the wide open space, he decided to walk for just for a bit. Heelslik paraded around the bleeding corpse at his feet, taking the hate and even waving to a few of the more attractive faces in the crowds.

  “That’s the first one, Sunja!” he shouted back in his native tongue, energized by their rage. “That’s the first! Give me another, and I’ll do the very same again! Hahaaa! Give me your best, and I’ll split their buttery holes and make them sing!”

  Arms outstretched, Heelslik strolled and whirled, basking in the hot beauty of the day.

  “We’re here, Sunja!” he bellowed. “The Jackals are here! And we are hungry!”

  The angry crowds overpowered his voice.

  An opening portcullis stole his attention. Wary, Heelslik decided it best to leave. Just like killing Sunjans at the front—kill and retreat into the darkness. Perhaps if he did a good job, they might give him another Sunjan to kill.

  That thought only kept the smile on his face.

  Kicking sand, Heelslik turned his back on the squawking masses and walked toward the exit.

  After all, he’d been trained to kill Sunjans. Curlord above, it was his job to kill them, and he’d lived all his adult life making war against them, terrorizing them. Even though they’d captured him and Rullik had explained their jailors’ intentions, a part of Heelslik still didn’t believe the Sunjans would actually place him in an arena and give him a sword… to kill other Sunjans.

  The tunnel’s shade fell across his back as Heelslik entered. He descended stairs toward a group of armed Skarrs, the shadows and firelight playing across their armor.

  Heelslik chuckled. Sooner or later, someone would realize their mistake. Until that time, he might as well enjoy himself.

  If he couldn’t terrorize Sunjans, he might as well make them good and angry.

  11

  Almost a dozen Skarrs escorted Heelslik back to the dungeon. He was no fool, so he made no threatening moves or dared to resist. When they herded him into his cell and locked him away, Heelslik smiled and gripped the iron bars.

  The Skarrs went for another pair of prisoners.

  “You live,” Arrus said from nearby, a note of surprise in his voice.

  “He lives!” Rullik joined in from his own cell and clapped his hands.

  “I do,” Heelslik answered brightly, leaning against the cold iron. “Do you know there’s an entire city above our heads? Watching us kill Sunjans? They really want us to fight up there. Handed me a sword and pushed me out into a great big dish filled with sand. I couldn’t believe it. I killed a Sunjan right before thousands of other Sunjans.”

  The Nordish man chuckled. Cell doors opened and closed somewhere down the line.

  “Sunjans,” scoffed Rullik. “They probably think they’re doing something noble here. It’s all stupid. All nonsense. Pay heed, Jackals. They’re proud and arrogant and stupid, but they’ll become wise eventually.”

  “Perhaps,” Heelslik admitted. “But until then, enjoy it. Hear me, Arrus? When it comes to your turn to walk out there, enjoy it. The sun, the fresh air, or what passes for fresh air here. And the fight. Enjoy it. The way I see it, you can only die up there, and that’ll probably be quick.”

  “Were there really that many people watching?” Arrus asked from the poorly lit darkness.

  “Thousands,” Heelslik answered. “At least thousands. Even some pretty ones, too. I managed to take a walk after killing the dog matched against me. He knew how to hold a blade, I’ll give him that. But no real skill. Regardless, the stands were filled with Sunjan women. Flowers just waiting to be plucked. Ah, it was good to see their faces if only for a short time. But angry! Furious! Just because I killed that bastard.”

  Arrus listened, smiling at some parts, worried at others. He decided Heelslik was speaking the truth and wondered how he would perform under all those eyes, with everyone calling for his death. He was a Jackal, and he certainly followed orders, but that was war, not… entertainment.

  “I hope they come for me again,” Heelslik announced. “That was the best thing to happen to me since being captured.”

  Arrus couldn’t help but smile.

  Then he wondered when the Skarrs would come for him.

  12

  “Who is it I fight again?” an unconcerned Colcus asked as he studied the edge of his battle-axe. A man passed the gladiator a helm fashioned into the face of a snarling lion.

  “A Slavol weasel called Sorban,” Nexus answered, his normally pallid features wrinkled in annoyance. He wore his silver hair in a horse tail at back of his head that day, to keep it from his eyes.

  “Sorban,” Colcus rumbled, the sound unpleasant. “Unfit. Who would call their son such gurry? Sorban. Balgothan pig.”

  “Pay no mind to that,” Nexus snapped, his black eyes piercing, “Simply make a spectacle of the blossom. Don’t just kill him––butcher him. I want an execution out there. For all to see. The bloodier, the better. Instill fear into the hearts of whoever sees you, whoever hears the names Nexus and Colcus. Do you understand my meaning here?”

  Colcus stood in the center of the private chamber assigned to the School of Nexus. A vest of worn but serviceable ring mail covered his powerful torso. Exceptionally crafted bracers and greaves of bronze shone upon his arms and legs. He held a battle-axe in one fist, comfortable with the balanced weight. Short spikes protruded from the metal gauntlets protecting his knuckles. Colcus was one of Nexus’s better gladiators, a tall bear of a man, black haired and bearded, with wide shoulders and thick arms. He had potential to go far in the games, but after the surprising losses of Malo and Parek––both killed by the ass packer known as Prajus, who fought for Gastillo, no less––Nexus’s confidence had been shaken.

  Colcus nodded. “Understood, Master Nexus.”

  “Do you?”

  “Aye that, I do.”

  “Do you really?” Nexus fumed, stepping in close and summoning a chill to the chamber’s sun-baked interior.

  A block of dread descended upon nearby trainers, gladiators, and guards. They paused with their preparations and eyed the school’s wealthy owner, uncertain as to what was about to unfold. The wine merchant didn’t usually watch the fights from ground level, but that day, he’d remained in his school’s private chamber for the majority of the matches, which were mediocre at best but at least bearable to watch, unlike the fights amongst the dungeon scroff.

  For the last match of the day, however, Nexus intended to watch the carnage from above, just so he could gloat in Curge’s and Gastillo’s faces.

  However, he had to press his point home to his dog first.

  Confused and a touch unsettled, Colcus nodded. He watched the merchant’s face, expecting the worst.

  Nexus turned away from the warrior and faced Bojen, his well-dressed agent. A light cloak hung from the man’s shoulders, and the summer sun had darkened his features, making his white hair and moustache all the more striking.

  “I’m in a foul mood, Bojen,” the wine merchant war
ned. “A damned foul mood. The season’s been lengthened. Lengthened. Damnation. It’s right and proper good to be a king. It’s my wish to extend the games. Just like that. And the idea of prisoners or Nordish Jackals taking part? That disturbs me.”

  “Not much one can do if it’s the king’s will,” Bojen said, careful to keep his tone neutral.

  Nexus glared at his agent, searching for insult, but found none. He grunted, picked at his sunken chin, and stared off at nothing. “I didn’t expect the season to be lengthened, Bojen. It’s never been extended in the past. This is different. Which demands the question, why is the king doing this this season? You should have seen those other sheep, standing about in shite to their knees and just fine with it. Only one had steel enough to ask why. Only one. And the answer? The king’s will. Damnation, that’s odd. Is something afoot? And it’s not about the coin I’ve invested into this––though I’ve dropped a considerable amount. And it’s not about my killers meeting up with dungeon maggots who haven’t seen the light of day in years. Only Saimon would see the humor in those matches. I want to know why. Why would he do such a thing?”

  “Perhaps he enjoys the games?” Bojen offered, becoming curious.

  “He’s barely there,” Nexus countered with an open palm. “He was there at the very beginning, but I haven’t seen him since. No, there’s something else afoot here, Bojen. Keep that in the back of your mind in case you sniff something sour around the nobility’s cushions you occasionally sit yourself upon. The other maggots weren’t so terribly impressed by the decree, but only because a longer season means greater risk to their gladiator ranks. More death. More work later on, to recruit replacements. Otherwise, they simply obeyed. Like sheep. All of them. With bells of shite dangling from their white asses.”

  Bojen didn’t need the imagery.

  “Hear me?” Nexus asked the agent.

  “I do. And I will.”

  “And you know what those unfit Chamber pissers said right at the very end? They suggested we not kill each other in the Pit. Such gurry. Where’s the entertainment if that element’s removed? Seddon's rosy ass. Gurry! Ripe and rotting. These are games of blood! I don’t know what those ancient shaggers were thinking to come up with that idea. No killing. Rubbish.”

  A pensive Bojen nodded. “Ah… what did the other owners say to that?”

  “I don’t care what they say or think,” Nexus muttered, incensed to the core. “Not with that bastard Prajus running about. That’s one punce I fully intend to have butchered this season. I’ll have my revenge on him and any other who crosses the School of Nexus. These games might be the longest, Bojen, but I’ll make it the bloodiest. I’ll tell you that for nothing. The bloodiest season imagined. I see their noses held high when they see me. I see them. They don’t see me as one of them. To them, I’m dabbling here, for my own personal amusement, and for that, I intend to smash some noses. Saimon below will have deep pots at the ready for the dismal rain about to fall. And the first? That shiny-faced topper, Gastillo. He’ll regret the day for Prajus. Regret the day. Saimon paddle my hairy ass that I don’t make him shiver.”

  Bojen nodded in silent support, but Nexus’s disdain of the other owners bothered him.

  “Have you learned anything about that Junger fellow?” the wine merchant asked suddenly.

  The change in conversation caught the agent off guard. “Nothing has been revealed, Master Nexus. I have my spies searching.”

  “I’ve been thinking.” Nexus wrapped an arm around the agent’s shoulders and drew him away from the others. “Since you discovered that large brute who was once with the Ten––”

  “Sapo.”

  “Yes, that idiot. He crossed the floor to another house. Curge’s house, in fact. I wonder if this Junger fellow could be tempted to cross over? Every man has his price, don’t you think?”

  “I do, Master Nexus.”

  “How difficult might it be to make contact with the Perician? He is Perician, correct? See if he might be interested in joining the ranks of real gladiators.”

  “It’s possible,” Bojen admitted. “But the Ten are about half a day’s travel away by horse or wagon.”

  “Can you make contact?”

  “I can,” Bojen asserted calmly. “If not there, perhaps someplace else. Use discretion as usual?”

  “Discretion?” Nexus asked, distracted by other thoughts. “Within the city, certainly, but with the Ten? Free Trained shite? Seddon's pink kog and bells. If that young hellpup knows the School of Nexus is courting him, it’ll probably be enough to lure him across the floor. Right to Seddon’s dewy heavens. Be hard, though. Be hard. Offer it, and make it clear it’s a one-time proposal. Make it clear who we are and who he’s with. Put flame to his balls. Make him squirm.”

  “Is it a one-time offer?”

  “Of course not.” Nexus scoffed with a scowl. “Never close a door on a rare commodity, Bojen. Especially one like that crust of maggot shite. You should know better.”

  Bojen did know better.

  Nexus looked around the room and settled upon Colcus.

  “Fight hard, you hellpup,” the merchant warned and waved a crooked finger. “Or by my black heart, I’ll personally stab you through the eye.”

  *

  The cloth ribbon went around his hand, pulled tight, then weaved in amongst his fingers. Sorban did that for both hands then stood, pounding his vest of hardened leather and various other black slabs adorning his person. He accepted his helmet, a wild affair with bright plumes decorating the sides and over the crown. The visor was punched with holes, the area about the mouth cup shaped.

  Sniffing hard, he fixed the helm over his head.

  “Word has it Nexus is becoming particularly… agitated… with this season’s games,” said Salwark, son of Vavar Slavol. The handsome owner’s son scratched at his head of full blond hair. “Particularly agitated. So be mindful of Colcus. Word is he’s a punisher. I mean a true punisher. Not just a pretender with a reputation. Just our luck to have drawn him this day, the last fight of the day, but you can defeat him. You can put him down. Just allow your training to––to take control of your limbs as if they… they…”

  Sorban tuned out the owner’s son. Like his fellow gladiators, he didn’t think much of Salwark’s speaking skills. The man should simply shut up and let his silence speak for him. Blacktooth, friend and fellow pit fighter training alongside Sorban in the Stable of Slavol, had said it best. Old Slavol had a gift when it came to words.

  Salwark did not.

  Simple as that.

  Salwark continued to yammer on about Nexus’s lad and how good it would be if––if––Sorban could defeat him. Sorban pulled on metal gauntlets, the knuckles sprinkled with needles and woefully wicked at close quarters. He held out a hand, and the Marrnite Aidas handed him his quarterstaff––an unpleasant piece of work with metal plates and spikes hammered into the ends.

  “Well, anyway, that’s all I have to say about that,” Salwark finished and looked through the arched window to the sands.

  Thank the Lords above, Sorban thought, and waited for the call to go. Salwark mercifully let him be, and in those last few moments, Sorban’s thoughts drifted and settled. His season had gone well to that point—five victories to his credit and only one loss, which meant very little since the season had been extended. Faces of gladiators, young and old, dead and living, roamed his mind. Sorban remembered the dead and the mistakes that had led to their deaths. Some of them he hoped to avenge upon the sands. Others… He would strive to not do as they had done.

  A knock on the door broke his thoughts.

  “Time,” Salwark said, flashing nearly perfect teeth. He slapped the Balgothan on the shoulder. “Fight hard. Fight strong. Fight and be victorious! For the Stable of Slavol!”

  Sorban walked away from the owner’s son.

  The man could right and proper embarrass himself at times.

  13

  “Ladies and men of the Pit…” Qualtus t
he Orator paused with his hands held high. “I have for you now a true gift. The final battle of the day will be between two boars of the arena. A pair of thunderheads always willing and eager to roll over any who dare stumble across their path. For years, they have graced the arena floor, smashing skulls. Breaking bones. Releasing torrents of blood. And this day, for the very first time, they will face each other. A pair of tusked animals set to charge each other, ready to gore and stomp. Who will emerge the victor? I wonder…”

  Qualtus let the thought hang on the humid summer air, and the audience sucked it all down in gleeful anticipation, already having forgotten the earlier mockeries of the day.

  The Orator deepened his voice. “He is a beast set upon two legs. With power enough to fell whole trees. Men fear his axe and whisper his name. He haunts timberlands for all manner of prey. Wars seek his services. Hellions avoid him. Sunjan born and a true monster of the games, I give to you… Colcus! Of the School of Nexus!”

  At the mention of his name, Colcus stepped onto the arena sands. His helm, shaped into a snarling lion, stared across the way. He raised his axe to the sky, acknowledging the crowds.

  “His opponent,” Qualtus said, swinging a hand to the other side of the Pit, “is a veteran of the games for as long as I can remember. Balgothan by birth, he has decimated his foes, mesmerizing them with his skill before sending them to a most devastating sleep. He feasts on the animals of entire forests and drinks rivers dry. He is a destroyer of men, a ravager of flesh, and a knife stuck deep in the crack of civilization’s ass. He… is… Sorban! From the stable of Slavol!”

  Already standing amongst the heat shimmers of the sand, Sorban stared, features hidden behind his helm’s faceplate. He stuck one spiked end of his quarterstaff into the sands and waited.

  “Begin!” Qualtus shouted.

  Like a smoking, heaving battering ram of legend approaching a castle, Colcus walked toward his foe.

  The Balgothan, on the other hand, waited, content to let the larger, more powerful man come to him. When his opponent passed the midway point, he began twirling his staff.