131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  A furious Mollo shouted, froth spraying his beard. He flexed his arms, showing the world how he wanted to break the Jackal’s spine in a killing embrace.

  No longer in awe of the hellpup’s size, Lokan again waved the big man to come closer.

  Mollo did.

  With a throaty roar that frayed his vocal chords, Mollo chopped and hacked. He slashed diagonally and backhanded for the face.

  Lokan ducked and dodged them all.

  And when the last one missed, leaving the bigger man wide open and exposed, teetering as if he were about to fall over, Lokan stepped in and slashed Mollo from chest to chin, misting the air with sweat and blood.

  That staggered the monster.

  Mollo regained his stance. He stupidly punched for Lokan’s face.

  The Nordish man parried the blow with his sword, half shearing that meaty knob of flesh and bone off its wrist.

  Mollo screamed.

  Lokan drew two more bloody lines in the Sunjan’s torso, backing the man up on his feet. For whatever reason, Mollo dropped his blade and sought to deflect the attacks with his arms alone, as if a plague of mosquitos had enveloped him.

  Lokan nicked him with darting thrusts, slashes. Light cuts, they were not deep at all but lightning fast, and they bled. They stung.

  And each one slowed the mighty Mollo down just a little more.

  Lokan circled the big man. Mollo stood his ground like a grim watchtower on full alert. Blood soaked his hairy frame.

  The crowds no longer cheered. They realized the truth of the matter. The Nordish man, though small, was no slouch with a blade.

  Worse yet, the Jackal was good.

  The blade was nothing more than a length of blunted steel, but it did cut. Even better, Lokan discovered he preferred that distinct lack of bite.

  Mollo swiped for the Jackal’s head, but Lokan ducked and stabbed a knee, exposing red bone. Mollo dropped with a grunt, landing on that ruined joint. Sand caked the wound.

  The Sunjan was now eye level with the Jackal, and even though he was bleeding, dying, Mollo fought on.

  The giant backhanded as if drunk.

  Lokan parried the arm, cutting it to the bone. Mollo cried out, a loud gurgling, which Lokan silenced with a thrust straight through the big man’s throat. Gasps and screams shot up from the audience, startling in the sudden silence. Lokan released his sword a beat before the Sunjan toppled, grasping at the blade left in his gullet.

  Lokan let him fall.

  While the crowds resumed swearing at him, Lokan stooped and picked up the dead man’s weapon.

  Not surprisingly, it had a much finer edge to it.

  Lokan still needed three cuts to separate Mollo’s thick skull from his shoulders.

  *

  The Skarrs returned Lokan to his cell without incident. The Nordish man was content, like a blood tick that had had its fill. He offered no resistance to the guards, and when they closed his cell door, Lokan turned and studied the confines with a melancholy eye.

  “Ho, Lokan,” Dogslaw called. “You live.”

  “Aye that,” the man replied. “You should’ve seen the Sunjan I put into the ground. Might’ve been two of them grown into one. A monster. He wanted my skull for a cup, but I took his for a dish. The people who praised him like happy children didn’t know what to think. I silenced every one when I took that maggot’s head.”

  Dogslaw smiled with amused wonder. Lokan hated Sunjans, hated them with every breath and fiber of his person. He couldn’t remember where that loathing had come from or if it had always been there, but it was blazing within him now.

  “I think they’re taking others,” Noll said nearby.

  No sooner had the words left him than the Skarrs appeared once more—a dozen of them ready to escort the next man to the arena floor. They stopped at Dogslaw’s cell, visors lowered and weapons at the ready.

  A part of Dogslaw wanted to smile, but his mouth had gone dry.

  He did not resist.

  21

  When the portcullis rose high enough, Dogslaw stepped outside, into the light. The sun’s force momentarily stunned him, stopping him in his tracks, and for a short instant, a few quick heartbeats, he stood and simply absorbed every ray beaming down upon him. A rabid blast of sound came with the heat, but he didn’t pay attention to that. Hot, moist air and crushing heat stole his breath, leaving him gasping. Sweat already slathered his back. After months of existing in darkness, where the only light was from a torch or a dish of glowing coals, Dogslaw soaked in the scorching sun and was glad of it.

  The Skarrs gave him a short sword and nothing more. As with the others, the only thing he wore was a loincloth, and that was in need of replacing.

  Still appreciating the daylight, Dogslaw studied the crowds. Undulating masses screamed, cursed, and jeered. He didn’t need to understand the language. The hate radiating from the people rivaled that of the sun. Fists shook. Faces spat. Some even threw their garbage onto the sands.

  Dogslaw scowled at those.

  Above it all, a single voice called for calm and managed to settle them down for a few moments. That in itself was a feat to applaud. The audience quieted long enough for the other portcullis to rise.

  Dogslaw heard the word Paturo.

  Training had transformed Dogslaw into a Jackal, but the individual standing across the way looked to be a jackal by birth. Paturo was lean and wiry, hunched over at the shoulders with a wild mane of filthy hair. Defined muscles laced his limbs, and he regarded his opponent with an insane light. The man’s mouth even hung open, as if about to bite.

  Even more concerning was the way Paturo wielded a blade.

  He might’ve been a criminal, but Paturo swung his sword left and right, up and down, practicing a weave that spoke of showmanship and skill. The display drew a chorus of “ohhhhhh” from the onlookers.

  Squinting at his foe, Dogslaw tightened his grip on his own blade and casually walked to the center of the Pit. The sand burned his feet, but he welcomed the discomfort.

  Paturo the human jackal walked to meet him.

  The closer Dogslaw came to the criminal, the more he suspected something was unfit about the man. Paturo was unnaturally pale. He barely blinked. His mouth opened and closed as if possessed by a fit of madness. His tongue rolled and coiled. Sweat drenched the man’s beard, but Dogslaw realized it wasn’t sweat at all. It was drool––a wild, sopping mess that dripped and sprayed from the man’s mouth.

  Paturo grinned, revealing a collection of green and black fangs that might’ve been regular teeth at one point. With his thumb, the Sunjan drew a circle around the scars on his white chest.

  Dogslaw stared, not quite understanding the message, but if the man wanted his heart, he’d have to work for it.

  The crowds barked and rooted for a quick death.

  Paturo raised his weapon and circled to his left. Dogslaw circled the other way, keeping his distance, wondering what the man might do.

  He didn’t wait long.

  A grinning Paturo kicked sand into the Jackal’s face. Dogslaw sputtered as his eyes squeezed shut. Grit still stung them, however, and he cringed at the contact and immediately retreated, much to the crowd’s delight.

  Paturo attacked, charging through the dust cloud. He slashed for the head, split only air, and split more air on the back cut. Then Dogslaw did the only thing he could do.

  He ran.

  Scalding laughter rocked the arena as he sprinted across the white sands, diverting his course every so often, wiping his eyes and forcing tears out in an attempt to clear them. The world became a watery, sparkling blur. Dark shadows loomed, and he turned away from the high stone walls, hoping he wouldn’t crash into Paturo.. The crowds shouted and cursed, confusing him. He slipped once, skidding not three strides away from a wall, and came up spitting.

  A ghost pursued him, so Dogslaw ran again, following the brickwork’s curve.

  When his eyes finally cleared, he saw he’d gone the length of the ar
ena floor.

  Paturo had remained in the middle of the Pit, laughing along with the crowds.

  Wincing, sniffing hard, and screwing his palms into his eyes, Dogslaw composed himself.

  He walked back, and a scathing wall of sound rose from the spectators.

  Paturo retreated, matching his opponent step for step, a wild-man’s grin spread across his face. He gestured for Dogslaw to come closer.

  Dogslaw did.

  The Nordish man attacked, three short cuts that Paturo ducked, parried, and spun away from. The Sunjan criminal whipped his fist about, cracking Dogslaw’s chin and stunning him. Paturo kicked, planting a bare foot into his foe’s chest.

  Dogslaw landed on his back.

  A shadow fell across the Nordish man, and he rolled away. The spectators roared with glee then disappointment. Paturo didn’t press his advantage, and for that, Dogslaw was both grateful and offended.

  The Sunjan had deemed himself better.

  Stretching his jaw and finding it unbroken, Dogslaw regained his feet, his sword at low guard. He watched the Sunjan. Paturo waved the Nordish man forward, inviting him back for more punishment.

  Not so mad after all.

  Dogslaw rattled his head, cleared his senses, and stalked his foe. Paturo’s eager expression didn’t change as the Jackal moved closer.

  Dogslaw slashed for a knee. Paturo parried. Dogslaw went high and had that one stopped. Paturo darted forward and punched, missing the Jackal before both men separated and studied each other. Both attacked at some unspoken signal, teeth bared and steel clanging as they strove to gain the initiative.

  Paturo opened Dogslaw’s left cheek, parting hair and skin in a shocking burst of speed.

  The Nordish Jackal responded, zipping a line from Paturo’s left hip to his right shoulder. The connection flung the man back. Paturo retreated a few steps and dabbed at the grisly wound. His smile faltered, replaced by anger.

  A screaming Paturo charged, sword flashing, cutting Dogslaw across the left shoulder and his left knee. The Nordish man staggered back… and kicked a sheet of sand into the man’s face.

  The crowds protested, infuriated at such poor form, not that Dogslaw cared. The ass-packing Sunjan had started it first.

  Paturo rattled his head, grimacing, screwing his eyes clean with a dirty palm. He held his sword at arm’s length and didn’t run.

  Dogslaw quickly closed the space and swung steel, meaning to end the fight.

  Paturo parried, and the pair once again skillfully exchanged thrusts and slashes, neither man able to pierce the other’s guard. They fought on, testing each other. The pace gradually slowed. The grunts got louder. Clearly, neither man could maintain an offensive for much longer.

  Paturo sought to break away first.

  That was his mistake.

  Dogslaw lunged, twisting his torso with audible effort, bringing his blade up in an unexpected uppercut. He cleaved the Sunjan’s chin in two with a stomach-twisting clack of steel splitting bone.

  Paturo staggered away, holding his chopped face. Blood spurted through fingers, covering his chest. He spat and drooled teeth. His features paled even more, and when he again opened his mouth, a great gout of color heaved forth and stained the sands.

  Arms burning, his strength waning, Dogslaw slashed, scalping the prisoner’s crown to the red bone. A hairy slab of flesh whipped into the sands three strides behind Paturo as he dropped to his knees.

  The audience groaned in disappointment.

  Wheezing and muttering gibberish, Paturo clamped a hand to his bleeding scalp in a vain attempt to staunch the flow. There he stayed, holding his head together, his frame shaking with exhaustion, his expression alternating between evil glee and rage. If the pain bothered him, Paturo didn’t show it. He said something, the sound lengthy and hateful, and got one knee under himself while fixing the Nordish man with cruel intent.

  Dogslaw stabbed him through his washboard stomach, the soft chuff heard above the raucous hate of the crowds. The Sunjan’s last breath grazed Dogslaw’s face, just before he collapsed.

  Dogslaw studied the dying man for a short while, bone weary and becoming aware of the deep cuts to his person. He inspected himself, flexed his bleeding knee, and discovered it undamaged any further. Blood speckled and soaked his bearded cheek. Dogslaw prodded the cut there with fingers and his tongue.

  He winced. Paturo had cut almost straight through to his teeth. A little more, and his mouth would have opened to his ear.

  The criminal ceased moving, and Dogslaw left his sword where he’d stuck it. Straining for breath, sweat oozing, and bleeding freely, the Nordish man took in the grand spectacle that was the games. He soaked in every harsh curse aimed his way, and though he hurt, a tired smile spread across his bleeding face, rendering him frightful.

  His spine cracked when he straightened it, and with his blood dappling the arena floor, Dogslaw walked toward the rising portcullis.

  The lack of light in the Pit’s underbelly eased Dogslaw, and he knew then he’d been stashed away underground for far too long. He bled freely, not having enough hands to stem the flow from all of his wounds. Halfway down the stairs, he stopped and placed a shoulder against the wall. The world swayed and knotted, the blasting voices zoning out and becoming far away. Dogslaw felt his stomach knot up, and he braced himself against the wall as if to stop it from toppling over on him.

  There he stayed for long moments, taking shallow breaths while his body cooled.

  Then he remembered where he was.

  Skarrs crept up the stairs toward him, their helmets cocked with uncertainty. He smiled at their approach and raised a hand.

  “Still alive,” Dogslaw informed them.

  Not that the Skarrs understood the Nordish tongue. Nor did they care. He was going to die eventually, in the arena or out. When didn’t matter.

  The Sunjan guards surrounded him and walked him back to his cell.

  Dogslaw was vaguely aware of the door locking behind him. Voices spoke, and when he turned, the jailor called Runson stood there, inspecting him. Runson grunted in satisfaction. He spoke a few words of that nonsense language, smiled, and walked out of sight.

  Dogslaw lowered himself to the floor.

  Noll’s voice drifted from nearby. “You’re back. Thought you’d die for certain.”

  “I’m back… but with new scars,” Dogslaw informed him.

  He eyed his cot, pressed tightly to the dungeon wall. He stripped the blanket off the bed of sour straw.

  “Bad?” Noll asked.

  Dogslaw reached over and striped the blanket off the bed of sour straw. “Not bad,” he said and ripped the fabric down the middle. “But I’ll need something. To stop the bleeding.”

  “Was that your blanket?”

  “Aye that. Got cut. Across my shoulder. And my knee. That one hurt, but I walk fine. Got cut across my cheek. Almost opened my mouth to my ear.”

  “Lie down,” Noll instructed. “Relax. Slows down the blood. Bind your wounds.”

  “You’ll live,” Lokan said from across the way.

  Dogslaw supposed he would. “Just won’t be as pretty anymore.”

  Noll chuckled in the dark. It wasn’t often Dogslaw heard the man laugh.

  “Pretty,” Lokan repeated with a snort, sounding almost friendly, perhaps sleepy. “Welcome back, Jackal.”

  The bare straw on the cot didn’t appeal to Dogslaw, so he remained sitting. He ripped the blanket into strips, suspecting he’d need them later.

  “Are you still there?” Noll asked.

  “Binding the cuts,” Dogslaw reported. “My cheek is a mess. Grace of Ivus.”

  “Let those be. Women like scars.”

  That put a smile on Dogslaw’s face, and he immediately regretted it. The muscles flexed in his cheek, drawing that side back with hot claws. Sighing, he folded the cotton over and pressed it against the wound.

  “Well?” Noll asked.

  “Just finished,” Dogslaw said.

&nbs
p; “He’ll be fine,” Lokan remarked across the way.

  “Can you talk?” Noll asked.

  “I can,” Dogslaw said.

  A bucket of water lay to one side, and Dogslaw realized how thirsty he’d become. He pulled the bucket over and smelled its contents, mindful of what Lokan had said about the jailors pissing in it. He took a tentative sip. The water tasted fine, so he drank. When he finished, he dipped a rag before applying it to his cheek.

  “Dead yet?” Noll asked.

  Dogslaw closed his eyes. “Not yet. Bored, are you?”

  “I am,” the other admitted. “And… these are our final days, Dogslaw. I can feel it. In my bones. We’ll all perish up there in the sun. Or worse, down here in the dark. Knowing that, I feel the need to talk to someone. Even if it’s only for a short while. So if you are able, as long as you’re willing…”

  “All right.” Dogslaw pulled the wet cloth away from his cheek. For once, he was grateful for the lack of light.

  “My thanks.” Noll sounded grateful. “My only other choice was Lokan.”

  “You could… learn the language.”

  “Of my sworn enemy? Pah. I’d rather scoop out my tongue. What would I talk to them about away? I’m as weary of the war as the next.”

  A scream pierced the darkness, coming from deep inside the dungeon. Dogslaw barely flinched as screams were common. The combined weight of stone, darkness, and solitude broke everyone down after a while.

  “Who did you fight?” Noll asked.

  “A right skilled bastard,” Dogslaw said. “He knew how to handle a blade. He cut me up, and the crowd loved him for it. In the end, I stabbed him through the gut. Left him dead in the sun.”

  “Good,” Lokan muttered.

  Dogslaw suspected he was a little light-headed from his blood loss. Mad Lokan sounded as though he was right beside him.

  “Did you see the people?” Noll asked.

  Dogslaw looked up. “I did.”

  “So many.”

  “An army.”

  “Ha. Five armies. All piled into the one spot.”

  “All hating us,” Dogslaw said.

  “Aye that,” Noll said. “They hate us. But that’s important. We need that hate. We need to use it. Summon it to our side. Burn it like it was rotting wood and make it work for us.”