131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Control was everything. Vonomir was well aware of that fact.

  His opponent, Grigo of the School of Vorish, also knew that. Grigo was no youngster.

  As the fifth match of the day approached, Vonomir expected the audience was longing for two professionals to display their skills, unlike the earlier dog blossoms marring the arena floor.

  Despite his size and strength, Vonomir wore a hardened leather vest with a chiseled physique. Bronze greaves and spiked bracers covered his limbs. A helmet with a faceplate in the guise of a grinning hellion protected his features. He carried a sword and shield—no nonsense there.

  He passed under the raised opening and stopped. Vonomir’s eyes didn’t go above the stone and brick line, where the spectators yelled and thrashed in a drab patchwork of colors. He kept his eyes on the portcullis across the way, just starting to rise as the Orator introduced Grigo.

  “You know him from countless seasons. A beast of a fighter. Born to split skulls. Bred to maul men. Built to bleed all who might oppose him.”

  The crowds erupted in approval.

  Built to bleed all. Vonomir smiled at that one.

  Grigo stepped into the light.

  “From the School of Vorish, I give you… Grigo the Punisher.”

  The man towered a full head over Vonomir, and he was no small man. A shirt of polished mail hung off meaty shoulders while a rounded helmet with a grill of razors flashed in the sunlight. Drooping from his right arm was a spiked mace the size of a child’s head. Protecting his left was a shield that might have been a door ripped from its frame. Despite the impressiveness of the specimen, Vonomir knew all he needed to know about Grigo. A season before, he’d defeated several gladiators in heartless fashion, earning the name of Punisher. Vonomir himself had actually lost to the giant. Grigo was indeed a punisher, a tormentor of lesser men. This season alone, he’d killed three Free Trained hellpups and ended the season for a house fighter. The School of Vorish had done well to recruit and train that well-oiled watchtower of muscle and bone.

  But Vonomir was going to defeat him.

  Vonomir was determined to ruin Grigo’s undefeated record and add yet another victory to his own. Even as the Orator heaped bloody praise upon the gladiator’s name, Vonomir took a breath, shut out the crowd’s unrelenting racket, and focused on what he’d prepared to do.

  Grigo swaggered across the sands, bicep bulging as he raised that awesome boulder of a mace. Sunlight dappled the razor smile. A wide metallic mesh of wires protected and hid Grigo’s eyes, giving the man an insectoid appearance. Vonomir felt that cold, impassive gaze and knew Grigo was ready to kill a house fighter if the opportunity arose.

  Vonomir sensed it, welcoming the bigger man to try.

  “Vonomir,” Grigo greeted as he got closer, loud enough to be heard over the voices of thousands.

  “Grigo.”

  “Once again.”

  “Once again.”

  “You’ve done well thus far.”

  “As yourself.”

  “Early rounds,” Grigo scoffed. The rictus of razors fluted his words.

  “As they are for most,” Vonomir offered, wary of his larger opponent. “Trako’s doing well this season.”

  “Aye that. Vorish favors him.”

  “Not you?”

  Grigo’s head trembled ever so slightly. “Not I.”

  “Apologies.”

  “Not needed, but well taken,” Grigo said. “I’ll spare your life.”

  “My thanks,” Vonomir said and crouched.

  “Well, then,” Grigo said and hefted his shield. “Let’s see where this goes.”

  The mace ripped toward Vonomir’s head. He barely ducked under and away, quickly distancing himself from the larger man. Grigo charged after him, shield held out like a wall. Vonomir bobbed one way then the other, rolling under another swing of the mace. Grigo drew back, expecting a counter.

  None came, however.

  Vonomir circled to the center of the Pit, well aware of his position.

  “You’re quick,” Grigo huffed, stalking his adversary.

  Vonomir saved his breath.

  Grigo swung for Vonomir’s chest, missed, and quickly reset, but his opponent was already well out of harm’s way. Grigo stomped forward and unleashed a two-strike combination, grunting with the effort.

  He split only air.

  Vonomir backed away from the heavy-handed onslaught, his sword pointed at his foe’s chest. Excited cries escaped the onlookers.

  Grigo straightened and regarded Vonomir coolly. “You’re very quick.”

  Vonomir didn’t reply.

  “Let’s see how you––” Grigo cut his own words off by rushing his opponent. He swung for the head, then a shoulder, and finally a hip. Vonomir ducked, jumped back, and darted well out of range of the spiked ball, stirring up sand.

  The spectators voiced their impatience, the noise swallowing Grigo’s own grunts of annoyance.

  “You can’t––” the giant began.

  Vonomir lunged unexpectedly, his sword a shot of lightning blurred by a cloud of dust, and nicked Grigo’s weapon arm.

  A dull ribbon of blood streaked the air. Grigo faltered and lumbered a retreat, cradling his huge shield close as if shutting a door. Screams of victory erupted from some onlookers, but Vonomir knew better.

  Grigo was far from finished.

  The hulking warrior barged forward. He swung at the grinning hellion and missed, swung again for that taunting face and only fanned it, then smashed his shield’s edge at Vonomir’s torso, seeking to squash him with one mighty blow. The shield was only a ruse, a screen hiding a well-practiced storm of strikes, each one looking to crush the hellion’s metal skull.

  That storm flew into Vonomir, who did the impossible.

  With dazzling speed, Vonomir dodged or parried every strike before putting distance between him and the giant. He didn’t counter, not sparing the effort or bothering to steal the initiative.

  Grigo held his monstrous shield out, daring Vonomir to strike it, daring this fish to take the hook. The hellion’s mask showed no indication of doing any such thing, as if he sensed his foe’s thoughts.

  Grigo nodded approval, the razor grin seemingly delighted with the challenge of this particular match. They circled each other then, weapons poised to strike, their bared flesh streaked with sweat and clinging sand. Blood fell from Grigo’s arm, but he paid it no mind.

  My legs, Vonomir thought, his eyes locked on the giant’s grim features. He’ll go for my legs.

  “You’re looking to exhaust me,” Grigo huffed from behind his shield. “You can try. Many have before.”

  Vonomir stepped into his larger foe, and the shields clapped together. He twisted at the hips, whipped his sword around the larger shield, and twanged his blade off the back of Grigo’s helmet. Grigo’s head snapped forward. Unfazed, he pushed back.

  That shove nearly planted Vonomir on his rump. He recovered a good six strides away from his opponent.

  “Good,” Grigo said, taking a breath. “Good.”

  Good indeed, Vonomir agreed.

  They were evenly matched.

  Grigo took a mighty breath, one heralding another barrage. The imposing Sunjan stormed forward, and his mace lashed out. Vonomir attempted to deflect the weapon with his shield, but the freakish mace crashed through, connecting with his left shoulder in a sparkling explosion of leather and meat.

  The blow bent Vonomir over, off-balance, long enough for Grigo to spin.

  The mace flashed out and crunched into that hellion’s mask. The helm flew from Vonomir’s shoulders, but luckily, his head remained. He staggered, dazed and vulnerable.

  Grigo pressed, seeing blood splashed across his opponent’s profile. He swung for that bare skull and missed, but his shield crashed into Vonomir’s face with a pulpy crunch, dropping the smaller man to his knees. Grigo reset himself, saw his foe’s guard had drooped, and kicked him squarely in the chest.

  Vonomir was plied
backward with a groan.

  The world winked out, replaced by darkness.

  The crowds chanted Grigo’s name, bringing Vonomir to his senses. He squirmed under a heavy pressure on his throat, seeing a metal plane looming over his head.

  Grigo’s shield.

  It was planted on Vonomir’s throat, the pressure robbing him of breath.

  “Yield,” Vonomir sputtered weakly, patting the crushing shield with a hand.

  Grigo didn’t appear to hear.

  “Yield,” Vonomir whispered, his windpipe on the very verge of cracking. Panic replaced pain. His vision narrowed to a single tunnel, and at the end was Grigo. Black motes bloomed without sound in Vonomir’s vision. He no longer had the air to plead for his life. Grigo’s grill of razors smiled at the fallen gladiator. The eyes became caverns of pitch. Vonomir heard waves crashing on a beach somewhere while Grigo’s visor descended, becoming as brilliant as starlight. The shield pressed down, straining Vonomir’s vertebrae even more, to the point of snapping.

  Then Grigo stepped back, yanking the shield off his opponent’s throat.

  The sky wavered and deepened, and Vonomir heard the cheers of the crowd.

  Still alive, he thought.

  *

  “Good fight to end the day,” Curge rumbled and slapped the arms of his chair. “For a change.”

  The Dark One regarded Nexus and Gastillo, both of whom remained sitting. “Something to discuss, do you?”

  “We do, actually,” Nexus replied coldly.

  The admission failed to bother Dark Curge. “Leaving a dog with a snake. Perhaps the best match isn’t yet done.”

  Chuckling, the big owner departed the box.

  Nexus waited for a short time, his nonexistent chin pulling the rest of his weathered features down. “Come with me, good Gastillo. I know a place where we can talk. Without fear of being overheard. You have guards?”

  “Two.”

  “Bring them along.”

  Once outside, Gastillo summoned his guards, and they joined the four armed men waiting for Nexus. With the skies fading into evening, Gastillo allowed himself be led through the throngs of people leaving the arena. Just outside the Gate of the Moon, in the shade of the Pit’s high walls, a grand-looking koch waited, surrounded by a dozen armed guards in polished ring mail. The koch’s polished wood shone in the evening light. A manservant dressed in fine breeches and a high-collared shirt appeared and pulled the door open.

  Once again, Gastillo was thankful for his mask.

  Nexus crawled through the doorway, grunting with exertion. “Come on, then,” he called out.

  The guards encircling the koch allowed Gastillo through but blocked his two men.

  Gastillo half turned at the movement.

  “Your men will be fine where they are,” Nexus said loudly, and Gastillo supposed they would be.

  Signaling his men to wait, Gastillo climbed aboard the koch. Nexus gestured for him to sit on the opposite side, on rosy cushions.

  With the door and shutters closed, shadow enveloped the pair.

  “Now then,” Nexus said while reaching for a small cabinet set into the koch wall. “Time for real wine. And not the piss they serve here. I swear, Gastillo. Some people have no taste for fine wine. Superior wine. Wine that takes years to perfect, prepared by masters. Not some punce with a barrel and grapes. I can barely choke down that arena swill. I’d bring a bottle or two from my own stores, but frankly, I don’t need to hear Curge begging for a taste.”

  “It would be a waste,” Gastillo remarked, taking care not to sound sarcastic. He knew full well what the Dark One thought of Nexus’s taste in wine.

  “It would,” Nexus agreed and pulled out two silver goblets. He cracked a bottle and poured, the color as bold as blood. He offered one goblet to Gastillo, who accepted with a nod.

  “Ahhh,” Nexus said and leaned back into his own cushioned seat. “After planting my ass upon those rocks we sit on in the arena, this is damn near decadent. For a koch.”

  Gastillo lifted his goblet to his host and then guided it past his mask and to his lips. The wine surprised him, tasting of grape and a hint of something peppery. He liked it very much.

  “Expensive, this,” Nexus explained, lowering his drink, “but worth it. I sell it all over. The Marrn nobility in particular enjoy this wine. Pay anything for it. Now then, to business. I’ve been considering what might be a fair offer for your properties, and instead of deciding upon a number, I’ll allow you to give me your price.”

  “My price?” an uncertain Gastillo asked.

  “For your house. Your warriors, your property, and especially the contract to Prajus. He is key to this transaction.”

  Gastillo blinked. “What about the training staff?”

  “I have my own.”

  “They’re quite experienced.”

  “No matter,” Nexus declared with a halting hand. “I’ll have my own. Too much invested to simply cast them aside. Enough about that. Name your price.”

  Gastillo’s heart thumped as he took a moment to think. “For my property and my current roster.”

  “Aye that. And your golden balls as well.” Nexus brayed laughter. “Apologies. I’m not interested in those, obviously. Sell them to someone else.”

  The outburst gave Gastillo pause, and if not for the fear of offending the wine merchant, he would’ve returned with a jab of his own. To avoid souring the discussion, he kept silent.

  “And don’t worry about the maggots training within your walls. I’ll make it so they won’t feel betrayed,” Nexus said, his eyes twinkling over the goblet’s silvery lip.

  “You mean to take them on, however,” Gastillo said.

  “Some. Perhaps.” Nexus shrugged. “After a discussion with my own staff.”

  “I have agreements with those men.”

  “Once you sell your properties to me, those agreements are finished. I’ll take the ones I want. The others will leave.”

  Gastillo didn’t know quite what to make of that.

  “Come on, then,” Nexus urged him. “It’s been a long day, and truth be known, I want to be on the move. Name your price.”

  “Twenty thousand gold,” Gastillo said and then considered his drink. “And a case of this along with it.”

  “Pah.” Nexus wiped his lips. “A case of this is worth five thousand to me, Gastillo. When I said this was fine wine, I was being modest. This horse piss is wrung straight from the best breeds. It takes much more effort to produce. From orchards tended to night and day by masters of their trade. And did I mention the Marrn nobility greatly enjoy it? Regardless, seeing who you are, allow me to think about it.”

  Nexus settled back and cracked a shuttered window. Gastillo dabbed at his wrecked lips with a hand cloth, catching any spillage. It was good wine, perhaps some of the best he’d ever tasted.

  “Well, I’m not sure you’re worth quite that much,” Nexus finally said, rubbing a finger across his chin.

  “I assure you my house is worth that much.”

  “I’ll give you fifteen,” Nexus said, “delivered within two to three days from now. If you’re agreeable.”

  Gastillo blinked. “Fifteen isn’t––”

  “Fifteen thousand gold pieces,” Nexus talked over him. “Delivered in strongboxes. To a location of your choice. When you have it, my staff will enter your house and make the announcement to your men. Whether you alert them of the purchase before then is entirely up to you.”

  “I don’t think––”

  “Fifteen and not a coin more,” Nexus said, his tone suddenly frosty. “My servants have done research into your pit fighters’ history. As well as your staff and your property. Your house is situated closer to the arena than mine, so there’s that, but my trainers will have the burden of absorbing your fighters into the fold. Breaking old habits. Forming new. And there are a number of other costs I’ve taken into consideration. Fifteen thousand. That’s a dignified sum. A fair sum. As well as any, say, advi
ce you might require in whatever venture you embark upon next. Wine, cloth, livestock…”A smile stretched across Nexus’s weathered features, one that could chill the blood of a snake.

  “Consider it,” the merchant said and reached for the door. He gripped the handle and fixed Gastillo with a steely look. “But know this: it’s the best you’ll do in this land. Sunja’s at war. Merchants are shying away from this place rather than embracing it. It’s not so evident yet, but it will be. Sunja once had the reputation of being a prosperous gemstone in these parts, but that’s long been covered with mud and shite. Fifteen. Give me your answer when you’ve decided.”

  With that, he opened the door.

  The guards moved aside to allow him passage, and his own men were waiting just beyond the rest of Nexus’s armed force. Stunned, Gastillo regarded them all. In the end, he downed the last of his wine, forcing himself not to hurry, and thanked the merchant for his time.

  He got out of the koch.

  The door slammed behind him.

  At two stout raps from within, the driver snapped the reins. The lavish transport pulled away with the wall of guards walking hurriedly alongside. People in the street parted like curtains for the procession. Gastillo watched the departing koch for a short time while people walked around him, filling the space once occupied by the extravagant carriage.

  Fifteen thousand. Was his property and roster actually worth that much? He had no idea. It wasn’t twenty, yet the sum left him with a bright tingle in his belly. The coin would keep him alive and in good spirits for several years if he watched his expenses, but he wondered if it would be enough to begin a second livelihood.