131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Upon reaching the deck, Pig Knot stretched and pulled up his cart. He mounted it and rattled inside. Pipe smoke clouded the interior. Wood carvings of hawks leered from roosts fixed into thick columns. Tables and benches lined the main floor in a thoughtful, organized maze. A broad counter had been built in the very back, with a row of stacked goblets and mugs behind it, shiny as if plucked from a dream. An impressive wall of kegs rested behind the goblets.

  Pig Knot liked that very much.

  He aimed for the table nearest the bar and, once he settled in, waved for the barkeep’s attention. He ordered two pitchers of beer and a plate of whatever was cooking. The barkeep took the order without comment. He was a tall individual with long locks tied at the back in a style similar to Pig Knot’s. The once gladiator liked the man’s silent demeanor, and when a serving wench placed two pitchers on the table before him, he had already forgotten his morning encounter and the rest of the day.

  There was drinking to be done.

  *

  “You say you scared them off?” A burly individual called Pline asked.

  Pig Knot held onto his sixth pitcher of the night––that one being mead––and nodded with the patience and philosophical wisdom of a person well and truly pickled.

  “Scared them off,” he slurred and winked at one of three serving wenches working the floor. “Youngsters. When I mean youngsters, I mean boys. Perhaps, perhaps no more than sixteen.” Which came out as sheexteen. “Not fit. To hold a blade. Yet brazen. Oho. Brazen enough to mark me as an easy peach. Really, now. Do I look like an easy mark to you?”

  “Not at all,” Pline agreed with a frown, leaning in over substantial forearms. Pline had a crow’s beak of thinning hair, which had been slicked back with something as shiny as slug slime. The man possessed a long face––or the lack of hair gave him the illusion of having a long face––and Pig Knot tried hard not to make comments about it. Pline, while affable enough, looked big and powerful, even bigger than Pig Knot back when he still had legs.

  “S’all unfit,” Pline stated with a sad shake of his head. “Unfit, I say. Everything’s going bad these days. All bad. No insult intended, good Pig Knot––but when the youngsters are robbing the, ah, less physically limbed, then I know it’s time to go. Where was the Street Watch when this was going on?”

  “Never saw a hair,” Pig Knot replied with a slack face. “Nothing. Not that… I wanted them around. I scared those boys right and proper. One lad was––was a true hellpup. Right nasty. All the while I was––excuse me––I was threatening him like, like with the knife, right? He was just festering with anger. Festering. Oh, you never seen the like. Could see it plain as day. As that one standing right there against the bar. And you could smell it. Could feel it, plain as fire. Shocking. Purely shocking.”

  “Shocked just hearing it,” Pline said. “And a little angry, myself. You would’ve been right to end one of them. Just as a lesson. Too many of them sorts around Sunja these days. Don’t know what’s happening to our fair city, but the streets are becoming more dangerous with every nightfall. And the watch are stretched thin. What with the games going on and all. You watch the games?”

  Pig Knot paused for effect and took a shot of mead. “I fought in the games.”

  “You fought in the games?”

  “Aye that.”

  “That the reason…” Pline trailed off, nodding at what wasn’t below the table.

  Pig Knot nodded.

  “Unfit. Just unfit.”

  “You know, I was a house master.”

  Fat lines resembling worms creased Pline’s forehead. “Whaaat?”

  “I was. The House of Ten.”

  “The Free Trained one?”

  “Aye that.”

  “So you’re here with them?”

  “No. I left them. Behind. Not with them now.”

  That struck Pline speechless, and he struggled to understand.

  “Time to leave,” Pig Knot explained. “I was… hating. Having to watch the lads. Seeing them train. Reminded me. Too much. Of when I had legs. You see. When I was whole. Had to leave. Return to my city. See if I can”—there, he decided it wise to hide the truth—“do anything here. Anything not with the games.”

  “But you were a house master! Couldn’t you just have gotten used to it? Saimon’s black hanging fruit, man. Anything’s better than on the streets, I daresay.”

  “Not for me,” Pig Knot declared. “Not for me at all.”

  “The House of Ten,” Pline said. “Heard they’ve got only a couple of lads left in the games. All the rest are dead or can’t continue. But there’s one lad who’s a right and proper bastard with a blade. Doesn’t even unsheathe his sword when he fights. Pounds his opponents into submission.”

  “That would be Junger. Perician. Perician Weh… Perician Weh…” Pig Knot belched. “Weapon.”

  “Aye that, that’s the one. He’s the talk of the city after the other day.”

  That made Pig Knot curious. “What happened the other day?” he got out and was immensely pleased with the lack of hitching.

  “You haven’t heard? That man fought three fights in one day, one after the other. Last one was a house gladiator. The Perician beat them all. All three.”

  “Three?” That was impressive… and practically unheard of, at least to Pig Knot.

  “The lad’s a terror. A terror, I say.”

  “He was a terror on the training sands,” Pig Knot said. “I can… tell you things. Why, there were days…”

  And into the night, the once house master regaled the Sunjan with tales from the House of Ten’s training grounds. Pline ordered more drinks for them both, and Pig Knot repaid the man by ordering yet another round. When the lamplight grew low, Pline bade the legless gladiator a good night and stumbled off to the latrine before heading out the front door. Pig Knot had already made two such stops—quite thankful the latrine was just a wooden trough set into the floor—and decided he would finish the night with one last visit to another tavern or such.

  He slid off the bench far too heavily and flipped his cart, causing the last few faces to look up from their conversations. Pig Knot smiled and waved as he righted the cart, loaded himself aboard, and wheeled himself to the front door.

  A hard-looking enforcer type stood there and regarded him with a knowing leer.

  “Had your fill?” the man asked.

  “Barely,” Pig Knot sputtered and wiped his mouth. “I was… I was going to… to have a go at that honeypot. In the white dress… but I daresay she’s none… she’s none too… too pleased with me.”

  “I know the one. Don’t concern yourself with her. She fancies another.”

  “Ah. Well then, no rooms in this place. I saw no stairs.”

  “No rooms. The barkeep doesn’t want the headache. Cleaning those things is a chore in the morning. Especially after those who can’t hold their drink. You can imagine.”

  Pig Knot could, easily. He made a face. “Well,” he said, “I’m off.”

  The door guardian nodded, and Pig Knot wheeled forth into a moist summer night that offered nary a breeze. The streets were deserted, and a wall of humidity stole his breath. He looked up into a black field of stars as bright as diamonds. The heavens twinkled with a magical intensity that set his heart aflutter.

  Until he misjudged the length of the front deck and his tipping cart flung him into the street. He crashed, rock raking the side of his head. He felt no pain, just contact. He stayed there for a bit, hearing a few chuckles around him, which didn’t bother him in the least. He’d be laughing too. With a grunt, he rolled himself over and sat up.

  The door enforcer was gone.

  “Need a room,” Pig Knot croaked, clumsily dusting off his shirt. He looked about with glassy eyes, checked himself as an afterthought, and was quite pleased he hadn’t pissed himself in the tumble.

  Task in mind, he righted his cart and got aboard. He pushed himself along in a line that veered to the right. He stopp
ed, straightened his course, took bearings, and started moving again, following a string of oil lamps that shimmered in the night.

  Hands grabbed him and hurried him into a nearby alley. Pig Knot didn’t resist, not understanding why he was going into that beckoning void between two buildings, and when he did, it was too late.

  “Brazen—” he slurred, reaching for his knife and finding it gone. The tumble. Must have dropped it.

  A hard knock to the side of the head dazed him. The ground crashed into his senses, and he raised his arms, glimpsing stars through his fingers. Someone slapped his hands away. A foot kept him down while he was roughly groped and searched. Hands ripped away his shirt, the sound of tearing fabric rousing Pig Knot’s anger. He lifted his head and got it knocked back. Then he got it knocked back a second time.

  Foul breath then, right in his face, and a moon of pitch that contained a single hooded eye.

  “Stay still,” someone whispered, “and you’ll live.” The voice was a man’s that time, not a youngster’s.

  Pig Knot scowled. “Get on––”

  A grip of iron fastened itself around his mouth, shoving his face back. His jaw protested with a star-bright warning of pain. As drunk as he was, Pig Knot knew how frail his chin was. He grabbed the hands and got his face slapped—twice—hard, crashing blows that rattled him to his bones and left his ears ringing.

  Mutterings then:

  “Thought you said he had coin?”

  “He did have coin, unless he drank it all away.”

  “Not all,” said a third voice, gruffer than the others. “Here. What’s this?”

  “Seven pieces.”

  “Bah, barely worth the effort.”

  “No effort at all.”

  “Barely. Worth. The effort.” A hard slap to Pig Knot’s head punctuated each word, damn near driving him to unconsciousness.

  “Kill––” me he tried to say, but a vicious boot to the stomach emptied him in a rush.

  “Check them wheels he’s got,” someone urged.

  Shadows picked up the cart and flipped it about, searching. To Pig Knot, the very night seemed to clutch the little cart. One of the thieves placed it against a wall and put his foot through the bottom.

  The sound animated Pig Knot. He reached for the wood.

  More kicks to the body while the world cracked and splintered.

  “Stay right there,” a shadow said, “or I’ll gut you.”

  “Seems like he almost wants to get gutted,” another said.

  “Nothing,” the third person reported, picking through the wreck of the cart.

  “Get him up.”

  Hands grabbed Pig Knot and pressed him against the wall. Fingers as tough as spikes clutched his throat, nipping off his air.

  “All you got on you?” a shadow demanded, punching Pig Knot’s stomach. “This all? Seven gold?”

  Two more slaps to the head.

  “Aye that,” Pig Knot finally gasped.

  “You drank it all?”

  Still held between those fingers, Pig Knot managed a weak smile.

  “Nothing in the wood. Nothing hidden,” the third one repeated.

  “Check his loincloth.”

  “You check his loincloth.”

  Pain exploded in Pig Knot’s crotch then as his kog and berries got rudely squashed one way and then another. He nearly lost the night’s investment right there in one soupy heave.

  “Nothing.”

  “Bad for us,” spoke the man holding onto Pig Knot’s chin. “And for you.”

  A fist rocked Pig Knot’s head. When he failed to fall over, the attacker truly got into his work. Three savage blows slammed into the once gladiator’s skull, pounding Pig Knot to the ground. A parting boot to the gut triggered all that liquid merriment to leave his person in a series of gasps.

  It worked out for the better, however, as the thieves stopped striking him.

  “Dirty bastard,” someone said, repelled by the stomach juice.

  “Got it on my foot.”

  “I just stepped in it.”

  More talk, but all Pig Knot saw was a field of stars.

  The voices receded into the night.

  Lying on his back and no longer able to see, Pig Knot drifted sideways until everything went black.

  26

  Two gladiators crossed blades while eyeing each other behind their guards. Neither man wore armor, and the sun put a glistening polish to their dark skin. Both were finely chiseled with muscle, but one man was much more powerful looking and noticeably taller by a few fingers. Wooden swords clattered against targets in the background, and those gladiators strained with various exercises meant to strengthen and improve their endurance. That noise faded out, becoming distant, to the point of barely being noticed.

  “Ready?” Sorban asked, holding his wooden blade.

  The other gladiator––a Sunjan called Urson––nodded.

  The Balgothan lunged, stabbing that fat splinter of a blade past Urson’s upraised sword, and slapped the man’s shoulder.

  Urson gasped and jumped back, his free hand immediately grabbing the point of impact. Unchecked shock exploded on the Sunjan’s face as he examined his hand for blood. None was there to be seen, however.

  Sorban, not pressing the attack, relaxed and stepped back from the warrior. He frowned and pointed at the shoulder. “Damnation, Urson. You move like a sick cow.”

  “You didn’t cut me,” the man exclaimed in wonder. “How is that?”

  “Skill, you young shite. Skill,” a trainer, Mal, explained in a neutral though schoolmasterly tone. He tapped one sandaled foot on the sand. “Something which we can only hope you acquire one day.”

  “Bit harsh,” Urson grumbled, offended.

  “The truth,” Mal said, squinting and inspecting the gladiator’s shoulder. “Come on, now. Sorban only tapped you. Not even. A tavern wench wouldn’t notice that. Sorban?”

  “Master Mal?”

  “What’s your opinion on Urson’s speed?”

  The Balgothan frowned. He hated being put on the spot in such a way.

  “Could be improved upon,” he managed, inspecting his wooden sword.

  “Diplomatically said,” the trainer noted. “Very much appreciated. You hear that, young Urson? ‘Could be improved upon.’ And that was given without a drop of blood. Without losing a match in the Pit and certainly without damaging your future. You do well to listen, especially from that man. He only used a sword on you this day. A wooden one, at that. Seddon forbid he takes up that staff of his. As of now, I wouldn’t want to see you try and evade that. That’s a lesson and daresay a spectacle for another day.”

  “My thanks, Master Mal. Sorban,” Urson said in a low tone, accepting the advice with only a slight bruise to his pride.

  “Pick up one of those heavier sticks,” Mal directed. “The heaviest you can find. And hit that man over there two hundred times. Or as close to it as you can manage. Off with you.”

  Orders received, Urson nodded and went to a rack of wooden weapons. Just beyond that was a line of wooden targets, where several other gladiators were hacking away at outstretched limbs and headless necks. Mal and Sorban watched the young Urson select a sword.

  “Not headstrong or stubborn, you understand,” Mal said out of the corner of his mouth. “Just moves like a sick cow.”

  Sorban didn’t comment.

  “There’s a shift in recruitment these days,” Mal observed. “A fundamental change in thought. I was discussing it with Thurlo and Irva the other day. Owners are letting speed slip away. Nowadays, it’s becoming strength. Might. They want their men to be able to split shields with one blow. Take heads off with one cut. Mind you, the masters could do that. Sadly, there are very few masters at these games. Those hellions developed a near-perfect balance between speed and power. A level we strive to achieve but rarely reach. These days, it’s as if some of these dogs expect you to stand still and let them swing at you. They would better spend their time hackin
g down forests. It’s one thing to strike a man once and hope he falls—it’s another to strike four or five times in rapid succession and know he will.”

  Sorban listened. “Different schools of thought, Master Mal.”

  Mal studied the gladiator with a contemplative look. “Exactly, good Sorban. Exactly. Now, then. Seeing we’re of the same mind with regards to speed, and that you’re willing to give your time in helping the others…”

  Sorban smirked inwardly. He knew what was coming.

  “What about going over there and helping Punder with his stance?” Mal asked.

  “His stance?”

  “The man walks like he’s about to let slip a cow kiss.”

  Sorban spotted the gladiator amongst the others. was right. The man did walk around as if in dire need of a shite trough.

  “Now’s the time to fix it,” Mal said.

  Sorban wasn’t so sure.

  “Do it, and Master Thurlo will let you head home this evening to your wife.”

  That lightened the gladiator’s expression.

  “Not so bad now, is it?” Mal said, looking at his feet.

  Nodding, Sorban walked through the training grounds belonging to the ailing Vavar Slavol, owner of the House of Slavol. The old man wasn’t present that day—he rarely was—but Sorban glanced toward the raised platform just before the man’s private residence. A carpet of greenery surrounded the stage, and upon the wooden floor were two chairs. Sometimes, Vavar would sit there, under a high canvas shade, and watch them. Not this day, however. Sorban didn’t want to think about that. The others were a superstitious lot. They were already of the mind that any day where Vavar wasn’t watching them, bad fortune would follow.

  Sorban didn’t disagree with his sword brothers.

  “Ho, Punder,” he called out, turning the gladiator’s head. Like them all, Punder was dressed in only a loincloth, enough to cover his man bits and nothing more. Like them all, he shone with a terrible sweat.

  Punder, of a smaller build than Urson, turned away from his practice and squinted at the approaching Sorban. “What did I do?”

  “Nothing.”