“All right. What is it I’m not doing?”
“Master Mal wants me to help you with your stance.”
Squinty grimace in place, Punder looked over Sorban’s shoulder and met the steely gaze of the watching trainer.
“My stance?” Punder asked.
Sorban nodded.
“What’s wrong with my stance?”
“He says you walk like a sick cow.”
Punder sighed. “And he sent you to fix it.”
Sorban smiled in answer.
*
The sky darkened, lit by jagged streaks of purple and pink. Sorban came out of the bathhouse refreshed and smelling much cleaner than before. He straightened out the leather skirt he wore, pinched the sleeveless white tunic from his wet chest, and started walking. A few others followed him out and wandered toward the common room at one end of the training grounds. Punder stopped and watched the older gladiator go.
“Sorban,” he called out, “you’re passing on the rabbit?”
“I am.”
“My thanks for today.”
Sorban lifted a hand.
“Sorban,” someone new called out.
That stopped the older gladiator in his tracks. He recognized that voice.
There, standing upon the platform of Vavar, before the old man’s chair, was his son, Salwark. The man was waving him over.
With just the barest twinge of reluctance, Sorban went to the acting owner of the house.
“Master Salwark,” the Balgothan said, stopping well away from the man.
“Good Sorban.” Salwark smiled, flashing that awesome set of teeth that no doubt inspired envy amongst the royal family themselves. He was a handsome fellow—no denying that—with his long hair in a daring knot at the back and a light in his eyes brighter than most. Salwark wasn’t a bad person, certainly not ill-mannered, but he could talk, and not in a good way, like his father.
Worse, the young man’s breath could kill five paces out.
“Taskmaster Thurlo and Trainers Mal and Irva have spoken highly of you this day. What I mean to say is they speak well of you any day, truth be known, but they were particularly pleased by your patience and generosity with your time. Schooling the younger lads, hammering out a few issues, getting them well and ready for their upcoming matches. I just wanted to let you know that I also value your time, good Sorban. Very much value your time.”
The Balgothan stood and listened, well out of range. He kept his face neutral, but with a flicker of gratitude. He was about to reply when Salwark started up again.
“These games are a challenge for all of us these days. All of us. Especially with Father stricken as he is. But regarding you, he and I are of the same mind. You’re a fine one, Sorban. A boon to the stable. A standard of the games. And undefeated this season. Undefeated. Not many of those left. Taskmaster Thurlo and the trainers all agree that you’ll take that one easily, if and when you face him. That’s, ah, inspiring. At least, I find it inspiring. You’ll go far. Truly far. Ah, how do you feel?”
Sorban realized he was being asked a question. “I’m well, Salwark.”
“Off to see your wife?”
“I am.”
“And a well-earned reward for a long day,” Salwark said. “Well earned. Give the others something to think about when they’re practicing tomorrow, eh? What does she think of you participating in the games?”
“She doesn’t like it,” he answered truthfully.
“None of them do, I suspect.” Salwark became quiet then, thinking of the next thing to say no doubt, and burning Sorban’s time.
“Ah well, good evening to you,” the owner finally said. “Enjoy yourself. See you back here in the morning.”
“Thank you, Master Salwark.”
“Eat well. Sleep peacefully. All that.”
Sorban nodded that he would indeed.
“I hope you appreciate this gesture. From me. To you. For your time. In helping the lads.” The man finally ran out of words, but he fidgeted as if containing one last thought. In the end, Salwark smiled, releasing the full glory of those teeth, and gestured for the pit fighter to walk on with a grand flourish of an arm.
Puzzled, Sorban walked away from the platform. He cleared his mind of the encounter and focused on the closed gate of the Slavol property. Three guards stood there, dressed in leather armor and helms. Swords hung from their waists in sheaths. A rack with at least two score throwing spears was propped against the wall.
With every step, Sorban expected Salwark to call out to him with “one more thing,” but then he was at the gates.
“Letting you loose, eh?” one the guards asked him with a lewd smile. “Fortunate.”
Sorban didn’t comment.
“Master Mal was here earlier,” the guard explained. “Have yourself a fine evening, good Sorban.”
The guards opened the smaller door set into the gate.
There stood Zelia.
Her anxious look dissolved into one of relief upon laying eyes on her husband, pleased with his surprise. Sorban blinked and slowly smiled at his lovely wife. She was an eyeful, short and shapely yet not quite overweight. She wore tasteful robes of green and yellow that were tied off at the waist. She had blue eyes, and a round face freckled by the sun. Her hair, light and long, was pulled back, uncovering a high forehead, and flowed halfway down her back. At least, that’s how she wore it that day, knowing full well he liked the style.
“Husband,” she said.
Sorban got over his surprise. “Wife.”
“Master Salwark thought you might enjoy seeing me at the gates. His lads fetched me not too long ago.”
That was it, Sorban realized, now understanding the owner’s posturing. He glanced back toward the raised platform.
There, Salwark could be seen by the glow of his teeth alone. Sorban would have to thank the owner again in the morning. He stepped into the street and nodded thanks at the pair of guards who had escorted his wife to the gate. The guards stepped around the couple and entered the grounds. They closed the gate door behind them, leaving the couple with their secret smiles.
“You shame the evening, lovely one,” Sorban said in Balgothan while staring into her eyes.
The compliment pleased her, and she stared right back at her man. “You look clean,” she said.
Sorban knew what she meant. “I was coming home. I made sure I washed.”
“Smart lad.”
“Very smart lad,” he agreed.
Zelia looked him over for injury, something she always did when he returned to her. Inspection complete, she stepped closer and wrapped her hands around his arm.
“Did you eat, then?” she asked him.
“I did not.”
“Excellent. Master Salwark provided me with a small but unexpected purse.”
“He did?”
“He did. Six gold coins. Enough to enjoy a nice meal this evening.”
“A very nice meal.”
“You must have been a good boy in there, today,” Zelia said, her head touching his arm as they walked along a not-so-crowded street. The cut stone shone under the setting sun, and dust motes rode the air. Yellow flowers and other greenery flourished in large clay boxes lining both sides of the road. People walked by the husband and wife, unconcerned with them.
“This way, then,” she said and led him away from the Stable of Slavol.
He didn’t resist.
“The season goes well for you?” she asked.
Sorban knew she hated the season. “It does.”
“And that’s as much as I’ll speak of it.”
He thought as much. She despised speaking of the games, not wanting to hear anything about the dangerous sport. She refused to even speak of birthing children until he left the games entirely, as she believed children would only attract the worst of luck and leave her a widow.
Sorban knew that, knew she wanted him to leave, having pleaded with him not to continue at the end of last year’s games despite the coin he’d wo
n and passed on to her. Coin, she’d said many times, was cold comfort in a bed meant for two.
The games had ruined the lives of many couples.
“Where are we going?” he asked her, seeking to avoid any arguments that night.
“Somewhere.”
“How have you been?”
“Since a week ago?”
The last time he saw her. “Aye that.”
“Well enough. The household finances are well. The days are boring, but I suppose that’s a good thing. No one’s attempted to rob us. Or rape me.”
Sorban frowned. “No one would dare.”
“No, I don’t suppose. But that’s one more reason to come back home. And stay. To protect me.”
“I thought you weren’t going to speak of the games.”
“I didn’t. I’m talking about me and our home.”
Sorban sighed. “You don’t give up, do you?”
Zelia pulled away from his arm and studied him with innocent eyes.
“Evil woman,” he muttered.
She gripped his arm all the more.
*
They stopped into a small, secluded alehouse not far from the nobility area. They ate roast chicken and vegetables set in a spicy gravy and drank Sunjan Gold. Sorban watched her eat and listened to her stories of the week. He did not speak of his victories or any aspect of his gladiatorial life.
“What?” she asked him at one point, a silver goblet not far from her mouth.
Sorban didn’t answer. She already knew.
Zelia smiled before taking a drink.
*
Located north of the stable but still a good walk from where Sunja’s nobles roosted, was Zelia and Sorban’s home, a one-story affair with a tall roof and a strip of grass that surrounded the property. The neighbors were only an arm’s length away, but the area was quiet, regularly patrolled by the Street Watch, and well-kept. Zelia produced the key for the front door and fitted it into the lock. Moments later, they were inside, and Sorban fitted two planks across the inside of the door.
When he finished, she’d already struck a flint and lit candles, not bothering with the fireplace. The place was small but comfortable, and that’s what Zelia appreciated the most. She said she didn’t want large grounds or thick gardens, not while he was away at the games. Those features would be sought after in their next home, in their native Balgotha, when it was time to leave Sunja. So while they waited for that day, Zelia tended to the house’s three rooms: a modest kitchen, a sitting area, and a small indoor bath––a luxury in Sunja. A set of stairs led to the loft, where a soft mattress of sheep wool and feathers waited.
“What’s that I smell?” Sorban asked.
Zelia tsked and looked cross.
“What did I do?”
“We’re here, alone, behind closed doors, and all you can ask is ‘What’s that I smell?’ Have you learned nothing?”
She stood in the center of the room, holding her hips.
“You’re right,” Sorban said and went to her.
She stripped him of his tunic and slid his leather skirt off his hips. The undercloth came free with a tug. Her hands ran over him while her eyes locked onto his.
“Honeywood,” she whispered, feeling the cords of his flat stomach.
“What’s that?” he asked, holding his breath.
“The scent. It’s honeywood.”
“What’s that?”
“Incense. I bought it at the market.”
“I see,” he whispered then grunted. “It’s nice.”
She smiled and stepped closer to him. His arms folded around her.
“Husband,” she murmured.
Then his mouth was upon hers.
The night went too quickly, and when the crows cried out somewhere in the distance, Sorban awoke in annoyance.
They were in their bed, the sheets thin and clean and half off them both. Zelia slept next to him, her head at his shoulder. She made not a sound. Her leg straddled his, and one bare breast pressed softly against his arm. Spent honeywood lingered on the air. Sorban didn’t move for fear of waking her though he could hear voices outside their home, somewhere in the street.
The moment was one of those when, with every rise and fall of her back, he wished time would simply stop.
Later, while he had his nose in her hair, she stirred and snuggled in closer.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
Sorban smiled sadly and didn’t answer.
“If you do go,” she said, “take me with you.”
He nudged the top of her head with his nose.
“I’ve been thinking,” she continued, her words soft. “You know how we agreed not to have children before the end of the games?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“I see.”
She waited for his thoughts.
“Let’s talk more of this… later,” he said.
She sighed against his arm. “You won’t change your mind.”
“No. Probably not.”
With another sigh, she lifted her head. “We no longer need the games,” she whispered. “We’ve coin enough. We could leave today.”
Sorban couldn’t leave the games, though—not yet—so he kissed his wife’s sleepy head, hugged her, and got out of their bed.
27
Goll bent over, hands to his knees, and gasped for breath.
Sweat ran down his face and dripped off his nearly naked frame from heavy exercise. His short sandy hair was saturated into clumpy spikes. His frame trembled, the sun already turning his pale back to a sore red.
Machlann nodded in approval of the house master, liking the man’s effort, even though his motivation was clearly rage fueled, not that Machlann cared. Whatever started the fire was fine in the trainer’s mind, and thus far that morning, the Kree had performed admirably for a person who’d not trained in a month.
“You’re a tough one, Goll,” Machlann crooned in that frayed voice of his. “Eeeee a right and proper tough one. Aye that, my missus. You didn’t hear me call you master just then. None of that gurry. Not while you’re standing on my sands. Eeeeee. Not on my sands. You take that breath. Take a few, why don’t you? You make them count. I’ll even call Shan over there and have him check on you, just to make sure you won’t drop dead this day. Or have something important fall off.”
Machlann glanced toward the barracks and spotted a concerned Shan standing in shade. Muluk stood next to him, his swarthy features dour and pensive. The trainer’s blue eyes then met Clavellus’s gaze, who was observing the spectacle from his balcony. A worried Nala stood behind him. She’d cringed many times during Machlann’s drills, much to the old trainer’s amusement. He’d promised plenty more cringes, and he aimed to make good on every one.
Goll had surprised them all earlier in the morning when he strutted from the living quarters in just a loincloth and bare feet—surprised them even more when he announced he would be training with Junger that day. Even though he’d declared his intention to be champion of the games the day before, it was still unexpected to see the Kree duck walking, lifting timbers, and any other exercises Machlann could put him through.
“Weapon Masters of Kree,” the old trainer muttered, disdain dripping from his words, his mouth obscured by his beard. “You’re not in Kree anymore. And if they were any good, you would be still in the games, wouldn’t you? But you’re not, you misplaced half shite. You were damn neared gutted and left to brown in the sun by a certain famous butcher. Now you’re in the tender care of another, not-so-famous butcher, but one very bit as fine with the cutting. Eeee I guarantee it. I guarantee.”
Machlann looked at Clavellus for approval. Just on the far side of the training grounds, Koba was putting Junger through his morning paces.
“When you finally drop, my missus,” Machlann growled, “then I’ll have a mug of something wet. Something sweet. For a morning well done.”
Goll glared at the trainer.
&nb
sp; “Don’t you be looking at me with love in your eyes,” Machlann snapped. “Seems you’re all done. Clades!”
The soldier stood next to the rack of wooden weapons.
“Toss me one of those,” Machlann said, snapping fingers. Clades selected a sword and lobbed it to the trainer, who caught it deftly.
“Now then,” Machlann said, his voice carrying over the clatter of Junger tearing into his target, “you unfit he-bitch who calls himself a weapons master. Take this.”
The trainer threw the sword into the sand at Goll’s feet.
“You’re hot now,” Machlann explained. “So you take that stick and you hammer out a five-stroke combination on that practice lad right over there. Aye, you see it, right below Master Clavellus there. So he can have a good look at you and have the best line of sight when I finally break your miserable carcass… and fishhook you by the unfit hole.”
Goll glared. He picked up the wooden sword and studied its length. A practice man waited, its wooden arms outstretched and casting a slanted shadow upon the sands. The Kree approached it, examining the target.
“You show us what them weapon masters taught you, Kree,” Machlann taunted. “You show us that you’re well and truly ready for the hell of the Pit. Because it bled you once. Eeeeee. It’ll damn well bleed you dry a second time.”
Blinking away sweat, Goll waited for the command.
“Begin!” Machlann bawled, startling Nala up above.
Perhaps it was the heart-bursting routine Machlann had driven the Kree through before he even picked up a sword. Perhaps it was the trainer’s mocking tone. Maybe it was lack of activity in weeks gone by or just the heat. Perhaps it was the sum of everything. In any case, Goll struggled with striking the target. He hacked, rested, then hacked again. A heartbeat later, he stopped, regarded the wooden man’s arms and headless neck with contempt, and shook out his shoulders.
“Hit that punce!” Machlann shrieked with a single foot stomp, stirring up the sand.
If he didn’t look angry before, Goll did right then.
He surprised them all by flowing through a ten-strike combination and simply battering that wooden frame. He allowed his limbs to remember the routine, to do what had been beaten into him for years. Goll whirled and slashed arms and legs, a neck, and stabbed deep until the cross guard hooked into the target. He didn’t relent but added an additional five strikes to what he’d shown, and in the final flurry, he smashed the wooden man’s neck on the left and right. The entire frame shivered and chips flew––until his sword broke and the upper half twirled end over end to land in the sands.
131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Page 23