131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “You think I made a mistake?”

  “I’m not you,” Zepedos said. “Let me be clear about that. And I suspect there were other things pushing you to leave. But I’ll tell you this. The streets of Sunja are harsh. You know this. Day and night, but the night can be especially deadly. To anyone. There are those who’ll prey on the weak and the crippled and leave them dead. Or worse. I think… when you do leave this place, you should reconsider returning to your house.”

  “How long will I be here?” Pig Knot asked.

  “I don’t know. You say you only insulted some Skarrs. That could be just a day. Maybe a week. I don’t know how they do things around here. Maybe ask Sharo.”

  Pig Knot grunted. He would do that.

  A spider crawled up and over the raw, knotted skin of his stumps. Pig Knot raised a hand to kill the thing but didn’t. The creature crawled up his thigh, all eight legs working, until it reached the crook of his hip. He could barely feel the contact. Pig Knot frowned at the insect traveling up his side, ignoring his wounds entirely, as if they didn’t exist.

  When the spider reached his belly, he pinched it dead.

  *

  Time moved on.

  Daylight faded and dimmed. Sharo appeared with the evening meal—more bread, more bruised apples, and a change of water. Pig Knot asked when he might be released.

  Sharo didn’t know. That was up to the Street Watch to decide.

  Pig Knot continued talking to the man called Zepedos, whose company wasn’t offensive in the least for a self-professed thief. Sometime in the night, however, not long after the sun had left the sky, he grew tired and thus, excused himself.

  Sleep came quickly.

  The morning arrived with a door slamming and the irregular cadence of many boots upon the floor. The sound jerked Pig Knot awake, from a dream where he was actually sleeping upon his cot back in the Ten’s barracks.

  “That’s not him,” someone declared.

  The footsteps resumed, getting closer.

  “You.”

  That one frigid syllable informed Pig Knot that all wasn’t well. He propped himself up on his elbows, blinking sleepily while his swollen eyes watered. Skarrs stood outside the cell door. A tall city guard exhibiting an air of authority gazed through the bars. The Skarr’s visor studied the once gladiator with an intensity that brought Pig Knot to his senses. The stare worried him.

  “You have no legs,” the soldier said.

  The man’s quick, Pig Knot thought but kept that to himself. He wasn’t that unfit in the head.

  “What’s your name?” the visor questioned.

  Pig Knot hesitated.

  “Answer me,” the Skarr demanded.

  “Pig Knot.”

  “Pig. Knot,” the man said, hate dripping from the words. “Interesting. Not too many like that around. You enjoy the ladies?”

  Danger ripped up Pig Knot’s spine and sizzled at his skull’s base, but his mouth was too fast. “I do.”

  “You remember a woman called Jana?”

  Pig Knot’s mouth went dry. His stomach clenched and frosted over. His voice deserted him, and Jana spoke in his head, talking about her husband.

  He’s a Koor with the Street Watch. He’s usually gone all night.

  The bruises on Pig Knot’s face kept the color in place, but he swallowed nervously, all the same.

  The Koor saw everything. “Yes, you know her. Probably think of her with every passing breath.”

  Pig Knot licked his lips. He wouldn’t say that but wisely chose to not answer.

  “When I told her we’d caged a man with no legs,” the Koor explained, “well, her face betrayed her. Happened so quick I had to ask what was wrong. Was she ill? ‘No,’ she said. But I could smell the lie. ‘Why show any concern for a cripple?’ I asked. It didn’t take long to get answers from her. Not long at all. Apparently, you’re quite memorable.”

  The Skarr moved closer until his helmet tapped the iron bars. “And a legless man with an interesting name has stayed in my memory up to now. So you see, I don’t have to ask you anything.” The Koor’s eyes crinkled with building rage befitting a husband. “Unfortunately. For you.”

  Pig Knot’s breathing quickened while his skin turned cold. He swallowed, hearing the dry click of his gullet.

  The officer waved a hand, and Sharo hurried forth. The jailor unlocked the cell door and quickly got out of the way. The Koor waited a few menacing heartbeats then pulled the door open. Hinges whined.

  Nothing lay between the officer and Pig Knot’s battered hide.

  “Seddon has deserted you, Pig,” the Skarr Koor declared and entered the cell.

  The other soldiers followed, filling the small space.

  Pig Knot pressed himself against the wall. The slits of his swollen eyes widened.

  Then they were upon him.

  *

  Outside and watching the walled compound of the Street Watch, Jurnos stood and thought he heard a scream over the din of the crowds. He shifted from one foot to the other, straining to hear, but the sound was lost.

  “You hear something?” Nolbin asked from the right, a sour smell of body odor hanging about him.

  “Thought I heard someone scream,” Jurnos muttered, hoping to catch another note.

  “That could be anyone,” Nolbin said.

  “When do you think they’ll let him go?” Pot asked from the left, leaning against the stone wall they were all sharing.

  “Soon.”

  “Yes, but when?”

  Jurnos eyed thickset Pot with that same feral look he’d given the legless cripple. “You have something to do?”

  “No, no,” Pot replied quickly, his features slack with fear. “Not a thing. Just wondering is all.”

  “Just wondering,” Morott added, his pale skin sweating under the scalding sun. He was standing to the left of Pot.

  The memory of being held by the cripple, who’d scared off his companions, rankled Jurnos. He had a reputation to uphold, a reputation he’d killed to earn and killed to maintain. No one placed their hands on him and made him look weak in front of his pack—no one. Certainly not some cripple with a horse tail of braided hair hanging off his head. Jurnos had vowed to find the pig bastard, and he had. He’d never expected the cripple to actually stay in his territory, but Jurnos had to admit, that was smart.

  Jurnos was smart too, though… and patient.

  He’d recognized an opportunity to build further upon his street name: a story of vengeance, one that he liked the more he thought of it.

  “We’ll just keep watching,” Jurnos said, eyes set upon the gates of the soldiers’ compound. “Until they do. In shifts. From dawn to dusk. They’ll release him sooner or later. When they do, he’ll come out of those gates. Easy to see. Easy to follow. When that happens, we’ll follow him. Track him. Wait until he’s someplace quiet. Somewhere out of sight.”

  Jurnos’s mouth hitched into a sneer.

  “And then we’ll gut that brazen ass licker.”

  29

  A new day came, and with the afternoon fights about to begin, Gastillo walked the Pit’s outer passages. He didn’t care for watching the criminals hacking away at each other in the opening matches. They were worse than the Free Trained, if that was possible. The owner possessed a distinct spring in his step as he walked along, dabbing a hand cloth at the drool underneath his mask, catching it before it dropped.

  Fifteen thousand gold pieces. He’d given a lot of thought to Nexus’s offer. The more he thought about it, the bigger the sum became, but Gastillo felt it wise to haggle a bit more with the wine merchant. He saw no fault in countering the offer with a price of seventeen, still lower than his original ask of twenty but not that much higher than Nexus’s offer.

  This time, the wine merchant would not cut him off in midsentence. Gastillo would be firm.

  After all, Nexus was gaining a potential champion of the games, as much as it twisted Gastillo’s guts to admit it. Prajus trained hard and po
ssessed not only the skill but the mindset of a champion. More than any other in the house, Prajus believed he would conquer all this season and be triumphant.

  Furthermore, Gastillo believed him.

  The trouble was that Prajus enjoyed harassing others and was an insolent and brutal killer who thought himself of noble birth. To be so close to ridding himself of such a burden lifted Gastillo’s spirits immensely.

  Nexus recognized the man’s value, which explained the sudden switch from wishing for the man’s death to potentially embracing him as one of his own. The only thing that bothered Gastillo was if Nexus discovered Prajus’s true character before the completion of the bargain. If he did, that would dampen things.

  He decided not to think about it and focused on the counteroffer.

  Seventeen was a fair price. Seventeen or nothing. The merchant might squirm a little, but Gastillo wouldn’t budge from that number. If, for whatever reason, Nexus wouldn’t commit, then perhaps some other owner might.

  Calming himself before he entered the owner’s box, Gastillo opened the door. Daylight stabbed at his eyes as a blast of heat engulfed him. A robed manservant stood with a silver tray clasped in both hands. Goblets rested upon the metal. Gastillo took a drink and nodded at the man, who bowed in return.

  Ahead, Curge and Nexus sat at opposite ends of the box. A single chair waited, situated between them. Gastillo rolled his eyes. He hated sitting between those two.

  A distant wall of shifting bodies and waving arms lay beyond the box’s stony rim as spectators struggled to reach favored places. The terraced seating teemed with featureless flesh and cloth already giving strong voice to the scene. Some hanging tarps provided limited shade for the masses, but those sitting closest to the action baked under the sun.

  “Ah,” Dark Curge rumbled and scratched at his chest, wrinkling the white shirt he wore. “Gastillo’s here. See, Nexus. I said you had nothing to concern yourself with. Your man has arrived.”

  “Saimon’s black hanging fruit,” Nexus replied, exasperated. “You’re a tormentor, Curge.”

  As an answer, Curge drank from his goblet.

  Anticipating a long day, Gastillo sat between the two hellions. He nodded at Nexus, who gave a curt dip of the chin in return.

  “How are the day’s fights thus far?” Gastillo asked.

  “I only watched the final pairing of the earlier ones,” Curge said, leaning on one elbow while peering into the Pit. “Criminals. They’re well and truly terrible. There’s no poise, no style and certainly no skill. Murderers and thieves are not trained pit fighters despite what some might think.”

  “I watched all the matches to this point,” Nexus said, annoyance in his tone. “Nothing worthy at all.”

  “The real matches begin shortly,” Curge added, addressing no one in particular.

  “One of yours will fight this day?” Gastillo asked.

  “Aye that.”

  “Anything to say of the man?” Nexus asked with heat. “Any boasts? Or shall we wait for the Orator?”

  “You can wait for the Orator,” Curge said and drank.

  Nexus’s lips twisted into a hateful button.

  “Well, then,” Gastillo said, seeking to defuse the tension, “perhaps we’ll see something special this day.”

  “I’m hoping for blood,” Nexus said and sipped his own wine. “And plenty of it.”

  “I imagine you’ll see enough this day,” Curge muttered cryptically and half turned in Gastillo’s direction. “Perhaps even something special. There’s always something afoot at the games.”

  The big man’s eyes twinkled. Unease gripped Gastillo. Dark Curge had agents and spies about, as did they all. He wondered if the Dark One had learned about his meeting with Nexus. Gastillo dismissed the notion, remembering the number of guards surrounding the koch. Even if Curge knew they’d met, he had no way of knowing the details. Far too many guards had been about.

  The Orator began the introductions, describing the gladiators in typical fearsome fashion, capturing the audience’s attention.

  Trako from the House of Vorish would fight that day, and his opponent would be Habol, from the House of Razi.

  *

  Habol watched the wraithlike form of Trako pacing back and forth, coming closer with each pass. He had a strategy for this particular fight and knew he’d have to be at his finest. Trako was a beast, a hellion born and brought to life by some dark sorcery Habol didn’t want to understand. The day before the match, Master Razi’s spies had spoken of the Vorish man in cautious tones. They believed Habol destined to lose. His sword brothers offered encouragement, but even they’d failed to hide the doubt in their eyes.

  That bothered Habol.

  They were marking him as doomed even before he stepped onto the sands.

  He wasn’t, however, and he was far from dead.

  Those thoughts energized Habol. Focused him. He was determined to not only defeat this unchained animal set loose within the Pit, but also send a message to the others. Habol was no one’s meal, and if anyone was going to put down Trako, it was him.

  The black iron helm considered Habol with evil interest. Trako stood shorter by a few fingers to Habol, but he was bulkier, possibly stronger. His leather vest had been fashioned into an abdomen better suited to a statue. Spikes bristled from his shoulder pads. Trako’s weapons consisted of a long-shafted mace in his right hand and a single-bladed axe in his left. Bristling, spiked cups protected his fists, and Habol knew Trako would use them if he got in close.

  Habol’s own ring mail would absorb a few punches, being of a more practical design. His helm was fashioned to fit his skull and allow him ample breath through several holes in the visor. A long, narrow slit provided a wide field of vision. The head protection was plain in comparison to other gladiators’ exquisite pieces of metalworking. Both men wore greaves and bracers to protect their limbs. Where Trako was hunched over like some corrupted hellion, Habol stood tall, his round shield and sword lowered. Where Trako resembled a Zuthenian beastman freed from chains, Habol was the noble Sunjan poised to kill the invader.

  He was the light to Trako’s darkness.

  Trako had amassed five victories thus far and suffered no losses, projecting an air of invincibility.

  Habol had enough bruises underneath his armor to resemble a ragged quilt. A huge gash over his right eye had taken over twenty stitches to close, which would later become a scar to draw the interest of the ladies. His last fight, against a brute from the House of Ustda, had almost broken his shield and the arm with it. The limb still didn’t feel right.

  No matter.

  Habol was going to put this topper into the ground head first, ass up, so the whole world could have a kick at each brazen cheek… or simply sink a toe deep into the offered crack.

  The Orator shouted for the match to commence.

  Taking a breath, Habol went to the center of the arena, where Trako met him.

  “Well met, Habol,” Trako said in a metallic voice.

  The pleasantry surprised Habol. “Well met, Trako.”

  “I know of you,” the man continued. “You’ve done well this season.”

  “As yourself.”

  “Have you recovered from your clash with Orzata?”

  Habol raised his weapon and shield, not trusting Trako in the least. “Not at all. I still ache in places. But that’s the season, isn’t it? Like old bones in winter.”

  “That it is.”

  “Have you recovered from your last fight?”

  The grinning iron helm didn’t move, and for the first time, Habol realized he couldn’t see Trako’s eyes at all, just those dark slits framed in iron.

  “Good Habol,” the Vorish man said coldly, lifting his weapons to guard, “I’ve never felt better.”

  Trako attacked, weapons churning forward like the mighty cogs of some great, infernal machine, and Habol immediately parried the mace and war axe. His shield splintered with a crack. His arm shuddered. Habol strove to s
lip to the side and nearly had his head removed by Trako’s axe. Trako swung for a right shoulder then a left before whirling into a backhand spin, whipping that iron moon of a mace across Habol’s face.

  The impact rang out within the arena and crumpled Habol to his knees. Black motes swirled and winked before his eyes, tantalizing him with their brilliance while a rising gale reached his ears.

  In one frightening instance of clarity, he realized that sound belonged to the crowds, screaming at him to stand.

  He lifted his shield, blocking Trako’s shrieking war axe as it descended. The axe split the barrier in a jagged thunderbolt, right down to the metal bracer protecting Habol’s forearm. The Razi pit fighter attempted to pull back, but Trako put a boot to the ruined shield and shoved him off in a squawk of iron and wood.

  Habol stumbled away, holding up his shield as if it could withstand another blow. It would not.

  Trako circled to his left, taking his time, studying Habol as he shook off the ruined shield and let it drop. Habol took a wider stance, grasping his broadsword with both hands.

  Seeing an opportunity, Trako rushed his opponent.

  Habol parried the mace, parried the axe, and parried the mace again before jabbing for Trako’s eyes. The broadsword clanged off the black iron helmet, startling the faster Trako and backing him off almost immediately. Habol charged, chopping for a head. Trako ducked. Habol hacked for a shoulder, but Trako dodged out of harm’s way. Habol pursued and slashed at the Vorish man’s left arm.

  He missed entirely.

  Trako stopped, set his feet, and whipped his mace around like a black rock circling the sun. The iron head crashed into Habol’s helm, bashing him to the earth. Habol landed in a heap, tried to rise, and had his face slammed into the sands.

  The arena erupted into excited wailing.

  Habol sensed something was wrong, dreadfully wrong with that side of his face and jaw. He tasted blood and spat red teeth. Reality shimmered, sparkled, and became painfully clear.