131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Seddon above.

  The mace was embedded in his helmet.

  Spikes had perforated both metal and meat to knock free a pair of lower-jaw teeth. Another spike had punctured his upper jaw, removing a molar and piercing the roof of his mouth. Habol clenched his jaw, and his face lit up in agony.

  Then his vision became skewed as Trako planted a boot to Habol’s ribs and yanked, trying to free his face from the spikes. Trako jerked the mace left and right, rattling the man’s head, all to the crowd’s morbid delight.

  Trako failed to free the weapon.

  Then he remembered his axe.

  The weapon flashed high in the sunlight as Trako appeared intent on solving the puzzle with one blow.

  Habol lashed out with his broadsword––a wide, desperate slice that cut Trako across one knee, splitting the leather bands holding the greave in place.

  Blood spurted. Trako toppled and landed on his back.

  Hope surged through Habol then, and in that singular moment, when the eye and limb act as one, he rose to his knees––mace still stuck to his helmet––and looked to take Trako’s head off with one executioner’s chop.

  As Habol’s broadsword came down, Trako spun on his back and kicked. The boot caught Habol hard in the midsection, buckling him, causing him to fall to the side.

  Mere heartbeats later, a dazed Habol looked up… as Trako grabbed the shaft of the mace still stuck in the helmet.

  He yanked.

  Trako stretched Habol out on the sand, facedown and off-balance. The Vorish gladiator cranked his war axe into Habol’s head with a clang.

  The mace came free, red ribbons cutting the air.

  Trako cast the mace aside, no longer interested in the weapon. He mounted his opponent’s back, poised to smash the helm of the unmoving gladiator.

  But Trako didn’t strike.

  He paused in the apex of his swing, axe quivering as if stayed by an invisible hand. Some onlookers screamed for him to kill the fallen man. Others pleaded for mercy.

  The axe steadied, wavered, and dropped to Trako’s side. The Vorish gladiator stood. He nudged Habol’s still form with a boot.

  Habol’s hand rose weakly and dropped. Dark blots stained the ground. Sand caked the defeated man’s punctured face.

  “Your victor!” the Orator shouted.

  Trako raised his arms.

  30

  “Much better than the gurry before it,” Dark Curge commented, greatly entertained by the performance. “Much better. We need more of that.”

  “I need more wine,” Nexus said as if coming out of a trance. He snapped his fingers for the manservant.

  “Your man is next, I see,” Gastillo said, glancing at the schedule.

  “He is,” Curge said. “You should watch this, Nexus. See what a quality fighter is. I don’t believe you’ve been present for his past four victories.”

  “How will I calm myself?” Nexus asked, gazing off while holding his goblet to be filled. “And yes, I’ve been present for his fights. Even the one he lost.”

  “Your man Gair fights the House of Vandu?” Gastillo asked, diverting the conversation.

  Curge scanned the audience. “Aye that. A man called––”

  *

  Sergur checked the bindings of his leather vest and saw they were tightly knotted. He retrieved his helmet and studied the visor’s gleaming metal, shaped in the likeness of some hellion, fangs wide and howling into a storm’s fury. Metal war braids hung off the sides and back, which he regarded with pride and fear because the face reflected his inner self, or so he thought. These savage games. Why do I still partake?

  No answer came forth.

  Sergur suspected it was the training. He enjoyed pushing himself to his physical limits, dropping face-first into the sands, exhausted, only to rise stronger the next day. The practicing and honing of techniques and multiple combinations intrigued him. He also enjoyed the Pit, savored the smell of spent battles, and loved the violent anticipation upon the air. Facing an opponent provided a heady mixture of fear and exhilaration––far superior than any wine or hypnotic herb. He also enjoyed the company of the other pit fighters. The crowds, however, he despised, hated their fickle hides one and all.

  However, deep down lurked the real reason he enjoyed the games. The real reason he’d fought for seven years in the Pit was much more sinister.

  He fought because he liked hurting others.

  That knowledge both shamed and disturbed him just a little, though not enough to make him leave the profession.

  Those thoughts ran through his mind while he stood in the private viewing chamber of Vandu. His fellow gladiator, Curn, was standing nearby and held out Vandu’s twin short swords. The Free Trained calling themselves the Ten had handed Curn his first defeat of the games only days before. The loss had plunged the normally confident man into a mire of depression and anger, but his spirits had brightened with the announcement of the season’s extension––enough that he’d accompanied Vandu to the Pit for Sergur’s fight.

  Outside, the crowds stirred, their collective voices becoming as harsh and beautiful as an ocean’s surf.

  “Time,” Curn said quietly, his black eyes intense.

  Sergur nodded and ran a hand over the visor’s fearsome visage. It was indeed time—time to become the hellion. He donned the helm, and a tingle stropped the length of his spine. It always felt that way when he pulled on the armor and tightened the chin strap.

  He became the hellion.

  As unfit or eye-rolling that statement might sound, Sergur didn’t care, for he believed the mask he wore unlocked a greater power within him.

  “This is Dark Curge’s lad,” Vandu cautioned quietly, barely audible over the craving for violence the crowds so vocally demanded. The fat owner stood with his back before the arched window, the light framing his person. He was an older man, short, with a trio of scars across his right cheek. Once, he had been a hard trainer but left that role and assumed the mantle of both owner and taskmaster. Those were two reasons to avoid signing up under his roof, he would tell young prospects. He believed himself taxing but fair, and he strove to treat his lads with respect if they deserved it.

  Vandu hooked his thumbs on his thick belt, shrugged thicker shoulders, and regarded Sergur with sleepy eyes.

  “But you…” he said, continuing the thought, “you’re going to defeat that man. You’re going to pound his head into the arena floor. You are a monster among men, Sergur. A monster. And those are your claws.”

  Vandu indicated the pair of short swords.

  Curn slapped Sergur’s iron-studded shoulder pads.

  “Curge thinks he knows what you’re about,” Vandu explained. “You show that one-armed pig bastard that you’re different. You show that dog pisser of his you’re different. And you summon everything you have to put that lad down. Make an example of him. If you can’t do that”—Vandu shrugged—“then just butcher him. You are superior… in every way. You are not to be defeated. And anyone facing you on the arena floor is to be punished. Understood?”

  The hellion mask nodded with evil intent.

  “Go on then,” Vandu said. “Bring us a victory.”

  A pit fighter opened the chamber door. The white tunnel beckoned.

  Sergur went.

  *

  When the portcullis allowed enough of an opening, Sergur stepped into the Pit. The heat attacked his armored form. The air was hot and tasted of grit. He crossed his swords and held them up to the audience, soaking in the thunderous applause. They knew who he was. They knew what he was capable of.

  The Orator finished introducing the man Sergur had come to destroy, Gair the knife fighter.

  The sun beamed down upon a muscular V-shaped figure, a student of Dark Curge himself and no stranger to the games. Gair wore black breeches and greaves about his lower half. A band of leather protected his midsection to his chest, to keep his guts inside in case of a fatal slash. A red iron faceplate covered his features.
A monstrous silver jaw with short, troll-like tusks hung off the mask beneath black eye ports. A bundle of white-and-red cloth had been wrapped around the rest of his head. Gair held a pair of thick knives the length of a man’s forearms. They shone brightly, matching the gleam of the lower jaw.

  Gair had lost once during the season, and his chances of continuing to the end had improved with the extension of the games. Like Sergur, Gair was back in contention.

  Also like Sergur, Gair would be looking to make an impression with this fight.

  “Begin!” the Orator shouted, the words drowned by the spectators’ roar.

  Sergur strode toward the middle of the arena, swords flashing, the sun reflecting off his hellion’s face.

  Gair lifted his deadly knives and assumed a puncher’s stance. Spiked gauntlets and bracers twinkled with malice.

  As Sergur closed the distance, the audience’s cries rose to a staggering level.

  Sergur slashed and sliced, the sword edges scintillating, attacking the knife fighter at a speed too fast to follow.

  As swift as Sergur was in his strikes, what truly impressed the onlookers was the reflexes of the knife fighter. Gair bobbed and weaved, his knives deflecting any attack he couldn’t evade. At times, Sergur swayed left and right, noted by a slight pause in his stabs and cuts. Openings appeared when Sergur dropped back to compose himself, but Gair didn’t pursue. Instead, the knife fighter respected the distance, shook out his arms, and assumed a guarded stance.

  Sergur took his time, studying his adversary while sometimes locking eyes with the man. Sergur had spent countless days strengthening his endurance. He possessed power enough to keep swinging until the sun dropped from the sky. He circled the knife fighter, at times quickly changing direction, sizing up Gair like a stubborn roast of meat.

  The knife fighter held his ground, matching his opponent’s every move.

  Sergur the hellion detected a possible weakness. He stomped forward, cocking his right sword while stabbing with his left at the same time––a move meant to confuse.

  Gair wasn’t so easily fooled, though. He spun away from the killer thrust, whipping a spiked fist into Sergur’s ribs as he went by, breaking at least a pair. Sergur backhanded, sweeping a scything arc at Gair’s neck, but the knife fighter ducked, popped up within Sergur’s guard, and rapid-punched the swordsman’s abdomen. The final blow crunched into the hellion mask, hard enough to drive Sergur back, his arms spiraling as if he was teetering at a cliff’s edge.

  The crowds stood and applauded.

  Regaining his balance and angered at the vocal support for his adversary, the hellion ignored the mounting pain. He straightened the mask and regarded the waiting knife fighter in a new light. Sergur decided he was going to hurt the man.

  The gladiator powered forward and unleashed a blistering series of slashes, thrusts, and over-the-shoulder chops that crashed into Gair’s twin knives and sparkled the air. The onslaught forced the knife fighter back.

  Sergur’s left blade licked a red line across the meat of Gair’s shoulder. The cut energized the hellion. He attacked Gair with renewed determination and unleashed a flurry of strikes that went as high as fifteen before he cut the knife fighter on the outside of his right bicep. Sergur hacked into a metal bracer, driving Gair off-balance, and slid his blade along the man’s silver jaw.

  A retreating Gair spun away, showing his back for an instant. Glittering sweat and blood flew from his shoulders.

  Sergur went after him… and walked right into a counterstrike.

  Gair unexpectedly dug his feet in and sprang back into the fight, right into the charging Sergur. His knives crammed and swatted the swords away, opening up Sergur long enough to get close and unleash his fists.

  In that one instant, Sergur realized the true purpose of the knives.

  They were shields for Gair, shields that could potentially cut and kill, but shields all the same.

  The real danger lay in the knife fighter’s fists.

  An unchecked barrage of spiked gauntlets battered Sergur’s person, snapping his head left-right and left-right again before Gair diverted an angry drum roll to the midsection.

  Sergur buckled and lost his left sword.

  Gair uppercut, mustering all the power of his arm and hips behind it, and slammed a fist into the gladiator’s hellion mask.

  The blow lifted the mask a full four fingers high, blinding Sergur.

  Gair hammered Sergur’s head. Iron rang out against iron. Sergur dropped to one knee. Then a knee and a hand. Then all four.

  One last punch drove the gladiator flat.

  Sergur did not rise, did not attempt to rise.

  Holding his knives above his head, Gair kicked Sergur’s remaining sword away and placed a foot upon his chest. With a quick knife salute in Curge’s direction, he pointed his other blade at Sergur’s unmoving head.

  He held the pose until the Orator proclaimed him the victor.

  *

  When the fight had been favoring Sergur, Curge hadn’t said a word, and he maintained his silence even when Gair began battering the man without remorse, sending the Vandu gladiator crashing to the arena floor. When Gair saluted him, Curge nodded and drank a mouthful of wine while the audience heaped praise upon the victor’s name.

  “That’s a gladiator, Nexus,” Curge finally growled. “That’s a pit fighter. And Seddon’s my witness, that’s the man who’ll win this season. No matter how long it will be.”

  “Not if I can help it,” Nexus retorted, the color rising to his pallid cheeks.

  Gastillo shifted uneasily, stuck between a mountain and a storm front. His attention wandered from the fight below, and he realized he wasn’t watching them at all. His mind was on facing Nexus afterward and the haggling destined to take place.

  And there were two more matches to watch…

  *

  Two more gladiators emerged victorious.

  Red Mane from the House of Tilo soundly trounced a man called Trydas from the House of Ustda. Curge, Gastillo, and Nexus watched the near death of Trydas, and while the wine merchant vocally dismissed the battle, the other owners felt the stirrings of fresh, though begrudging, respect for old Tilo’s warrior, who remained undefeated. They’d heard their agents’ warnings about that pit fighter.

  The day’s final match had a man called Punder emerging victorious. The Stable of Slavol gladiator won his fifth match, defeating Bozzen from the House of Vandu. Unlike most, the match had been a long and dreary battle, carefully fought, and Gastillo hoped every swing would be the deciding blow. A cut to Brozzen’s sword arm and a quick bash to the head ended the fight, and by that time, Gastillo was ready to burst.

  With a weary look that suggested he should’ve left earlier, Curge checked his goblet, drained it, and waved for the servant to take it away. The big owner stood with a groan and applied his hand to his back.

  “Another day,” Curge rumbled and glanced at the other two owners, who were making no move to rise. “And another conversation, I see. Seddon above, Nexus. You’re almost making me curious about what you two are talking about. Perhaps it’s something to do with the games?”

  The one-armed owner scratched his bald head. With a derisive wave, he left the box, unconcerned with the pair.

  “Wait a few moments,” Nexus advised Gastillo, glancing over his shoulder. “Let that pig bastard walk on. Then we’ll leave for my koch.”

  “He doesn’t seem interested in our talks.”

  “Really, Gastillo?” Nexus frowned. “You’ve been at this longer than I have. He doesn’t seem interested means he’s very interested in our conversations. And truth be known, it tickles my dead heart that the brooding one-armed punce is puzzling over us. All right, this way, then. It’s time enough to leave. Bloody day at the games. Some very good contests. I enjoyed it if not for that brazen pisser.”

  Gastillo kept his thoughts to himself as he followed Nexus out of the box. As before, his two guards joined Nexus’s larger escort, and t
hey walked back to the waiting koch, parked outside the Gate of the Moon. Another dozen armed guards surrounded the vehicle, the polished wood gleaming in the early evening light. Gastillo’s men stopped before the merchant’s guards and were not permitted beyond the ring. Leaving them behind, Gastillo followed Nexus to the koch, where the same smartly dressed manservant pulled open the door.

  The two owners climbed aboard. The door closed with a click, and the interior appeared a little different to Gastillo, or so he thought as he shifted upon the red cushions.

  He faced the merchant. “No wine this day?” he asked, a smile accompanying the question though Nexus didn’t see it.

  “No wine this day,” Nexus replied and studied his mask. “How much did you pay for that face?”

  “This? It was made from the gold of a little over two hundred pieces. Another hundred to hire a craftsman skilled enough to make it.”

  Nexus examined the work with even deeper scrutiny before blinking, as if awakening from a sleep. “Well, your decision?”

  Gastillo didn’t move. “I think you’ve valued my property too low.”

  “Too low, you say,” Nexus growled, hard eyes staring.

  “Aye that. Much too low. You can have it at seventeen thousand gold. Not quite as high as twenty and a little less than half the difference. That’s quite fair for––”

  “No,” Nexus said in a low tone.

  That flat answer surprised Gastillo, rendering him speechless. “No?” he eventually asked.

  “No. I’m surprised at you, Gastillo. You think I’ve just arrived at that offer on some sparkling revelation? Or maybe I pulled that number from the very heavens? Perhaps you think there was no thought behind the sum? That I have mountains of wealth where I can simply fill a pot or two and hand them over? I’ll tell you different. There’s always thought behind what I do. What I say. I’m not one for quibbling over a potential purchase. Fifteen was more than a fair price for your property. More than generous. I’m insulted if you think you can raise the number upon a whim. You believe because I’m successful in my other ventures you can wring a few more coins from my aging carcass? Well, you’re wrong. In fact, you’re so wrong, I withdraw my offer. Our business is concluded.”