131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Brejo hadn’t talked much since learning of his brother’s demise. The loss of Strach greatly bothered him. Even Calagu was downcast—not Jaro, however, which only confirmed what Brejo had long since suspected, that their brother hadn’t really cared for Strach. Brejo thanked Seddon above Calagu had ample stores of Osgarman snow orchid. The bud eased them through the unexpected grief over their brother’s death. Truth be known, Brejo would’ve preferred some of the Zuthenian white tar, but none was to be had, so they made do with the snow orchids… and firewater… and several bottles of wine. Difficult though the time was, Brejo endured, and after a final stabilizing meal with his remaining brothers, one to end their period of mourning, he decided to return to ruling the realm.

  “Well,” he said, his voice crackling, “I’m ready to speak with him.”

  “As I,” Calagu said with a nod. “Let’s get this done. The Iron Games happen this night, and I have to oversee.”

  “Jaro?” Brejo asked his enforcer brute of a brother. “Bring him in.”

  The big man nodded, one hand playing with the point of his graying beard. Jaro stood, wood shrieking on wood, and left the table. He returned a short time later, leading the handsome Linfur. Linfur stopped in the doorway, dressed in well-made gray pants and a white shirt, his sad face a little too theatrical.

  The man’s appearance offended Brejo, but these were trying times. “Dressed well this day, I see,” he said, face drawn and dark.

  “Out of respect,” Linfur replied.

  “Respect.” Brejo sighed but held his peace. “Linfur, the lads and I have decided a thing or two about the business. Since Strach is no longer amongst the living, and we’re reasonably certain you had nothing to do with his death, we’ve decided on one or two items. From today, you’ll be watching over the beggars.”

  Linfur’s expression tightened in concentration, as if he’d been expecting something else entirely. “The… beggars?”

  “Aye that. We need someone to keep them in line. Keep the coin flowing. You can be ruthless, I understand?”

  “Ah, yes, I can,” Linfur admitted. “Yes, yes, I can. Most certainly. Ah… the beggars.”

  “The beggars,” Brejo repeated, enjoying seeing the man’s noble air punctured and bleeding. “Down with the street lice and the rats.”

  He had to applaud Linfur. The well-dressed asslicker managed to maintain an outward calm.

  “Ah,” Linfur looked at the floor. “Those beggars.”

  The badly concealed disdain didn’t please Brejo. “There’s another kind?”

  “Now, Linfur,” Calagu interrupted, pointing a finger at the dapper henchman, “listen. This is an opportunity for you. Keeping a lot of beggars in line won’t be easy, but if Strach managed it, then you will. We expect a certain amount of coin to come from the streets, and Strach never failed to deliver. With him gone, that task falls to you. Keep them under your control. Keep the coin flowing. Be ruthless. Even kill a few if you have to, as warning to the others. Do well, and rewards shall be had.”

  “Yes,” a smoldering Brejo croaked in his harsh voice. “Rewards.”

  Linfur looked from one man to the other.

  “You were expecting something else?” Brejo asked. He knew the dapper, well-cut punce thought himself destined for finer things.

  “No, no,” Linfur quickly replied. “The beggars are quite unexpected, by which I mean I’m honored to manage them for you, especially in these difficult times. Dare I say it, I’m pleased that you’ve chosen me for the task. I shall strive to do well. As well as Strach.”

  “Listen now,” Brejo said, locking eyes with the younger, well-groomed man. “I know you think you’re meant for noble courts and the love of a princess. Know this. As of this day, you have control of a kingdom, a particular kingdom with subjects who must be controlled, must be taxed and, when needed, punished. On our behalf. Understand?”

  “I do,” Linfur said solemnly. “I most certainly do.”

  “Then work. Establish yourself. Strach usually worked alone in the streets, but he was Strach. A right and proper murderous bastard if there ever was one. Now you, you might need a few lads to go along with you. We’ll give you a handful. Some rules to follow. Don’t be pestering the merchants for drinks or meals or the like. Don’t be showing the ink on your arms to everyone in public. Only ones in private. Be intimidating without overdoing it. You’ll only have to do that once or twice in the beginning, then they’ll remember you. Word will spread soon enough. And if not, cut a throat.”

  “Or two,” Calagu added.

  “Or three,” Jaro muttered and returned to brooding.

  Nodding at each suggestion, Brejo gestured for Calagu to speak.

  “We expect the beggars to bring in at least a hundred gold a week,” Calagu explained. “At least. Remember that. With an iron hand, you could probably increase that sum. You will receive a percentage of that amount, small to begin with, becoming generous as you prove yourself capable.”

  “If…” Brejo stressed.

  “If,” Calagu agreed a tad testily, not appreciating being told his business. “But Linfur, don’t think about keeping an extra coin for yourself. Don’t do it. We’d find out eventually, and if we do, you’re aware of what will happen to you.”

  Linfur appeared mortified. “Of course not! Never! I’d never do such a thing.”

  Calagu waved a hand, shutting the pretty bastard up before he truly began to sing. “Just be aware that we’ll find out eventually. Now then, the beggars are yours. There will be times when they’ll produce double what we’ve asked. And there will be times where they’ll barely scratch together a pair of coins. It all depends on how hard you wring those coins out of them. Learn your limitations, be wary of the Street Watch, and best of fortune. Perform well, and you might one day sit at this very table.”

  That earned a dark look from Brejo.

  Sensing the lecture was over, Linfur looked at each of the brothers in turn. “Many thanks. Many, many thanks for this opportunity. I’ll not disappoint you. Ah, who are the lads who’ll help me?”

  “Jaro will pick a few.”

  “Ah, excellent. Excellent!”

  “I’ll speak with you in a moment,” Jaro rumbled. “Wait for me inside the main entrance.”

  “I will. Thank you again, good Brejo and good Calagu! I’ll have those riches flowing soon. I promise.”

  He disappeared through the doorway. Jaro made certain the man was gone before closing it.

  “That man sprang out of the wrong honeypot,” Calagu said, pursing his lips.

  “Aye that,” Brejo rumbled in agreement.

  “He’ll do what you ask,” Jaro assured them. “And more. You just wait.”

  The two brothers exchanged looks.

  They would wait and expect results.

  32

  Thunderheads prowled the morning sky, granting a reprieve from the usual summer heat. Somewhere over the villa’s walls, a deep rumble rolled over distant hills.

  Goll rose, opened the shutters of his window, and smiled faintly. Those thick clouds would keep the sun off his back as he continued preparing for his return. Securing a gray wrap, which he draped around his hips, he left his sandals and emerged into the barracks hallway. Snores ripped from behind closed curtains. He wouldn’t disturb the others, not yet. He went into the empty common room. The outer door had been left open just a few fingers, to allow a breeze. Goll stepped outside and inspected a threatening sky.

  The air ached for rain.

  His thoughts traveled back to his days under the Weapon Masters of Kree. What would they think of him now? Him. A master of his own house. The road was still long, but Goll’s determination was an iron spear, and since the season had been lengthened, not only could he return to the games as a gladiator and resume hunting for a title, but he could do so with a second goal in mind, further establishing the Ten as a force amongst the existing houses.

  Headless wooden practice men greeted him, their hides batt
ered, chipped, and scarred yet still standing. The targets and Goll were similar that way. He’d been mauled by Baylus the Butcher, the man who’d finished his season before it truly began.

  However, he had a second chance. He intended to make the most of it.

  He walked past the practice men, the racks of wooden swords, and the heavy timbers for strength training. Goll approached the forge area and stopped at the edge of the grounds. There, he turned around and walked back toward the living quarters, faster this time, shaking out his arms as he went. After a brief pause, he bounced along as he walked, forcing blood into his thighs, making them burn. A stiffness lingered there, but thanks to Shan’s medicinal salves, it wasn’t too concerning. In fact, he felt wonderful, invigorated, as if his entire body was finally returning to him. Blood flowed through dormant muscles and forced them awake. His mended bones held and felt as strong as steel.

  Sweat covered his brow as he stopped at the weapon rack and selected a wooden sword. Goll swung the blade around his head, loosening his arms, shoulders, and sides. He stitched the air with thrusts, each one a little faster than before. No pain hampered him. Satisfied, he turned and slashed at an imaginary foe, moving forward. He flowed through a complex series of strikes and defensive stances, completing the exercise in thirty-three moves. When he finished, he found himself facing the gladiators’ barracks, whereupon he turned around and began a different set of strikes and defensive poses—moving even faster.

  The Kree summoned a damn-near-sorcerous spectacle of swordplay underneath a gray sky. The wooden blade whisked and pricked and weaved all manner of complicated tricks against imaginary foes, both singular and multiple. He spun and slashed and repelled attacks from all quarters, and when he finished, he turned around once again and performed yet another different set. He moved with confident grace, slowly in some places, lightning fast in others, his stance perfect, his guard impenetrable, and his limbs remembering. The sword never missed and didn’t waver.

  After the completion of a fifth set, speeding through well over two hundred movements, Goll abruptly stopped as if hit midchest by an arrow. Torso heaving, bare skin coated in a glaze, he listened to his breathing, inspected his weapon, and did a mental check of his performance.

  He allowed himself a little smile.

  On impulse, Goll looked up and met the eyes of Clades’s wife, Kura, watching him from the corner of the main house. She startled at having being seen, boggled in place as to what to do, and finally settled upon nodding in his direction.

  “You’re up early,” the Kree said, breathing hard. “Quarters aren’t comfortable?”

  “Begging forgiveness, Master Goll,” she said, not coming any closer. She inspected the green robes she wore. “The quarters are fine. A… bit smaller than what I’m used to, but I’m with my husband, and we’re both away from the city. So I’m happy.”

  Goll walked a few paces toward her. “Don’t care for the city?”

  Kura shook her head.

  He didn’t disagree. “How do you find life in the villa?”

  “Still new, truth be known,” she said. “I’ve spoken with mostly servants thus far. Ananda. And Clurik, who seems to do most of the cooking around here. I’ve had a few words with Lady Nala––although she insists on me not using her title. She’s very pleasant.”

  “But…?” Goll asked.

  The woman looked around and shrugged. “But it’s not home,” she said flatly. “It’s not mine. It feels more like an in-between place. Please don’t say a word of this to my husband. He knows. And he wouldn’t care for my speaking my mind to you.”

  “I appreciate a person who speaks their mind. There’s no wrong guessing, then.”

  “I suppose not.”

  Goll studied the training grounds.

  “I’ll leave you, then,” Kura said. “To your fighting. You seem very skilled with a sword.”

  He didn’t comment.

  “Good day to you,” she said and disappeared around the corner, in the direction of the servants’ quarters.

  “And to you,” Goll said as an afterthought, realizing she was gone. Frowning, he replayed their conversation in his head.

  In time, he started pacing about the grounds.

  Overhead, the gray brightened as the sun struggled to break through. Ajik appeared, flicked a casual glance toward Goll, and paid no further mind to him. The armorer stopped before the forge and looked about as if wondering where to start. Then he stooped beside a small wood pile and loaded his arms, indicating a busy day.

  Goll slowed to watch.

  Feeling eyes upon his back, Ajik straightened and met the house master’s gaze.

  “Good Ajik,” Goll greeted.

  Ajik returned to work.

  Not surprised, Goll resumed pacing, thinking about what combinations to practice next. The sun split the cloud banks at multiple points, checkering the grounds with light and shadow. Goll looked at the wooden practice man. Sword in hand, he went to the target.

  The time had come for the rest of the house to rise, anyway.

  *

  Naulis rode into the villa by midafternoon.

  Goll and Clavellus met the skinny messenger near the forge.

  “News from the city?” the taskmaster asked.

  “Aye that,” Naulis said, his huge overbite making him appear in a constant state of awe. He glanced at Junger, practicing combinations upon a practice man. “Where’s the others?”

  “Resting,” Goll said. “That news?”

  “Oh, right. Well, you have two fights the day after tomorrow. Junger will fight a house gladiator called Brontus. A rough lad from the House of Ustda.”

  “And Brozz?”

  The messenger climbed off his horse. “One called Sapo. From the House of Curge.”

  The taskmaster and owner exchanged pensive looks.

  “That’s it?” Clavellus asked.

  Naulis slicked his greasy hair out of his eyes, revealing a forehead gleaming with sweat. “That’s it. Not much else.”

  “Two days,” Goll declared in a stern tone. “They’ll be ready.”

  “Left the city at dawn,” Naulis said. “Becoming dangerous to travel alone. City Skarrs told me there’s been stories of the Dezer riding about. All I need is the risk of running into a pack of those animals.”

  “Dezer?” Clavellus asked, concerned. “Where?”

  “East, northeast of the city. They looted a small village. Put most to the sword. Heard they also attacked one or two groups of wagons bound for Sunja’s public markets.”

  “The season’s wrong for the Dezer,” Clavellus said.

  Naulis shrugged. “That’s the talk, but perhaps the Dezer know that as well. Maybe they decided to be… What’s the word? Unpredictable?”

  “Grim news. The only predictable thing about them is the fall.”

  News of the roving marauders didn’t really interest Goll though he knew the Dezer’s reputation for marauding. His knowledge of Sunjan history wasn’t the best, but he knew that in the beginning, the plains and forest had sustained the earliest Sunjans before the people split apart. One group built upon the mountain plateau, eventually becoming the city. The Sunjans who remained upon the plains evolved into the horse culture called the Visigar, who resented present-day Sunja laying claim to their territory. Then there were the Dezer, the third group, who separated themselves from the Visigar’s passive attitudes. The Dezer took to more murderous methods of diplomacy and, in time, fragmented into smaller, divided tribes of barbarians inhabiting both forests and open plains.

  The Visigar inhabited Sunja’s northeast. The Dezer, however, roamed wherever they wanted, claiming territory as it pleased them and terrorizing anyone not of their tribes. The turning of the leaves and the cooling weather marked the days when groups of armed horsemen would emerge from hidden valleys, pillage the weak, and return to their secret homes before winter.

  The Visigar could be hostile at times but could be reasoned with.

 
The Dezer had descended into savagery.

  “Which way were they moving?” a concerned Clavellus asked, breaking Goll’s thoughts.

  “West,” Naulis said. “Or so I heard.”

  Clavellus didn’t like the sound of that. “Any sight of those murderers is troubling. Heading west, are they? If we’re fortunate, they’ll run into the Nords. Jackals against a pack of Dezer. That’s a fight we all win.”

  “I have a message for you,” Goll said to Naulis, “for the Madea. I mean to fight again. The man that killed Baylus the Butcher. You tell him Goll of Kree will fight on the same day as the others if he has someone to fight.”

  “Done,” Naulis said, scratching an armpit. “As long as I don’t run into a pack of Dezer on the way back.”

  “You’re not going to run into a pack of Dezer.”

  “Those hellions might be striking west, but they just might change direction and come south,” Clavellus muttered, perturbed at the thought. “Damn hellions. Bloodthirsty he-bitches, each and every one. The Klaws should have rooted out and killed the lot of them years ago.”

  “Trouble was finding them,” Naulis said quietly. “Hills are thick with timberland just over the marsh plains. Rises and hollows. Fog and mist. If they settled down somewhere, it might be possible, but you know as well as I they’re always on the move. Then there’s the war going on…”

  “What’s Borchus doing?” Goll asked.

  “Ah.” Naulis scratched his other armpit and sniffed his fingers. “The man’s moving about. He’s become very careful these past few days.”