131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  He looked at the plains.

  *

  The wagons carrying the Ten labored up Sunja’s mountainside and entered the city by late morning. The drivers navigated the streets to the arena, splitting the crowds and avoiding locks with other wagons. In time, they reached the Gate of the Moon and unloaded their passengers. Clavellus eased himself to the stonework, grimacing as his feet touched the ground. Koba got out behind him and immediately strapped on a blade. A handful of guards, led by Clades, dropped to the streets and took up places around the taskmaster. Stiff from the morning’s early rise and the long trip, the men stretched and groaned.

  Civilians gathered outside the arena’s high, majestic walls watched the Ten emerge from their wagons. The spectators noticed one man in particular and were quick to point him out to others.

  Brozz saw them. “Perician,” he called out quietly.

  Junger turned, a question upon his face.

  “You’re attracting a crowd.” Brozz indicated the onlookers.

  That put the slightest frown upon the Perician until he saw Brozz spoke the truth.

  The small gathering of onlookers was studying Junger with great interest. One woman waved.

  A hesitant Junger waved back and faced the Sarlander. “Not something I was expecting.”

  “Enjoy it,” Clavellus said, seeing the crowds. “While it’s there. You’ll miss it when it’s gone. Like that morning air just before we entered the city.”

  “Let’s move,” Goll told them all. “Get below before the heat fries our tender hides.” The house master glanced around and noted the people. “Seems we’re gaining something of a reputation,” he said, pleased with the recognition.

  “Not us,” Clavellus pointed out. “It’s him.”

  Goll’s features hardened. Junger. The people were fixating upon the Perician. That irked the Kree.

  “Come on,” Muluk said in Kree. “He’s one of ours. Don’t look like that.”

  “I’m not looking like that,” Goll replied without emotion and walked toward the open gate. The rest of the Ten followed.

  “The Perician fights this day!” someone yelled from the masses.

  “Bring them hell, Perician!”

  “Good fortune to you! You’ve made me some coin!”

  “Crack some heads, man!”

  “You’re the best this season!”

  “Pull steel, lad! Pull that steel, and do some cutting!”

  On it went. The words of praise and encouragement drove Goll into the tunnel depths to escape. The others increased their pace to keep up.

  “Slow yourself, Master Goll,” Clavellus called after him. “Some of us don’t walk as well as we used to.”

  “I’ve business to attend to,” Goll replied, his words taking on a slight echo. “With the Madea.”

  That concerned the taskmaster and trainers. Muluk shared a look with Clavellus.

  “He doesn’t mean to have words with the man, does he?” the taskmaster asked.

  “He does.”

  “Best you get after him. Tell him not to yell at the man too much.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Clavellus frowned. “Because the Madea is the last person you want hating you. If Goll pisses in the Madea’s face, the man will remember it. Especially when he’s scheduling our fights.”

  That hit Muluk hard, and it showed on his face.

  “Perhaps we can have him removed, then?” he asked.

  “The Madea?” Clavellus asked in surprise. “No one removes the Madea. He’s the right arm of the Gladiatorial Chamber. He does the removing. In the Chamber’s name. He’ll make our lives miserable for the remainder of the games if Goll tears into him. Go on, now. Slow that Kree down. Take Clades with you. No one is going to bother us with the likes of Junger and Brozz and this one-eared brute standing over me.”

  Hearing his name, Clades stepped up alongside the Kree house master, and together they hurried after Goll.

  “You think that’ll make a difference?” Machlann asked, watching the men go.

  Clavellus shook his head.

  *

  Passing through areas of torchlight where the odd sliver of straw or mouse bone decorated the floor, Goll, Muluk, and Clades smelled general quarters long before they arrived there. The stench of foul air and excrement slowed their pace as if they were wading through a knee-deep cesspool.

  “Seddon above,” Muluk swore, holding a hand to his mouth and nose. “Did someone die down here?”

  “Someone probably did,” Goll said. “The air never was good.”

  “But this…”

  They entered the hive of activity that was general quarters. Lamp and torchlight cast long shadows and created wells of darkness. Outlines moved in those caves of brickwork and stone columns, passing through the shadows. Hundreds of pit fighters occupied the area, waiting for their time in the arena. A few warriors studied the new arrivals, sizing them up as potential opponents. Other gladiators walked unhurriedly across the Ten’s path, fixing them with glares. Some men had their backs turned as they stood, legs spread, voiding into the designated shite and piss troughs.

  Through the shifting tides of warrior flesh, Goll spied the familiar wall of Skarrs guarding the great desk and matchboard. The soldiers’ armor gleamed in the meager light. The Madea was nowhere in sight.

  “This is foul,” Clades choked out, his hand covering his nose. “Worse than unfit. How’d you ever survive down here?”

  “Watch for cow kisses,” Muluk warned.

  “And piss puddles,” Goll muttered.

  That unnerved the once Sujin, who immediately looked at his feet.

  Goll studied the massive underground chamber. “Seems to be more here.”

  “There’s more men here?” a horrified Muluk asked, looking around.

  “Aye that,” Goll confirmed. “Makes sense. The games will need the extra bodies. They’ll have to come from somewhere. Unless they have an unlimited supply of meat in their dungeons.”

  One brute a full head taller than Muluk bumped into the Kree and staggered him. The larger man stared a sleepy warning before walking away, ignoring Muluk’s annoyed expression. Before he could say anything, another figure caught his attention. From out of the gloomy soup of torchlight and shadow came the white-robed Madea, as imperious as ever, with four Skarrs surrounding his person. The guards escorted the arena official to his high desk, where the soldiers joined the others. The Madea stopped and paused, surveying the controlled chaos just beyond his station.

  Goll started toward the arena official, but Muluk grabbed his shoulder.

  “Remember what I said,” the hairy Kree warned, referencing the conversation the two Krees had before descending beneath the Pit. “What Clavellus said.”

  Goll didn’t comment. Muluk released his companion’s arm, and together, the three men approached the Madea’s desk. The older man spotted them right away and straightened warily, sensing a confrontation on the unpleasant-smelling air.

  “What… do you want?” he asked with authoritative contempt.

  “Do you remember me?” Goll asked in a hard voice, stopping before the Skarr fence. Muluk’s jawline twitched upon hearing the question, and he knew right away his countryman wasn’t about to heed Clavellus’s warning.

  “I do not,” the Madea replied.

  “I’m Goll. House master of the Ten. The newly formed House of Ten.”

  Pit fighters lurking nearby stopped and listened, also sensing confrontation.

  “Ah, yes,” the Madea replied softly as if remembering an old joke. “The Free Trained house.”

  That rankled Goll. “Free Trained no more, good Madea. We’re a house. Paid for in gold and more than just a little blood. We’ve been formally recognized by the Gladiatorial Chamber itself, which means you, good Madea. So, please,” the house master stressed, as if talking to an unfit temple slave, “address us properly.”

  The Madea didn’t comment.

  “Do you recognize us?” Gol
l demanded, looking past the stoic visors of the dozen Skarrs present.

  What Goll didn’t see, but what Muluk, Clades, and the Madea were fully aware of, were the dozens more Free Trained warriors paying attention to the conversation, drawing closer like vultures smelling meat on a battlefield. Torchlight revealed curiosity on scarred and dirty faces.

  The Madea eyed them all, taking his time in replying. “I do.”

  He didn’t sound as if he did at all, though. Nor did he offer an apology.

  “Then, once more, good Madea,” Goll cautioned, “use our right and proper name from this time forth. I’ll take offense at anything less.”

  The man gave no indication of doing such a thing.

  Goll stepped closer to the wall of armed men. “Now then, why weren’t we informed of the recent changes to the games? And why weren’t we informed of a meeting for houses and schools? We were in the city when all that happened.”

  The white-haired official showed no emotion. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You aren’t aware the owners gathered before the Chamber to discuss the extended season? I find that hard to believe, Madea. What about the criminals being included in the games. You know about that, don’t you? Every house and school met with the Chamber about the matter. Except us. Why weren’t we notified?”

  The man didn’t bat an eye. “Messengers were dispatched,” he replied with a cold calmness. “Perhaps they weren’t aware of your house.”

  Goll glared. “Are you saying a messenger’s responsible for that mistake?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I suspect.”

  “‘Possibly,’ ‘I suspect.’ You’re not well informed, are you, good Madea?”

  Muluk winced.

  Goll wasn’t finished. “How is it, then, that other houses get their notices?”

  The Madea paused for a heartbeat. “We send messengers bearing scrolls.”

  “To their residences?”

  “No. Scrolls are delivered to their private chambers here at the arena, either given directly or left outside their door.”

  “We did not receive any such scrolls.”

  “Unfortunate,” the Madea replied with that stoic calmness.

  “He’s not sorry in the least,” slurred one of the pit fighters watching the scene. “I can smell the shite already.”

  “That’s the Madea for you,” muttered another unimpressed voice.

  “We’re all scroff to them anyway.”

  Others muttered agreement.

  The arena official’s face darkened at the grumbling.

  “I expect a better effort in the future,” Goll continued, his voice carrying. “From this day on… please… deliver everything to the Ten’s chamber door. I don’t wish to see you again, good Madea. I’m sure you don’t wish to see me again. If I have any further issues with your management of the games, then I’ll go straight to the Chamber. They let us into the games for a few coins. I’m sure they’ll listen for a few coins more.”

  The Madea’s stony exterior hardened a discernible fraction.

  “Understood?” Goll leaned forward, and Muluk caught the subtle, dangerous tensing of the Skarrs, who had remained inanimate until that point.

  The arena official glowered at the younger man. A dozen sword arms appeared poised to pull steel, and surprisingly, the surrounding pit fighters weren’t quite ready to disperse. In fact, Muluk sensed that bloodshed was but a single word away.

  Perhaps the Madea shared that same thought.

  “Understood, Master Goll,” the arena official said in weary voice, as if tired of being lectured. “From this day forth, you’ll receive any and all notices at your door, or if you are not present, within your private chamber. Arrange it so one of your people checks on a regular basis. It’ll be placed on a bench or such.”

  Goll wasn’t finished. “Another thing.”

  Muluk’s blossom clenched tight.

  The Madea waited, his mouth becoming crooked with impatience.

  “Since the season has been extended,” Goll said, “and since my wounds have all healed, I find myself capable and willing to enter the games and resume fighting. Consider me active once again.”

  That caught the watching gladiators off guard. Heads turned.

  “You’re fighting?” the Madea asked with mild surprise, not disagreeable in the least.

  That uneased Muluk.

  “Aye that,” Goll replied. “Any issue with that?”

  The official struggled to suppress a smile. “None at all… none at all. It’s just that… house masters usually don’t fight in the Pit.”

  “That’s because they’re too old or too scared,” Goll said.

  “Or too smart,” Muluk muttered.

  That earned him a powerful glare from his countryman. Goll faced the arena official once again. “The Ten was born in torchlight, good Madea. Right here. This is where we first gathered, first met, and later recruited. I’ll never forget that. Neither should you. But I was a gladiator first before I was a house master. I came to these games to fight. And fight I shall. I’ll fight this day if you have a slot open.”

  The Madea’s white eyebrows arched with interest. “Today?”

  “Today.”

  “You’ll fight this day?”

  “If you have someone available.”

  The Madea’s eyes widened, as if mildly insulted, then narrowed to black slits as he consulted his scrolls. The haste with which he studied his notes was not lost upon Muluk.

  “Return to your quarters, Master Goll. I’ll see what I can do. Remember, however,” the official warned without looking up, though his scowl was evident, “you asked to return this day.”

  “I’ll remember,” Goll said. He turned and marched toward the white tunnel.

  Any Free Trained in his way quickly moved out of his path.

  Muluk looked from the Madea to Goll’s retreating form and then back to the Madea once again before hurrying after his countryman. Clades followed a beat later.

  A baleful Madea watched them go. When they were out of sight, he considered his charts and notes. The official turned and consulted the match board on the wall behind him, searching for names. A distinct dislike for the one called Goll grew within his breast.

  The Kree wanted a fight.

  Seddon above, the Madea would give him one.

  *

  “Saimon’s black hanging fruit,” Muluk whispered as he caught up to Goll. “I thought the man was going to unleash his dogs upon us back there.”

  “With all those pit fighters around us?” Goll asked. “He’d do no such thing. Besides, we’re in the right. You saw him. In his eyes, we’re not a house. But that’s going to change.”

  Muluk wisely kept his mouth shut.

  “You see how he looked when I asked for a match this day?” Goll asked.

  “I did. He damn near pissed himself.”

  “I’m going to fight today.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You heard me,” Goll said as they walked along a familiar stretch of brickwork. “I’ll be fighting. That man will make certain I’m fighting, even if he has to hobble some unfit bastard to do it. And I’ll wager coin that I’ll be facing a Free Trained lout eager to claim Dark Curge’s bounty.”

  In the torchlit glow of the white tunnel, Muluk quieted with worry.

  They soon reached their decidedly crowded chamber, and Goll glanced around at the familiar faces. “No Borchus?” he asked.

  Clavellus shook his head.

  “The man’s a ghost.”

  “He’d be here if he could,” Clavellus said. “Don’t worry about him. What about the Madea, now?”

  Goll retold the conversation. Muluk stood nearby to emphasize parts with nods or disbelieving shakes of his head. When Goll finished, Clavellus looked at Machlann, standing near the window.

  “What do you think?” the taskmaster asked.

  The trainer smir
ked. “I think Master Goll has picked himself a fight.”

  35

  The day’s first matches were painful to watch.

  The criminals weren’t the trained professionals of houses. Even the Free Trained displayed a better degree of skill than the gurry released into the arena. The sun was particularly intense, as if the day wished to scorch away the unpleasant stains left by the condemned men. The highlight of the afternoon was a match between a Jackal and a Sunjan Lancer that had been branded a deserter. The horseman was no slouch with a blade and took the fight to the Jackal, but the Nordish man, all quickness and sinew, weathered an early storm of steel before wounding his opponent. He then continually nicked the Lancer, taking his time and bleeding the man with a cut to the forearm or the thigh or even a quick lick of steel to the cheek.

  The match ended with the Jackal stabbing the Lancer through the midsection, hard enough to lift the Sunjan off his feet.

  From where they watched in their private chamber, Clavellus patted the sill of the arched window. “No surprise there,” he said dourly. “That Jackal might’ve been imprisoned for a few months, but there was no weakness with a blade.”

  “Should’ve given the Lancer a horse,” Machlann remarked.

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  The trainer grimaced. “Jackal would’ve only killed the animal as well, I daresay.”

  “Daresay.”

  With the fifth fight consisting of another pairing of prisoners, Clavellus sighed and turned away from the window. He regarded Goll first and then Brozz. The tall Sarlander stood with his head down, mentally preparing himself for his moment in the Pit. The leather vest he usually wore had been laced in front, covering his wounds. The helmet had been painful for the man to fit over his broken nose, which could be seen through the face cage. A set of metal gauntlets covered his hands, the knuckles spiked. The necklace of crow heads hung around his neck, each one threaded through the eye and screaming because of it.

  From a distance, the man they called Crowhead looked no different than he had any other day.

  Up close, however, he was unfit.

  “You look even more the fright with all those cuts and bruises,” the taskmaster remarked.