Brozz didn’t respond, his profile solemn.
“Are you ready?” Clavellus asked.
The Sarlander nodded.
Clavellus lifted his head as if smelling blood. “He’s fighting for Curge now, so no holding back. He’ll be looking to make an example of you.”
A smile flickered across Brozz’s battered face. “Don’t worry, Master Clavellus. I never really liked that Sunjan.”
The taskmaster smiled at that.
*
“Pitiful,” Curge said, shaking his head at the poor display he’d just witnessed.
“You think your lad will do better?” Nexus challenged.
Curge didn’t answer, mainly because he had his doubts. He ignored both other men, who sat on either side of him. Unfortunately, he’d been the one arriving late at the games that day, which resulted in the new seating order. The arrangement didn’t surprise him. While Gastillo had made attempts to engage the wine merchant over the past couple of days, Nexus kept his comments curt, not interested in the least with talking to the other owner, and even leaving the games early, almost with theatrical timing.
Children, Curge had decided.
“How did you manage to get a fight against the Ten so quickly?” Nexus asked with his usual unpleasantness. “With the very one who deserted them?”
Curge scoffed with a shake of his head, not dignifying that question with an answer. “I’m curious, myself, good Nexus. Are you two still at odds today? Or will the ice finally melt?”
“We’re not at odds,” Nexus snapped. “And it’s none of your concern.”
“All right. Other matters, then. Has anyone discovered anything about the Perician called Junger? My eyes and ears have not.”
That was the one topic that was decidedly safe to discuss. As expected, the question drew the two punces into a conversation.
“Nothing,” Gastillo said though his mask was focused upon the arena. “My spies have found nothing.”
“As mine,” Nexus grumped, his attention also on the bright sands. “The man’s a ghost. A ghost without a history.”
“Pericia’s a four-day journey,” Gastillo noted. “And it’s a large parcel of territory that just happens to be a country. I didn’t send anyone that far. If we don’t know anything by now, chances are we’re not going to.”
“A near-perfect mystery,” Curge observed.
“He has a past,” Nexus said with a sneer. “He has one. Somewhere, someone knows him. Knows something about him. The challenge is finding that person before the season finishes.”
“With him in the final eight.”
Truth be known, if no one could discover the man’s past, Junger would be in the champion’s match, and Curge couldn’t think of a man who might defeat him.
*
Away from the owners discussing the puzzling Junger, in the private chambers of Dark Curge, where his gladiators waited for their call, the man called Baris, who held the title of both taskmaster and trainer, stopped before the tall, muscular bulk of Sapo. Baris was squat and thick necked, with the stomped-on face of a pug, but his mind was as sharp as a rack of polished spears. He inspected Sapo one last time.
The big Sunjan had been a challenge, as the taskmaster had discussed with Dark Curge. Sapo had been getting by on sheer power alone, and he didn’t apply himself in learning the skills, techniques, and combinations needed to be a true gladiator. Baris advised Curge he’d need a full year to drill the first month of basic instruction into the man’s head. Curge, however, had ordered him to make do.
So Baris made do.
Sapo stood with a huge helm already in place, transforming his skull into a spiked barrel. Grillwork covered the mouth area, allowing the man plenty of air for those big lungs. Preparing decent armor for Sapo had been a challenge for the house armorers. The end result was both frightening and impressive. A leather vest covered Sapo’s torso while a high collar protected his corded neck. The usual greaves and bracers adorned his limbs. Heavy gauntlets spiked with nails adorned his hands.
The axe completed the nightmare.
Huge and double bladed, well balanced and also sporting a spiked head, the weapon looked like something wielded by a death god. Sapo’s biceps bulged as he hefted that frightening chopper. With just the right amount of muscular flesh showing to intimidate, Sapo cut a terrifying figure, and he knew it.
Still, Baris knew appearances were only part of the battle, especially in Sapo’s case.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I am,” Sapo said, mouth and eyes hidden by the helmet.
“What are you going to do out there?”
“Kill a man.”
“How long will it take you?”
“Two cuts only.”
“And what are you to bring to Curge?”
“The dog’s head.”
Scowling, Baris stood in Sapo’s shadow and didn’t budge, sizing up the gladiator’s killer bulk. As good as expected, he supposed, but at least the lad’s thinking was in the right place.
“Go on then,” Baris said, “and butcher me a cow.”
Behind the grill, Sapo allowed himself a smile.
*
“You’re with the Ten, aren’t you?” the gatekeeper asked Brozz as the gladiator stood and waited for the portcullis to rise.
The Sarlander nodded.
“I remember you,” the old man said. “You look good. Good.”
Brozz didn’t feel good. Stitches strained and pulled with every step, threatening to burst. He didn’t think he could swing his weapons without ripping himself apart. His face and jaw ached dearly, and when he could draw a breath through his smashed nose, all he could smell was sour onions. Shan had smeared that healing salve all over Brozz’s person.
“Word is you’re fighting the one who left your house?” the gatekeeper asked.
Brozz nodded.
“Unfortunate I won’t be able to watch,” the old man said in disappointment. “Blood’s bound to fly in this one.” With that, the gatekeeper yanked down hard on a nearby lever.
As the portcullis cranked upward, Brozz supposed blood would indeed fly.
He hoped it was Sapo’s.
The stairs were a chore, but he managed to climb them, feeling the stitches move underneath his armor, keeping him together. He entered the arena to lukewarm applause and more than a few curses. The Orator prattled on with introductions, but Brozz paid little heed to those.
Across the way, Sapo emerged from the shadowy maw of his entrance. The Sunjan had found someone to stitch together a proper suit of leather for him. How fortunate, Brozz thought wearily. Few men stood eye to eye with the Sarlander. Even fewer were bigger. Sapo was only a finger or two shorter and outweighed the Sarlander by perhaps the weight of an entire man, most of it muscle.
The Sunjan was huge and swinging a battle-axe designed to turn a man’s bowels to watery scutters.
“Begin!” the Orator finally shouted.
Brozz tuned out all distractions, and the screaming crowds became a low buzz in his ears. He clenched his short sword and hand axe and went forth. Sapo’s bulk seemed to enlarge with every step. As they closed the space between them, Brozz detected the smile behind his foe’s protective grill.
“You’re the first,” Sapo said when he was about five paces away. “Maggot.”
The battle-axe flashed in the sun, a flat cut meant to slice a man in half, swung with brutal intent. The force of the blow would have taken down a tree if it had connected.
Brozz yanked himself back, avoiding the edge by a finger’s width. His sewed-together skin stretched and strained.
With dramatic grunts, Sapo chopped and swung three more times in a surprising combination that had Brozz ducking and weaving. The mighty Sunjan hacked at an arm and a neck, then attempted to split Brozz’s helm right down to the jaw.
All missed.
The Sarlander avoided the blows rather than parrying, well aware that deflecting Sapo’s heavier blade would only ri
p his own weapons from his hands, perhaps even breaking his wrists in the process.
The Sarlander backpedaled, and Sapo charged, grunting with every swing. The Sunjan sliced at an arm then a knee, and when Brozz jerked his leg away, Sapo quickly recovered from the arc of the falling blow and stabbed with the axe spike.
The point pierced Brozz’s leather with an alarming prick of pain, stabbing skin and the wall of muscle covering his stomach. The crowd roared at the connection, some even jumping to their feet and shaking fists.
Brozz jerked himself off the dreaded spike, knocking the weapon away, unfortunate enough to see a bloody line spewing from the hole. Sapo reset and swung for Brozz’s head once again. The Sarlander ducked, but when he straightened, his wounded midsection flared in agony.
Sapo slashed at Brozz’s left side, but the Ten man deflected the blow off his hand axe. When the two blades collided, the heavier steel ripped the smaller from Brozz’s hand. The contact brought Sapo in close, and he punched his foe’s head. Three times he struck—short, powerful blows punctuated with hateful barks of breath and the crinkle and skraw of spikes on helmet. The armor absorbed a terrible pounding. Metal dimpled and dented. The stitches holding Brozz’s cheek together burst, spitting blood and revealing pink meat.
Dazed and desperate, Brozz shoved the bigger man away and stabbed, sliding a length of steel along Sapo’s own profile. The connection startled the Sunjan, who broke away, one hand going to his neck. A quick inspection later, Sapo nodded at his opponent.
Brozz stayed behind a wary guard, pointing his sword at the pit fighter stalking him. His midsection screamed at him. He pressed it and drew away a palm wet and slick. A fire had started down there, burning away his strength. His limbs became heavy.
“You’re the first.” Sapo leered through his grill, teeth glistening. He hunched over, bobbing his axe left and right, up and down, with the odd thrust that kept Brozz guessing. “You’re the first,” Sapo repeated. “The first, Brozz. The firs—”
The axe’s spiked head stabbed for Brozz’s gut.
Suffering as he was, the Sarlander parried instead of dodging, bringing his blade across while twisting at the hips, attempting to sweep the axe away to his left. With a clang, the weapons locked and Sapo yanked back with all his might.
The short sword flew over the Sunjan’s shoulder.
Brozz stood without weapons.
“You’re the first, Sarlander, and you know what that means?” Sapo taunted from behind his upraised axe, which moved side to side before jabbing. “It means I’ll split you down the middle. And when I’m done with that, I’ll finish off the Perician and any other that pig bastard Machlann might’ve trained. I mean to split each and every––”
Brozz lunged.
Sapo had committed a grievous error, talking when he should have been swinging, all while Brozz was eyeing the timing of the battle-axe. When Sapo jabbed, the man called Crowhead lashed out with a metal-clad fist, slamming a set of spiked knuckles squarely into his opponent’s grill.
Destroying the smile behind it.
The impact took Sapo off his feet, and he landed flat on his back to the collective OHHH of the crowds.
Amazingly, Sapo kept a hold of the battle-axe.
Brozz spotted his own hand axe two strides away as Sapo crunched his stomach, pulling himself up into a sitting position. Dark eyes focused on the Sarlander while a dented grill squashed Sapo’s mouth into a messy pulp of lips and shattered teeth.
The Sunjan struggled to rise.
Brozz dropped upon the fallen man, punching that ruined helmet a second time, driving his opponent into the sands. Brozz mounted the Sunjan’s midsection, putting a knee into the valley of the man’s elbow, trapping the weapon arm.
Then he rained spiked fists onto Sapo’s helmet. The big man bucked and lurched, attempting to rise, absorbing horrific damage.
In short time, he stopped moving.
The surrounding sands became blinding fire, and the crowds’ screams crackled with heat and fury, cursing Brozz for attacking a dead man.
At some point, Brozz paused and took stock of what he was doing. Through the sunken eye slits, Sapo’s eyes flickered and squinted against the blood flowing into them. Gasps of air sprayed droplets of matter through the ruined grill. The sight stayed Brozz’s poised fist. Just then, dazed and bleeding and far from defending himself, Sapo didn’t look like Sapo anymore. Sapo looked like a young father, one of many Brozz had been ordered to execute in the Sarland foothills, upon the command of the Grand Vir. The man’s wife and two daughters had already been killed by other Gorsha, the unit in which Brozz served.
The resemblance between Sapo and that long-dead farmer took all the fight out of the Sarlander, and he lowered his fist. Leaving a man like Sapo alive would be a mistake. Brozz knew that to his core.
Brozz had no intention of killing him, though—not this day, and certainly not this way.
Gasping, his wounds burning, Brozz slowly stood and ignored the vocal crowd. He spotted the arched window of the Ten’s private room. He wavered, just a little about the shoulders, and gave a solemn nod.
The faces there lifted hands, indicating the message received.
Taking his time and growing ever aware of his hurts, both new and old, Brozz picked up his weapons.
To a mixture of praise and stinging hatred, he walked to his gate, leaving Sapo’s twitching husk behind him.
*
“Oh, how unfortunate, good Curge,” Nexus said with feigned sympathy so thick it offended Curge much more than the fight’s ending. “So sorry to see one of your men fall to the Ten. So very sorry.”
The yelling crowds prevented Curge from answering immediately.
When he did, however, he did so with a smile. “He wasn’t one of mine, good Nexus. He was one of theirs. One of mine would not have made the mistakes he did. So don’t you worry about this fight. The season’s long, and I’ll have another chance at killing that tall hellion staggering off the field. One of my seasoned hellpups will shove a length of steel up his dog blossom and set him squealing.”
At that point, Curge regarded the wine merchant with a contemplative look. “But I’m curious. Does your face hurt when you tighten it like that?”
*
Back in the Ten’s private chamber, Koba and Muluk led their returning gladiator inside, to a waiting bench. Wounded and drained, Brozz sat down heavily and leaned against a wall. With medicinal materials nearby and waiting, Shan pulled the battered helmet from the gladiator’s head, grimacing at the sight underneath. Muluk helped, attempting to free the Sarlander from his punctured armor and the crow necklace. The rest of the House hovered nearby, ready if needed.
“Get me those bandages,” Shan instructed as he produced a knife and cut through the knots lacing the leather vest. When the armor came free, blood spattered the floor.
The stitches across Brozz’s chest had split apart at some point, in addition to the sewing of his cheek. Two ghastly red mouths parted and dribbled wine, but the most disturbing was the puncture wound in his gut.
“More bandages,” Shan told Muluk, who nodded his hairy head and complied. The healer took the thick compresses and pressed them to Brozz’s belly and upper chest.
The gladiator sighed at the contact. Blood reached the floor. Shan had Muluk maintain pressure on the bandages before applying another cloth wad to the Sarlander’s cheek. The aged healer worked quickly, surely, sneaking peeks at the hole in the Sarlander’s midsection.
“Might have cut some of the muscle there,” Shan said as he worked. “I’m not sure how serious. Does it hurt?”
Brozz nodded.
“Lean back, then. Sit still.”
The taskmaster loomed, appearing over the hunched forms of Shan and Muluk.
“You did very well, Brozz,” Clavellus said. “You did very well.”
Goll chewed upon the inside of a cheek and met the eyes of the taskmaster. Brozz had done very well indeed, but he knew sparing Sap
o might have consequences. Though the Kree wished Sapo dead, he had to admit he was grateful that the House of Curge would not be pursuing vengeance—or so he hoped.
“You put that punce down,” Muluk gushed, smiling in Brozz’s face as the bandages slowly turned scarlet. Muluk then frowned at Goll, urging him to speak.
“You did well,” Goll finally said, wondering if Brozz’s season had just finished.
36
The next two fights were between the lesser houses.
Morric of the School of Vorish was soundly defeated by the Balgothan Sorban, from the Stable of Slavol. Then a gladiator called Korzo, from the House of Razi, punished Ithas, from the House of Tilo. Korzo hurt his opponent badly enough that the man had to be carried to a healer.
“Season’s over for that one,” Machlann commented grimly.
“Fortunate he’s still breathing,” Clavellus added, glancing back at an uncomfortable-looking Brozz.
Shan had trussed the man up in fresh stitches and bandages during the matches while Koba brought in a bucket of water to clean up both flesh and blood. Brozz looked less of a mess at the moment, but the taskmaster wondered if the gladiator would be able to continue fighting.
A knock at the door interrupted Clavellus’s thoughts. He glanced at Junger, who stood without a helm or armor, his chest bare. Clutching a sword still in its scabbard, he nodded he was ready.
“Do what you do,” Clavellus said.
Unconcerned, Junger walked to the door, passing Brozz. He stopped and patted the Sarlander on the shoulder, getting a faint smile from him.
“Make them scream, lad,” Machlann said.
Clades opened the door to allow Junger passage, revealing an arena attendant standing there.
“A message for Master Goll,” the attendant said.
“Yes?” Goll asked.
“You’ll fight after Junger and Brontus. You’ll face a Free Trained called Sarvil.”
Outside the arched window, the audience’s rumbling voices rose upon some unseen signal.
Goll didn’t seem to notice. “I’ll be ready.”
131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Page 32