131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  The attendant looked at Junger. “It’s time.”

  “I was already on my way.”

  The attendant frowned, perhaps thinking that if all gladiators did such a thing, he might very well be out of work.

  Junger departed among a second round of well-wishes.

  “So,” Clavellus said to Goll, “you have your fight. Seems the Madea took a liking to you.”

  “Or he despises you,” Muluk suggested.

  Goll ignored that. “I’m just glad to fight.”

  “A Free Trained,” Machlann pointed out. “Not a house gladiator.”

  “The Madea might not have even troubled them,” the taskmaster thought aloud. “No matter. Put down this Free Trained, and you’ll get all the attention you want from the houses.”

  With grim concentration, Goll crouched near a cloth sack and started pulling out slabs of armor.

  *

  When Junger stepped into the day, the crowds remembered him.

  They cheered his name. Women tried to capture his attention. The Perician lifted a hand to acknowledge them all, and the very world trembled at the resulting blast of sound. Junger didn’t think much of the noise, but he admitted with a flicker of guilt he was enjoying himself far more than he thought he should be. He looked above the multitudes of people, above the heat-shielding tarps and the towering brickwork of the arena. Thin clouds stretched across the deep blue, heading south. Perhaps he’d go south one day.

  One day.

  The Orator delivered his speech of theatrics. Junger didn’t listen to it. The sun baked his skin, drawing sweat, and on some unseen signal, almost mystically, he turned and faced his opponent standing at the arena’s far side. The Orator introduced the warrior called Brontus, from the House of Ustda, and the name received a fair share of cheers, enough to let Junger know the man had a reputation of sorts.

  Brontus chose to ignore the Orator’s prattling and walked to the center of the arena.

  Junger went to meet him.

  “Greetings,” the larger man said, dipping a helm. The headpiece had a chain-mail beard attached to the visor’s lower portion. The mesh encircled the neck, granting some measure of protection.

  “Greetings,” Junger answered, appreciating the height of his adversary. “You’re a tall one.”

  “They tell me that. This to the death?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Brontus made no move to lift his own mace and shield. The man was not only tall but also thick, with a layer of fat coating a powerful frame. He wore leather, complete with a crenellated skirt. Greaves ended at spiked knees. Light glinted within the helmet’s dark eyeholes.

  “Good,” Brontus responded, tipping his helm in approval. “You’ve done well thus far, good Junger. The crowds favor you, the likes I haven’t seen or heard of in a very long time, truth be known.”

  That didn’t really surprise Junger. “Thus far. I’ve been fortunate. It could all change any moment.”

  “I mean to test you,” Brontus informed him stoically. “See if what they say is true.”

  Junger thought about that. “It probably is true.”

  “Ha!” the helm barked. “No pride there, eh? I’d say more, but there’s not a mark on you. Dying Seddon, man. Your hide’s as fair and untouched as a babe’s cheeks.”

  Junger smiled, a touch sadly.

  “Come on then, Ten man.” Brontus nodded. “You’ve come this far. Let’s see you pull that steel.”

  “I haven’t yet.”

  That puzzled the big gladiator. “And what’s the reason for that?”

  “Hasn’t been a need.”

  Brontus stared down at the smaller man. “No need? Ha. Some might think that’s the height of arrogance, Junger of Ten.”

  The larger man extended his long-shafted mace, the spikes dull in the light. “Best we get on with it. The crowds grow impatient.”

  Junger lifted his sheathed sword and tapped the offered mace. “Well met, good Brontus.”

  “Well met, good Junger.”

  Then the big man attacked, breaking into a frenzied combination of mace swings and shield strikes. The house gladiator moved swiftly despite his size, and Junger figured that when one faced a wall crashing down, getting out of its way made good sense.

  Junger dodged and ducked, slipping through the strikes like a sandfly buzzing through raindrops.

  Nothing touched the Perician.

  Nothing came close.

  After that short but intense barrage, Brontus broke away to catch his breath, keeping the Perician in front of him.

  Surprisingly, Junger didn’t attack––didn’t leap into a dazzling cross cut or lunge into a brilliant thrust to the heart or jaw.

  “Tired, are you?” Brontus asked, shuffling to the right.

  “You’re a skilled fighter,” Junger told him and very much meant it.

  The big man chuckled… before he lunged, attempting to knock Junger’s head from his shoulders.

  The Perician bobbed, passed on the opportunity to counter, and backed well away. Brontus pursued, heaving all his considerable strength into a series of attacks. He swung his mace at his foe like a prickly comet, aiming for the head, a shoulder, the head again, then a leg.

  Junger evaded everything.

  At times, the Perician made his opponent appear far too slow, as if he exactly knew the pit fighter’s every move, every thought. Several times, he backed away from a combination of strikes, rendering the outburst ineffective and leaving the audience marveling in disbelief.

  A gladiator of note was attacking the Ten man––a Free Trained warrior––and could not touch him. Couldn’t come close to hitting him.

  More than anyone else in the Pit, that lack of contact frustrated Brontus.

  The sun roasted the big man. Sweat flowed due to his concentrated efforts. Brontus gathered himself and peered over his shield’s edge at his elusive adversary, upset at his lack of success yet every bit as amazed as the spectators.

  “Time to end this, good Junger,” Brontus huffed. “It’s becoming too hot.”

  His guard raised and unwavering, Junger checked on the sun and nodded agreement. It was becoming too hot.

  As Brontus swung his mace, Junger shot forward with a speed impossible and jabbed his foe squarely in the abdomen, catching him above the belt line. The house gladiator buckled like a door smashed by a battering ram. Brontus crumpled, dropping everything. His head touched sand. Struggling for breath, he clawed his helm free and, red-faced, cradled his lower half.

  Perceiving the match all but over, Junger knelt beside him, gently rolled him onto his back, and dropped a knee onto the big man’s chest. He extracted a hand’s length of steel from his scabbard and held it to the fallen gladiator’s throat.

  A gasping Brontus nodded his intention to yield.

  The crowds erupted with mad delight.

  Junger leaned in close to the defeated gladiator and placed a hand to the man’s face. “You rest for a few days, good Brontus,” he advised. “You fought well. Remember that. You’ll do well in these games of blood.”

  The stricken Brontus couldn’t speak, but his brow scrunched in confusion.

  Junger patted his adversary’s head, stood, and backed away from the fallen man.

  Once he was safely clear, he lifted a hand in victory.

  The cheering tripled in intensity.

  *

  In the crowds, an old man’s eyes widened in disbelief, and his heart banged against his ribs. He’d lived upon the world’s back for a good seventy-eight winters, and every day he doubted he’d see another, but his memory was still as sharp as the edge of a pit fighter’s blade. He’d attended the day’s games at the urging of his oldest son, who knew his father enjoyed the blood sport. His son was next to him as everyone around them cheered and chanted for the one called Junger.

  Junger.

  He covered his mouth with a shaking hand, but he didn’t doubt his memory in the least.

  He’d
seen a man move like that before, fighting dozens more and cutting them up with damn-near sorcerous ease, making whole packs of killers appear sick with age. The man called Junger strolled the arena sands, enjoying the crowd’s attention, and Seddon above, Junger even walked the same, the carefree stroll of one without a fear in the world.

  Then the old man saw the Perician’s face.

  His knees trembled, and his legs went numb.

  It was impossible.

  The old man would always remember the face as clearly as the sun in the sky. He had to remember it since it was a face that had saved him and his village years before, saved the lives of his mother, father, and sisters, even. Such a memory had been etched into the back of his mind, even visiting him in his dreams, where the deepest sleep led him over the glowing pastures of his youth, where the sky was the happiest blue and he was still a boy filled with wonder.

  He remembered that face.

  And that face was Junger’s.

  But the old man had to be wrong. He had to be.

  That man––Junger’s twin––who had saved so many lives back then, could not have been older than twenty-nine. Perhaps thirty.

  The old man had only been seven when he first saw him—a stranger then, but two weeks later, a stranger no more. Junger’s twin had even smiled at him once and shaken his shoulder. At that time, that swordsman had become a right and proper hero.

  That had been seventy-one years before.

  And the hero’s name was Arco.

  37

  When Junger finally left the field, Goll turned away from the window’s arch and slapped on his helmet.

  “Anxious, aren’t you?” Muluk asked.

  “I am.”

  “Wait for the man to get back, at least,” Clavellus said, distracted by the spectacle outside.

  “He knows the way,” Goll said.

  “That’s not what I meant,” the taskmaster said, lowering his voice. “A few words of congratulations will be good for him to hear. Besides, the attendants need to groom the sands for the next fight. It won’t take long.”

  Goll reluctantly decided to wait, but he didn’t think Junger needed to hear any such congratulations from him. Goll looked at Brozz, who sat with mottled bandages applied to his person, appearing as though he’d just fallen off a mountaintop. A concerned Shan hovered nearby, dabbing cloth and sewing skin together.

  When Junger returned, everyone else congratulated him. Koba slapped the man on the shoulder, and even Brozz managed a weak smile.

  “A fine display,” Clavellus told the Perician. “You moved like a fly waved off a cow kiss.”

  Goll, however, did not lavish such praise upon Junger, sensing something strange about the man.

  In short time, the attendants knocked at the door, summoning the waiting house master.

  “Well done,” Goll said as he walked past Junger.

  That was all.

  He wanted to add, “and now watch how a real warrior fights,” but truth be known, claws of nervous energy were digging themselves into the Kree’s spine and limbs. He believed nearly two months had passed since that first time in the arena, sixty days since he’d killed the man who’d all but defeated him upon the sands and then spared him. The Kree gladiator had trained nearly all of his adult life to reach the games, convinced he was the best, and upon his first fight, he’d nearly died. Baylus had embarrassed, shamed, and humbled him.

  Yet there Goll was, about to enter the arena once again.

  He wouldn’t be bested a second time, he wouldn’t underestimate the opposition, and he wouldn’t forget killing Baylus the Butcher in one merciless act born of anger, the one man who had defeated him.

  In Junger, Goll saw the potential to lose once again.

  And truth be known, it uneased him.

  *

  With sweat beading upon his brow, Qualtus wasn’t happy in the least to announce the day’s final fight. The last few matches had been astounding, with the Perician once again stealing the attention of the Pit. That put a smile on the old orator’s face. He imagined more than one owner was watching and damn near pissing themselves.

  Junger was a spectacle to behold, and Qualtus doubted anyone in the games could challenge the Perician gladiator.

  He read his scroll, and his mood brightened… to a point.

  “Women and men of the Pit, we have one last conflict to witness upon the arena floor. A ghost has returned from the past, good people. A ghost who had nearly died at the beginning of this deadly season. Trained by the venerable Weapon Masters of Kree, this man faced a much admired butcher upon his opening day and lived to speak of it though the encounter nearly killed him. Badly wounded, his season was finished. He has a second chance this day, however, and he’s able to fight again. Healed and eager to once again pursue that coveted crown sought by all, and this time as a member of his own house, I present to you… the slayer of Baylus the Butcher, Goll… of the House of Ten.”

  *

  Within the private viewing chambers of the Stable of Slavol, Salwark, son of Vavar Slavol, blinked and swallowed in mute shock upon hearing the name. His throat visibly worked, and he gripped his chin in nervous thought. Since having taken over duties from his stricken father, Salwark struggled with talking to his gladiators. He knew he didn’t have the gift of speech his father possessed, but he tried, despite that painful awkwardness.

  This revelation, however, was something else entirely, completely beyond Salwark’s abilities. He wondered how he was going to tell his pit fighter that the man who’d killed an old friend had returned to the games. He turned away from the window and met the eyes of the one Balgothan who had, upon learning of Baylus’s death, sworn vengeance upon the killer—a vengeance denied since the gladiator had disappeared from the games.

  This day, though, Goll had returned.

  Staring at the Balgothan, Salwark realized he wouldn’t have to say a word. Sorban had heard Goll’s name, had heard the glowing introduction of the Orator. A hateful intensity colored his face. He glowered for one long heartbeat before joining Salwark at the window.

  The angry heat radiating from the man caused the owner’s son to step back.

  The sun was bad enough.

  *

  “Not many would dare face this killer of champions,” the Orator continued, “but we have found a man. A pit fighter willing to face him in the arena. A man seeking to carve out a name for himself at these games. He is a mauler amongst the Free Trained ranks, on the very cusp of greatness. He knows no fear and possesses a very bloody set of skills, as demonstrated by his last two victories. I give you… Savril of Marrn.”

  The man called Savril lifted his arms and turned in a slow circle, embracing the crowds as they cheered his name. Goll noted they hadn’t cheered his name, but that was because they’d forgotten him. He’d make them remember.

  “Begin!” the Orator shouted.

  Savril immediately walked toward Goll. The man wasn’t as tall as the Kree, nor did he appear overly strong of limb. Spiked bracers protected his forearms while his biceps were bare. A poor leather vest covered his torso. Savril didn’t bother with a helmet, preferring to let the wind blow over his shorn crown. The man possessed a low brow squatting over a set of intense gray eyes.

  He carried a shield and sword, the weapon curved and sharp.

  Goll went to him. He didn’t offer greetings. He didn’t say anything at all.

  The Kree pulled back his blade as if about to stab straight from the shoulder while his shield flashed ahead, the edge aimed for Savril’s eyes. Savril barely deflected the unexpected attack with his own shield. He then parried the sword thrust meant for his chest and then the other aimed at his head.

  He twisted away, placing his shield between him and his attacker.

  Goll followed, swinging as he went. The Kree’s sword crashed against his opponent’s shield, then Goll was jumping back, parrying three savage countercuts meant to open his neck or head. Each connection tinkled over the
arena sands.

  They separated and circled, studying each other for weakness.

  “Perhaps if I kill you,” Savril said, “they’ll take me into the House of Ten?”

  Goll attacked, a succession of deadly jabs and slashes. Savril parried the first before avoiding the others, taking a shot to the shield as he parted.

  Goll did not pursue.

  “Too slow, Kree!” Savril mocked and charged. He chopped for a shoulder, which Goll darted away from. Savril waded in, looking to lop off limbs, grunting as if every strike could fell a tree.

  Goll evaded every attempt, cringing at times, but fluid and sure on his feet. He stepped outside of Savril’s range, taking a few heartbeats to study the man.

  “I’m going to butcher the topper who butchered Baylus,” Savril panted from behind his shield, his eyes just visible. “Going to take that head from your shoulders and nail it to the arena wall.”

  Goll lunged.

  Savril stopped the attack flat upon his shield. They grappled, trying to establish dominance over the other and became snared in an uneven dance. Goll stomped for toes and missed. Savril cracked his shield’s edge across Goll’s cheek, raking his visor before crashing the barrier downward and narrowly missed a knee.

  They broke free of one another.

  “You killed Baylus the Butcher?” Savril jeered. “How did you manage that? The man must’ve been pickled.”

  Breathing hard, Goll peered over his shield, sword poised and ready, and stalked his foe, closing the distance. He’d had his fill of Savril’s voice and waited for the man’s shield to drop just a finger. Just a sliver below his chin. That was all the Kree needed.

  “Pickled,” Savril shook his head. “You’re going to d––”

  Goll lunged and slashed. A line of red erupted across Savril’s throat, and his words became a mangled hiss. The pit fighter’s face paled in a heartbeat, and he dropped his sword and shield. He grabbed for his neck as his life sprayed from between fingers.

  By the time he fell to his knees, Goll was already walking back to his portcullis.

  Having seen the house master in action for the first time in the Pit, Clavellus cocked an eyebrow and exchanged looks with his trainers.