“What?” Grisholt placed a hand to his resplendent chest as if to calm his heart. No love was lost between him and Gastillo, but to hear of an owner dying at the hands of one of his own people… The unfit bastard! His crooked mouth opened as if about to croak.
The powerful-looking agent went on to explain the night’s events as related to him by his spies. Gastillo had been killed by Prajus, a name known to Grisholt. Grisholt remained quiet as he listened to the details, sickened at how Gastillo had exposed himself to such danger, threatening and challenging a pit fighter in front of witnesses. The very notion seemed unfit. Unless gold-faced Gastillo had very loyal men, the chances of punishment were scant. Grisholt wouldn’t be surprised in the least if the Chamber itself didn’t do anything. They would no doubt let the houses take care of matters themselves. As for Gastillo’s staff and roster, a frenzied picking of the bones might very well begin, until only the scroff remained. The games would grind on to their relentless but glorious end.
Prajus, however, was a dead man.
“That savage he-bitch,” Grisholt fumed, immediately suspicious of his own lads. The thought that a hellpup would turn upon its master boiled his guts. Gastillo should’ve stomped on the dog’s plums at the first sign of insolence and stomped hard.
“What was he thinking?” He asked no one in particular while hammers pounded wood.
“I don’t know,” Caro admitted, taking a moment to inspect the ongoing work around the property. “I’ll ask about, but as of now, it seems that gold-faced topper simply had enough of the dog’s barking.”
“Why didn’t he simply toss the man to the streets?” Grisholt asked, but then he connected Prajus’s name to the man.
“The man’s an exceptional fighter, Master Grisholt,” Caro said, voicing the owner’s memory, “perhaps the best Gastillo had put to field this season. Cast him out, and his house loses its best chance to win the games. Then there’s the possibility of a rival house recruiting Prajus. Without hesitation.”
“Perhaps that was Prajus’s intention,” Grisholt furthered the thought. “Get cast out and then throw in with another house.”
“Perhaps.” Caro didn’t sound convinced.
Grisholt mulled over the matter. “Prajus.” The owner sighed with grand remorse, much better suited to a Perician stage, and looked at the sky. “And Gastillo is no more. Well, well. I’d have chosen one or two others to perish before him. Unfortunate. Very unfortunate.”
Grisholt ruminated on how the incident would affect the season and saw no reason why it should. “Anything else, then?” he asked his agent.
“I’ve learned when you will fight the House of Ten.”
Grisholt’s eyebrows jumped. “The Zhiberian?”
“No, Master Grisholt. He’s not returned from that village.”
“I’ll have his head and more. Who, then?” The owner’s breath suddenly caught in his throat, and his eyes fixed upon Caro. “Not him.”
“Aye that.”
Grisholt smiled evilly. “The one they call Junger.”
Caro nodded.
Tingles sparked and traveled throughout Grisholt’s person. Junger of Pericia. He knew the man, knew him very well. He wasn’t the maggot shite Zhiberian, but he’d be a trophy kill all the same, a tremendous victory and, more importantly, a crippling blow to the Ten’s quickly dwindling ranks.
“Yes…” Grisholt whispered, already warming to the matchup. “Excellent. Who’s he scheduled to fight?”
“Barros.”
“Even better,” the owner rumbled with wicked delight. “Even better. Razi didn’t press for a blood match this time?”
“He did not.”
“Wise, Razi, very wise,” Grisholt said and reflected upon what needed to be done. The lack of hammering caught his attention. The men tending to his roof had paused for some unknown reason. One withering look from Grisholt prompted them back to work.
“Brakuss,” the owner said, “if any of those kogs stop working, you have my permission to paddle their collective balls.”
The one-eyed bodyguard nodded curtly.
“Also,” Grisholt continued. “Inform Barros of his next opponent.” The owner’s smile returned and damn near reached his ears. “Tell him he’ll get to kill a Ten man.”
43
“Now, remember, don’t try to match him strike for strike. Just wear him down. Wear him down, and when you see the opportunity, put him into the dirt. But don’t kill him. Don’t do that. Not if you want to fight that Ten man, the one that killed Baylus. I’ll have a talk with the Madea about that. He might be willing to do something. I doubt it, but I’ll see. In the meantime, focus on this lad and win. You can do it. I know you can. I know you can. You have just as good a chance as anyone here. Win! For yourself and the Stable of Slavol!” Salwark grinned mightily then, his horrid breath of wine and fish almost crossing Sorban’s eyes.
Sweet Seddon. The gladiator braced himself against the blast but still retreated a step, scowling as he did so. Sorban wished Vavar was able to attend the games, but the old man remained sick and bedridden.
Salwark was standing in his place.
The jittery son nodded and withdrew, as if interpreting the Balgothan’s expression of disgust as one of readiness to fight. The owner’s son went to the private viewing chamber’s arched window, where the sands shimmered and glowed with heat. Sitting on a nearby bench, Blacktooth leaned in and slapped Sorban’s knee. Today’s games were the first for Blacktooth to attend since having his ankle smashed by Brontus of the House of Ustda. He’d come to see Sorban fight and made his way to the lower chamber on a pair of crutches.
The older fighter offered a comforting smile, revealing a single incisor sunk deep into an otherwise barren gum line. “You do what you do,” the Sunjan’s expression said.
At that one look, Sorban felt immensely more focused. He took to wrapping his hands, pulling the ribbons tight around his fingers and his palms, remembering his departed friend Baylus. Memories of laughter, conversations, and mugs of beer filled his head. Baylus had won the championship the same season Sorban started his fighting career, and because they were both Balgothan, they immediately got along, speaking freely in their own language and complaining about the Sunjan way of doing things. Baylus was a quiet mentor back then, enjoying his celebrity status after his earning his gladiatorial crown and even inviting Sorban to stay at his residence during the off season, to sharpen his existing skill set with some informal training. Sorban learned from the Butcher, and during those months, he saw firsthand how Baylus still loved the Pit. Though he had no need to return to the arena, the sport was clearly still in his blood. Many a story of violence and valor Baylus told over drinks, and somewhere during those days and evenings, Sorban knew, just knew the champion would one day return to the games to try his luck again upon the arena floor.
True enough, that day arrived.
Sorban had cheered for his countryman during the battle against Goll and seen him easily controlling the fight, winning it… until the upstart Kree killed his friend and mentor.
The shock hammered Sorban like a fat nail through the heart. Baylus was gone… just like that, claimed by the very games he so loved.
After seeing to and completing the burial of Baylus the Butcher, Sorban stalked the morass known as general quarters, seeking the man called Goll. He searched until Salwark lured him away with promises of revenge. The opportunity never arose, however, as the battered Kree had disappeared from general quarters, hiding from Sorban’s wrath. His focus settled upon defeating all those placed before him, hoping to win the games in honor of his fallen countryman, hoping beyond hope that one day… he’d face Baylus’s killer.
That didn’t happen, though.
Unknown to Salwark however, Sorban had already talked to the Madea about Goll and found the arena official rather receptive to a possible––unofficial––blood match with the Kree. Sorban wondered if the Madea had been an admirer of Baylus. Perhaps he didn’t
like the idea of a Free Trained killing a champion, or maybe he simply didn’t like Goll and his dogs calling themselves a house.
“Fight your match, and emerge victorious,” the Madea had said. “And we’ll see.”
That alone sent Sorban’s hope spiking.
If Salwark did talk with the Madea, the Balgothan hoped the owner would pick his teeth beforehand.
Blacktooth leaned back, pulled his crutches closer to his arms, and eyed the Balgothan with approval.
Sorban gathered a pair of metal gauntlets, the knuckles bristling with needles, and pulled them on with rising aggression.
*
The day had been dismal.
When Qualtus the Orator wove colorful spells of grandeur around the opening fights but then the dogs failed to perform, that reflected badly upon him. The wasted effort left him with a rancid rumbling in his guts. However, after another afternoon of uninspiring hacking by the games’ criminal element, relief once again surged through the Orator. The house fighters were about to take the stage, and the ever-exciting Balgothan was slated to pull steel in the arena confines. The very notion set Qualtus’s mind afire in anticipation. Sorban was a right and proper hellion, just the thing to start the day anew when the dungeon gurry had failed miserably.
“Men and women of the Pit,” Qualtus began, lifting his skinny arms to the heavens, beckoning thousands to listen, “once again we will be treated to a display of weapons and of heart.”
Qualtus stressed the heart part, to clear the air of the offal that had failed to entertain. No Jackals had been scheduled that day either even though the last few showings had the Nordish prisoners of war practically mauling their dungeon mates.
In any case, the Orator hoped the next match would satisfy everyone.
“With great pleasure, I introduce a warrior with one goal upon his mind, to return the champion’s crown to Balgothan hands. His name is whispered within the loathsome bowels of the Free Trained and spoken in respectful tones among the great schools and houses of Sunja, Pericia, and Vathia. He is a forge whose fires only get hotter with time. A mountain about to shake forth an avalanche. A beast in search of a bloody good meal.”
The words rumbled out of Qualtus, and he complimented himself at the sudden inspiration. Good theater, he thought, and very well done.
“He is here to once again prove he is a force to contend with, to ensure his name will be remembered within these walls. I give to you… Sorban! Of Balgotha!”
Rousing applause greeted the gladiator emerging from the portcullis.
Qualtus motioned for quiet and got it, loving his sway over the audience. He adored that effect.
“Facing this hellion is a warrior seeking to return to his winning ways…”
*
The Orator’s words caused Wocello to frown behind his caged visor. Seddon above, he grumbled internally, pausing upon the stairs to the rising portcullis. Lose a few matches, and they’re ready to toss you aside like a crack’s scrub brush. He listened to the Orator go on about his woes within the Pit, wondering if he should seek out the man some evening and tell him, over a good rattling, that his words weren’t appreciated. As house master Burco Ustda had once reminded him, the Orator might very well state the obvious without meaning to offend, but Wocello should draw strength from those words and prove the old bastard wrong.
That idea greatly pleased Wocello.
The season had plagued him with three losses to his four victories. The worst defeat came two fights before, when an overhand blow from a mace grazed his shoulder and blackened the skin underneath, despite his armor. The joint still ached when he lifted his arm higher than his collarbone. As a result, heavy cloth padded the area underneath his regular leather, and he pulled a chain-mail shirt over everything. The added weight of the chain mail didn’t bother Wocello. He was a big man, strong, with muscle coated in a layer of fat and with a chunk of his right nostril missing from one crack of a flail.
Wocello looked intimidating at the most casual of times, with a low brow, cold blue eyes, and a mouth of yellow teeth appearing strong enough to grind though wooden planks. When he put his mind to it, however, when he truly felt the need to menace foes and ordinary passersby alike, he could contort his face into something shocking.
Listening to the Orator’s introduction, he summoned that killer’s face and resumed walking toward the arena opening.
The day had come for Wocello to record a victory, and a glorious one at that.
As far as he was concerned, the season was going to be a long one—plenty of time to return to winning ways.
Sunlight enveloped the black shirt of mail. Wocello’s visor was a display of harsh pageantry, with a wide bib over the eyes to block the sun and three fins sprouting from the helmet. Ornaments of small solemn figures, perhaps gods, adorned the sides. His mighty arms, scarred and bound with cloth bandages, wielded a great two-handed sword the length of a man’s leg.
As they closed, Wocello eyed the bright plumes adorning Sorban’s helmet, on the sides and over the crown. Holes punctured the visor, the mouth area protruding like an iron bubble. Wocello wasn’t one for arena greetings. He didn’t feel the need to say hello to whoever he was trying to butcher.
As far as he could tell, Sorban was of the same mind.
When he got within range, Wocello lifted his blade high over his head, daring the Balgothan to come closer. Sorban didn’t engage, however, and peered over the edge of his round shield. A sword’s tip appeared just below the barrier, like a thick and shiny thorn. Wocello had expected a quarterstaff, but Sorban had changed his weapons.
No matter.
The sun beat down upon the two combatants as the Sunjan feinted here and there, causing the crouched Balgothan to flinch. The crowd didn’t care for such tactics. Nor did they enjoy waiting for their violence and so voiced their annoyance.
Perhaps the heat was bothering Wocello. Perhaps it was the audience. Maybe he’d just had enough of holding a heavy hunk of metal over his head.
The sword came down in a broad scything arc, with power enough to split a world.
Sorban dodged the cut, spun, and backhanded, raking his short sword across the side of Wocello’s head. The sword clanged into Wocello’s visor, stunning him just enough to send him staggering. Sorban punched his shield’s edge into his opponent’s wrist, and the great sword fell. Wocello cringed, his grunt of pain swallowed by the audience’s approval.
The Balgothan struck Wocello’s helm a second time, driving him to his knees. A sheet of blood erupted from underneath the man’s face cage, and when he looked up to see where Sorban was, the Balgothan smashed his shield into the Sunjan’s face.
It was short, ugly, and to the brutal point.
Unconscious before he hit the ground, Wocello fell backward, one leg bending awkwardly enough to evoke winces and hisses from the crowd.
Sorban kicked the great sword away. He stomped on Wocello’s midsection, buckling the defenseless man. He raised his sword, relented, and dismissed Wocello by walking away from the finished pit fighter.
The Balgothan halted, dropped his shield, and pulled the helmet from his head in a sparkling arc of sweat.
“I want Goll!” Sorban shouted at the audience. “I want the Kree who killed Baylus the Butcher! I want his head!”
He slowly turned around, addressing the Orator. “I want Goll’s head! Give him to me!”
The crowds took up the chant of “Goll’s head! Goll’s head!” filling the brilliant bowl that was the arena.
44
The man knows what he wants, Curge thought, observing the decisive victory and wondering if the Balgothan was up to the task of challenging the Kree. Curge intended to keep a close watch on that one, just in case Sorban swayed the Madea into awarding him the desired fight. The victory over Wocello had certainly convinced the crowds.
The harsh roars of the spectators hurt his ears. Curge glanced around. The viewing box had been empty when he arrived, and even though he kn
ew Gastillo was dead and gone, he still expected to see the gold-faced owner when he opened the door. Instead, he’d discovered the entire area vacant except for the manservant waiting to fill his goblet with wine.
Curge sighed and finished off that very drink. He growled for more and got it right away. A man could get used to such luxury. He imagined royalty lived as such, which led to him thinking he was a king, of the games at least, or at least nobility. Either one suited him. He wasn’t picky.
The chanting died away as Sorban exited the arena floor. Attendants rushed to Wocello’s aid and attempted to revive the unmoving pit fighter. A door slammed behind Curge, startling him just a little, but he didn’t let it show.
Nexus.
“No interest in the day’s opening match?” Curge asked after the wine merchant settled down one seat over, holding his own shiny goblet.
“Bah.” Nexus spat and took in an unhurried mouthful. “I’ve other interests beside this. Butchery on a scale you could only dream. Bloody business all round. I might tell you just to see you sicken.”
That made Curge curious. “You’ve heard of Gastillo’s passing?”
Nexus rolled his eyes and sipped before answering. “Of course I heard. What of it? Can’t say I’ll miss his shiny face around here. My people say it was one of his men. His best man, in fact. The one called Prajus.”
“I’ve heard the same.”
“Gastillo,” Nexus fumed, his sallow complexion studying the stands teeming with spectators. “What was that man thinking? To let a dog like that turn on him?”
“I’ve thought about that myself,” Curge admitted. “In fact, my spies inform me he was last seen talking to you.”
Nexus cleared his throat and looked Curge straight in the eye. “Now listen here, Dark Curge… If I wanted the man dead, it wouldn’t be a tragic scene cut from a Perician stage.”
“What did you talk about, then?”
“No business of yours.” Nexus chuckled with salty exasperation. “You going to avenge him? If so, seek out that Prajus pisser out there, in the arena. I imagine there’ll be plenty of Gastillo’s men seeking his death in the Pit. But I’m generous today. Perhaps sympathetic to what happened to that golden-assed punce. Gastillo wasn’t happy with the games. He sought my advice in matters of business. Seems he wished to leave all this wonder behind. I made it clear to him yesterday I had neither the gurry time nor patience to advise him.”
131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Page 37