That was one of the things Borchus liked about her.
Maybe she’d found someone after all. That thought smacked him between the eyes with the force of a spiked hammer, leaving him stunned, speechless, and worst of all, poisoned with regret.
People moved past him, groups of men and women, couples holding on to each other, stealing away to more private settings. Their laughter and conversations reached his ears, but he didn’t listen to any of them, not having the mind to listen.
He took a short while to notice, but when he did realize he was too much in the open, he pressed his wounded side and entered the shadows once again.
As the darkness slipped over his frame, disappointment drowned him.
49
Rain crashed against closed shutters and roused Brozz from sleep. He opened his eyes and listened, hearing the storm outside. He looked at the closed curtain of his quarters. His stomach pained him terribly, bringing a grimace to his dark features. He lightly touched the bandages covering the wound and gasped at the contact. When the pain passed, he tried to relax, to avoid clenching his stomach muscles.
A knock at his door distracted him.
“Are you awake?” Junger whispered from beyond.
Brozz frowned. “I am.”
A hand pulled the curtain across, and the Perician peered inside. His features lit up in feigned surprise. “Ah, still alive. Excellent. I thought you might’ve died during the night. You didn’t make a sound.”
“Sarlanders don’t die during the night.”
“Is that so? You hold off until the morning, do you?”
Brozz stared at his visitor. “It’s difficult to talk right now.”
“Shall I get the healer?”
“I don’t think he’ll help.”
“No?”
“He’s done all that he can.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t,” Junger said, glancing one way then the other. “Maybe he doesn’t like Sarlanders. Especially the ones who fashion necklaces from the heads of crows.”
“Don’t you have training… or… something?” Brozz asked, his voice rasping.
“Not this morning.” Junger nodded toward the shuttered window. “You hear that? That’s a right and proper storm out there this morning. The grounds are drenched. Practically a flood. Not that it’s a bad thing. The land needs the rain. Been far too dry this season.”
Brozz grunted agreement, and the sparkle of pain silenced him.
Junger studied the prone Sarlander. “You probably won’t be eating anything for the next couple of days.”
“I’ll eat when I want.”
“Have you used the pisspot there?”
“No.”
“Best you drink something.”
“When I’m thirsty.”
Junger nodded understanding. Before he could make another comment about Sarlanders, a clack of wood on wood distracted him. He and Brozz looked toward the shuttered window.
*
With the sound of falling rain in the background, Nala opened her eyes and studied the shadows of the ceiling timbers. She moved ever so slightly under an old blanket of summer silk, feeling a gnawing ache in her arms and knuckles. That was always the way when rain came.
“It’s raining,” she whispered.
“Huh,” Clavellus snorted, suddenly awake.
She turned herself onto her side and, with a fond smile, studied her husband’s aging profile. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
No response.
“You slept well last night,” she whispered.
“Mm,” he grunted, smacked his lips, and settled back. The rain continued in the background.
“Were you successful at the games?” she asked softly, cuddling into his body.
“Mm, aye that.” He kept his eyes closed.
“Any deaths?”
“No.”
“Our lads won?”
Clavellus took his time answering. “Our lads won,” he whispered with a note of contentment.
“Wonderful.”
He opened an eye and studied her. “You approve?”
“Of the games? No. That our lads won, yes. No one was injured?”
In the sparse light, his face tightened. “The Sarlander. Brozz.”
“I know the one.”
“You do?”
“After all those days of Machlann bawling his name? Yes, I certainly do. The face, anyway.”
Clavellus grunted neutrally. “He was wounded. His stomach. A spike pierced his armor. Not all the way through, mind you. Shan believes he’ll recover in time, but his season might very well be done.”
“He’ll live though, without any problems?”
The rain intensified outside the bedchamber as Clavellus gathered his thoughts. “He should.”
“Good.”
A faint smile hitched up one side of Clavellus’s beard. “Getting attached to them, are you?”
“Truth be known, I don’t talk to them enough to get attached,” Nala explained softly, her hand sliding into the nest of Clavellus’s chest. “But I have grown used to them being here.”
“I said you would,” he said, his smile turning evil.
Nala grabbed hair, eliciting a grunt.
“Goll fought as well,” he said.
She waited. “And?”
“He won. Decisively.”
Nala would’ve been surprised if the young Kree had lost. “Is he all right?”
“Fine. To my eyes, anyway. He was quiet most of the way home, but… he was pleased with himself.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He paused, sorting through the previous day’s memories and pulling one from sleepy depths. “It was as if… as if he realized his worth again. He barely spoke, but he was pleased. Anyone could see it.”
“Hard to imagine. Him being happy. He’s such a serious one. I’m happy none of our boys lost their lives.”
“Our boys?” Clavellus asked.
“Our boys. I’m getting used to seeing their faces. And I’ve always liked seeing the villa full.”
“You do, do you?”
“Hm. What was that you and Machlann once talked about?”
“What was that?”
“Establishing a town?”
Clavellus frowned sleepily. “Oh, that. That was merely drunk talk.”
“Then it was you doing the talking,” she countered. “What about it, then?”
He didn’t answer right away, knowing that conversation would go to uncomfortable places, places he and she had been before and discussed… when they’d failed to have children of their own. Thus, instead of ruining a sleepy morning, he placed a hand on hers and gave it a tender rub. “Just talk. How are your hands and shoulders this morning?”
“The same,” she answered. “Why were you so late returning?”
“The roads. Leading to Sunja’s gates. Thick with wagons and people leaving the city. One wagon broke its axle. Slowed everyone.”
“Did you bring us back anything?”
“All that you asked for.”
She leaned into him just a little more. “Good. You’re a good boy. We’ll need some fresh stores soon. Winter isn’t that far away. We’ll need vegetables. Perhaps I’ll purchase some in the days to come.”
“Or send word.”
“Or that.”
“I prefer that.”
She knew he did.
That’s when they heard the crack of wood.
The sound turned their heads toward the shutters. Gray light outlined the square. Clavellus stood, joints crackling, his bony spine and frame draped in shadows. He ambled to the window and peeked outside.
“Lords above,” he muttered.
“What is it?” Nala asked from the bed.
“That fool Goll. It’s pissing rain, and that punce’s on the training grounds swinging a stick.”
*
Though the summer rains were filling the training grounds with puddles and soaking him, Goll didn’t care. He had to do something, and he had to
do it that morning. He stepped back from the practice man and realized he’d struck the target without thinking. Going through a set of strikes had brought him close to one of the wooden frames, and he lashed out just because it was there. He stopped and wiped the rain from his spattered scalp.
Nothing moved within the villa. Nothing stirred. The shutters to Clavellus’s window were open, but Goll couldn’t see the old taskmaster, not through the sheets of rain pouring out of the storm clouds.
Vowing to be quiet, Goll walked to an area free of targets and reset himself. The rain didn’t bother him—not him. Energy from the previous day’s victory lit up his heart and limbs, demanding to be released. Lords above, he’d defeated his opponent soundly and wished for others, wanting to resume the path that Baylus the Butcher had knocked him from.
That was his true purpose at the games.
Thick, infernal clouds coiled and churned overhead. The storm’s dull roar would keep the villa sleeping for a while yet, and even then, no one would be training in such foul weather. Nor would any matches be fought that day, which suited him fine. The others had no need to rise so early. Let them sleep. He wanted the grounds for himself, didn’t want to be watched or supervised. All he needed was to move, to reacquaint himself with forgotten skills, to sharpen those movements long blunted, and to prepare for the next opponent.
Under storm clouds flickering with lightning, Goll of Kree lunged at an imaginary foe.
*
In Sunja, behind the high walls of a once-respected villa, another man practiced under the same clouds. Sorban left his companions to their dry quarters and whirled a new quarterstaff he’d prepared the day before. He spun the weapon, the stout length of wood turning end over end to the slap and slide of calloused flesh. Rain coated his muscular torso and limbs. A skirt of hardened strips covered his legs. He wore no sandals and didn’t feel the warm puddles collected in the sands.
A wooden practice man waited just out of the quarterstaff’s reach.
Sorban stared at the target, seeing it yet lost in thought. He didn’t tire, didn’t waver. Playing through his mind were memories of the one called Goll and the battle in which the Kree killed Baylus the Butcher.
Sorban intended to punish the Kree. He meant to beat the man to death. He meant to avenge his friend in exceptionally bloody fashion.
Without warning, Sorban stepped into the wooden target, smashing his quarterstaff into the head, the arms, the legs, and the head again. With no pause, no hesitation, the wooden frame trembled. Splinters flew. Sorban smashed imaginary elbows and knees and repeatedly jabbed the face, throat, and crotch. He stepped away and hooked legs, punching the quarterstaff’s end into the unseen throats of fallen foes.
Every blow was meant to kill.
Instead of slowing down, he sped up, his anger fueling a terrible energy. He hammered that wooden frame.
The impacts became louder. His breathing became hungry barks.
In the buildings surrounding the training grounds, people stirred. Shutters creaked open though the faces beyond stayed out of sight. Doors opened partway, and dark figures lingered inside the gloomy light. The commotion drew gladiators and servants alike to the startling display of weapon mastery and determination, and as they gazed upon the awesome show, Sorban refused to relent. The clatter of wood upon wood intensified. The practice man flinched and rattled as if seized by violent convulsions. Splinters exploded from limbs close to shattering. Particles spun off into the sand.
The rain fell even harder, but the man swinging the quarterstaff did not stop, nor did he slow.
Sorban meant to break the target as he meant to break Goll of Kree.
50
Deep within the bowels of the Pit, men woke on stone floors or pallets laced with dirty, prickly straw. No sun shone in the cells. No rain fell. Only blackness was there, with the pulsating light from the braziers. A foul smell of voiding filled the air, wrinkling Arrus’s nose. The Nordish man sat on the floor, rump on dry stone and his back to the wall. The braziers’ light mesmerized him. It was the only thing to watch in the ever-present darkness.
“Feel like talking for a bit?”
The sound of Nordish syllables roused him from his hypnosis. After a moment, he recognized Rullik’s voice.
“Certainly,” Arrus replied and rested his head against the dungeon wall.
Silence, then.
“Well?” Arrus asked.
The Norjos man chuckled. “Apologies. Just wondering what to talk about, is all.”
“You’re a fine one. Asking for conversation and nothing to talk about.”
“Suppose I am. Let me think. Ah yes. The jailors. They’ve been talking about you.”
That got Arrus’s attention.
“Seems you’ll be fighting this day,” Rullik said.
“Today?”
“Aye that. Today.”
“You heard that?”
“I did.”
Ivus’s grace. Fear and anticipation coursed through Arrus, waking him better than a slap to the face. No one had been taken into the Pit the day before, when Rullik had heard the jailors speak of heavy rain. Today, however, his time in the arena was going to happen.
He discovered himself longing to breathe fresh air, of all things.
“Don’t get all quiet now,” Rullik cautioned. “When you’re up there, show the Sunjans the mistake they’ve made. You show them that they’ve captured a pack of Jackals. And now they have to deal with them. Ha! I wish I was amongst the crowd. Just to see their faces.”
“Not sure I even remember how to hold a blade,” Arrus whispered.
“Oh, you’ll remember,” Rullik assured him. “When the bastard you’re fighting starts swinging for your head, you’ll remember. It’ll all come back in a rush.”
“I suppose.”
“Listen now.” The Norjos man lowered his voice. “From what I overhead from Runson and Balazz and those other blossoms, none of the other Nordish men have lost or died. You hear me? That’s significant to them.. And if you think upon it, the Jackals are being returned to their cells, but their opponents aren’t. They aren’t. All the remaining prisoners are seeing this. They see them marched past their cells. You understand me? That will be on the mind of whoever you fight. I tell you now, whoever they put into the Pit to face you will be shivering to the core.”
A little smile crept across Arrus’s bearded face. “You’re a good speaker, Rullik. You should have led men into battle.”
“What? On a front somewhere? Pah. Foolishness. Waste of time and effort. Not to mention lives. No, not me.”
“Were you always a thief?”
The ensuing silence made Arrus wonder if he’d asked the wrong question.
“No, not always,” the Norjos man eventually replied. “I was a farmer once. No wife. No children. My father was a farmer, so I did as he. Only thing was, the almighty Curlord didn’t think farming was in my blood. Or so I figured. Early snows killed my crops. Starving wolves killed my animals. Four years of that. Four years. And some hard times I remember all too often. Then, one day, a grain merchant tried buying what crop I had for a fraction of the price. I found out when I talked to another farmer in an alehouse that night. Well. I tell you. When a person has been beaten down by forces beyond his control, when one can’t seem to buy or pray for good fortune, it’s disheartening… infuriating when you learn your fellow countryman is stealing the eyes from your head.”
“You stole from him?”
“It’s my story,” Rullik warned. “Let me tell it.”
“Apologies.”
“Accepted. So, aye that. I tried stealing from him. That very night. While half drunk, in fact, which wasn’t a good idea. I weaseled my way into his house and wrestled with that tankard of cow piss while his wife and children backed themselves into a corner. Never knew the man had a family. To this day, I wonder who he cheated to get his wife. In the end, I got away with nothing. Just a few scrapes and bruises. Never found his coin. Gave hi
m and his family an evil fright, however. Also, I learned two things from the whole matter.”
“What?”
“Never drink before thieving. There are better ways to calm one’s nerves.”
Arrus smiled. “And the other?”
“Wait for them to be asleep.”
Arrus’s smile widened.
His amusement vanished when the brooding mass of Balazz stopped before the cell door. The Sunjan jailor, with his shaved head, glowered at the imprisoned Nordish man, studying him with morbid interest, as if wondering how he’d missed such an oddity under his care. Firelight glimmered at the jailor’s back, throwing shade over his imposing face. Balazz spoke, a stream of harsh notes that had no meaning for Arrus.
“He says you’re going to fight this day,” Rullik explained when the jailor stopped for breath. “He says you’re going to fight a killer of a man. One who’s, ah, fought twice already.”
Arrus didn’t flinch under the jailor’s gaze, but he didn’t feel particularly eager about the match.
Balazz spoke again, and when he finished, he looked to the right and waited for Rullik.
“He says to enjoy these final moments,” the thief translated, “because you’ll get no rest in Saimon’s hell.”
Message delivered, Balazz smirked. He then waved, summoning several Skarrs who appeared from the fringes.
The jailor produced a key.
“Good fortune to you, Arrus,” Rullik offered.
“Just do what you do,” Heelslik said from the shadows, “and you’ll be back soon enough.”
The words didn’t inspire Arrus. He wasn’t the most capable of Jackals. His dead brother Kra had even told him that once.
Balazz unlocked the cell door.
*
The short sword was heavy in his hand. The blade was nicked and in need of sharpening. Arrus believed that simply getting hit by such a weapon might cause death. The sun hurt his eyes, causing him to squint against its glare. His limbs thrummed with nervousness, and his mouth had long since dried up. He badly wanted a drink of water but knew he’d get none until the bloody business was all finished.
Across the way, a man strode toward him. A big man, well-built and exceptionally pale, looking as if he’d been powdered by a noblewoman’s hand. Like Arrus, the prisoner––called Brill––wore only a loincloth… that and a fearsome scowl. He carried a short sword and swung it about as though it was a broken branch and Arrus was in need of a thorough whipping.
131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Page 42