The closer Brill got, the louder the cheering became. It unnerved Arrus, making his heart race and the sweat ooze. Brill showed no trace of any nerves, and his narrowed eyes locked onto the uneasy Jackal.
When he was a few strides away, Brill charged.
The first swing sliced for Arrus’s head. The Jackal bobbed under it. The second cut whistled for the Nordish man’s face, but Arrus managed to dodge that as well. Brill’s third strike was a looping swipe, seeking the back of his opponent’s neck.
Arrus ducked, backpedaled, and escaped harm yet again. The Sunjans cursed and jeered the Nordish man in that gibberish they used as a language. He didn’t need to understand the words. He felt the meaning just fine.
Brill pursued his opponent. He held his blade at the shoulder, poised to chop. The Sunjan’s eyes were wide, insane looking, caught by the rush of combat and the crowd’s desire for blood… Nordish blood.
Brill hacked, seeking to split Arrus’s melon right down the middle. The Nordish prisoner avoided the blow but didn’t expect a backhand cut––a horizontal arc of solid light powered by arm and hips. The tip of Brill’s short sword grazed the right corner of Arrus’s skull, finely splitting flesh to the bone. The blow drove the Jackal back in a spray of color.
The crowd’s cheering spiked.
Brill smiled broadly at the contact.
Arrus, however, pressed a hand against the wound and scowled with murderous intent.
Black rage bloomed within his gut. It enveloped his racing heart and lashed brain, limb, and fury into that deadly combination where all acted as one. The despair born from his brother Kra having died at the hands of a faceless Cavalier lent Arrus even more strength, and all the pent-up anger and misery from being locked away in a lightless dungeon added its own shot of power.
For that one blistering instant, Arrus forgot who he was, where he was, and what he was doing.
All he knew was that he was outside, under the hot sun, being cursed by his sworn enemy… and a man had just cut him.
Brill saw the death-caul expression on Arrus’s face just before the Jackal charged and half cleaved the top of his Sunjan skull from his head. The edged clop of steel to bone strangled the audience’s collective breath at once. The bone cap cracked open unwillingly, the blade uncovering the cerebral delights within. The Nordish man had moved so quickly, so powerfully, that Brill seemed motionless when the killing blow fell.
He toppled, the Jackal’s blade left in his head.
When his senses returned, Arrus studied the dead man at his feet. His head ached. He wiped his brow. Blood coated his fingers. The arena was much quieter, however, as a lull had fallen over the audience.
That pleased Arrus immensely and lessened his pain.
The pause didn’t last long.
One voice let loose, cursing him. Then the entire arena exploded.
He didn’t need to understand the language to read faces. For all their culture and history, Sunjans swore a lot.
Arrus lowered his head, his limbs trembling in the aftermath. The Skarrs arrived, and facing a wall of swords and shields, the Nordish man allowed himself to be herded back to his cell, back into the deep, deep darkness, where the air smelled of unwashed crevices and horrible fluids.
When Balazz closed the iron door, the jailor fixed Arrus with a hard look, one meant to kill. He tossed a handful of rags through the bars and glared at the prisoner once again.
His chin held high, Arrus stared back.
If the jailor wanted to kill him, he’d have to enter the cell, and the Jackal, still bleeding and not so uneasy anymore, would greet him.
As if sensing danger, Balazz moved away like a great sweaty monster draped in leather.
Arrus waited before addressing the sting above his eye. He gathered up the rags. He separated several, paying no mind to their stale smell, and placed one against the cut on his head.
Heelslik’s voice floated from beyond the burning braziers. “He’s returned to us, Rullik.”
“He has. He has,” Rullik replied.
“Doubtless, he’s lost that boyish quality I’ve known and despised.”
Rullik chuckled, the sound eerie in the dungeon depths. “Lost forever, no doubt.”
“So how was it, boy?” Heelslik joked.
“A boy no longer,” Arrus groaned. “Not in the ways of this place.”
“You walked in,” Rullik noted. “I saw that. So you weren’t badly hurt.”
“A Sunjan––I think it was a Sunjan––tried to scalp me. He opened my head just above my right eye. And there’s a ringing in my ear. Otherwise, no. Not hurt too badly at all.”
“Almost got scalped,” Rullik mused. “That reminds me of a time I was in Paw Savage territory––”
“What of Balazz?” Heelslik cut in. “He didn’t seem too happy with you.”
“He wasn’t.” Arrus smiled. “I’ve no idea why. I didn’t do anything to catch his attention.”
“You lived,” Rullik said. “That’s enough. I overhear things here and there. The jailors delight in tormenting prisoners, telling them stories of the pits and the gladiators and the… the blood. They tell them the bloodiest tales just to hear those poor dogs whimper. They would do the very same with you as well, but they know you can’t speak the language.”
“Unfortunate,” Heelslik said.
“Aye that. Thought you might think that way. You know something? They also gather beyond these walls, the jailors. I hear things. They have meetings, you see. Whole packs of them who disappear outside the doorway for Curlord only knows what.”
“Perhaps just a meal,” Heelslik commented. “Arrus?”
“Yes?”
“Are you bleeding?”
“Yes.”
“Those rags Balazz had… Did he give them to you?”
“Aye that.”
“Inspect them before you use them. Give them a smell, just to make sure no one’s been using them to scrub their cracks with.”
“They do that here?”
“They probably do much worse. Give them a smell, anyway.”
Arrus did as told. “Nothing. Only stale cloth. Musty.”
“Then rest, my young hellpup,” Rullik said. “Tend to that head wound. Pretty it up before another Sunjan gets the chance to crack it open again. And listen, while I entertain you both with my adventures in the vast wilds of the Paw Savages.”
“Paw Savages.” Heelslik scoffed, already bored. “I’ll listen only if you have a few women in there.”
“There are a few women in there…”
Their conversation faded into the background. Arrus slipped to the floor, his backside connecting with stone. There, he sat and grimaced. The ringing in his right ear didn’t stop, thrumming all the way through his head. He was alive, however, and back in the relative safety of the cell.
Balazz’s face haunted his memory. Arrus pushed that image away and remembered the freedom of the arena sands, the hot sun, and the air thick with humidity but so good to breathe. The roaring crowds entered his thoughts, and he found that if he concentrated just a little, they almost sounded as though they were cheering for him.
By the grace of Ivus, Arrus looked forward to his next fight.
51
After two days of rain, a blinding white as fine as gold marked the distant horizon. The people of Clavellus’s villa rose and got dressed, glad the storm was finished but cringing at the fearsome humidity clinging to the air. Two of the Ten would fight later that day, and more than a few were eager to leave for the city. Brozz would stay behind, still recovering from his wounds, as would Torello, who was incapable of any travel. The training staff, along with their healer, their once-Sujin guards, and the pair of gladiators scheduled to fight that day, quietly readied themselves for the long road to Sunja.
Looking stern and walking with a swagger, Goll moved around the wagons, answering questions with nods or headshakes. Junger waited on the training grounds, watching the sky and appearing ready for
a walk upon the plains. He faced the east and the villa’s high walls.
“You’ll see more once we’re moving,” Goll said.
Junger smiled faintly.
“That’s my way of saying get aboard a wagon,” the house master warned.
The Perician glanced around the villa one final time, taking in the buildings and their shadows.
Then he did as told.
The roads punished the travelers and wagons alike.
They rocked and tumbled toward the city, and though they didn’t bog down like before, when Torello had injured his ankle, more than a few worried about repairs to the wheels or purchasing new wagons entirely. Despite an unpleasant journey, however, they arrived before afternoon and proceeded to the Pit. Once there, the House of Ten unloaded themselves and their equipment and made quick time to their private quarters below the arena.
An empty room greeted them.
“Back again,” Clavellus announced to bare benches, feeling a drop in temperature. Sunlight shone through the open window, and dust tumbled along the beams.
“Master Goll.” Machlann picked up a scroll. “You’ll be pleased to learn the Madea kept his promise.”
The news didn’t impress the Kree. “I suspect he’s keeping a lot of promises these days.”
That got Clavellus’s attention. “Why do you say that?”
Goll dropped his sack of armor near a bench. “I confronted him the other day. And now, I have to face a sword brother of Baylus the Butcher? Aren’t arena officials supposed to be above such things?”
Machlann and Clavellus exchanged looks.
“The Madea is a man,” the old trainer warned. “A right and proper punce of a man. So he can be swayed. Especially when he’s pushed.”
Goll stopped and chewed on the inside of a cheek. “I didn’t push him. I only told him I wouldn’t tolerate any more gurry.”
The arched window beckoned Clavellus. He planted an elbow on its sill and peered outside, squinting against the harsh glow. The arena stands were empty, but that would change soon enough.
“Don’t concern yourself with the Madea,” he said, smiling into the sun. “Just prove him wrong. Do that instead. Now, come here.”
Goll held up a hand, asking for a moment. He faced Muluk. “You place the wagers. Clades and Valka will accompany you to the Domis.”
“Anything else?” Muluk asked, his mouth working underneath that dense nest of facial hair.
“Just be careful.”
Muluk nodded that he would indeed do that. He located a small sack of coin, nodded to his assigned guards, and departed. Once he was gone, Goll turned to the window.
“Plenty of time for wagers,” Clavellus said and indicated the sands. “Clear and pristine for now. Empty seats. Come see and drink it down. Sheer majesty, isn’t it?”
Goll wandered over and looked outside, taking in the stands.
The taskmaster wasn’t wrong.
Sunshine on his face, Clavellus nodded. “Get yourself outfitted and return here. We’ll watch some fights.”
And watch the opening fights they did.
The first string of matches consisted of the lowly criminals forced to spill blood. What the matches lacked in skill, they more than made up for in violence. The men hacked and stabbed at each other until one died, and all five matches resulted in a death. By that time, Goll had donned his leather armor and set his sword and shield aside.
“Savages,” Machlann said after the last brutal contest, visibly disgusted by the showing.
“What’s the Chamber thinking?” Clavellus wondered aloud.
“I imagine they’re wondering how to make that shite pretty,” the trainer grumbled. “Listen to those people. They’re screaming at that gurry––as they should. I’d sooner drink a pitcher of pig piss than witness something like that again.”
“That Jackal showed skill, I thought.”
“That Jackal’s a right and proper soldier, I’ll remind you,” Machlann said. “And it took a cut to the head to wake him up.”
The fights were terrible, Goll quietly agreed, lacking style and skill and, oddly enough, purpose. In perhaps the one place where purpose should be perfectly clear, some of the combatants didn’t seem particularly motivated. The Jackal had been one of them, but in the end, he showed promise. Considering the man was a prisoner of war, Goll doubted he’d see the Nordish man alive again.
The door opened then, and Muluk returned with his escort.
“All done?” Goll asked.
“A word with you,” Muluk said, making his way through the room until he faced Goll. “There’s a problem. With the wagering.”
“What?”
“Seems that very few people are betting on Junger’s opponent.”
“What?”
“It’s true. When word reached the masses that Junger was fighting, most immediately placed their coin on the man.”
Goll looked at Junger, who was sitting with his head lowered.
“Understandable,” Clavellus said under his breath.
“He’s the clear favorite this day,” Muluk added. “The Perician, they call him. Or the Perician Weapon. Even heard Perician Wonder.”
Goll glared Muluk into silence. “You still wagered though, correct?”
“Aye that, I did. But the odds are so poor, so heavily tilted towards him. If he does win, we’ll only get a pittance.”
“When he wins,” Clavellus corrected, gazing out at the packed audience.
“When he wins,” Muluk agreed. “But… well… truth be known, I overhead another bit of news. There seems to be a bit of, ah, side wagering happening.”
“Side wagering?” Goll asked for them all, perplexed.
“Aye that,” Muluk said. “On whether or not he’ll actually draw his sword when he fights.”
Curiosity twisted the faces of both Clavellus and Machlann. Goll was speechless.
“I didn’t wager on that, however,” Muluk quickly explained. “And don’t worry. There was no issue with wagering on your match. Sorban appears to be the clear favorite there.”
Goll questioned his countryman with a wry look.
“Ah,” Muluk restarted. “Not that it matters. At all.”
Goll turned away.
Muluk hobbled back a step, favoring his leg, and warily eyed Junger, sitting close to the door. After waiting until Goll wasn’t looking, he walked over and stopped before Junger. The Perician appeared very much unconcerned––comfortable even––bare chested and bent over with elbows to knees. His scabbard rested across his thighs.
“Junger,” Muluk muttered, scratching at his beard.
The Perician glanced up at him.
“Ah… think you’ll pull that steel today?”
Junger thought about it. “There’s always the chance… but not likely.”
A little smile spread across Muluk’s face. He nodded furtively at the once Sujin called Valka, who quietly removed himself from the chamber.
*
Within his stable’s private chamber, Grisholt stood with his back against the arched window and basked in the afternoon light. He held his chin high, in a kingly manner. The air currents were subtle enough to keep his scent close to his person. The perfumed water he had splashed upon himself earlier in the day bothered his men, but he didn’t care. He’d paid good coin for the fragrance. Grisholt enjoyed wearing perfumed waters and took pride in his collection. Since the stable’s coffers were overflowing, he had been purchasing new and exotic scents once unaffordable but which he’d yearned to own. Honey for the ladies, he thought.
The ill-hidden looks of distaste from Brakuss and his men suggested otherwise.
Grisholt ignored them. The lads had to understand that while they worked in a bloody profession, one didn’t need to smell like an unwashed butcher.
The owner leaned back and placed his elbows on the windowsill. He beheld the studded-leather figure of Barros standing in the room’s center, surrounded by his companions. Grisholt’s eyes
lingered upon the gladiator while his thoughts wandered. He’d ignored the preliminary matches with the criminals but had watched the Jackal’s match, just finished. That captured killer showed skill, but the fight had ended far too quickly. As deadly as the Jackals were, they were not gladiators. They made no attempt at show, having no notion of theater or entertainment—just a quick battlefield killing and making for the exit.
No wonder they were winning their war with Sunja.
Grisholt rubbed his hands together, raising them to his nose to better enjoy the scent applied to his wrists. Barros’s hooded stare met his. Today, the brute would fight a Ten man. Given the Ten’s history, Grisholt thought the name fitting. Tin. Worthless. Weak. Easily breakable.
The prudish owner had been looking forward to this fight. Regret smoldered in his chest, however, for Barros’s opponent wasn’t the fat Zhiberian. Grisholt would correct that soon enough.
But first, the one called Junger.
“Barros,” Grisholt said, getting the pit fighter’s attention. “I want you to make that one suffer,” he explained in measured intervals. “Make him suffer so that he’s squealing out there. Like a pig… with its legs smashed. Make him scream. Scream, I say. I want the House of Ten to be livid with us, enough to send word to that Zhiberian pig bastard hiding in the forested wilds, thinking himself done with the games. Do that, and I’ll double your winnings. Understand me?”
Before Barros could answer, though, a hard rap landed upon the chamber door.
Grisholt nodded, and Brakuss went to the entrance. He paused before opening it, his hand resting on his sword’s pommel in case it was Razi once again.
However, standing outside was Nexus himself with a handful of guards at his back. The sight of the wine merchant surprised Grisholt.
“Is this the quarters belonging to Grisholt?” Nexus asked and glowered, as if he was standing before the precipice of an absolute shite trough.
131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Page 43