131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “It is,” Brakuss answered.

  “Tell him that Nexus of the School of Nexus wishes to speak with him.”

  Grisholt lurched away from the window and waved as if clearing the air. “Enter. Please enter, good Nexus.”

  Nexus did not, though. He stood his ground and glared. “Enter?” the merchant scoffed and studied the interior. “Don’t flatter yourself. This isn’t a social visit. And I’m saving my patience for the bald pisser waiting for my arrival in my viewing box. Seddon above, Grisholt, most people use a scrub brush upon their cracks. Try that next time, and save yourself a few coins.”

  The pleasant expression upon Grisholt’s face faded.

  “Listen to me,” Nexus resumed, “for I don’t have time to repeat myself. Lords above, man. You bathed in that shite far too long. It’s breath stealing. Made me forget my place. Ah yes, now then. Your dog fights the one called Junger of Pericia this day, correct?”

  Straightening his spine, Grisholt folded his arms in defiance, unimpressed with the merchant’s lack of respect. “My man Barros does. What of it?”

  “Your man means to kill him?”

  “He does,” Grisholt said, seeing no harm in revealing his plans.

  “Excellent.” Nexus held his nose. “Excellent. Make sure he does just that. The Perician is one pit fighter that concerns me. He concerns me a great deal.”

  “Does he, now?” Grisholt sensed opportunity. “How badly do you want him dead, then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can give the order right now to have the man spared or killed.”

  “You just said your man intends to kill him.”

  “I’ve changed my mind. And I smell coin.”

  That irritated Nexus. “An opportunity for coin, is it? Amazing you can smell anything with that rat’s piss smeared over yourself. Perhaps it’s made you pickled? Listen to me. I’m not going to pay you anything, you unfit bastard.”

  “Then Barros will just defeat the man. And let him live to fight another day.”

  “He can’t simply defeat the man,” Nexus stressed through clenched teeth. “The Perician will…” The words sputtered into angry dismay. The merchant gazed upon Grisholt as if the man were a hairy spider in his bathwater. “Name your price, then,” he finally grumbled.

  “Five hundred pieces of gold.”

  The sum amused Nexus.

  “And another five hundred to keep my silence,” Grisholt declared.

  “Your silence?”

  “The Chamber won’t think kindly upon your visit here, offering to hire my man to do a killing in the arena. Nor will the House of Ten.”

  “The House of…” Nexus’s pale complexion reddened. “It’s the arena, you punce. People die every day.”

  “If you won’t pay, then…”

  Brakuss cocked his arm to slam the door in Nexus’s face, but the merchant halted the action with a hand.

  “Six hundred,” Nexus countered. “Total. Not a sliver more.”

  “Seven.”

  “Done,” Nexus snapped. “All payable upon his death.”

  “Your word, Nexus?” Grisholt asked, halting the man.

  “My word?”

  “Say it.”

  The merchant spared a tight smile. “You have my word. I’ll pay the price. Upon Junger’s death.”

  “Excellent. I’ll send someone for it.”

  Anger colored Nexus’s cheeks. “Oh, you––”

  On Grisholt’s nod, Brakuss slammed the door in the merchant’s face. A heated squawking erupted from beyond, a shocking barrage of oaths that diminished as Nexus walked away.

  For long moments, Grisholt stared at the closed door, annoyed at the encounter. He tugged on his beard, threatening to pull it free. Nexus. His dislike took root, flowering into resentment. His agent Caro had already informed him of Nexus and his acceptance of Prajus, the killer of house masters. That little bit of information had practically flowered across all of Sunja in very short time. Not even Grisholt would dare such an unfit action, for fear of drawing the other owners’ wrath. Such disrespect to the profession wouldn’t be tolerated. Truth be known, the deed displeased Grisholt as well. He’d known Gastillo—not well, but enough to exchange words with the gold-faced man—and thought him pleasant enough. Amongst the current house owners, Gastillo was perhaps a right and proper nobleman.

  Grisholt had done a very bad thing by aligning himself with the Sons of Cholla, a very bad thing, indeed.

  Nexus, however, had done much, much worse.

  The merchant might’ve made his fortune in peddling wine, might’ve even managed to rise to the top of his profession, but by accepting Prajus, Nexus had essentially pissed in the face of every house, stable, and school owner in the history of the games. No one in their right mind would associate themselves with Nexus—not this season, and not any other—except perhaps Grisholt, out of courtesy. Theirs was a bond between thieves, so to speak.

  However, Nexus pissed on Grisholt’s boots as well, thinking he could get away with it. A mere wine merchant was playing at a game meant for gods and thinking himself far above his superiors.

  Heat rose to Grisholt’s neck and face.

  “Barros,” he said and casually produced the leather pouch containing the iron flask, the same iron flask containing what the Sons of Cholla had called Victory. “Listen closely, now. I want you to stretch the hide of that Perician topper across the arena floor. Stretch him until he rips apart. I don’t want you to make an example of him. I want you… to make history.”

  An evil light sparkled in the pit fighter’s eyes

  *

  In his semiprivate viewing box, Curge fought to contain himself as he waited for Nexus to arrive.

  Rain had delayed the games for two days straight, but they finally ceased, and the emerging sun split the hillsides with brilliant swaths of gold. The Dark One made it a point to arrive early. He’d learned about Nexus taking in the outcast gladiator, Prajus, two days earlier, and during that time, while storm clouds emptied themselves upon the city, Curge suppressed the urge to travel to Nexus’s estate and throttle the man. The wine merchant was a worm, no doubt—a venomous, disagreeable maggot of a man—but to harbor a pit fighter who’d killed his house master?

  Unthinkable. Unbelievable.

  The act had angered Dark Curge like nothing else.

  No gladiator could harm his house master, no matter how skilled or favored the fighter might be. Such an action demanded the offender’s swift death from the other gladiators or their employed staff, and if they couldn’t manage the deed for whatever reason, then the gladiators from other houses would.

  However, Nexus chose to ignore that.

  Until two days before, Curge had tolerated the not-so-playful jabs and chuckled at the merchant’s brazen demeanor and smugness.

  His actions tarnished the sport’s very heart. The man was smart, Curge knew, but taking in Prajus’s unworthy hide was an incredibly stupid thing to do. Nexus should have been quietly killing the gladiator rather than taking him into his school. Disposing of Prajus would have earned him considerable respect in the eyes of his fellow owners. That alone would have annoyed Curge to no end.

  But no.

  Instead, Nexus did the worst thing imaginable. He had spread his cheeks and let slip a cow kiss on the very fabric of the games. He’d taken an unspoken yet recognized, time-honored rule and scrubbed the crack of his ass with it.

  The merchant didn’t belong to the sport and had no future here. Curge had no doubt of that. The man didn’t understand the history of the games, the meaning… or the consequences.

  Stormy weather had confined Curge to his manor for two days. In that time, he eventually calmed down though the very thought of Nexus feeding that treacherous maggot scorched his gullet. He wondered if the pig spawn truly understood his actions. Believing that Nexus didn’t would have been more bearable, but Curge suspected the wealthy asslicker knew full well what he’d done and didn’t care in
the least.

  That thought bothered Curge.

  The sands distracted the troubled owner as the sun transformed the few remaining puddles into silver platters. Barefoot attendants dressed in skirts combed parts of the arena, dragging wide brooms over the surface. Moisture clung to the air, as thick as smothering fabric wrapped around one’s face. An overhead tarpaulin shielded Curge from the harsh heat, but not from the burning sensation within his chest.

  He already had enough to occupy himself with this season.

  Men, women, and children emerged from stony portals. They drifted along benches, gradually filling the arena while searching for the most favorable seats. Curge glared at them, his inner temperature rising to disastrous levels. He dared not drink. A sip of the wine on hand would only unlock his barely suppressed urges.

  The arena continued to fill with people. Nexus did not appear during that time.

  The Orator introduced the first of the day’s matches, a pitiful pairing of dungeon scroff that Curge could have killed with a look alone.

  The day’s fights commenced.

  Dark Curge watched the first performance, his thoughts boiling. The fight finished, and he didn’t remember who’d won. He scarcely heard the crowd’s reactions.

  By the finish of the third match, Nexus still hadn’t arrived.

  The servant attending to the viewing box sometimes moved about behind Curge, causing him to twist around at times, expecting to see the unworthy merchant. Thus, the manservant endured more than a few withering scowls from the one-armed Curge. The large owner squirmed in the hot shade while hearing the noise of the watching crowd. By the fourth match, he finally motioned for a goblet.

  Midway through that fight, Curge heard the door open and close behind him. He restrained himself from turning. Nexus spoke curtly to the manservant, his words overwhelmed by the audience’s sudden cheering.

  As the noise subsided, Nexus sat down one seat over from Curge, leaving the space Gastillo would have normally filled.

  “Curge,” Nexus said without concern.

  Curge’s grip tightened around the goblet, and he didn’t reply. If Nexus noticed, he ignored the lack of courtesy. After several long heartbeats, Curge turned and studied the wine merchant’s sickly profile. He imagined himself rising, his shadow falling over Nexus, just before he slapped the wine merchant senseless. The trouble was that if he started there, he knew—just knew—stopping would be very difficult even when things became messy.

  Something moved at the back of the viewing box, near the entrance.

  He craned his neck. His brow furrowed at the surprise behind him, but only for a moment.

  The merchant was smarter than Curge had given him credit for.

  Not one, not two, but six armed guards stood at attention along the rear wall. The group wore leather armor, carried sheathed weapons, and regarded the large once gladiator with indifferent eyes.

  Nervous, the manservant stood with his polished platter held to his chest. The dog appeared right and ready to let slip a cow kiss right there. He met Curge’s death stare.

  The Dark One studied the servant. He studied the assembled guards.

  Displaying a coolness tempered by years of bloody combat, Curge turned back to the spectacle of the games.

  Neither owner spoke for a long time. Noise from the crowd filled the silence between the two men, but that was only a temporary thing.

  “I knew,” Curge rumbled, keeping his tone civil even as his temperature rose to dangerous levels, “from the very beginning, from the instant you showed your face here, you’d sour these games. But what you’ve done goes against hundreds of years of tradition. And honor.”

  Unconcerned, Nexus licked at the rim of a goblet, feathering the silver like a dog lapping at its own furry pearls. He shrugged upon finishing. “Truth be known?”

  “Truth be known, you dainty punce,” Curge growled. “What you’ve done is an affront. To not only the profession but to the history of the games.”

  Nexus drank a mouthful before responding and later licked a finger. “Then it was time.”

  Well aware of the guards behind him, Curge fought down his first impulse––which was to fling the insolent little man out over the arena sands.

  Nexus cleared his throat. “These games are no different than any other business, Curge. You ask any merchant you like—any of them—and they will tell you to take advantage of an opportunity when one appears. Prajus was an opportunity. Prajus is an opportunity. He’ll go far at these games. Even a maggot like me can see that. I believe he’ll win these games. And the resulting coin and prestige he’ll shower upon my name is well worth the sour frowns from the likes of you. Or any other relic of a more honorable age. If that wintry scowl is the price of seizing an opportunity, then scowl, good Curge. Scowl.”

  “That man killed his owner,” Curge whispered. “His house master.”

  Nexus met his stare and held it. “Might I remind you, Curge, Gastillo challenged him to a fight. In front of witnesses. Prajus was guiltless. Gastillo was sloppy. Stupid. And because of it, he lost his life. Prajus wasn’t at fault. Not in the least and certainly not in my eyes. And he’s more than ready to split the heads of any thinking otherwise.”

  “He’ll perish on those sands. I’ll make certain of it.”

  “You’ll try,” Nexus said, “and I’ve seen enough of your dogs to know Prajus is their equal and more. There’s only a handful of men who’ll continue on to the final eight, and he’s one of them. And when he becomes champion, history will remember me as the only one having the bells to give Prajus the backing he needed. And the rest of you? You’ll be remembered for letting him slip through your fingers.”

  Curge sputtered, unable to summon words, and glanced back at the watchful guards.

  “You know something, Curge?” Nexus looked away with a dismissive frown. “I’ve heard the games called games of blood. I believe that’s true. About the season. Most of you—the owners, I mean—let your fighters have at one another like unchained dogs. Trained, of course, but dogs, nevertheless. And you sulk like children if your animal is killed. Even swear vengeance. But after losing several of my own fighters, prized investments in my eyes, I’ve realized one thing. These… games are not about the sport of combat. Nor are they about physical perfection or skill of arms. They aren’t about the honor or the history or creating history, even. They’re about the blood. They’re about entering a tunnel of mayhem and emerging from the other side, scarred and bleeding but alive. As a survivor. A champion, even. You house masters watch these events like old men reliving their youth, your fighters being the toys, and the lot of you being careful not to break any of them. Or at least not too many to offend. This is wrong. I now realize if a house master has no more toys, he’ll stop playing and go home, leaving it easier for those remaining to win.”

  Nexus faced the audience and sighed. “I know what King Juhn wants,” he stated calmly, “a long and drawn-out season. But it’s not what Nexus wants, Dark Curge. I want a season of carnage. I wish to see a field stricken with broken toys and dreams put to flame. I wish to see the last gladiator standing atop a field of the recent dead and my banner flying high over his head. And with Prajus, I have the means to do just that in the most entertaining way possible. So damn whatever King Juhn wants. And damn you and any other like you.”

  That almost lifted Curge out of his seat, but he gripped the arms of his chair and held himself back.

  If Nexus noticed, he didn’t react. “Do your worst, Dark Curge, because I’ll be doing mine. These games are about the blood, Curge. I mean to have my share. And I mean to have a championship title. By any means possible.”

  In that space of breath, the voice of the Orator shouted for the next fight to commence.

  At a rare loss for words, Curge turned, red-faced, to watch the next battle.

  52

  Since the day the old man had seen the reincarnation of Arco––the one called Junger––fight in the Pit, he�
��d been filled with a curiosity that his old bones could barely withstand. Old Tolgo talked with a fervor that edged upon madness, drawing concerned looks from his sons. His oldest boy, Nalro, listened to the stories, happy that the pit fighter had rejuvenated his ailing father, but concerned as well. His father’s tale edged upon lunacy, but because it restored life to the old man’s rheumy eyes, Nalro gave him the audience he so craved. Nalro didn’t question his father’s story of a lone warrior saving his village from raiders set upon pillaging, raping, and killing, but the tale of one warrior fighting off dozens of determined marauders was difficult to believe.

  One thing was certain. His father believed.

  Nalro didn’t see any harm in entertaining that powerful belief. A long time had passed since he’d seen his father speak with such excitement, such conviction. Whoever Junger might be, he’d restored Nalro’s father to a younger version of himself, defying the age creeping into his once-powerful frame. For that, the son was grateful.

  The morning when Nalro stopped outside the Pit’s many gates and read the schedule for the day’s fights, the name of Junger caught his attention. He hurried home and rushed past his puzzled wife. He found his father behind the little house, where he would sit on an old chair and watch clouds tumble across the sky.

  “What is it?” Tolgo frowned at his oldest boy, wondering why he was hurrying so.

  “Today’s fights. The one you call Arco’s twin is fighting.”

  The words chased away the dullness in the old man’s eyes. He studied his son’s face, wondering if his words were truth, and saw that they were.

  Tolgo struggled to his feet so quickly that he nearly knocked over his chair.

  They made an event of it, eating at a food stall outside the arena and watching the crowds file through the gates. They joined the masses in due time, and Nalro sat with his father, shielding him from any overexcited individuals, and gazed down into the shining platter that was the arena floor. The afternoon raged with a terrible heat, and several times Nalro wiped his brow before checking on his father’s condition with furtive glances. They had missed the first few matches, but that was of no concern to Nalro. His purpose was to accompany his father. The Pit’s contests held no interest to him.