131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  When the Orator drew breath and introduced the man called Junger, Nalro watched his father’s eyes nearly pop from his aged face.

  53

  “Women and men of the Pit,” Qualtus started while motioning for silence. “Women and men of the Pit… together we have witnessed epic battles upon the arena sands. Wondrous feats of arms. And strength. Together, we’ve witnessed gestures most noble… and most despicable. Honor. Betrayal. And we will witness all of this again in the years to come. But in all my years of speaking to you, of coloring these stories of the Pit, this… theater… in the brightest hues, I’m at a loss to describe this next gladiator. He hails from the House of Ten. A swordsman. The likes we’ve never seen before. Perhaps we’ll never see the likes of him again. In a very short time, he has gone from obscurity… to being perhaps the brightest flame upon this stage.”

  Without even hearing the name, the crowds responded in a rush of noise.

  The sound frayed Dark Curge’s nerves just a little more.

  “Only just recently, this man fought three times in one day,” the Orator reminded them all. “Three. One after the other, putting down gladiators as if they were no more than weeds trampled underfoot. He surprised us all with his victories, without even baring the very blade that he carried into the Pit. Men and women of the games, I believe we’re witnessing something truly spectacular this season. He’s already become a story. Witness now, as the gladiator from the battered House of Ten, the one called Junger…”

  Upon the very mention of his name, the expanding bubble of excitement drowned out the Orator’s words.

  Qualtus refused to be silenced, however, and gathered all of his strength for one last blast. “Junger… The Perician Wonder––”

  Nothing more was heard. The arena exploded with an energy that could have flattened the entire city. The frenzied boom caused people outside beyond the Pit to stop and stare in wonder. Birds roosting below the city battlements took to wing. Farmers in the fields below the city’s cliffs paused in their work, casting their questioning eyes toward the high walls.

  Nothing else was heard from the Orator. The voices of thousands prevented him from continuing, so he dropped his arms and stood back on his podium with a knowing smile, pleased in the knowledge that Seddon above was probably taking notice…

  Then he waited for the portcullis to rise.

  *

  In his private chambers, Grisholt bunched his head into his shoulders at the unexpected eruption of cheers.

  “Sweet Seddon above,” he said aloud. At least, he tried to say it.

  Before realizing he couldn’t hear his own voice.

  *

  The shocking outburst startled Curge enough that he flinched. He quickly composed himself, for fear of Nexus noticing just a seat away. He glanced in the direction of the hated wine merchant and saw the white topper gripping the viewing box’s wall, visibly stunned at the crowd’s reaction.

  If not for Curge’s own natural size anchoring him, the audience’s vocal discharge would have rolled him over.

  *

  When Junger emerged from the shadows of the entrance tunnel, the crowds roared again.

  Without armor, without a shirt, Junger meandered into the sunlight. His sword remained in its scabbard, and he clutched the sheathed weapon in both hands, across his pelvis. People stood and applauded and waved at him, and he took a moment to absorb the size and scope of the cheering masses. The outpouring of applause surprised him, but then again, he supposed that was to be expected after his last showing.

  He thought that without the slightest hint of arrogance or conceit.

  Nodding at a selected few, Junger turned, the sand’s heat penetrating his boot soles, and lifted his sword in salute. That single gesture prolonged the cheering for moments longer, long enough that no one noticed the opposing portcullis rising.

  When Barros emerged from his entrance, he added his own rage-fueled voice to the overwhelming flood of sound blasting the arena. The audience took notice of the Grisholt warrior, and like a flame deprived of air, the cheering died away.

  They knew the man, knew his reputation.

  Barros bellowed beastman nonsense and brandished his war hammer like a raised hellion bestowing curses. Biceps flexed and bulged. He shook with unchecked fury, his voice made metallic by his bulky pot helmet. He slapped his studded leather vest with a force that left many wondering when the blood would fly.

  Across the way, Junger watched.

  Sensing his opponent, Barros stomped and faced the newly named Perician Wonder. Rage blasted from the armored head. Barros stomped again, as if testing the very ground. He whipped his war hammer back and forth and, having enough of that gurry, charged his opponent.

  The audience held its collective breath.

  The Grisholt warrior closed the distance, rushing the poised Junger like an irresistible storm front about to level a city. The warrior reared his hammer back and swung with force enough to sweep away the first few rows of spectators.

  Junger ducked under the swing.

  Barros gushed hatred and swung for the head, an arm, and the head again.

  Junger evaded every blow.

  Not only did he avoid those killing strikes, he did so so quickly, so assuredly, that he made the Grisholt terror seem almost rooted to the spot at times.

  Enraged, Barros screeched and lashed out at Junger’s face.

  He missed.

  He backhanded and missed a shoulder. He grabbed for Junger’s head of hair and clutched empty space. He whirled into a second backhanded bash, whipping his hammer around with godlike force and damn near tearing asunder the very fabric of reality… yet missed again.

  Backpedaling out of harm’s way, Junger held his sword in both hands at low guard, nimbly avoiding the strikes that would have burst him apart upon contact. His features were tight with concentration, but at no point did anyone detect fear from the pit fighter.

  Failing to strike his target yet again, Barros reset himself and squared his shoulders. He visibly flinched upon realizing his opponent still lived, and the knowledge made him bawl in pure loathing. After getting that out of his system, Barros cocked back his weapon arm and howled.

  He was only getting started.

  The livid gladiator charged, seeking to put down the man who’d eluded him with all the grace of a wisp of smoke.

  *

  “Dying Seddon,” Muluk whispered, unable to even blink at what was transpiring within the Pit.

  With every attack, Barros became faster, his fury deeper, and his war hammer even more fearsome. The combinations weren’t flowing, but they were so fast, so frightening, that it didn’t matter. The hammer became a streak of iron, hissing at his opponent, and the slightest contact would surely rip free meaty chunks.

  But as awesome as the Grisholt man was, Junger was more so.

  Nothing touched the swordsman.

  Nothing even appeared to come close.

  When Barros’s arms became streaks of iron, Junger became a blur. For every killer display of power the Grisholt man exhibited, the Perician disarmed it with nearly magical speed. Every time Barros swung and failed to connect, the Perician refused to counterattack, allowing openings and opportunities to simply pass by, dazzling the whole of the arena audience, and causing more than one to wonder why.

  Machlann leaned forward and gripped the stone sill of the arch. Like everyone throughout the arena, his eyes were wide and staring. Unlike the mesmerized audience, however, he recognized what was happening on the sands, and understood the strategy.

  “He’s slowing down,” the trainer muttered.

  *

  When Barros charged the Ten man at the onset of the fight, a supremely confident Grisholt knew the match was over before it even began. He’d heard about Junger, of course. He doubted a person lived in the city, who hadn’t heard of the Perician. That would all change that day, however, and Barros would be known as the gladiator to have killed the Weapon, the Wonder, cal
led Junger.

  However, Barros couldn’t hit the Perician.

  At all.

  For all of the Sunjan’s inflated might, Barros only fanned flesh when he should’ve been destroying it. He stomped on sand when it should’ve been the bones of a fallen foe. Junger, with his dazzling speed, on the other hand, infuriated Barros and made the pit killer look as clumsy as a sick cow.

  “Hit him,” Grisholt whispered, his eyes narrowing in concentration, his eagerness for blood quickly transforming into impatience. “Hit him. Hit him.”

  Try as he might however, Barros could not.

  For long moments, Grisholt’s pit fighter swung and missed, swung and missed, and swung and missed, attempting to squash the Perician as if the man were the size of a troublesome gnat. His godlike grunts split the air. Barros didn’t relent and didn’t give up, but it became painfully clear to Grisholt that his man wasn’t about to touch the Perician with his breath, let alone a weapon.

  “Dying Seddon,” the perfumed owner whispered, and his eyes widened while his heart frosted over with fear. “Oh no.”

  Brakuss crowded in from the right, his one good eye bulging.

  The unexpected was happening.

  The impossible was happening.

  Barros was tiring.

  *

  The Grisholt gladiator swung for Junger’s head once again and missed badly, stumbling a few steps past the Ten man.

  Junger didn’t retreat a great distance, choosing to remain within arm’s reach, daring his opponent to try for him again.

  Barros obliged, chopping for a shoulder and fanning only air. He backed away, his entire frame shaking from exertion. His cries of rage petered into pained gasps, sounds one might hear from an old man rather than a gladiator in his prime. The pot helmet only made the breathing even more disturbing, but in a sickly, near-death way. Head wavering, chest heaving, Barros tracked his foe. The spiked hammer flailed before Junger’s face as if warding him off, missing its mark entirely.

  The Perician didn’t bother with parrying.

  Or attacking.

  A pitched wheeze escaped Barros, and he stopped in his tracks. He pulled the helmet from his head and tossed it. Sweat poured from his head. He bent over, clutching one knee while attempting to fill his lungs, and regarded his foe with squinty-eyed, undisguised revulsion.

  Junger circled to his opponent’s right, and Barros leaped after him, swinging at a shoulder. He struck nothing and staggered to a stop, kicking up sand upon halting. The angry gladiator righted himself, wary of retaliation, but Junger did no such thing. The Ten man seemed more inclined to evade and observe, and throughout the arena, the cheering intensified as the spectators caught on to the strategy.

  Barros swung at a shoulder.

  Missed.

  He whipped the hammer at Junger’s face.

  Split only air.

  Barros lashed out at a knee. Junger jerked it out of harm’s way.

  The effort overextended the Grisholt gladiator, and he fell, crashing like a once-magnificent column finally crumbling to time.

  He landed flat on his chest, sending sand flying.

  The arena erupted with the victory, the fever pitch deafening. More than a few observers covered their ears at the blast. Nothing could be heard over the insane cheering, and for several streets over outside the Pit, people stopped and stared, looking in the direction of the arena.

  Back in the Pit, even though the fight was clearly gone from Barros, Junger didn’t pounce upon the fallen gladiator. He circled the exhausted man, watching him.

  Barros attempted to rise. He pulled himself up as far as his knees and elbows as if in prayer, all the while groaning and grunting. Spittle sprayed from his lips. Sand caked his face, and when he exhaled, dust speckled the air. He tried to rise, but the effort overcame him, and he collapsed a second time, much to the audience’s resounding glee.

  Junger, however, remained cautious. He approached the unmoving man, examining him while holding his sword at the ready, wary of a ruse. He prodded Barros’s hip with a boot. When the gladiator failed to react, Junger nudged him again.

  Quivering, Barros slowly rolled onto his side and stared up at the Ten man. Junger kicked away the war hammer. He crouched at his opponent’s side and reached for Barros’s chin.

  The Grisholt gladiator gripped the Perician’s hand… but no strength was behind it. Junger pushed the hand away and again reached for the defeated man’s chin.

  This time, Barros didn’t resist.

  The Perician Wonder––as he truly was a wonder––held the man’s face… held it for a long time.

  When he released it, Barros’s head thumped to the arena floor.

  A heartbeat later, Junger rose and brought forth his sheathed blade.

  The Pit’s walls trembled from the crowds’ approval.

  *

  The Perician held his sword to Barros’s neck, kept the pose to prove the fight was finished, then walked away from his defeated opponent. The discarded helmet lay in his path. As an afterthought, Junger kicked the thing to one side.

  Barros emptied his gullet into the sands, but the noise was lost among the screaming of the crowds.

  The sight wasn’t lost on Grisholt, however.

  Anger replaced his initial fear. The gray-bearded owner seethed, contemplating the loss and the consequences with the Sons of Cholla, who had no doubt placed a sizeable amount of coin on the fight… on Barros.

  Grisholt released a frustrated hiss, long and loud.

  The Zhiberian was gone, but the Perician had given him yet another reason to despise the House of Ten.

  *

  “It’s him,” Nalro’s father shouted into his ear, the only way to be heard over the insane cheering. “Seddon above, that’s him! That’s him! I wager my life on it.”

  Nalro looked into the incredulous face of his father before switching to Junger’s retreating back.

  He believed his father.

  *

  “Still concerned about me?” Nexus asked Curge after the noise abated.

  The one-armed owner regarded the wine merchant with an air of disdain. “Don’t talk to me, Nexus. Not ever again. To me, you’re of no more significance than the shite trough I filled this morning.”

  Interestingly enough, the wine merchant kept his mouth shut, and he didn’t summon his guards, poised and ready at the back wall.

  Knowing one last match was left in the day but also knowing he didn’t possess the stomach to breathe the same air as Nexus, Curge rose. He ambled toward the exit door. The manservant who was attending him flashed him a worried look, but Curge ignored him.

  Two of Nexus’s guards positioned themselves in front of the door.

  The Dark One stopped and glared, sending the message that he wasn’t easily intimidated.

  “Nexus,” Curge called out, “get your dogs from the door before they anger me.”

  The merchant took his time responding.

  Curge focused on one set of eyes, then the other. Neither guard betrayed any emotion, but they watched him, and he sensed a readiness to crack heads if the need arose.

  Still, nothing came from the wine merchant.

  The audience’s cheering seemed very far away, and Curge continued to study the men blocking his way. One of them blinked slowly, taking his time, but the owner knew the man was exceptionally alert inside, ready for a confrontation.

  “Nexus, I won’t repeat myself,” Curge warned and meant it. If he had to fight his way out of that room, he was going to grab Nexus’s twig of a neck and snap it before one of his armed dogs finally cut him down.

  The cheering melded with the ringing in Curge’s ear, yet still no command came forth. The one-armed owner knew right then that there would be blood.

  But then, as if remembering something, Nexus lifted a hand without turning his head. “Take care, Dark Curge.”

  The hand fluttered.

  The guards barring the exit moved out of Curge’s way. The manser
vant, gutless daisy that he was, exhaled in relief. Curge glared at one guard then the other, committing their faces to memory.

  Then he smiled frostily at each.

  Curge left the box then, not bothering to close the door. He followed the passageways to ground level, to the main corridor, where he met up with the menacing Demasta, the head of his own private household guard. A thick X of leather crossed the man’s muscular chest. Dark in complexion, with an equally black beard trimmed short, the guard looked positively fearsome. Though not as tall as his employer, Demasta possessed an exceptionally willing mindset toward violence, one that Curge very much appreciated.

  “Demasta,” he said as the equally large man fell into step beside him. “I’ve decided to retire early from the games.”

  The house guard nodded and pushed forward, clearing people from his path with murderous looks alone.

  Retire early, Curge mused. If he’d had to endure Nexus for another moment, he would’ve throttled the man right there and tossed his scrawny carcass out over the stands. Nexus’s guards would’ve killed him in the resulting melee, and no doubt the manservant would’ve screamed like a five-year-old boy all the while, but Curge would have died with a smile… and not before killing those two asslickers daring to block the way.

  Even if Nexus hadn’t been a concern, Curge would still have been very disturbed about the one called Junger of Pericia. The display l he’d just witnessed wasn’t ruined in the least by Nexus’s unfit presence. He searched his memory and, for the life of him, couldn’t think of a single gladiator within his ranks capable of defeating Junger. In fact, he was hard-pressed to think of any house gladiator skilled enough to defeat the Ten man. That worried Curge very much. If no one could stop him, the Perician would single-handedly capture the games for himself… and the not-quite-finished House of Ten.

  The thought left Curge’s bald crown aching, and he sought diversion. “By the way,” he asked Demasta’s back. “How many men are in our employment these days?”