131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “You mean guards, Master Curge?”

  “Aye that, guards.”

  “Ten, Lord.”

  “Ten,” Curge mused as he followed. The number surprised him.

  He would hire more.

  54

  Junger left the exhausted Barros upon the sand. He walked past the fearfully smiling gatekeeper and the Skarrs lining the tunnels, who acknowledged him with not-so-secretive looks. Turning a corner, Junger walked the white tunnel back to the Ten’s private chamber.

  They were waiting for him. Hands clapped his shoulders. Congratulations and praise were heaped upon his name.

  Standing before the window’s arch, a stern-looking Goll shook his head.

  “You didn’t kill him,” the house master stated.

  Junger paused. “There was no need, Master Goll.”

  “Eeeee.” Machlann released with a smile. “That performance spoke louder than any killing, my missus. Lords above, Perician. Lords above. I’ve never seen the likes before and daresay I’ll never again.”

  “That was truly spectacular, young man,” Clavellus added.

  All the while, Goll hung back, his face neutral.

  When the excitement abated, Clavellus turned to the house master. He clasped Goll’s shoulder and rattled it.

  “You’re next,” he said.

  *

  Sunlight streamed into the lower chamber, marking the dusty stone of the floor with its brilliance. Salwark stood just to the right of the arched window, dabbing at his forehead with a folded cloth and occasionally his throat. Perspiration saturated his underclothing. He swallowed, feeling just a little sick because he hadn’t been able to eat anything before coming to the arena. He wasn’t sure eating anything right then would help. Truly, he was too nervous to eat. He was always that way before a blood match.

  This wasn’t a blood match, though.

  Watching the Balgothan Sorban prepare for his fight with the Kree called Goll, however, Salwark sensed that clarifying that distinction would not be wise. That alone worried him greatly.

  Farther back from the sunlight, gladiators stood at solemn ease, ready to aid their fellow pit fighter if he required it. Facing a wall and head bent, Sorban wrapped cloth around his hands with intensity. No one spoke as he worked. He wove the material around his fingers and pulled it tight. Once that was done, he slapped the hard leather protecting his right shoulder then his left. Then he punched his midsection, three hard blows that exploded in the room, causing Salwark to flinch.

  Having checked his armor, Sorban turned to a nearby gladiator and held out a hand. The gladiator sheathed it with a spike-studded gauntlet. Once it was pulled into place, Sorban adjusted the metallic fist and offered his second hand.

  Salwark licked his lips. The Balgothan’s mindset scared him like no other. He hoped the man realized what he was doing, that killing the Kree would have consequences. Though Goll had been Free Trained a time ago, the man presently belonged to a house, the same house where that hellion Junger of Pericia resided and fought. Salwark had also seen Junger of Pericia fight Curn from the House of Vandu. Curn was no mindless lout, yet the Perician had devastated the pit fighter in very short time. The Perician had devastated everyone he’d fought in very short time. Salwark had heard the stories, and he did not want the House of Ten sending such a man after Sorban. The last thing Salwark needed was Junger seeking revenge on not only Sorban but the stable’s remaining gladiators. That would be disastrous. Though his spies had noted Junger didn’t seem inclined to kill a fallen warrior, that didn’t make Salwark feel any better.

  There’s always the first time, he thought. Unless of course, Sorban can kill Junger.

  Salwark licked his lips and tried to focus on the positive.

  Sorban pulled on his helm, that frightening ape-feathered face of metal. Once it was in place, the man paused as if in meditation. Time flowed, but not one of the surrounding gladiators dared to break the silence. The crowds droned on in the background.

  Sorban lifted his head. Stoic, Aidas stepped in and tightened the helm’s chin strap while the Marrnite Zillari handed the Balgothan his quarterstaff. Sorban took the weapon and didn’t offer any thanks to either man. That intimidating figure of violence and carnage then turned to Salwark.

  He couldn’t see Sorban’s eyes, only slits of darkness.

  A knock came from the outer door, signaling the time to leave.

  Sorban left for the door, his intention painfully clear, at least in Salwark’s worried mind.

  The Balgothan meant to beat Goll to death.

  *

  Cheering and shouting enveloped Goll. The steps to the rising portcullis fluttered with light. He paid no heed to the welcoming applause. After Junger’s victory over a known killer of gladiators, a three-legged dog associated with the Ten would have gotten a warm reception. Goll didn’t care about what the audience thought of him.

  His thoughts centered on the man called Sorban.

  The Balgothan was seeking revenge for the death of Baylus the Butcher, the one man who’d defeated Goll soundly in the arena—in any arena. Baylus had overwhelmed him and ultimately spared his life, but when the positions reversed themselves, Goll killed the once champion. It had been instinctive, reflexive, and if he had the time back, he would’ve done differently.

  The Orator finished his introductions, and when Goll stepped into the arena, Sorban was waiting on the other side. Clouds had moved in, casting shade over the sands and audience, but a single shaft of light pierced though the overcast sky, enveloping the grim gladiator and basking him in steely splendor.

  Goll didn’t like that effect.

  The bright plumage of Sorban’s visor blazed. The visor, sprinkled with holes about the mouth, smiled cruelly.

  Goll steadied his breathing, narrowed his eyes, and went to meet his next challenge.

  Sorban rolled his shoulders and began walking himself. He hunched over, quarterstaff readied, the needles of his metal gauntlets long and evil looking. The sun transformed his leather vest into a toughened hide. Eyes lurked somewhere in the empty cavities of Sorban’s helmet, but Goll didn’t see them.

  The Balgothan didn’t bother with words.

  That suited the Kree just fine.

  They met in the middle of the groomed sands, and Sorban moved first. He swept his quarterstaff up and over his head, spinning the weapon in a mesmerizing blur of wood and metal, and lashed out at Goll’s head.

  Goll was no longer there, though.

  The instant Sorban whipped his quarterstaff high over his head, Goll lunged low and stabbed a third of his short sword through the Balgothan’s lead foot, nailing the man to the ground.

  If he screamed, the sound was lost in the voices belonging to the crowds.

  Goll left his sword in his foe’s foot and rose, well inside his foe’s crumbling guard. He cracked his shield’s edge off Sorban’s chin. The blow staggered the Balgothan and hurled him back. His falling weight ripped his impaled foot from sword and sand, and when he fell, half the onlookers winced.

  Goll rushed in, seeking to end the fight. He stomped on an elbow, shattering the joint. Sorban rolled over, and Goll stomped on the other arm, breaking a wrist. The Balgothan grunted in misery. He attempted to rise on his good elbow, turning his back to his opponent.

  In that moment, the memory of Baylus, crippled, revisited Goll. Time slowed, and in that tempest of cheers and horrified screams, the Butcher’s whisper of “No one needs to perish” revisited him.

  The words caught Goll off guard, and he supposed the dead champion was right.

  The audience screamed, bringing the Kree back to the task at hand.

  He chopped the shield’s edge into the back of Sorban’s neck. Twice more for effect. Sorban went limp at the first connection and didn’t move after that, so Goll bent at the knees to finish the work. Then he retrieved his sword, secured a double-handed grip, and punched its dulled tip through the fallen gladiator’s leather-bound torso. The blade had be
en blunted somewhat by going through the thin mail covering Sorban’s boot, so Goll had to force the weapon through.

  When the sword would go no deeper, Goll released it, leaving the weapon in the dead man’s chest. The blade cast a grim shadow upon the sands.

  Breathing hard, Goll studied the corpse. No one needed to perish this day, he thought, but words had been said.

  Baylus was in the past, and even though Goll believed the Balgothan’s ghost would haunt him to his final days, showing mercy to Sorban had never been his intention. To do so would convey weakness to the enemies of the House of Ten, and with Junger and even Brozz having refused to slay their opponents, Goll had to send a message of his own, as house master.

  This was Sunja’s Pit. The dusty, scalding heart of the games.

  These wonderful games.

  And he intended to win it all.

  55

  Dawn outlined the closed shutters in gold and lit up Halm’s personal darkness. He opened his eyes sleepily, not yet ready to rise, and quietly snarled at the light. The night had been warm, and the single thin blanket drawn over his considerable carcass had been kicked into a puddle at the foot of the bed. He knew it was down there. The damn thing had coiled about his toes.

  A contented sigh became a yawn, so he covered his mouth, not wanting to wake Miji next to him. She slept on her side, bare back to him, her untied hair spilling over white skin. Two dark moles stuck out from the curve of her shoulder blade, dotting otherwise flawless flesh. Halm’s eyes wandered over her form as a satisfied smile spread across his face.

  The urge to void took him, so he got up, grimacing with the movement. His bulk was still mending its many hurts, but the country air was helping. Miji stirred, causing him to pause on the bed’s edge. The timbers creaked, and he froze. He waited… waited until he heard her breathing deepen. In time, he relaxed.

  He carefully drew a finger under his healing nose and studied the floor, looking past the bandages covering his huge belly. He spotted his clothing nearby, so he gathered them up and made his way to the door. It opened with a click and a groan, which froze him to the spot as he glanced back at his lover’s form.

  Seddon above. Everything he did seemed to summon an ass whistle.

  When Miji didn’t wake, he quietly let himself out.

  When he’d arrived in Karashipa, Miji wanted him to stay with her after the second night, in the house that had belonged to her departed parents. The home was small and clean, with a lingering smell of wildflowers. The interior was just the right size for two… maybe even three.

  Miji was everything he’d hoped her to be: receptive, kind, considerate. Halm was surprised by how good he felt in her company. She laughed at his jokes and listened to his stories, and he found himself doing the same, captivated by her charms. He slept on the floor that third night.

  By the fourth night, he was sharing her bed.

  A barren fireplace dominated the main room. A small table and chairs, handmade and smooth to the touch, rested against the north wall. The smell of woodland herbs and spices drifted through an archway leading to a small pantry colored by many years. The floorboards, always swept, creaked like tight strings here and there, but Halm already knew where the worst of them were and easily avoided them. He pulled on his breeches and sandals. Feeling a desire for a walk––and the pressing need to piss––he let himself out and breathed in the country air. Across the way and over rooftops, dawn flittered through a dense screen of forest. Half the sun lay above those green heights. Things buzzed by his face, ignoring him, and Halm, out of habit, looked at his feet. No unconscious drunks were there to step over, no swaying brutes pissing in the alleys, no one asking him for coin… and no scurrying rats.

  Halm trod a dirt path and rounded the house’s corner, making his way to the treeline. There, he emptied the bull. Once finished, he tucked himself away and strolled down to the flat glossy mirror that was the lake. Not a breeze stirred the morning, and the water’s surface glowed like silver. Dry rocks framed the shore. Farther out, an early-morning mist haunted the surface.

  Like one big pisspot, Muluk had once said about the lake.

  The Zhiberian smiled at the memory.

  Miji’s house was the closest to the water’s edge. A small footpath that led back to the main road lay to his left, and across that a short distance was her little alehouse. The still-standing palisade that surrounded recently dead Thaimondus’s residence loomed beyond that. Houses lined the road all the way back into the forest, and Halm spared them a solemn, contemplative look.

  Sleep.

  The place soaked in it. Even when the village was at its height of activity, the place soaked in sleep, as if spinning, slowly, in the deepest current of a dream, and he meant that in the best of ways. There was no hurry, no rush, just honest day-to-day work and survival in one small, forgotten corner of a very big world.

  That suited Halm just fine.

  He turned back to the lake, admiring the scene. A small wharf jutted into the water, long and set low to the surface, with three shallow boats tied to its length. Clouds resembling gray banners drifted across the sun’s face overhead, pleasantly dimming the land. If he wandered back along the main road, he knew he’d smell the smoke of small wood fires being worked to life.

  The setting was lovely, peaceful. He considered himself fortunate to see it.

  Even better, he had a roof over his head and food for the table… and he had a woman. He believed he might’ve found himself more than a woman—a wife. A wife! He smiled at the thought, baring those ill-colored, overlapping shards that passed for teeth. He’d never believed such a thing possible. Not bad at all. Everything he wanted, everything he needed was in this place.

  So fortunate. So very, very fortunate.

  Halm sighed deeply, contentedly. Somewhere beyond the nebulous depths of the morning mist, a bird spoke brightly. He listened for it again. Standing at the water’s edge, Halm’s reflection wavered for a heartbeat, as if hooked at the shoulder. Then, slowly, as if remembering an item lost, he turned his battered frame.

  His broken nose rose as if catching a whiff of something… distant yet familiar.

  He stood that way for a time, staring off to the north.

  Toward Sunja.

  To Be Continued

  Afterthoughts

  Thanks very much to Kelly, Kristina, and Sheri for going over the manuscript.

  If you see any mistakes, they’re undoubtedly mine.

  About the Author

  Keith lives in Canada, on the island of Newfoundland.

  Try these other titles by Keith C. Blackmore:

  Heroic Fantasy

  The Troll Hunter

  White Sands, Red Steel

  131 Days (Book 1)

  131 Days: House of Pain (Book 2)

  131 Days: Spikes and Edges (Book 3)

  131 Days: About the Blood (Book 4)

  Horror

  Mountain Man

  Safari (Mountain Man Book 2)

  Hellifax (Mountain Man Book 3)

  Well Fed (Mountain Man Book 4)

  Mountain Man: Prequel

  The Missing Boatman

  Breeds

  Breeds 2

  Breeds 3

  Cauldron Gristle (novella—contains Mountain Man short story “The Hospital”)

  Science Fiction/Fantasy

  The Bear That Fell from the Stars

  Children’s

  Flight of the Cookie Dough Mansion

  If you enjoyed this story and have the time and inclination, please consider leaving a review.

  It’s good advertising for me. :)

  Visit www.keithcblackmore.com for news and book announcements.

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  CHARACTERS

  *The Free Trained*

  Skulljigger, seasonal Free Trained pit fighter, man who mauled Pig Knot

  Targus, Free
Trained pit fighter

  The Masters, their Houses (Stables/Schools), and their people

  *The House of Ten*

  Halm (Zhiberian), seasonal pit fighter

  Pig Knot (Sunjan), seasonal pit fighter

  Muluk (Kree), seasonal pit fighter

  Goll (Kree), seasonal pit fighter, pupil of the Weapon Masters of Kree

  Tumber (Vathian), seasonal pit fighter

  Brozz "Crowhead" (Sarlandish), first time pit fighter

  Torello (Sunjan), pit fighter

  Kolo (Sunjan), pit fighter

  Junger (Perician), the Perician Weapon, his first games

  Clavellus, exiled taskmaster

  Machlann, trainer of Clavellus

  Koba, trainer of Clavellus

  Nala, Clavellus’s wife

  Ananda, house servant

  Borchus, free agent

  Bagrun, wagoner

  Clades (Sunjan), survivor from the Third Klaw, head of the house’s guards

  Pratos (Sunjan), once-Sujin, house guard