131 Days
Keith C Blackmore
2013
131 Days
by
Keith C. Blackmore
Edited by Red Adept Publishing
Extra proofreading by Polgarus Studio
Cover by Karri Klawiter www.artbykarri.com
Formatted by Polgarus Studio
131 Days
Copyright © 2013 by Keith C. Blackmore
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Thanks to Eric, Sarah, and Miguel for their help and thoughts.
For George and Shirley Blackmore (otherwise known as Mom and Dad)
Table of Contents
Part I: 131 Days • 1 • Baylus and Goll
• 2 • Vadrian and Bars
• 3 • The Masters
• 4 • Halm and Muluk
• 5 • Milloch and Samarhead
• 6 • Parched
• 7 • Seddon’s Son
• 8 • Hurt
• 9 • Halm and Samarhead
• 10 • Words
• 11 • Dark Matters
• 12 • Day 4
• 13 • Musings
Part II: TEN 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
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47
About the Author
CHARACTERS
Part I:
131 Days
• 1 •
Baylus and Goll
Thunder.
Except it wasn’t really like thunder. It was more like that initial crash of diving headfirst into a deep body of water—that rush of sound and pressure that flattens a man’s ears to his skull, setting his skin to tingling with shock, the sensation of being enveloped by the coldness of it all, the entering, right up until he breaks the surface of the pool, gasping for breath, and just grateful to be able to do so.
It was more like that.
And it roared overhead at that very moment. There were thousands out there. Watching.
Baylus stood in a white tunnel, long and bare, leading upward to a thick portcullis. A gatekeeper stood a few paces in front of him checking his fingernails for dirt. A lever protruded from the wall over his left shoulder. Baylus ignored the gatekeeper and regarded the bench to his right. There for support, he had sat on it once before, toward the end of his first tournament, because he had been tired of it all and couldn’t wait to be finished, one way or another. That was five years ago. He had done that five years ago and vowed never to return. Made promises to dead men that he’d never return. Yet, here he was. And for what? When he hacked heads off brutes trying to do the same to him, he wished it was finished. He wished it was done, either with him winning it all or just dying in one short, spraying grunt. He had vowed he would never return to the hell of the Sunja’s Pit. But here he was, both ashamed and excited.
Baylus had won it all five years ago. The title and the coin as well as the unwanted life celebrity status and routine. In the first year, he basked in the adoration and the attention. Lapped up the praise like a thirsty dog and barked for more. That was the first year. By the second year, he was already tired of the constant scrutiny whenever he walked the streets. He started avoiding crowds here and there, until he gradually shunned them entirely. He despised people wanting stories of the Pit. He got angry with them, got angry at the smiles when they told their tales of warriors, of gladiators, when really they didn’t know one damned thing. They were spectators, watching men tear the guts out of each other and delighting in it for an afternoon. Or morning. Or whenever the bloodletting was scheduled. All of them believed they knew his strengths and weaknesses. They didn’t know anything more than what they saw from the stands high above, far away from harm. One time, a crazy Zhiberian had flung his spear into the masses and pinned two poor unlucky bastards through their gullets. That was the talk of the gladiators that day, and more than one wished they had tossed that gut-sticker. Not that the Zhiberian got away with it. Archers had cut him down right and proper, and then the Skarrs dragged him out of Sunja’s Pit using meat hooks.
But the Zhiberian had gotten his point across.
The crowds were both grand and… evil.
They praised your name in one instant, and called for your head the next. They supported you utterly, then betrayed your guts at the first sign of weakness. They raised you up and were more than happy to let you drop.
And yet, despite it all, here he was. Baylus was back.
All because, Lords save his soul, he missed it.
After he had been forgotten, perhaps around the fourth year, he discovered he longed for the attention, almighty Seddon take his black hide. He missed having his name spoken with such honored reverence. He missed the comparisons to the champions of old. He missed the physical challenges, the competition. Lords above, he missed… hell.
You’re too old, the Gladiatorial Chamber had informed him, when he approached them about returning to the games. Be chewed up by the younger pups.
But they relented. It was nothing to them, and insulting to Baylus’s intelligence to think they thought they could fool him into thinking they cared. They only cared about the coin they could earn on the odds. Think of the promotions! The old champion, back and seeking glory once more on the arena sands, still as dangerous as in his prime.
Baylus didn’t feel old at thirty-seven.
Seven years after prime.
Topside roared again, shaking him from his thoughts. Baylus exhaled. He’d wanted back in the Pit. He wanted this more than anything, Seddon save him.
And here he was.
He felt the reassuring weight of his armor plates. They covered his front and back completely, hanging in place by thick bands of leather going over his shoulders. A thick leather sleeve protected his sword arm. His other arm had the shield. Strips of crenellated leather draped his legs but, if he took a good hit there, he could be crippled in an instant, or even lose the limb. His helm was wingless and caged. Baylus preferred as little ornamentation as possible. Some of the others loved it, strutted across the sand in their decorations. Not him. He was all business.
He tightened his grip on the sword hilt, the blade still in its scabbard, waiting to taste air and lick flesh. It was good steel. Someone said Mademian-forged, but Baylus didn’t believe it. There were no Mademian characters stamped onto the base.
Beyond the portcullis, a voice, loud and harsh, introduced the first fight.
“You ready?” the gatekeeper asked. The older, grizzled man studied him with one cocked eye.
“Aye that,” Baylus answered.
“Seddon bless you, then.” He raised his arm to the lever.
“Seddon,” Baylus breathed from behind his face-cage, “can lick my ass.”
That drew a frown from the gatekeeper as he pulled the lever. The portcullis shivered and parted. Sunlight yawned through unobstructed. Baylus jogged up the wide steps swinging his shield to and fro. His brow crinkled in concentration.
This was it.
A rogue wave of sound engulfed him as he entered the arena, crashing down and almost stunning him senseless. Lords, how he missed the applause, knowing it was fleeting. From the stands, the crowds greeted the old champion, screaming his name and pumping fists. Women flaunted their bare breasts. The men howled. A few curses perforated the cacophony, and Baylus scowled.
Savages all. Yet he loved it.
“We knew he could not be away for long, and we were right!” At the far end of the sands the Orator appeared as a gray post with his skeletal arms outstretched. To his left was the Gladiatorial Chamber stand, separated and sheltered from the crowds by high walls. The owners and trainers of respected stables would be there, watching their dogs go at it. To Baylus’s right, and so much grander, was the raised platform for the king and guests. King Juhn lounged up there, watching perhaps, while servants fed him some rare tropical fruit. The man appeared a distant figure of white. At the base of the platform was a low wall of pole-arm-wielding Axemen, the legendary guardians of the throne.
“He is an eater of flesh,” the Orator bawled. “An abomination. And he has chosen to return. To teach the hellpups of this year’s tournament the meaning of the word war. Years have no effect on this man and he knows no fear, no mercy, as his opponents have discovered time and time again. In his day, he took the heads of a hundred men, and he means to take a hundred more! He is a survivor and Champion of the pit from years past. He. Is. Baylus! The Butcher of Balgotha!”
The crowd roared. They remembered him. Baylus took a deep satisfying breath. But he never took the heads of a hundred men in the past. He’d have to have a talk with the Orator for spewing such gurry.
“His opponent, from the lands of Kree, Goll!”
Across the arena, from the shadows of an open portcullis, stepped a man holding a sword and shield. His sword was already out and at guard. Baylus grimaced. Like he was about to charge across some fifty paces to have at him right at the introductions. In that instant, he knew it was the lad’s first fight.
Baylus sighed. Lords help him. He hoped his opponent was a criminal.
“Free Trained and bred!” the Orator announced.
Baylus gave the barest shake of his head. Free Trained. That meant, for whatever reason, the lad had entered hell of his own free will. The ranks of Free Trained were the most numerous of the games, but they were also the most unskilled, the most barbaric, unlike the hellpups trained by established Houses. The old champion inhaled hot air, and wondered why the warrior entered the games. Then he caught himself and cursed his hypocrisy.
“This is the first fight of many, good people of Sunja. On behalf of the Gladiatorial Chamber and King Juhn’s best wishes for you to be entertained, let the games… begin!”
Another tsunami of sound hurt Baylus’s ears. Next time, he would pretend his ears were two harlots on their monthly time and jam cotton in them.
At the signal, Goll walked toward the Butcher of Balgotha, the champion of games gone by, amidst the screaming spectators.
Baylus watched him for a moment before finally drawing his sword. The crowd approved.
Goll wore leather. Bracers protected his arms, and greaves shielded his legs. His sword was shiny and oiled. A plain helm, caged and scratched, covered his head. The boy had trained by the looks of him; he knew how to hold his blade. Baylus could tell by his foe’s stance. Even better, Baylus groaned inwardly. The look on the man’s face, however, was one of sheer fright.
Nerves.
First fight of his life in front of so many probably, and to be thrown to the Butcher in his opening match. Baylus frowned.
Seddon above could be a bastard.
“Greetings, la–” Baylus began.
Goll attacked with a straight-armed thrust, aimed for the gut. Baylus turned it away with a swipe of his blade. The younger man thrust again and, once more, Baylus knocked it aside. The once champion then sidestepped toward the other’s shield arm. Good stabs, but they had come too early in the game.
Goll, however, was of a different mind. He jabbed a third time, bouncing his sword off Baylus’s shield. The young gladiator circled to his right and slashed, missing a cheek. He lunged for an exposed knee and stabbed only air. He stepped in and thrust for the same knee a second time. Baylus parried, parried again, then retreated a pace.
The boy was fast.
Goll jerked his arm back. If of a mind, Baylus could have taken the limb off at the elbow, shearing through like a knob of butter. But that would have finished the match too early. And the crowds didn’t like quick fights.
“Slow down, lad,” Baylus urged, watching the man over the rim of his shield. “Slow down. You’ll be spent in seconds at this pace.”
Goll didn’t listen.
Instead, he jumped to the attack, cutting for the champion’s head.
Baylus spiraled his shield, deflecting the blow and allowing his foe’s own momentum to carry him past. The once champion made him look clumsy in that one lunge and, for a brief second, Goll’s back was exposed.
Baylus did nothing.
Goll recovered and took a breath. Sweat covered his face. He lunged, steel flashing in the sun. A shield turned the blade away. He got in close and whipped his shield’s rim at the old champions’s head.
Blocked.
Goll stabbed for the gut. It bounced off Baylus’s armored plate.
A series of strikes erupted from the young warrior then, a flurry of well-practiced cuts and thrusts meant to gut or decapitate a foe. The strength and speed of the offensive impressed Baylus and backed him up toward a high wall. Each heavy-handed connection brought a grimace to the once champion’s face.
The lad was strong.
Then the storm broke, and Goll, his strength momentarily depleted, retreated to a chorus of disapproval.
Peeking over his shield, Baylus studied the younger man. The lad was a fighter and he meant to have Baylus’s head. He supposed a champion’s scalp would be a notable trophy.
“All right then, boy,” Baylus mused. “All right.”
Amidst a swelling of applause, the champion shook his sword arm, loosening it. Then he did the same for his shield arm. The crowd reacted with screams. Word spread through the stands like an unchecked fire. Those who had seen the old champion fight years ago knew what was coming. With meat on the table, the Butcher was readying his tools.
Goll sensed it as well. Fear glittered in his eyes. He readied his shield and bobbed it up and down, left and right, trying to be everywhere at once.
Baylus’s sword arm snapped out. Goll’s shield dropped to deflect the thrust. He realized the feint too late as the Butcher closed and smashed his shield’s edge into the face-cage of the young warrior.
Goll staggered to the left. The crowd approved.
“A love-tap to go with those scratches,” Baylus said, but he didn’t press his attack.
The young Kree collected himself and became more cautious. Baylus could see it in his stance. The boy was tired. Spent. Waiting for his strength to return and wishing it would return quickly.
The Butcher went to work.
Baylus feinted again, and then drove his blade toward the right shin of his foe. The edge licked leather and split it instantly. Goll jerked back, and Baylus whipped his sword up, drawing a fine line inside the man’s guard, up the right side of his ribs.
With a yelp Baylus probably heard better than the crowd, Goll jumped back. The younger man checked himself quickly. Another mistake.
The old champion charged.
Where Goll’s initial onslaught had been full
of strength and adrenalin, the Butcher’s was controlled, tight and, as a practitioner of the medicinal arts might comment, surgical. Baylus feinted, stabbed, and slashed in combination, one attack flowing into the other. Goll got behind his shield, but Baylus nicked and skinned him of his leather. The young man retreated, but the champion pressed forward and slashed for his foe’s eyes––a ruse––as his foot stomped and crushed three of Goll’s toes.
The connection made the hellpup sing.
Struggling to stand upright, Goll hid behind his shield. Baylus circled to the man’s left, his shield arm. It was an old tactic of the Butcher’s, to draw out the match—immobilize his opponent, then slowly bleed him until the kill. The crowd paid good coin to see a fight, not a quick stabbing. If it was an execution they wanted, they could gather at the public square.
Baylus continued to circle, and a limping Goll struggled to keep up, turning in place to remain facing his adversary.
The Butcher’s blade flashed. His steel rebounded off Goll’s shield twice, knocking it out of position. A third thrust bit flesh, and Goll’s shield arm drooped from the impact. Behind his face-cage, the young man grimaced and made the mistake of checking his shoulder that had just been cut to the bone.
Baylus’s sword bit his adversary’s right forearm, gnashing through leather and tasting meat. Blood fell from Goll’s staggering frame. He backed up a step and almost lost his balance. Baylus stabbed his right shoulder before cracking his shield’s rim across the man’s jaw.
The connection straightened Goll’s neck, and he crashed to the sand.
The spectators cried out for death then, demanded it. Both Baylus and the Orator glanced in the direction of King Juhn and saw the ruler watching with some interest. A servant held grapes mere inches from his lips.
“Kill him!” The audience took up the chant.
Not about to be hurried by the crowd, Baylus looked down on the sprawled form. Goll shook his head, trying to clear his vision of black motes no doubt. His back was to the once champion—bent, beaten, and exposed. His shield was nowhere within reach, yet he managed to cling to his sword.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 1