131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Baylus could have killed the man right then, stuck his blade straight through the lower spine of the gladiator and pinned him, twitching, to the sand.

  But he didn’t.

  “Get up,” he ordered. “Get up.”

  Somewhere in his daze, Goll lifted his head, the face-cage turning in the direction of his opponent. Confusion creased his features.

  “Come on,” Baylus urged, wondering if he could be heard over the crowd. “No one needs to perish here this day, boy. You started well enough. Now let’s finish it.”

  Goll got to his knees. His face-cage had been smashed in on one side, the lower part of the metal coated in dust and blood. Blood ran freely from his wounds. His left arm hung uselessly, leather and skin shredded alike. His toes were mashed.

  Goll was a mess.

  But he brought up his sword.

  An impressed Baylus considered the man for a moment, ignoring the swelling impatience of the crowd. The youth had made mistakes, guilty only of inexperience, and Baylus sighed in remembrance of his own first match. It was a shame Goll had to draw the Butcher on his first day back.

  Baylus stepped forward and feinted, as he had done often throughout the fight, and Goll plunged his blade through the champion’s knee. That sudden shock of steel slicing flesh and bone, forgotten for so long, gushed into the champion’s mind and paralyzed him as if caught in a crushing vice.

  Long enough for Goll to cut his other leg.

  Baylus crashed to the ground. Momentarily forgetting how to fall, his head bounced hard off the sand. He clamped down on his tongue, snipping off the very tip. Blood spurted. The impact brought stars to his vision.

  He tried to bring up his sword, but Goll was on top of him. Worse, Goll had his knee in the valley of his elbow.

  Baylus felt a foot on his opposite forearm. He couldn’t summon his strength. The man had him spread like a wounded bird.

  The tip of a sword pricked his throat.

  Baylus’s vision cleared. He gazed into the hard eyes of his younger foe. He realized then he had underestimated the man’s will and had played too long with his foe when he should have been killing. His eyes flicked skyward, and he saw a deep, empty blue. Baylus grimaced. To think he had returned to this.

  “No one needs—” he began.

  Goll stabbed with whatever strength remained in his good arm, clamping Baylus’s jaw shut, punching through the Butcher’s skull, and partially lifting the helm off the man’s head.

  The young gladiator did not release the blade. Instead, he stared into the eyes of the corpse. Eyes once full of bemused comprehension, now glazed over like white wax. The man from Kree held onto the blade, even as the crescendo of cheers smashed into his senses, even when the Orator announced him as the winner, and slayer of the Butcher of Balgotha. King Juhn himself tipped a goblet to the gladiator’s surprising victory.

  Goll released his sword. Somehow, he managed to stand. He staggered and cradled his left arm, which was in bloody ribbons. The cheering of thousands racked his senses, rocking him. He’d done it. He’d faced the Butcher of Balgotha and put a length of steel through his brain. With a curse, he raked off his helm, considered it, and flung it into the air. His name was Goll. It was his first match. He wanted to make a name for himself, to become a legend, much like the dead man at his feet. He flung his good arm wide, embracing the crowd, as tears, sweat, and scarlet fell from him.

  He smiled.

  The Orator looked down on the victorious pit fighter and nodded. The Butcher of Balgotha had played with the young lion and lost his life. Such was fate in Sunja’s Pit. He glanced in the direction of the king and saw the man drinking from a goblet, the rush of the surprise victory already waning. But then, only the truly spectacular held the king’s attention for long.

  The Orator took a breath as he beheld the pulsating arena.

  It was the first day, and a good opening for the games.

  • 2 •

  Vadrian and Bars

  They dragged the corpse of Baylus from the arena by the ankles.

  When the arena attendants got the body inside the tunnel, they dumped the dead champion into a cart. Three men wheeled the corpse through the general quarters beneath the Pit, passing through dusty cones of light from torches or oil lamps. The procession went through rows of gladiators standing, sitting, performing warm-up rituals, or mentally readying themselves, waiting for their turn upon the arena sands. Baylus’s carcass caused a lull to sweep over the works of them. Hundreds of men stopped what they were doing and watched the cart pass. Some were close enough to peer inside with looks of solemn consideration.

  “Damnation,” spoke Bars from where he sat on a bench. “That’s enough to wake a topper up. If he wasn’t before.”

  “What did you expect?” asked a gladiator named Halm, his bright blue eyes leaving the cart’s progression and taking in the man sitting next to him.

  “I mean…” Bars paused. “That was Baylus the Butcher. I watched him fight years ago, when I was just a boy. When I saw him earlier this day, I hoped…”

  “Hoped what?”

  “That I wouldn’t be matched with him.”

  Halm studied the younger man for a moment, then hissed out his breath from between perhaps the worst set of teeth Bars had ever seen. Though Halm still retained a full set, his teeth were chipped and overlapped, corrupted into a brazen collection of yellow and black fangs. Halm was bulky as well as scarred. Where most pit fighters were corded with muscle, both heavy and sinewy, Halm clearly ate heavily of barley and beans to gain fat over his muscular frame.

  “Bah,” the fat man finally said, scratching at his bare, hairy belly. “He was asking for it. A right and proper punce if you ask me. He had it all. All. And wanted back in, and he nearing forty at that. Dogballs. The shagger wanted to die, my thoughts on it.”

  Bars wasn’t so certain. Death was a possibility in the Pit and he had prepared himself for the bloodletting. He believed he could kill a man if he had to, especially when he considered the potential riches he could win at the tournament’s end.

  “Look,” Halm said, breaking Bars from his spiraling thoughts. “That one was a fool. Make no mistake. No one returns to this hell when they’ve won it all.”

  “You returned,” a muscular man declared, plopping down on a bench across from the pair.

  “I didn’t win it all,” Halm countered.

  “But you came back anyway,” the newcomer said, and grinned. “With enough scars that if you were on your back with your gut in the air, people would mistake you for one cheek of a very fat ass lashed forty times with a whip.”

  Halm chuckled. “At least my mother didn’t give me a name like yours.” He held out a closed fist, which the other man met with his own.

  “This is Pig Knot, youngster,” he said, introducing the warrior. “You’ll encounter no fouler bastard in these games, past or present.”

  Pig Knot nodded. “You know what, youngster? You’re sitting and conversing with perhaps the only two toppers in here that survived all of this fun and dared try it once more, year after year.”

  “Aye that,” Halm agreed with another scratch at his belly.

  “Aye that, indeed,” Pig Knot said, his dark eyes twinkling. “Can’t get enough.”

  Unlike Halm, Pig Knot was heavy with visible muscle, great forearms and a head covered in black hair. He kept his mane in a tight knot at the back of his skull.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Halm said. “He let slip a cow kiss before going out onto the sands.”

  Pig Knot’s smile faltered. “You didn’t have to mention that.”

  Bars regarded the muscular newcomer with a curious expression.

  “Oh, he let loose.” Halm elbowed the younger gladiator and nodded at his pit brother from tournaments past. “He was young, like you. Nervous too, unlike you. Got up to the portcullis and, when it opened, his bowels let go. He let slip a cow kiss right there on the threshold. Unfit, it was.”

  Remember
ing, Pig Knot’s smile returned. “The gatekeeper didn’t care too much for me that day.”

  “Or any other after that. You stank the place to Seddon’s high heaven.”

  “Lad,” Pig Knot started, leaning forward. “You are sitting next to the one man in this whole madness that, when he finally dies, the Skarrs themselves will take his scarred hide, tan it, and make leather enough to outfit a five-thousand-man Klaw.”

  “That’s why I don’t mind the scars,” Halm added. “Or the holes.”

  “Aye that,” Pig Knot continued. “If they make sails from him, the holes won’t catch a wind.”

  A weak smile spread across Bars’s features.

  “Ah, well,” Halm said. “All’s good, then. It’s good to see you, Pig Knot of Sunja.”

  “And you, Halm of Zhiberia.”

  “May we never meet in the Pit.”

  “May we never.” Pig Knot looked upon the other with fondness. “Or you, youngster.”

  Bars hoped the same and, when Pig Knot extended his fist, he met it with his own, pressing his knuckles hard.

  “The youngster’s got push,” Pig Knot observed with approval. “I think he’ll do well.”

  “Aye that,” Halm agreed. “Let’s see your sword.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Bars adjusted his scabbard at his hip and took out the blade. Observing manners, he laid it across his forearm, pommel first, before offering it. Halm took it with a nod.

  “Good weight,” the Zhiberian noted. “And Mademian.”

  “Mademian?” Pig Knot’s eyes went wide. “Let’s see it, then.”

  He took the sword and marveled at the characters stamped into its surface. “It is. It is Mademian. Where did you get this? Steel like this is hard to find these days.”

  Bars shrugged. “I bought it.”

  “Nothing but the best, eh?” Pig Knot asked, but Bars didn’t answer. Glancing at Halm, Pig Knot gave the sword back to the younger man and sized him up. “You’ve got decent leather on you, too, I see. Sunjan made. Excellent. You don’t want that Zhiberian shite protecting you.”

  “Zhiberia makes the best armor in the world,” the fat man declared.

  “Which is why you aren’t wearing any?”

  “Too heavy for me. Slows me down.”

  Pig Knot snorted. “Slows him down. You’d think he was lightning pissed out of Seddon himself. Let me see your shield there.”

  Bars handed him the round, iron-rimmed barrier.

  The veteran gladiator fixed it to his left arm and swung it about. He stood and swung it again, gaining glares from a few men nearby. After a moment, he returned it with an approving nod. “That’s good weight you have there. Well-made Sunjan craftsmanship. You’ll do well. Got a helm?”

  Bars showed a wingless helmet, complete with face-cage.

  “He’s ready for war, I’d say,” Halm commented.

  “I’d say so, too,” Pig Knot agreed. “All the right tools for the bloodletting. Who trained you?”

  “School of Nexus,” Bars answered with some confidence.

  The revelation surprised the other two men.

  “Nexus?” exclaimed Halm. “I know I haven’t known you for long, but Nexus? And here I was feeling bad for you! Trying to brighten your spirits.”

  “Aye that,” Pig Knot said. “A man with your expensive tools and training… well, I certainly hope we don’t cross steel out there.”

  “Nor I,” Halm shook his head.

  It was true enough that the School of Nexus had a reputation, and Bars had done well in his training. Well enough that his instructors had deemed him worthy for the games and given their blessing. Win it all for the school, his trainers and taskmasters had told him.

  “Nor I,” Bars eventually said, and meant it. It wasn’t uncommon for friends to meet in the arena; in fact, he heard that most gladiators avoided each other’s company during the tournament for that very reason. The chance that, one day, friends just might have to meet and bleed each other was enough to keep one from getting to know a fellow fighter. The rules of the Pit were simple, and a defeated pit fighter lived or died by the inclination of his opponent. A match did not have to end with a death, nor did King Juhn demand it, although it was said he enjoyed not knowing what the victor would do to his beaten adversary. The spectators, however, were different. They usually demanded a killing, and the winning gladiator decided whether or not to give them one.

  Truth be known, Bars found himself enjoying the company of both fat Halm and hairy Pig Knot. They relaxed him, as odd as it might have seemed. The School of Nexus didn’t want their gladiators to interact with any other school, but especially the Free Trained, who held allegiance to no one and were perceived as beneath their level.

  “Why in Saimon’s hell are you out here conversing with the horseshite?” Pig Knot asked, as if reading his mind. “You lose your way? These are general quarters, you know.”

  “Of course the lad knows,” Halm defended. “But why wouldn’t he come out and walk amongst the Free Trained? This pup is wiser than his years are letting on.”

  Pig Knot considered the youngster in a different light.

  “It’s true,” Bars nodded. “Nexus doesn’t like us wandering in the Pit. But I knew I was fighting next, so I stole away in hopes of getting a glimpse of my opponent. Nexus will have my hide, though, if he finds me astray.”

  “Generous master, eh?” Pig Knot commented.

  “Oh, he’s a self-righteous dog blossom, no doubt.” Bars smirked, getting a chuckle from both men.

  On cue, a man dressed in stately robes––the Madea––appeared in an open archway at the end of the general quarters. A half dozen heavily armed Skarr warriors flanked the arena official as he marched up a ramp to a large desk, a bastion of authority positioned between two torch-lit tunnels. A huge matchboard hung on the wall behind the desk, displaying the day’s scheduled fights. More torches lit up the surface, illuminating slots for the names of ten pairings for the day. With a flourish, the Madea produced a scroll. He consulted it, then checked the matchboard and called out two names, knowing full well several fighters present were unable to read.

  Bars’s head came up.

  “That you?” Halm asked.

  Before the younger man could answer, his opponent, Vadrian, jumped to his feet and roared. He was tall, blond, and yelled long and loud enough to turn the heads of several gladiators. Leather armor covered him, with greaves and pads in the necessary places. Bars couldn’t get a good look at his face and, as he watched, his opponent-to-be bent and picked up a winged helm fashioned from bronze. It gleamed in the nearby torch light as if taken from a dream.

  “For fatherly Seddon above!” Vadrian exclaimed. “Oh, Father! All shall tremble and fear the name of Vadrian, Son of Seddon!”

  The pit fighter fitted the helm to his head and, brandishing his sword, stalked off toward the Madea. He continued swearing oaths of a faith not often practiced within the ranks.

  “A screamer,” Pig Knot observed.

  “I hate screamers.” Halm made a face. “What was your name again, lad?”

  “Bars.”

  “Bars, do us all a favor and shut that one up.”

  “Right and proper,” Pig Knot added.

  “Right and proper,” Halm agreed. “Never did like the type. All noise, they are.”

  “And it’s noisy enough around here as it is,” Pig Knot said.

  “Aye that.”

  With a little smile, Bars got to his feet. He placed his own helm atop his head and hefted his sword and shield. He felt it then, the build-up of nervous energy in his lower legs and arms. His heartbeat quickened, and he took a breath, remembering to control it as his trainers had drilled into him.

  He looked to the two gladiators sharing his company. “My thanks. For… talking.”

  “Plenty of time for more talking.” Halm’s bright blue eyes narrowed. “When you get back.”

  “If you get back.” Pig Knot winked.

&nbs
p; “What did I say earlier?” Halm indicated the hairy beast across from him. “A foul bastard.”

  Bars composed himself and nodded once more to the two men. He made his way to the arena official and his bodyguard of Skarrs. Eyes watched the young gladiator as he moved through general quarters, and Bars was aware of every set.

  “Bars?” the Madea asked.

  He nodded.

  “What are you doing in here?” the official asked.

  “I got lost.”

  The Madea frowned. “Follow the tunnel on the left, then.” He pointed. “Don’t lag. When the portcullis opens, there’ll be a short introduction. Wait until it’s done. Then you are free to beat, maim, or kill. Understood?”

  “I understand.”

  “Then get on,” the Madea instructed.

  Bars left in a jog, heading down the indicated passageway. More armed Skarrs lined the tunnel, spaced apart at regular intervals. None of the visors followed Bars as he passed. That was fine with him. Too much attention made him uneasy.

  Around a corner and at the passageway’s end, four more Skarrs stood guard. A gatekeeper waited with his back to the wall, a lever just over his shoulder. A bench was opposite him. Bars considered the seat but chose not to use it. He had too much energy.

  “The other one in place?” the gatekeeper asked of a nearby Skarr. He didn’t hear a reply. The crowd roared from above. He looked up the stairs leading to the surface and saw the mighty portcullis marking the arena entrance.

  The Pit.

  This was finally it. Two years of hard training all led to this. If he won, if he won, the coin would be enough to afford him a villa somewhere away from the city, and the bride of his choice. He tried hard not to think of her. He tried very hard not to think of her worried face. He needed all his wits focused on the task ahead.

  “You ready?” the gatekeeper asked. He was older, grizzled, and studied him with a cocked eye.

  “I am.”

  “Maybe Seddon will bless you, then.” He raised his hand to the lever in the wall.