The portcullis groaned as it lifted open. The cheering intensified—almost impossibly so. The gatekeeper might have said something more, but his words were drowned out.
Taking a breath, Bars jogged upward into the light. He entered the arena, the noise pounding his senses like beach rocks in a storm swell. Women called out to him. Men shook their fists and cursed. The smell of sweat and heat and something else made the air bad to taste. Bars saw guards ringing the rim of the arena’s lower walls. They stood above the special boxes on the lowest level where the dignitaries, the wealthy, and owners of gladiators could view without obstruction. He saw the high box where the king would watch if he wasn’t rutting, as the rumors went. Then he centered on the opposite side of the arena.
The Screamer was there, his bronze helm shining as if on fire. The man threw his arms wide and greeted the audience, turning around once. Then, sensing his opponent, the Screamer turned to Bars and raised sword and fist.
The fist caught his attention.
It was a spiked gauntlet of sorts, with a small buckler fixed to his forearm. Bars figured his foe thought himself to be fast. How fast remained to be seen.
From where he stood, in a high, arena-side pulpit, the Orator called for silence.
“From the renowned gladiatorial School of Nexus, I give you Bars, the Sunjan,” he introduced with a raised arm. The crowd approved.
“And from the Church of Seddon, Seddon’s son himself, Vadrian the Fire!” On cue, Vadrian sunk to one knee and bowed his head. He’s praying, Bars thought. He’s actually praying.
The action quieted the crowd, making it easy to hear Vadrian’s words. “Sweet Seddon above, give me strength to vanquish my heathen foe this day. Give me strength to deliver him unto you, oh, Heavenly Father, the one true Lord. Give me strength to fight to my fullest power, in your divine name, in your divine light, to do your divine will. Help me now to smite the heathen across from me.”
Then it was over. Bars blinked, not sure what to make of such a prayer.
Vadrian rose and spread his arms wide once more, as if receiving holy messages from above. Then, the communal complete, he dropped his arms and regarded Bars across the way.
He pointed his sword at him. “I shall deliver you!”
You can fishhook yourself, Bars thought with distaste, beginning to dislike screamers as well. There was a smugness, a piousness, present in his foe that he didn’t care for.
Then, the Orator bellowed, “Good people of Sunja! On behalf of the Gladiatorial Chamber and King Juhn’s best wishes for you to be entertained, let… the fight… begin!”
Bars assumed a guarded stance and moved toward his foe.
Vadrian raised his arms, holding his blade two-handed and at high guard above his head. Bars could clearly see the spikes on the holy warrior’s off-hand. He’d have to be wary of those.
The Screamer came closer. He was large and well-muscled. Bars could see the man’s helm had a visor instead of a cage. The Screamer’s eyes scrunched as if the rest of his face smiled.
Bars didn’t know what was so damn amusing. He decided to do something about it.
He sidestepped and lunged, stabbing for a leg while raising his shield. Vadrian’s leg jerked away, and Bars found himself twisting to deflect the heavy sword coming down from above. Then, his senses exploded as the spiked gauntlet smashed into the back of his head. He dove forward, the force of the blow driving him on, and spun about.
With surprising speed, the bronze-helmed man was on top of him. Bars whirled to face him. He got his shield up and stabbed underneath it, but a sword parried his blade into the sand. A spiked gauntlet cracked across his jaw, the impact ripping the face-cage from his helm. Bars staggered backward.
Seddon’s self-proclaimed holy son would not allow him to regain his senses.
Vadrian brought his sword down again and again, raining heavy strikes onto Bars’s upraised shield. Each connection numbed Bars’s arm. Vadrian stepped in close, grabbed the edge of his rival’s shield, and smashed his sword’s pommel into Bars’s exposed face. The graduate of the School of Nexus felt his teeth shatter from far away, and his world left him.
Something thundered against the side of his head, and Bars distantly realized that he was on his back. But that couldn’t be right. The fight had only just begun.
Then, the sun darkened. Vadrian towered over him and stabbed him once, twice, and then a third time through his guts. The steel punched through leather and viscera like a long spike through tough cheese.
After the third stab, Vadrian held his bloodstained blade to the heavens. “I send thee the first, oh Lord of Lords! The first of many, I swear unto you!”
The crowd roared. Some booed and cursed the divine one.
From his back, Bars’s empty hands found his wounds. The pain in his midsection sparkled and sizzled enough for water to fill his eyes.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this, the thought formed in his head. He wanted to be away from here, back in the general quarters. He wanted to listen to Halm and Pig Knot; for certain, they had more tales to tell. He wanted to see her face again.
He heard a voice. “Still here, little heathen?”
Bars regarded the form standing over him, black in the sun.
“Fear not,” came the words. “I shall send you.”
Vadrian put his full strength behind his spiked gauntlet and smashed the face at his feet.
*
The cart rolled past the masses of gladiators, drawing the usual morbid curiosity. Some were close enough to peer inside, but they did not linger on this one, not like Baylus, the Butcher from Balgotha. This one, while a mess, was only a dead hellpup.
Three men moved the cart toward a loading area where the bodies were piled until the day was done. The corpses would receive final rites and be burned as one. It was a foul job, but the men had done it for so long the horror no longer bothered them. And it paid quite well.
A gladiator stepped in front of the cart, stopping them.
It was one of the bigger men, his huge belly bare and quivering. Halm gazed down upon the youngster he had talked to only a short time earlier and sighed. He’d hoped Bars would return to the quarters. He remembered the unease in the pup’s face, and how he had politely held out his sword and shield. Not many would do such a thing, thinking it bad luck.
The thought stuck in Halm’s mind. Perhaps it was bad luck after all.
“Well, damnation,” Pig Knot swore, as he came up to stand alongside the cart. “I had a good feeling about that one.”
“As did I,” Halm said.
“Shame. He seemed pleasant enough. Even let me have his sword. Not many would do that.”
“Not many.”
From the other side of the room, Vadrian entered, bellowing praises to his Lord Seddon. He held the youngster’s Mademian blade over his head as a trophy, swinging it without heed.
Halm loathed the Screamer even more.
“Not many,” he repeated to a pensive Pig Knot. The Zhiberian didn’t dwell on the dead man. He had things to do, preparations to complete before his own fight that day.
And the day was far from done.
“The hallowed Father above granted me strength of arm!” Vadrian bellowed from across the way, further grating Halm’s nerves. “With his grace and blessing, He granted me the will to vanquish a heathen maggot and, as Seddon is my witness, I shall triumph again in the bloody pit.”
Halm gazed down at the dead man in the cart, very much aware of how the voice was growing louder.
“See here!”
The Zhiberian looked up.
The Screamer stood beside the corpse cart and pointed to it in grand fashion. “This one goes to Saimon’s hell for daring to stand against a herald of Seddon. As shall all. And perhaps in the afterlife––”
Halm’s eyes became slits. “Silence yourself, you unfit kog.”
The rebuke quieted Vadrian.
But only for a moment.
“I’ll not
stop spreading the word of Seddon, heathen,” the blond brute yelled and stepped closer. “If my words disturb you, perhaps you should take yourself from the hall. Sed—”
“Seddon can lick my ass,” returned Halm, not backing down in the least. “I’ve been hearing you pig-bastard all morning. Who are you spouting your shite to? Who is listening? Not this heathen shagger. Take your long tongue and lick Seddon’s crack.”
The insult mortified the larger warrior. “Seddon will strike you down for uttering—”
“I’ve uttered it and I’m still here.” Halm threw his arms wide, inviting disaster. “Dying Seddon take me now if I’ve offended you. I’m right here, Lord! But by your holy ballsack,” he pointed at Vadrian. “I’ve had enough of his shite in my ears!”
Vadrian’s face darkened. “You blasphemous heathen! You ignorant man-child! I’ll smite you in Seddon’s name!”
“Away with you, you unfit temple slave. Seddon’s smarter than to give any attention to the likes of you.” The Zhiberian stepped closer to Vadrian as well, and the pair squared off like two violent storm fronts about to meet.
“By the Holy Church, I’ll rip out your tongue!”
And with that, Vadrian raised his weapons.
A wall of pit fighters swarmed between the pair, grabbing and holding onto weapon arms. Pig Knot placed himself before Halm while fixing Vadrian with a hostile look. Shouts of restraint cut the air. Some gladiators glanced toward the Madea and his cohort of Skarr warriors, but the arena official did nothing but watch from where he sat.
“Saimon’s ass, you smell like a pot of shite,” Halm barked over Pig Knot’s shoulder. “Do all of you Seddon lovers smell as such?”
“Insolent mouth! I’ll yank––” The blond struggled against the mass holding him back.
“Get that topper back!” Pig Knot yelled at the knot of men restraining Vadrian. “Clear the space!”
“He-bitch!” Vadrian spat.
“Enough!”
All eyes turned to see a red-faced Madea standing tall behind his desk and glaring at the two men. The usual handful of Skarrs guarding the arena official had mysteriously increased to a dozen soldiers ready to break heads.
The two feuding gladiators saw the impassive reavers and quickly settled down. The men between them relaxed at the sudden drop in tension, but they did not release the pair.
The Madea’s eyes flashed from Vadrian to Halm. “Never in my time have I witnessed that which has transpired here this day, on this, the first day of the games. Are you both so eager to dishonor these hallowed quarters? Over so minor a quibble? Enough, I say! You’ve shamed yourselves in my eyes and the sword brothers about you, standing upon the very ground where countless others have stood and trained and waited to enter Sunja’s Pit, to shed blood in a place that screams for it, but not here.”
That quieted the lot of them.
Vadrian scowled and hung his head almost theatrically.
Halm burned with chagrin and he gestured with his chin. “He started––”
“You bastard!” shouted the other, and jerked an arm free to strike.
“Enough!”
The harsh command sapped the fight from both captive men, and their postures relaxed.
“If you are so determined to have at each other, then I shall arrange it.” The Madea’s dark eyes smoldered. “I’ll make it so. Is that what you want Vadrian of Sunja?”
“By Seddon’s holiness, yes, the chance to smite––”
“Is that what you want, Halm of Zhiberia?” The arena official snapped, cutting off the Sunjan.
But at the mention of Zhiberia, Vadrian’s face became unpleasantly sly.
“Oh I want.” Halm seethed with a poisoned glare at the other. “I want very much.”
“Then it’s agreed,” the Madea declared. “At a time of my choosing, you two shall meet in Sunja’s Pit. If you fight each other before your meeting, both of you shall be executed. It is done.” The Madea slapped his table, causing some to flinch. “I declare blood match.”
“Blood match,” Vadrian smiled, pleased with the decision.
“Blood match,” Halm muttered and scowled back.
• 3 •
The Masters
They sat at the north end of Sunja’s Pit, in viewing boxes afforded only to the top three schools of gladiatorial arts. King Juhn recognized that they were important men and, in some cases, survivors of the Pit themselves. That did not make them of noble blood, however, no matter what they might have thought otherwise. Still, they were of minor importance, and thus allowed some standard of luxury. The king also decided that they would have their viewing box next to the nobles, with servants to wait upon them.
From this lofty perch, the owners watched the opening matches of the games. They had just witnessed another slaughter in the arena, a vicious killing where the victor wasted no time in slaying his fallen opponent in convincing fashion. Of the three owners, only one visibly stiffened at the conclusion of the match, for it was his own highly touted gladiator who perished.
“What in Seddon’s blue pisspot has happened?” Nexus cried, not caring in the least what the others thought. Fine silver hair cut to a fashionable length fell over a face aged and sallowed by the years. A sunken chin and black eyes gave him the look of a weasel. Of the three, he was the only one who wasn’t a gladiator in his youth, preferring to sharpen other skills in a much different arena. Besides owning his school, he was also a prominent wine producer for the country. He usually left the management of his gladiator school in the hands of his taskmaster and trainers and, though he was intelligent enough to leave them to do their job, this particular year he’d decided to watch the games in the flesh for the first time. Nexus wouldn’t hesitate to tell his trainers what he thought of their work if it didn’t produce results in the arena. Of all the business ventures Nexus forayed into, the training of warriors for the Pit had become the most exciting, and the most taxing of his limited patience.
“Seddon’s rosy ass!” Nexus’s normally pallid face became red with outrage. “Who was that asslicker? Sweet Seddon above! Sweet Seddon! I’ll personally ensure that bastard is buried in a cow kiss! May Saimon pack Seddon’s rosy ass! He got his bells paddled by a Free Trained! A Free Trained! That stupid he-bitch! Dying Seddon! I’ll have some maggot’s hanging bells for this! It takes money to raise and train those toppers!”
Spittle flew from Nexus’s lips, and he paused to sip from a silver goblet. He got a mouthful of his own vintage down before the anger surged again. He resumed cursing, black eyes livid, as wine fell onto the front of his silk shirt.
Gastillo, owner of the School of Gastillo, looked to the sands with a dour expression. Some people called him Half-Face behind his back, and to his front if drunk enough, but they would be the last words spoken if done so. The once champion was the victim of an overhand mace that missed crushing his skull, but raked the skin from the right side of his features, almost perfectly down the middle. Half of his nose had been shorn away, leaving only a frightful black hole on one side. Below that, his lips were mangled, and Gastillo forever drooled when he spoke or ate. He wore a mask during the games and in public, one of gold that also covered the top of his head as a cap. A thin slit between his metal lips allowed him to drink, but at times, he lifted the mask when he really wanted to guzzle.
Unlike Nexus, Gastillo had invested substantial coin and effort in his own school, the House of Gastillo, building it up from the very beginning. Though he would mock Nexus in private, to his face he was much more respectful. The wine merchant possessed experience in matters of business that interested Gastillo greatly.
At the moment, however, Gastillo felt only a twinge of regret and annoyance. It was never pleasant to see a new fighter die on the sands, especially to a fanatic like Vadrian of the Church of Seddon. Church of Seddon indeed, Gastillo scoffed. As if the actual church participated in such bloody events. What was worse, however, was that Vadrian had killed one of Nexus’s lads, and Gasti
llo would have to endure a livid merchant. There would be no talk of business this day.
Sitting to the right and ignoring them both, a sickle of a smile spread across Dark Curge’s swarthy features. He was baldheaded and big, retaining most of his musculature for a man in his sixties. He had also been a champion of the Pit and had given his hand and half his forearm to the arena gods as the price for his success. Dark Curge wasn’t a merchant like the pair to his right. Well, he conceded he wasn’t a merchant like Nexus. Gastillo was a graying war dog snapping at ventures he didn’t have the schooling for. Curge did appreciate the business of the Pit, and the irony of how some matches played out. The arena was far superior to the theater; here, the players were real, and their characters shone true until weal or bloody woe.
“What are you grinning about, lout?” Nexus snapped at him. “Perhaps, one of your investments will be struck down later this day.”
“No offense meant,” Curge rumbled, though his smile lingered. “I was just appreciating your oaths.”
“My oaths!” Nexus’s nostrils flared. “What damned gurry is that? My oaths! Be professional, you one-armed git! You don’t see the nobles laughing at their companions’ losses, do you?”
“No need for insults,” Curge replied. “Apologies if I offended you.”
“Your apologies, now! From smiles to fake condolences! I share this box with a one-handed weasel, it seems. As two-faced as this one.”
At the slight, Gastillo’s golden mask turned ever so slightly.
A furious Nexus rose and threw his goblet at a servant. “I’m going to see what happened out there. Seddon’s balls, I’ll get an answer. And I’ll make certain this doesn’t happen again.”
With that he stormed out the exit.
The two remaining owners sat for a moment, waiting to see if Nexus would return. He did not.
Gastillo shifted, regarded the closed door behind him, and faced the arena sands. “The dog blossom tore out of here like his ass was on fire.”
Curge snorted in amusement. “You’d think this was the first time he had lost a fighter to one of those rabble.”
131 Days [Book 1] Page 3