“Not firsthand. And that one wasn’t rabble,” Gastillo said in a low voice. “There’s skill there, as distasteful as it might be. The games are attracting more and more skilled Free Trained every season. Individual swordsmen without the backing of a formal house or school or what have you. Eventually, you’ll see one of them as champion.”
Curge arched an eyebrow. “Are you favoring them, Gastillo?”
“Favoring? No. Wary of them, yes. Mark my words; there’s a gemstone in every mountain. It’s just a matter of it clawing its way to the surface.”
“Rabble, the lot.”
“Rabble they might be, but that’s not to say they’re slouches.” Gastillo rubbed at his throat. “To think that would be a grave mistake.”
Curge scrunched his face and looked into the arena. “Enough of that shite, then. When’s the next fight? A man has other things to do during daylight.”
“How many do you have fighting this day?”
“None. Samarhead will fight perhaps tomorrow. And you?”
“Tomorrow, as well. I have one in there.”
“I wonder how many Nexus has?” Curge thought aloud. “If any more get killed outright, the man might choke on his wine.”
“He just might.”
The pair became silent as the Orator straightened in his podium and announced the next match. The warriors to fight were both Free Trained, and the news was met with a raucous mix of cheers and boos. The two warriors emerged from their opposite entrances and walked on the sand.
A frowning Curge lifted one ass cheek from his chair and rubbed his face, preparing himself for the show to come.
And as expected, the two pit fighters went at each other’s throats like mad dogs. Sand and blood flew, and it took only a few moments before the dust clouds cleared, and one man remained on his feet. The other warrior squirmed on the sands, clutching his thigh cut to the bone. Blood spurted between his fingers.
The crowd roared, loving the violence. Curge suspected they cheered for the quickness of the match.
Robbed of mobility, the fallen gladiator held up a bare palm. The other accepted the surrender, and the fight was done.
Curge scratched at an ear. “That was absolute shite. You see why they’ll never advance much farther than a third round.”
“Perhaps not those two,” Gastillo grated, “but there are hundreds of them. The season’s a long one. A handful will show promise.”
“The lot of them are pure shite,” Curge grumped. “If you found one shiny rock amongst the works, you’d still have to sweat to teach it anything. Not worth the effort.”
“So you say.”
Curge chuckled and eyed Gastillo with scorn. “How long did you fight in the Pit? One season? Two? I can’t remember. I was born into that hell. And I’ve a good enough eye to measure what is and what isn’t shite. Even the crowd knows, Gastillo, and they’re drunk most of the time.”
Curge got to his feet. “All this talk about what is and isn’t shite makes a man want to piss. You watch on there, boy, and perhaps you’ll learn something. Don’t get too close, though. Shite flies. Might hit that pretty mask of yours. Then where will you be, hm?”
The gold mask didn’t move. Didn’t offer a reply.
Chuckling, Curge left. He walked past the manservant attending to them and, upon opening the door, met Nexus.
With a flourish, the larger man stepped back and bade Nexus enter. The merchant glared and did so.
Curge exited a heartbeat later.
“Ignorant punce.” Nexus sat down next to Gastillo. “The air’s so much fresher with that dog blossom gone.”
“It is that,” replied the half-faced man. “You returned quickly.”
“Too many people in the passageways,” Nexus settled into his seat and took a goblet from a servant without thanks. “Cluttered shoulder to shoulder. Angered me even more. I’ll talk to my taskmaster when I see him. And I’ll have a necklace of balls if it happens again.”
A necklace of balls, Gastillo thought. That was an image that would strike fear into anyone. “What are you going to talk about?”
Nexus’s goblet paused a hand’s breadth from his mouth, and he fixed Gastillo with a disgusted look. “You think I’m about to tell you? Take your best guess, you gold-plated topper. The day I tell you anything is the day I’m permitted to pack the asses off the king’s daughters.”
Nexus drank deeply, then demanded more.
Keeping his insult in check, Gastillo sipped his own wine carefully between his metal lips. A necklace of balls, indeed, he fumed. He decided he would not inquire about vineyards and winemaking this afternoon, and reflected, once again, these assigned ‘seats of honor’ would be much better if it were only him. He thought about wandering down to the lower levels, where each house had a private chamber looking out onto the arena, where the sands were level with a man’s upper chest. But those rooms were crowded with the training staff and house gladiators waiting for their time in Sunja’s Pit.
And he reluctantly admitted that the box offered the best view to the games.
*
Curge took his time at the latrines and, when finished, took a detour to the Gate of the Sun. He pushed through folk, leaving a wake of mutters and angry glares. No one challenged him. The owner walked by assembled Skarrs, their visors impassive. Up ahead, the wide corridor ended in a glow of sunshine. Curge stopped, ignored the crowds milling about him, and placed his broad back to one of the arena walls.
There he waited.
People walked by without a word, but some recognized the old bear. Those kept their distance all the more.
All but one. A man with youthful features slipped out of the stream of people. Dressed plainly in a black tunic, breeches, and soft boots, the individual placed a shoulder to the wall and nodded to his employer.
Dark Curge eyed the crowds as he half-turned to speak. “Don’t make me wait again, Bezange, or I’ll paddle your balls with a mace.”
“Apologies, my Lord,” the smaller man said.
“I want you to look into this one called Vadrian, see what he’s about. Get Omaz to talk with him, but don’t reveal anything just yet. And I want you to mind who this ‘Son of Seddon’ fights in the future. I’ll give you further instructions thereafter.”
“Understood,” Bezange said sleepily.
Curge knew his agent was in his late thirties, but his damn near unwrinkled skin gave him the glow of a newborn babe. “How can you wear black in this heat?”
Bezange shrugged. “It’s only hot if I stay in the sun. And I do not.”
No, Curge thought, you’re a creature of the shadows. Where you do your best work.
“Get going,” the bald owner growled and shoved the smaller man away with a curse, just to make it look convincing.
When his agent had gone, Curge decided to return to the owners’ box, mulling over Vadrian and the potential there. He liked what he saw in the young warrior. He liked the praying before the match. There were enough atheists around to despise such a show, and Curge could see a very lucrative opportunity in side wagers, if he was attentive enough and manipulated the odds in his favor.
That particular thought made Curge smile tightly as he made his way back to the games.
• 4 •
Halm and Muluk
The altercation with Vadrian had been interesting for only a moment before the masses went back to their own personal business. Perched at his desk above a fence of watchful Skarrs, the Madea sat and pondered the next match. He frowned and sized up the great matchboard. He took another glance before getting to his feet.
Gathered not too far away from the arena official, Pig Knot and Halm leaned against a stone wall draped by shadows. They were a pair of big men amongst other physically intimidating gladiators moving throughout the underground chamber.
“You unfit bastard,” Pig Knot scolded with a smile. “You had to go pick a fight with the nosiest punce in the pack?”
“Pah.” Halm bared
bad teeth. “I could only put up with that yelling for so long. He’s no church man. This Church of Seddon is a jest. Think about it. What church trains and sends a man to fight in these games? Eh? No, when I can, I’ll toss that sack of gurry into the streets.”
The Madea suddenly yelled, his voice carrying in those subterranean halls. “The next pairing will be Halm of Zhiberia and Muluk of Kree. Prepare yourselves.”
Halm gave Pig Knot a questioning look.
“So soon,” Pig Knot said, his eyes bright. “Interesting times.”
Halm scowled at him.
“It’s nice to know he remembers you.”
Halm continued scowling.
“Need any help with your gear?”
“The day I need help from you is the day I perish, Sunjan,” the fat man shot back.
“So you need help?”
“Aye that.”
Halm bent over and plucked at a huge sack at his feet, where he’d dumped his only tools of the trade. Unlike a good many individuals participating in the games, he actually owned weapons and armor. Some of the poorer Free Trained did not and they relied heavily on what the Pit’s armory had in stock, a selection of weapons and armor taken from dead men.
The Zhiberian undid the sack’s knot. The smell of foul leather poorly kept flowered the air and soured the faces of both men.
“Did you empty the bull in that?” Pig Knot asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“You should leave that open, afterwards. Dry it out.”
“Who is this Muluk, anyway?” Halm asked, changing the subject.
Pig Knot shook his head. “I don’t know. He obviously doesn’t belong to a school or the like.”
“So we’ll be two dogs fighting over scraps.” Halm winked.
“But, oh, what scraps.” Pig Knot’s dark eyes glittered.
“Here then, you.” Halm held out a long sleeve of leather padding tacked together with pointed studs. He slipped his sword arm into the sleeve while Pig Knot held it and later fastened the buckles under the portly warrior’s armpits and neck. The Zhiberian stooped, picked up his sword, a regular blade the length of his arm, and gave it a quick inspection. He placed it against the wall while he strapped greaves to his legs. Once done, he stood and regarded Pig Knot.
“How do I look?” Halm asked.
“Like a fat piece of shite,” Pig Knot remarked without humour. “This yours?”
He held out a helm. It was bronze, conical, with a thick visor that protected the eyes and nose but not the lower jaw.
“It is,” Halm said. “Give it here, then. I’m getting the wave from the Madea. It’s time.”
They both looked in the arena organizer’s direction. They also saw a brute of a man already conversing with him. He wore a shabby vest of studded leather and carried only a sword and square shield. A pot helm covered his head. Despite his ragged appearance, the man was as tall as Halm.
“Strong looking,” Pig Knot commented. “But looks like he got his gear from his father.”
“You’re one to talk,” Halm countered. “Have you looked at what you dress yourself in?”
“Not listening to a dog who struts around with his gut hanging out.”
“That’s strategy.” Halm patted his huge hairy belly, wholly unprotected. “They’ll all be swinging for this, while I’ll be taking off their heads.”
He slapped a roll of fat, making it quiver.
Pig Knot wasn’t impressed. “Let’s hope you win this one and can at least buy a girdle.”
Halm grunted. “If I win, I’ll be feasting this night.”
“Daresay you’ll perish, though,” Pig Knot said.
“Daresay.”
“Just don’t be quick about it. People pay money to see a show.”
“People pay nothing to see these games.”
“That’s right, my mistake.”
Halm squared his shoulders. “They can lick my ass, for all I care.”
“That would be a show.” Half of Pig Knot’s face hitched up in distaste. He held out the man’s own square shield and fitted it to the Zhiberian’s left arm. Halm picked up his blade again, gave himself a quick look, and announced, “Right, I’m ready. Who do I have to kill?”
“Are all Zhiberians like you?” Pig Knot asked.
“No. Just me.”
Pig Knot shook his head and held out a fist. Holding his sword, Halm pressed his knuckles into his companion’s.
“Care to wager?” Halm asked.
Pig Knot scoffed his answer to that and walked away.
Halm watched him go, thinking that a simple wager wouldn’t have hurt much. He realized he had very little to wager with, and Pig Knot was probably in the same situation. The potential for vast sums of coin had initially lured Halm to the games, but truth be known, the money was secondary. The Zhiberian enjoyed fighting, fully expecting to die before the age of forty. If he lived to be old, he had no idea how he would support himself, and he screwed his nose up at the thought of becoming a merchant. Of course, if he actually won the games, or even strung together enough victories then he could consider spending coin as a fulltime profession.
That and wenching.
And drinking.
Preferably, both at the same time.
Ignoring the Skarrs and the other pit fighters, he made his way through the white tunnel to the arena. He stopped before the gatekeeper, just below the lowered portcullis. The old man sized up the Zhiberian and shook his head.
“You’re a ham waiting to be cut up, my son,” the gatekeeper chuckled.
Halm focused on the gate above and the sunlight streaming in. “In your hole, you old tit.”
The surprised gatekeeper blinked at the insult.
“Shall I pull that lever?” Halm asked pointedly.
Incensed, the old man yanked down hard on the bar, opening the portcullis.
Halm jogged to his fate. He had more important things to do than exchanging barbs with old men. The light embraced him as he stepped onto the sands. The roar of the crowd washed over him, quickening his blood, but failing to move much else. These weren’t his first games, and he’d been around long enough to know the crowd’s true fickle nature. Some men loved the adoration of the masses, but Halm knew the truth of it. This day, however, he wondered how many had put coin on him winning, and how many pissers had wagered against.
Those he meant to disappoint.
Across the sands, the one called Muluk waited. He was indeed a tall man, perhaps even a finger or two higher than Halm. And meaty. Powerful-looking. Halm nodded at his adversary, and received one in return. That pleased him. A simple greeting was a good sign. He hated pit fighters who got so consumed in the moment that they forgot common courtesy.
Overhead, the Orator bellowed introductions.
Upon hearing his name, Muluk raised his sword arm in salute.
When Halm heard his name, he raised his arm as well. Some jeers reached his ears, and a rancid smile spread across his face––some still remembered the Zhiberian flinging a spear into the audience. It wasn’t him, but he could understand his countryman’s reasons for doing so. There were days the crowd was with you, and then days they wanted your head.
The Orator shouted to begin.
Muluk crossed the sand, his arms swinging at his sides, the leather he wore even more worn-looking the closer he got. His old pot helm had a few dents and completely hid the man’s face. Halm cringed at the uncomfortable heat his opponent must be feeling.
He took a deep breath and went to meet his foe halfway.
“Hail, Halm of Zhiberia,” Muluk said loud enough to be heard over the crowd.
“Hail,” Halm yelled back. “Muluk of Kree. It is Kree, isn’t it?”
“Aye that.”
At least he’d heard that part right. “Is this to the death, then?”
“I’ve no stomach for it to be so,” came Muluk’s reply, his words somewhat metallic sounding. “In fact, the sight of blood turns my guts.”
That made Halm smile. “You shouldn’t have signed up for this butchery then.
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have.”
“So why did you, then?”
“Coin.” Muluk circled to his right, raising his weapon and shield. “Need the gold. Times are hard.”
“So you entered hell looking for it?” Halm shook his head. He circled right as well, sword and shield at the ready. “That why you wear the rags?”
Muluk swung his sword at Halm’s head.
Halm parried with his shield and stabbed with his own blade, driving the other man back. The Zhiberian nodded in approval at the nimble evasion. He took a new grip on his sword and slowly pursued.
“These rags once belonged to my father,” Muluk answered, seemingly not bothered by the sword exchange.
“Truly?”
“Aye that.”
Halm grunted and threw a combination of strikes.
Muluk blocked each one with his square shield, moving the barrier up and down, left and right as needed. Then he thrust with his own blade, and Halm barely deflected the blade with his own protective barrier.
“You’re a strong one, Muluk!” Halm cried and shook his arm. “I felt that last one all the way up my shoulder.”
“Aye, you’re no slouch yourself––for a fat man,” Muluk shot back, but Halm imagined a smile around the words. “I thought this to be an easy mark.”
The Zhiberian laughed. “They all think that. I’ve fooled you, too, I see.”
Muluk skipped to his right, and Halm matched him. They narrowed the gap and erupted into a short, violent exchange of swords.
Halm stabbed for his foe’s leg and then his head. Both blows were turned aside. They parted, and Halm noted that the Kree’s shoulders and chest barely heaved at all. The man had stamina as well as strength. Thoughts of wearing him down exited Halm’s head.
“You don’t move fast on your feet, but you’re quick with the sword and shield,” Muluk called over the crowd’s growing insistence to liven things up. The man didn’t rush things just to please them, however, and that also pleased Halm. He hated the kind who listened to spectators.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 4