With a very sharp hand axe.
And Curge had Bezange go with him, so the new agent would witness and remember the very horrifying proceedings. Curge wanted Bezange to see and hear every chop of steel into flesh, every squeal of terror, and every word of pleading.
As warning.
Wrong Dark Curge, and he would find out.
After eating his noon meal, Curge left with four of his private guards and made his way to Sunja’s Pit. A sizeable crowd gathered about the arena gates despite the overcast sky. It lifted Curge’s spirits. Spectators were gold to him.
With his four watchful guards at his back, Curge wandered the outer halls of the great arena. He eavesdropped on commoners, as well as watched some Free Trained gladiators practice in one of the many training and sparring lots. He stayed behind the crowds, studying the men going through their paces, eventually dismissing them as no threat to any of his contenders and of no interest to acquire. Curge liked to scout the Free Trained by himself if possible. He trusted his own eye more than those of his spies. If the gurry contained a gold nugget, he would take the initiative and offer the man a place on his roster, as an investment for the current and later years.
And the dogs usually joined, overjoyed at being recognized with potential.
It didn’t always happen, but Curge thought wise to sift through the shite. One never knew.
After having enough of watching and longing to drink something, Curge decided to leave for the manager’s box. The fights were already starting inside, and the arena exploded at times with the crowds’ enthusiasm.
On his way back, however, Curge spied a familiar figure flanked by his own guards. Standing back from a practice lot, Nexus watched a pair of pit fighters exchange light strikes and parries.
Curge smiled. The silver-haired bastard was a wealthy merchant and vintner in Sunja, and obviously had a shrewd enough mind to search through the shite. The question was, was he a good judge of talent?
He thought about just passing by the old topper when Nexus turned and saw him.
“Curge,” the wine man frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“Inspecting the goods. You think you are the only one eyeing the meat?”
“Apparently not,” Nexus said, and gazed upon the practicing fighters in the lot. A look of distaste deepened upon the old man’s grooved face.
It struck Curge then, that Nexus just might have believed that he was the only one of a mind to inspect potential goods. That amused him. If so, then Nexus was quite naive to the ways of the games.
“Might I stand with you for a moment?” Curge offered a cool half smile.
“Can’t get enough of my company in the box?”
“You have me there.”
“Or perhaps, you look to see if I have found anything of interest here at the market?” Nexus stated without looking at Curge
The two fighters continued with their exercises.
“Well, have you?” Curge drew closer to the well-dressed wine merchant, imposing his much larger self. The guards of both individuals eyed each other, as well as their respective masters.
“I wouldn’t tell you if I did, you one-armed snake,” Nexus replied without fear. “You’d usurp my purchases at first chance.”
“Well, I might,” Curge admitted. “But that’s the nature of the games, good Nexus. If I were to learn something from your sharp eye, then I’d be a fool not to take advantage of it.”
Which was the truth. All the owners did the very thing, playing at games within games.
“Save the honey for your sluts,” Nexus snipped dismissively. “I may be inexperienced to the ways of the Pit, but I can tell you this for free––I’m here now, and I learn fast.”
“Apologies, Nexus,” Curge said politely. “I meant no offence.”
“Get your tongue out of my ass,” Nexus muttered. “I get enough of such shite from the merchants I deal with. I thought that you stable owners were of a purer, more direct lot, but I can see that I made a mistake.”
“I have a house,” Curge corrected in a tone that suggested Nexus remember that.
“House, school, stable,” Nexus growled. “All packs of trained dogs. Call yourself what you like if it pleases you.”
That silenced Curge, and he regarded the wine man’s profile, very tempted to slap it.
Nexus’s eyes didn’t leave the pit fighters in the practice lots.
“Fair enough, then,” Curge said, taking that last insult but unwilling to take another. “I’ll speak without honey from here on, when it’s just us boys.”
That earned a stern look from Nexus, actually breaking his gaze away from the display of arms.
“What have we here, then, hmm?” Dark Curge indicated the two gladiators with his half-arm. “Not much.” He sniffed then, hard, clearing his sinuses. “Well-muscled, but with problems. That one there, the tall one. He has tells. He leads with his eyes before he strikes. He’ll be gutted by the first intelligent warrior fortunate enough to be paired with him. And his partner there? The one looking as if he eats nothing but meat? What do you see there?”
Nexus bristled at the question and his eyes narrowed. “He’s quick to be fooled by a feint.”
“Aye that,” Curge agreed. “And that tells us what?”
“I’m no novice at this, you brazen ass-packer.”
“Indulge me, Nexus,” Curge pushed, dropping the honorific good, wanting a sense of how much Nexus actually did know about this trade.
“He’s nervous.”
“And what else?”
Nexus cocked an eyebrow. “He’s new to the games?”
“Yes, exactly.” No need to powder the man’s ass at all, Curge decided. Nexus was right on target with his observations. “Anything else?”
The lines in Nexus’s face deepened as he concentrated, but he did not add anything more. “No. That’s it.”
“Not at all,” Curge disagreed.
“Seddon’s black hanging fruit, that’s it, I said.”
“Of course not. He looks impressive, and all you’ve said about him is true, but there is one other tell which I’ll keep as a secret. Give you something to think upon.”
Nexus didn’t move, but his face took on a familiar shade of anger. Curge knew his point had sunk home. He inhaled sharply, catching a whiff of unwashed bodies. It was time to get to the box and do some drinking whilst men cut each other open.
“You’ll no doubt ask your taskmaster anyway,” he said as an afterthought. “Who is your taskmaster, or trainers?”
Nexus pursed his lips. “A man called Clavellus.”
“Clavellus?” The drunkard. Curge let slip a face of surprise. The name hooked unpleasant memories and once forgotten promises. “You… have him? I recalled him retired from the profession long ago. He has an estate somewhere on the road to Vathia, doesn’t he?”
“Aye that, he does.”
“Well, you’re in good hands, then,” Curge said, mulling the name. “I’ll leave you to it. The fights start shortly.”
Curge departed the wine merchant’s company. Clavellus, he mused darkly. That was a name he’d have to investigate further, just to make sure. He suspected the wine man simply said the name to shock him. That alone soured his mood.
With his guards parting the crowds, Curge strode purposely through the outer arena.
He spotted Bezange, who gave him a nod.
Excellent, Curge thought, his mood improving, wagers are in place. Let the feast begin.
At the door to the viewing box, Curge left his escort. A manservant opened the door, while a woman just beyond the threshold held out a silver cup. Curge took the wine and moved to the front where Gastillo sat, a similar cup in hand, his golden mask dull under a cloudy sky.
“You’re early,” Curge muttered as he plopped down across from him.
“You’re fashionably late,” Gastillo said, and sipped.
“Met my friend Nexus outside,” Curge threw out, knowing it would rankle the oth
er man. “We were discussing wine.”
“Taken up an interest have you?”
“A slight interest,” Curge said. “One shouldn’t dwell on the games forever, you know. But I suppose you do know.”
Gastillo didn’t bother replying. He looked across the arena and took another drink. With his free hand, he lifted his mask and dabbed at his mouth with an expensive-looking hand towel.
Curge noticed the cloth. “Is this what you spend your money on, good Gastillo?”
Gastillo’s profile dipped. “It was a gift from a silk merchant.”
“Silk? You really are branching out, aren’t you? Silk towels for that mess of a mouth today and silk rags for your ass tomorrow.” Dark Curge shook his head. “Maybe these games aren’t for you, Gastillo. I haven’t seen you outside inspecting the Free Trained. Perhaps your mind isn’t in it anymore?”
“Perhaps,” Gastillo allowed.
Curge smiled broadly, tickled with the man’s short reply. Curge had no real enemies, and Gastillo and Nexus were hardly a match. One was trying to assimilate everything he could in the short time of the games, while the other was doing his utmost to survive. Gastillo had only a fraction of the arena experience Curge possessed, and Nexus had no experience at all. They were both beneath him.
Curge wondered how Nexus had ever gotten into this privileged box. He had probably paid someone to get in, hoping it was private. Curge drank his wine. Bad luck, indeed.
The Orator stepped onto the platform, holding his robes about him as it they were about to fall. He held up his hands. “Good citizens of Sunja,” he started in a low voice, quieting the onlookers. “This dark afternoon is well-suited for the first match of the day. This afternoon, under heavy clouds and moist air, the House of Curge has delivered unto us a fiend. A thing of hell. An abomination forged of flesh, bone, blood, and steel. A child of war and a destructor of man. A creature from the Lands of Great Ice, cut by the same freezing storms that sculpt mountains with their breath. He is a monster of a man, if you dare call him one. He. Is. Samarhead.”
The crowd exploded into cheers.
“I wrote that introduction myself,” Dark Curge confided to Gastillo, smiling at the rousing introduction. The golden mask remained stoic, but Curge knew he struck a nerve.
The portcullis rose with a cranky voice, and a tall figure dressed in heavy plate armor shambled onto the sands. One hand held a double-bladed battleaxe that most men used with two, while Samarhead’s other hand held a massive shield that could have once been a door. A great helm, elaborate in design, had two great bull horns forward mounted, while a red iron visor hid the face completely.
The crowd lost their voices when they saw the warrior, but as Samarhead shambled onto the sand, they began to roar, low at first, then growing into a surge of approval. Samarhead moved as if the weight of his armor burdened him greatly, and it took some time for him to walk to where he wanted to be. He turned and carefully bowed in the direction of the king’s platform, though the king was nowhere in sight. Then the beast sighted the box of the top ruling houses and schools and bowed to Dark Curge.
The owner dipped his head in return.
His respect noted, Samarhead turned and waited for his opponent to appear.
The man entering from the opposing side was not small, either. The Orator introduced him as Milloch from Sunja, and there was an uninspired sprinkling of cheers that quickly died away into nothing. The man wore a coat of ring mail that left his muscular arms unprotected. He carried a sword and offhand axe, swishing them as if clearing stubborn brush. His helm was a common pot helm of the variety found in the Pit’s armory.
Free Trained.
An eager Curge wondered if the maggot knew he’d been fed to a beast.
With a flourish, the Orator shouted for the match to begin.
A brave Milloch plodded across the arena sand, raising his weapons as he got closer to his larger foe. His fearless march drew jeers from the spectators. The Sunjan stopped midway, having done his part, and planted both feet.
He gestured for the man from the Lands of Great Ice to meet him halfway.
Unmoving, Samarhead stayed where he was.
Taunts and curses prompted the Sunjan beckon his opponent once more.
But the menacing warrior from the Lands of Great Ice showed no indication of having seen or heard.
Frustrated, Milloch trekked the rest of the way, and Curge thought he could hear the man cursing as he marched along.
When Milloch came within three strides of Samarhead, he paused again, appreciating the sheer size of the northern brute for the first time. The crowds swore upon them, screaming for action.
Milloch sprang at the giant. His sword and hand axe stabbed and cut. He lashed out at a head and chopped at an arm, kicked at a knee and thrust for a gut.
Samarhead moved his door-sized shield this way and that, effortlessly it seemed, blocking all of the attacks. The man from the Lands of Great Ice then pushed forward with his shield, blinding his smaller foe for the instant it took to rear back his battleaxe and bring it down on top of the flat pot helm.
Splitting the metal and the head within down the middle.
The crowd exploded with cheers.
Milloch dropped to his knees as if before a king. His weapons fell while blood streamed down his front and back and pooled in the sand. Samarhead stood poised, axe still buried in a dead man’s head, as if waiting for something. The spectators eventually became quiet, wondering what manner of hellion Samarhead was. An uncertain silence hushed the arena, and some even wondered if, in death, Milloch had managed to stab his foe through the belly before he died.
Even the Orator looked vexed, and cast a wondering eye in Dark Curge’s direction.
Then, at a point of absolute silence, where not even a breath could be heard, Samarhead wrenched his axe free of the ruined skull, the blade squealing against the helm.
Only then did the corpse fall over.
After a short considering moment, Samarhead raised his axe to the gloomy heavens.
Once more the people gushed their praise, and even Curge himself shook a victorious fist. The great Samarhead was indeed his prize in these games and, though the match was short-lived, the effect rippled through the entire arena. Samarhead had just become the gladiator to be feared, and Curge adored it.
“That’s my lad,” he smiled at a silent Gastillo.
Though under his golden mask, the man’s face twitched.
• 6 •
Parched
Halm awoke with a powerful thirst. He slapped a hand to his forehead and dragged it down over his features, as if that might improve things. It did not. A pounding as steady as an axe stroke tormented the width of his skull. He yawned, loudly, sat up and looked around table.
Things did not look better. In fact, they looked terrible.
The alcove they’d occupied since last night was a sty. He had passed out in the back, facedown on the table. There was a pair of feet at the other end, and a buzzing snore caught his attention. Muluk. That was Muluk. He was certain of it. The Kree had out-drunk them all. Empty pitchers filled the table, most standing, some upended, but the one that drew his attention was the one Pig Knot had thrown up in. Halm grimaced, baring his yellow and black teeth. Pig Knot had wagered with another Sunjan that he could drink what he had just voided… and he had done so for a handful of gold. He couldn’t keep the mouthful down, however, and had spewed everything back in the same pitcher moments later, much to the delight of everyone at the table.
Images came into the Zhiberian’s mind and left. Memories of food: sliced apples and pears and peeled oranges, roasts and ale. At some point, someone ordered Sunjan mead. That unfit concoction could make a man lose all ankle support, and that was when the alehouse had begun to spin.
Some women had visited their table but, as usual, they had disappeared with the night. A shame, as there were some right nice ones, and Halm faintly recalled having one well-formed wench on his knee, reme
mbering how she giggled when he tickled her.
He shook his head, cringed at the receding pounding within, and caught the whiff of something foul. He tried hard not to look at the pitcher Pig Knot had filled. A fruit tray on the table drew his attention and the few slices of melon there––though he couldn’t rightly remember any melon. Regardless, he took a slice and munched it down, savoring its water. The alehouse was quiet, peaceful, the interior empty and full of gloom. Tossing the finished melon unto the table, Halm eased himself out of the alcove, his bare belly scrubbing the table’s edge. Muluk’s feet twitched, but he continued snoring, a raspy, nasal sound that Halm had no comparison for. The Zhiberian stood, instantly regretting it as the room began to whirl. He plopped back down on the bench and laid his head on the table.
The cool surface felt wonderful, rooting him to the spot. He didn’t want to leave.
“Keeper.” Halm grimaced at the parched squawk of his voice. “Keeper, bring me… a pitcher––” he thought of Muluk then, and Pig Knot. “––three pitchers. Of water.”
The effort took his strength, and he took several deep, settling breaths. Nothing else moved so he leaned out, to see if there was anyone about.
No one, except for a few dead-looking drunks splayed out on the floor.
Halm believed they shared a drink together.
His stomach lurched dangerously, settled, and was replaced by an urgent need to piss. He stood and staggered to a door that led to a latrine. He made it safely, freed his manhood from the folds of his breeches, and relieved himself with a sigh. His forehead knotted up at the soreness down there, but he paid it no further mind. A hole in the roof let the sky in, and Halm could see only grayness between the planks. As he pissed, he heard noise inside the alehouse. He finished, tucked himself away, and drove his shoulder into the doorframe as he stumbled back inside.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 6