131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  The barkeep walked back from his table. “Good morn to you,” he said with a nod. He was a small portly man, wearing pants and a shirt with a clean-looking apron. The barkeep obviously had changed his clothes.

  Halm muttered a reply and nodded back. He made it to his table, placed both hands around a clay pitcher, and drank deeply. He stopped once to kick Muluk in the ribs. The man did not wake. Halm considered throwing some water on his face, but decided against it. He drank until only a quarter remained, then he sat down, moving Pig Knot’s offensive pitcher to the far end. The smell wafted, causing Halm to shiver and nearly almost retch.

  Holding his nose, he picked up the pitcher, intending to dump it in the latrine.

  Muluk, on his back and snoring like a babe, caught his hungover attention.

  Halm considered the full pitcher in his fist. Muluk’s head was right below, his mouth open. Ripe for the jest.

  Holding out his arm, Halm began to tip the contents.

  “He’ll hate ye for it,” the barkeep rumbled from across the way.

  The words cut through the fog of Halm’s brain and he ceased tipping. The barkeep was right. Funny it would have been, but cruel, and the lad would be stinking right up until he could get washed, which was a good question of where and when.

  “You’re a good man,” Halm said, as he unsteadily crossed the floor.

  “Not really,” the barkeep muttered. “Just didn’t want to clean that up.”

  “Hm,” Halm said. “Apologies for thinking it.”

  The barkeep nodded.

  Halm dumped the pitcher’s contents into the latrine and held his breath. Once the container emptied, he gave it a deep shake, and retreated back inside. He thumped the pitcher on the bar and returned to his table, where Muluk remained on his back, snoring comfortably.

  Halm kicked him again before he sat down.

  “Do I owe you anything here?” Halm croaked, his voice a rasp. Memories of singing touched him then. And a mule.

  “Nothing,” replied the barkeep. “You were more than generous last night.”

  Halm checked his purse. There was something left inside, and he untied the strings to look. Two gold coins peeked out at him and that made him think. He’d won twenty. The baths, food, drink, and women had taken all of his money. Thoughts lingered on the women. He’d paid a woman for something, he remembered faintly.

  Muluk yawned mightily.

  Halm gave him yet another kick to the ribs, harder this time.

  “I felt… the last one,” the Kree moaned, his eyes still closed. “But I thought I was dreaming.”

  “It’s morning,” Halm informed him. “Get up. We have things to do.”

  With an effort, Muluk pulled himself up and sat down across from Halm. He yawned again while scratching at his crotch.

  Halm pushed the tray with the food scraps towards him. Muttering thanks, Muluk chewed on a piece of apple. The Zhiberian nudged a pitcher over, which was also gratefully accepted.

  “Surprised I’m still alive after last night,” Muluk said, but Halm was deep into a morning stare and didn’t rouse from it.

  “Where’s Pig Knot?” the Kree asked.

  Halm grunted, still staring off at nothing.

  “Pig Knot?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Probably with that wench you paid for.”

  Halm looked at him. “I paid for a wench?”

  “You lost a wager.”

  “I did?”

  “Aye that, you did,” Muluk nodded and drank again.

  “I don’t remember anything…”

  The Kree almost choked on his water, startling the other man. When he composed himself, Muluk asked, “You don’t remember the mule?”

  Halm shook his head.

  A broad grin broke across Muluk’s face.

  “What about the mule?” Halm asked, growing uneasy.

  “Morning, lads,” Pig Knot called out from the second floor. The men looked up and saw their companion standing amongst the ceiling timbers, his hands on a second floor railing. “Anything to eat or drink?”

  “There’s water,” Muluk said.

  Pig Knot joined them. He was missing his shirt and sat bare-chested at the table. He picked at the scraps and gratefully accepted the pitcher. When he finished, he looked at both men and smiled. “That was a time, last night.”

  “Did I pay for a woman for you?” Halm asked.

  “You did. You lost a wager.”

  “What wager?”

  Pig Knot exchanged amused looks with Muluk, and both men chuckled.

  “You don’t want to know,” Pig Knot informed him. “Not even I will bring it up again. Least, not in your presence, anyway.”

  “And I’m sure the others were too drunk to notice,” Muluk added.

  Halm fumed and rubbed his coins together. There were more important things to think about this morning and wagers to place. Not that it would be much, and he said that to his companions.

  “Fear not,” Pig Knot said. “I have a gold piece left. I’ll throw it down on the table for the lot of us.”

  “I cannot offer anything,” Muluk said. “Unless I sell my sword. No one will take the rags I have as armor.”

  “That might be an idea,” Pig Knot said. “The sword I mean. You won’t be needing it now, since you’ve been yanked from the games. Wager on us, and you’ll get your coin back and more.”

  “Or you’ll be in an even worse state,” Halm added.

  The idea brightened Muluk. “Why not, then.”

  “One thing first, this morning,” Pig Knot said. “I think a gold piece will get a better breakfast than this. And a bath.”

  Both Halm and Muluk declined the food, so the three of them went to the public bath house. They paid a gold coin and were given more fruit and water while soaking in hot water. A deep soak was just the thing needed after a night of drinking.

  They finished bathing and, still feeling unable to eat anything beyond soft fruit, they decided to head to the arena and watch the games from the stands. None of them were scheduled to fight, but they would check with the Madea to see when they were scheduled. Halm in particular wanted to know when his blood match would happen.

  The loud preaching voice of Vadrian greeted them upon entering the general quarters.

  “Lords above,” breathed Muluk.

  “I supposed he didn’t see me around,” Halm muttered, “And no one’s said a word to him.”

  The Zhiberian glanced around the huge chamber cluttered with men going about their business. A familiar figure caught his eye.

  Vadrian was speaking with two men sitting on a bench.

  “He has a following,” Pig Knot observed.

  “So it seems.” Halm wondered.

  “He’s been talking shite,” a nearby pit fighter said, catching the three’s attention. Shadow covered half of the man’s upper torso, and the rest was in hard shape. Bandages sheathed him and he talked through a badly swollen mouth. He balanced himself on a pair of crutches. As the three companions watched, the stricken pit fighter sat down heavily on a bench, baring his teeth as he did so.

  “Been listening, have you?” Pig Knot asked. “You certainly can’t do much else.”

  The wounded man shrugged.

  “I know you,” Muluk said, pointing. “You’re Gall.”

  That summoned a grimace. “Goll.”

  “Goll, then. You killed Baylus the Butcher.”

  Goll grunted. “Not before he danced on me.”

  Halm eyed Goll’s foot. “Broke your foot?”

  “Broke my toes.” Goll smiled, his wrecked lips warping his expression. He might’ve been an ordinary-looking man otherwise, possessing dark eyes, short sandy hair. Dressed as he was, it was easy to see how badly the Butcher had mauled him. “Also, my shoulder and some of my jaw, I think.”

  “Seeing when you fight next then, are you?” Muluk asked.

  “My games are finished,” Goll sighed, his dark eyes glittering. “If I
can recover quickly enough, I’ll make for Kree before winter.”

  “You’re from Kree?” Muluk asked, and release a stream of foreign syllables that brought a smile to the battered man’s face. Goll replied in his country’s tongue, and both men shared a chuckle.

  Shaking his head, Halm turned away and watched Vadrian raise his arms to the ceiling. Armor covered the man, and he abruptly turned and strode toward the arena tunnels, sword and spiked gauntlet swishing at his sides.

  Without thinking, Halm walked in Vadrian’s wake, until he stopped before the Skarrs standing guard in front of the Madea’s desk.

  “Ho, Madea,” Halm greeted. “I see that punce is fighting this day. Who is the unfortunate soul?”

  The arena official looked up from his documents and sized up the belly and bare chest before him, his expression souring the farther his eyes rose. “He wanted to fight you, Halm of Zhiberia, as his scheduled foe could not fight. We hailed you this morning but, as the start time drew near, we found another to fight him.”

  Halm closed his eyes. “He was going to fight me this morning?”

  “He was but, as I said, you were not here.” The Madea regarded the man. “Fortunate for you. You look… unfit.”

  “When will I fight that bastard?”

  The Madea thought about it. “If he’s victorious and not too badly cut up, perhaps the day after tomorrow. Depending on whether you win your match, of course. If you wish it.”

  “Who will it be?”

  “A man called Samarhead,” the Madea informed him. “From the House of Curge. Formidable, I might add. Killed his last foe.”

  “I know about the House of Curge,” Halm said. “Dark Curge only takes killers under his wing.”

  “He has one now, I daresay.”

  “So I fight tomorrow. To the death, I imagine.”

  The Madea said nothing

  “‘Til tomorrow, then.” Halm nodded and turned to go. He walked back to his companions.

  Pig Knot saw him and gestured at his brooding face. “Something wrong?”

  “No,” Halm said and looked to Goll. “Were you to fight Vadrian this day?”

  “I was.”

  “But you couldn’t?”

  Goll scowled and didn’t answer that.

  “What I meant was––”

  “They were looking for you to fight Vadrian?” Muluk asked.

  “Aye that,” Halm said.

  Muluk winced and looked towards a wall.

  “He’ll think you’re dodging him now.” Pig Knot placed his hands on his hips. “Regardless of what you say.”

  Halm didn’t answer right away. “Until I meet him on the sands.”

  “When will that happen?” Pig Knot asked.

  “After my next fight.”

  “Your next fight?”

  “Aye that. One of Dark Curge’s hellpups. One called Samarhead.”

  Goll’s eyes widened. “You’ve drawn Samarhead?”

  The three men looked at the crippled gladiator.

  “You know of him?” Halm asked.

  “He split the head open of some poor topper only just now in the Pit. Only moments before you arrived.”

  The three men strained to hear over the bustling activity around them

  “Split the head?” Muluk asked.

  Goll nodded. “With a battleaxe. One-handed. I saw the fight. I forget the man’s name, but he came out strong. But Samarhead was right evil-looking. He waited for the bastard to get closer, which he did. He also carried a huge shield and stayed behind it until he saw his moment. One cut. Right through the pot helm. Opened his brainpan to the neck and stood there with the dead man until all got quiet. Then he pulled the axe free.”

  “Dark Curge trains his boys to finish fights,” Halm said.

  “Curge trains his lads to kill.” Pig Knot’s lip curled. “No secret there.”

  “Aye that.”

  “What are you going to do, then?” Muluk asked.

  Halm and Pig Knot exchanged looks.

  “What was Samarhead wearing, Goll?” the Zhiberian asked.

  “Heavy armor. Plate.”

  “Well, then, that settles one thing,” Halm said. “I’ll take the biggest axe I can swing from the armory. Looks like I’ll be doing some wood cutting of my own, friend Muluk.”

  “Trees don’t split skulls,” Muluk replied.

  “They do if they fall on you,” Pig Knot remarked. “Many thanks to you, Goll. You’ve done this Zhiberian a great favor. He’s in your debt, I wager.”

  “Least I can do.” Goll’s features became dark with some unknown emotion.

  From above, a huge cheer went up like a crashing of a monstrous wave. Other pit fighters paused and looked to the ceiling, fearful that it might fall in.

  “I think,” Pig Knot began, “we just lost the opportunity to make some coin.”

  “Maybe,” Halm said, his eyes still on Goll. “But we’ll have coin tomorrow. If you have anything left in your purse, friend Goll, you wager it on whom you wish. But if you are wise, you’ll place it on my head.”

  That lifted Goll’s spirits, somewhat. “That so? Can you guarantee it?”

  “Of course I can’t. But if I die, it’ll matter not to me,” Halm said. “But if I win… if I drive this Samarhead to his knees right and proper…”

  Pig Knot couldn’t contain himself. He grabbed and shook Muluk by the shoulder. “Best sell that sword of yours for whatever you can get. I can smell the odds now. We fast this day, boys, but we’ll eat like kings tomorrow.”

  “Even you, young Goll,” Halm added.

  That pleased Goll to a point, but something bothered the man. Halm didn’t press him, however, since having only just met. Such prying would be considered rude, even by Free Trained standards.

  “To the fights then,” Pig Knot said.

  “Come with us if you wish, friend Goll.”

  The battered Kree considered it, and just as Halm believed the man would decline, he surprised them all by accepting.

  Goll stood without any help. Halm liked that.

  The four of them exited the general quarters only moments before the self-proclaimed Son of Seddon returned, victorious for the second time.

  • 7 •

  Seddon’s Son

  Vadrian did not linger after his victory. He collected his money, cleaned his weapons, sent his two followers away to spread the word of his success, and finally left the general quarters for his church. He walked in public bearing his armor and weapons and the crowds parted for him with expressions of fear. Vadrian didn’t pay them any mind as he remembered his second fight, pleased at how quickly he’d dispatched his foe. The man was Free Trained, as was Vadrian, but he wasn’t infused with the light and strength of Seddon, and thus he was doomed from the start.

  The spectators had sensed it also, and those that had wagered coin on his victory were not disappointed.

  It was beginning, and Vadrian knew that in time he’d gather to him a flock of both warriors and commoners. Once that happened, Seddon above would show him the way. Vadrian suspected it would be fraught with war, and on a scale that would dwarf the one on Sunja’s borders. And if great Seddon demanded a scouring of the land, then Vadrian would lead the cleansing.

  But first Vadrian had to prove his worth even more, prove himself by building a legend in Sunja’s Pit. The battles he fought on the arena sands would draw a following to him. They’d find him because of his name and the coin it brought. Then they would find him because of his fighting ability, then his deeds in the Pit, and finally his words. His success in the arena was first step toward a church that would rule the world in Seddon’s name, with Vadrian as the warrior prophet.

  The Fire knew other gladiators talked about him. He sensed their fear.

  That thought stopped him.

  The one called Halm, the brazen one who had openly challenged him. Vadrian would make him an example of Seddon’s order in the coming world, a world where there would be no mercy f
or the non-believers and the barbarians of faraway lands. Vadrian wondered if Halm wasn’t a test of his resolve. If so, the Zhiberian bastard would be quickly killed and offered.

  It would be glorious.

  Vadrian would make a name for himself with Halm’s death. Make a name first and the rest would follow. Seddon would see to it. Seddon would see to everything.

  And behold, there in his path, a man waved for Vadrian’s attention, interrupting his thoughts. A little man, looking and smelling like a vagrant. Vadrian scowled until he decided to merciful. At least until he heard what the man had to say.

  “Salutations, Vadrian the Fire,” the little man said in a formal voice. He bowed before Vadrian’s towering visage, and that pleased the holy fighter.

  Then Vadrian’s eyes narrowed. He wondered if the worm was an agent sent by Seddon.

  “My name is Bezange,” the man said. He wore only a plain tunic and black pants, but he possessed a youthful face.

  Vadrian paused. The man-boy interested him.

  “I wish to walk with you for a bit, if I may, and speak as well,” Bezange said.

  “As you wish.” Vadrian resumed walking, but very much aware of Bezange at his side. “Walk with me, but when I tell you to leave me, you shall do so.”

  The little man nodded. He kept up with the taller warrior, sidestepping others who darted into his path to avoid Vadrian. “My master has watched you twice now upon the arena sands, and he’s most impressed.”

  “I don’t care about your master,” Vadrian snapped as his master was the Seddon above.

  “That’s why I’ve been sent to you,” Bezange said as he continued to dodge passersby while the masses parted for the hulking fighter like fresh bread cleaved with a knife. Those who did not were shoved out of the way. “My master is the owner of the most honorable and prestigious gladiator school in Sunja. As I’ve said, he’s impressed with your performance as of late, but he believes that, under his teachings, you might very well achieve greatness.”

  Vadrian pushed aside a young boy barely ten. “I will claim greatness on my own,” the gladiator replied gruffly.

  An older, portly man cut in front of the gladiator. The Fire grabbed him by the neck and heaved him into a stall of hanging smoked meats.