Then he walked on, ignoring the resulting stares.
Bezange glanced back at the scene. “Well, with my master’s support––”
“I have no need of your master.”
“You have need of coin, do you not?”
Vadrian didn’t reply, his suspicions rising.
“My master is willing to take you into his house and train you––”
“I need no further training.”
“But with our instruction, you will truly rise in the rankings.”
“I am rising now.”
“But only so far,” Bezange persisted with a smile. “You won’t advance much farther without a proper school. Right now, you are only fighting the Free Trained, and all know what their mettle is. Once you rise above that rabble, as you clearly will, you will need the experience, teaching, and support of a professional school––else the lesser gladiator houses will chew you up.”
“I need no one.”
“You don’t seem to understand,” Bezange pressed, leaning in close to Vadrian. “You are alone right now. If you’ve caught the eye of my master, you’ve caught the others’ attention as well. And if you turn away all suitors, they won’t allow you to compete in the later rounds. Not without a school behind you.”
“Seddon is behind me.”
“Seddon?” a skeptical Bezange spat. “If trained and bled gladiators find you in the streets, even those from the lowest of ranked houses, they will punish you for being a mongrel playing at a game meant for lions. You must realize that the established schools don’t tolerate Free Trained warriors. That you’re looked upon as untrained maggots hacking each other’s heads off. Truth be known, if the schools had their say, none of you would be in the games at all. The Chamber only permits you to fight as a––a bloody prelude to the real games.”
Vadrian slowed and he glared at the smaller man. “I no longer like your tone.”
“Come, dear Vadrian, you––”
In a street packed with people, Vadrian gripped Bezange by his throat and brought him in close. “I’ve grown tired of you.”
Bezange’s face reddened and his tongue protruded. His hands pawed at the gladiator’s thick forearms. Vadrian shook him, and then shoved him away, sending him crashing to the ground.
Wasting no further time, Vadrian walked on, fuming at the little hellion’s attempt to tempt him. He was the Fire! He had no friends, needed no friends, for Seddon provided him with all. All others were nothing more than maggots writhing in their own secretions.
“Unfit heathen,” Vadrian murmured and went on his way.
He didn’t stop until poorly kept houses, built tightly together, lined both sides. The merchants became fewer, the streets became filthier, and the beggars became louder. The wretched souls sitting in the shadows with their hands out scattered upon spotting his Vadrian’s fierce form. The menacing gladiator marched to his Church of Seddon, magnificent in its time, but now old, dilapidated, and on the verge of collapse. He marched past the rusted and failing outer gates, past gardens long since dead, and entered the wreck of a church, closing one of two rotting doors behind him.
The street beggars came out of their holes once the gladiator had gone, but even then, they stayed quiet for fear of attracting attention. There were whispers about the old church, warnings of not to be around the building at night.
Those that did tended to disappear.
• 8 •
Hurt
Far above the lamp lit streets, above yellow and green banners hanging from building and across well-trodden streets, the stars winked into existence. The games had long since closed for the day.
Underneath the arena and within general quarters, Free Trained gladiators rested. Those who didn’t have a home or couldn’t afford lodgings were permitted to sleep within the underground hall to avoid sleeping in the streets. Hundreds of men had staked out small individual territories before bedding down for the night. Torches and scattered fire pits illuminated the huge chamber in a red flickering hue, and long shadows moved along the walls. The air was warm, stale, and stunk of lingering blood and the breath of sleeping men. Snores, soft and bone-rattling cut the silence.
In one of the quieter sections, four men hunkered down, near a small iron brazier that Halm had pulled closer to a wall. They were only marginally successful with the day’s wagers, but there would be no drinking or wenching that night, however, as the Zhiberian had to fight the next day.
Pig Knot decided to keep him company until there was something to celebrate.
Muluk stayed as he quietly informed his companions his dislike for drinking alone, and that, in a place such as Sunja, it seemed wise to stay with greater numbers to avoid trouble.
The one called Goll remained as well, also finding some security in the presence of the others.
The four of them lay around the small smoldering fire, shifting from their sides or their backs, watching the flames consume the last of the wood.
“So then,” Halm said, lying on his back and staring at the high ceiling. “Goll, what else can you tell me of this Samarhead?”
“There isn’t much more to tell. The match was over before it began. Big man, from the Lands of Great Ice. Wore plate and swung an axe.” He lapsed into silence, remembering the fight. “It was quick. I saw no weakness. He let the other man come to him, let him swing at him for a few moments, and then Samarhead drove his shield into the other’s face.”
“Them lads from up north can be right and proper brutal,” Pig Knot muttered.
“Aye that,” Muluk threw in, on his back with his eyes closed.
“Apologies, Halm,” Goll said. “For not seeing more.”
The Zhiberian tsked. “No apologies needed, friend Goll. You’ve said enough, and for that I’m thankful. I should have been watching the matches myself.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to watch the games,” Pig Knot said. “Especially if you’re smashed up like Goll here.”
“I hope you don’t become like me,” Goll said in a dark tone.
Pig Knot peered at the second man from Kree. “Baylus certainly did a dance on you, but it’s you here talking.”
Goll coughed and then took a deep breath. “I killed him, that’s true, but I fear…” The man sighed. “I fear I made a mistake in doing so.”
“Why do you say that?”
Halm and Muluk both turned their sleepy attention to the battered gladiator.
Goll shifted and grimaced. “That was my first fight in the Pit and, I’m ashamed to say, I was nervous. As nervous as any other, I suppose. But, well… I remember… I remember him talking to me.”
“Baylus talked to you?” Halm’s questioned, lips drawn pulled back from his bad teeth.
“Aye, he did.”
“Well, then?”
Goll thought about it, and Halm exchanged a glance with Pig Knot. There was obviously something on the mind of the badly hurt Kree.
“He was talking to me the whole fight,” Goll said. “He was telling me to slow down, at first. I was trying to… to kill the man straight off. I’ve been told I’m fast, so I believed I could cut up the Butcher before he knew he was dead. All I could think was, ‘This is the Butcher of Balgotha,’ and if I didn’t kill him, he would certainly kill me. So I tried to kill him first, but I couldn’t strike the man. I couldn’t touch him. He was a wisp of smoke and a stone, all at once. Because he was older, I thought him to be weaker and, for that, he made me look a fool. I remember him saying, ‘Alright, boy, alright,’ and then shaking his sword arm as if loosening it. That’s when I knew he was playing with me. He cut up my armor, broke the toes of my foot, and sliced me up like a roast.”
Pig Knot nodded. “Nothing to be ashamed of, lad. Baylus was a champion of champions. To even share the sands with him is considered an honor.”
The Kree looked deeply troubled. “I was trained to win by weapon masters in Kree. I traveled to these games to take everything and I was confident I would. Yet, an ol
d man taught me the one lesson I did not learn, and that was the danger of being overconfident. He let me strike at him until I got tired, then he cut me up, left me bleeding on the sand and, worse, he let me get angry. I was very angry when I crashed to the sand. I was… stunned when I heard the people calling out for Baylus to finish me… I was supposed to be adored by the masses, and there they were calling for my blood.”
Goll shook his head. “But he didn’t. He spared me. Over the screams for my head he told me to get up, that no one needed to die. He didn’t want to kill me. He spared me. Me. I know you don’t understand, but it was… it was…”
“He was just drawing it out,” Pig Knot said. “He was famous for that. He was setting you up for the kill. That was the Butcher from Balgotha.”
Goll would have none of it. “He was an old man, past his prime, yet back in the games for… I don’t know what. He didn’t want to kill me, though. I could see that. He bested me easily. Granted me mercy. And I realized that the Butcher had been leading with his leg and feinting. He had fooled me before. He did so again, and I… recognized it for what it was.”
“And you killed the butcher,” Halm said quietly, fully understanding why Goll was telling them his story. He wasn’t a bad man, although the Kree probably thought of himself as one. He had entered the games thinking he was ready and had been bested by a man who could have been his father. The Butcher could have taken his life, but had spared him. Easily bested, chagrinned, and then spiteful… it struck Halm then that this man from Kree was confessing.
“I killed him,” a bitter-sounding Goll finished. “I struck out, brought him to the ground, and pinned him. Even then he was talking to me. Even as I was staring into his eyes and had my blade at his throat, he was speaking. And I killed him. Killed the man who showed me mercy, when so many wanted me dead. When I stuck my sword into his head, the crowds adored me the way I wanted… but as soon as I was below, I limped my way, bleeding from everywhere, to the latrine, not to the healers. When I got there, I emptied my gullet, and I… had no further wish to be in the games.”
“None?” Muluk asked.
Goll shook his head. “A final lesson from a dead man. I trained to be a champion, a killer of men. I found out I was not. Men around here slap me on the back for what I did––what they think I did… but I wish I could undo it all.”
The three listeners said nothing. Pig Knot exhaled and stayed on his back, and Muluk gazed at the fire pit.
“You…” Halm started, but he couldn’t finish. A good man had made a mistake, and it was clear that he was stewing in his guilt. Halm knew Goll wanted judgment passed, but he could not give it. The Zhiberian had made enough mistakes himself.
“You sleep on it, young Goll. Sleep on it.” Halm thought his words sincere. In truth, he didn’t know what else to say.
Nodding, Goll slowly, painfully, made ready to sleep. Once comfortable, he looked at them again. “Since that day, I haven’t been able to sleep without nightmares. I hope this night will be different.”
He closed his eyes.
“Good idea,” Pig Knot said.
Muluk spoke something in Kree, to which Goll did not respond. Muluk then closed his own eyes.
Halm took a little longer, reflecting on the words of Goll.
• 9 •
Halm and Samarhead
In a street-side alehouse, the four gladiators ate a breakfast of cold chicken and bread, drinking mugs of water to help swallow it all down. Halm paid for the meal, leaving only a single gold piece from his earlier winnings. The group then meandered to the arena, moving only as fast as the wounded Goll. The young man didn’t say much, but the others were cheerful, and included him in their conversation. Halm intentionally would not let Goll dwell on last night. In his mind, the man had made a mistake and apologized to the ones closest. Seddon only knew how many mistakes Halm had made in the past, and would make in the future.
Upon entering the lower levels of Sunja’s Pit, Halm notified the Madea that he was present, and the arena official informed him he would be fighting shortly. The four companions moved into general quarters and located the huge cloth sack that belonged to the Zhiberian. It was late morning, but the hall was full of fighting men—some practicing, some resting.
“This place is too damned cramped,” Muluk grumbled, looking around.
“Aye it is,” Pig Knot agreed. “But there’s little choice in the matter.”
Muluk said nothing to that. They watched Halm untying the sack’s knot. He reached in and pulled out his armor.
The smell of sweaty leather wrinkled Pig Knot’s nose. “And they call me Pig. Don’t you ever air that out, man?”
“Why?” Halm asked. “No one will steal it if it smells like shite. Here, you,” he said to Pig Knot and held out the leather sleeve that would protect his sword arm. “Make yourself useful.”
“If I was that, I would’ve emptied the bull on your armor last night. Freshen it up.”
Halm shook the leather, growing impatient. Pig Knot took it and helped his companion slip into the sleeve. Muluk pulled out the metal greaves, noting the rust on the armor and the frayed leather. “You need new greaves.”
Worming his arm through the leather protection, Halm bared bad yellow and black teeth. “I could use a woman as well. And a new body. And a new life, come to think of it. Maybe I’ll win it all.”
“Merely saying,” Muluk muttered.
“Cheer up, good Muluk of Kree,” Halm said. “I’ve a special task for you this day.”
“What?”
Pig Knot buckled the armor into place and slapped it. Halm nodded thanks and reached for his leather purse. He pulled out his remaining gold coin and handed it to Muluk.
“That’s right,” Halm said. “Place it all on this poor Zhiberian pig bastard.”
Muluk took the coin and made it disappear. “I’ll do that. You’re not afraid I’ll run off with it?”
Halm shook his head. “After all I’ve done for you?” They both chuckled. The Zhiberian then looked at Goll’s broken toes. “Maybe you can keep an eye on your countryman there?”
“I will,” Goll winced. “But I’ll be as surprised as you are if he leaves us.”
“And miss all your company?” Muluk asked, his spirits suddenly brighter. “It’ll be done. May the Lords look after you.”
“Daresay they’ll be looking after someone.” Pig Knot stepped back and inspected the armored Zhiberian.
Muluk reached into the sack, brought forth the conical helm, and held it out.
“Not yet,” Halm said. “Let us sit and think for a while.”
“What about?” Goll asked.
Halm smiled in answer.
In another part of the Pit, in the designated area for gladiators from established schools and houses, Dark Curge paced the chamber reserved for the warriors of the House of Curge. There were ten gladiators present, but only one was scheduled to fight. The others provided an escort and, as reward, were permitted to watch the day’s events and even place wagers. Two pit fighters aided the warrior from the Lands of Great Ice putting on his plate armor. The beast of a man stared forward, his dark eyes unfocused. Curge stopped and inspected Samarhead’s great musculature and strength of arms and grunted in satisfaction.
“Your foe is another Free Trained whelp.” Curge peered at the Northman’s impassive face. “This day, I want you to do something special. This day, I want you to make the death a slow one. No killing in one stroke, do you hear?”
“I hear, Master Curge,” the fearsome gladiator replied.
“I want you to bleed him first,” Curge continued. “Slowly. Bring the crowds to their feet to see what you are doing. Then take off a limb of your choosing. Savor it. Let the man bleed and beg and moan. Take off another limb if the dog still stands. I want the people to know that you are in full control in this match. I want any gladiator watching to pause in fear. The House of Curge is to be feared.”
“And if the dog falls to the sand
?” Samarhead asked.
Curge looked him in the eye. “Cut him up. Standing or on his back, chop him into pieces.”
“Pieces, Master Curge.”
The impassive owner nodded and glowered at the men suiting up Samarhead. Curge was in foul spirits this day, and it was all because of the one called Vadrian the Fire. The maggot had actually laid hands on Bezange and left the agent in bruises and shaky spirits. There were times when Curge could throttle the little man himself, but no Free Trained topper was permitted to touch his agent. To strike Bezange was to strike Curge himself, especially when he had the good grace to extend an offer. Such insult was unacceptable. He intended to have his revenge with the self-proclaimed Son of Seddon. For now, however, Curge wanted a sacrifice. He met the indifferent expression of Samarhead, his best fighter of the games.
“Bloody pieces.”
The grim gladiator nodded.
“Halm of Zhibera,” shouted the Madea. “It is your time.”
The four companions regarded each other. Pig Knot quickly fitted the helm to Halm’s skull, swatting the metal for luck. Muluk held up his shield and fixed it to the Zhiberian’s arm. Halm thought of using an axe but changed his mind. He regarded them all from his eye slits. “Dying Seddon, you bunch look solemn. I feel damn near perfect. Go and put that gold down, Muluk, and I swear by Saimon’s black hanging fruit, I’ll buy you enough drink to cross your eyes.”
Pig Knot held out his fist, and Halm met it with his own.
“Luck to you, Halm of Zhiberia,” Goll said in a grave tone.
“The only luck I have is bad.”
He slapped his hanging gut, making the fat rolls quiver. Then he stalked off in the direction of the tunnels without looking back. Lamplight illuminated the tunnel painted in white, and his shadow flittered along the walls. Halms thought of Goll as he made his way pass the assembled Skarrs. Above, the crowd roared as one voice shouted out above them all, the Orator announcing the opening of the day’s fights.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 8