131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  And he knew the day’s bodies would be burned.

  Just to be sure, however, he straightened, took a quick gulp of air, and kicked sand over the corpse’s torso.

  He stepped away from the corpse, the full weight of his wounds hitting him, and distantly realized that, for the first time, people were cheering his name.

  *

  Dark Curge’s back stiffened so quickly that Gastillo initially thought someone had rammed a length of steel up his arse. The old gladiator stood, pounded his stump against the nearby stone wall, and shoved a servant aside as he stomped out of the box. Gastillo watched him go, surprised, but far from disappointed.

  “I suppose he had coin wagered on that match.” Gastillo said and wiped at the drool hanging from his mangled lips.

  “I suppose so,” a cool Nexus replied.

  Gastillo glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. The wine producer seemed unusually smug, an abrupt change to his earlier mood. It was a strange contrast, and Gastillo made note to think about it at greater length when he was alone.

  He sensed something afoot.

  *

  Holding a hand to his belly wound, Halm half-turned and squinted at the people cheering his name. The sword Vadrian had used then stole his attention.

  The Mademian sword.

  Cringing with discomfort, Halm walked over to the weapon and pried the blade from Vadrian’s severed hand. He hefted it, looked at the characters stamped on the metal, and slipped it into his scabbard. Halm had no intention of allowing such a fine weapon go to the Pit’s armory. The scabbard wasn’t the right length for the blade, but that could be fixed with a new one, which he intended to purchase with his considerable winnings.

  That put a smile on the Zhiberian’s face.

  He applied pressure to his wound and his smile disappeared. The brutal blows had hurt badly, perhaps a couple of broken ribs or more. Halm sighed. Even though he’d won his fight, the games might very well be over for him.

  Ignoring the crowds, the Zhiberian trudged to the open tunnel.

  Thoughts of poison and gold dimmed the pain of his side.

  • 13 •

  Musings

  “You’re damn lucky,” the gray-haired healer said, as he wrapped bandages around the Zhiberian’s midsection. “Your fat saved you.”

  “Really?”

  “Like a big pillow.” The healer squinted, narrowing intelligent blue eyes. “If it was any of those other bastards, with nary a shred of fat on their bones, I daresay I’d be putting their guts back in.”

  The healer drew the bandages tight, drawing a hiss from his patient, and tied them off. “Off with you, then. I’d tell you to only drink water and to rest until mended but I don’t think you’d listen.”

  Halm slid off the table and moved through the empty infirmary. He paused at the door. “Thank you for that.”

  “It’s my job,” the healer remarked.

  “You do it well.”

  “Hm.” The healer turned away from him.

  Halm walked down a torch-lit hall, toward the general quarters. Pig Knot, Muluk, and Goll had left him for the Domis to collect their sizeable winnings. Halm had his own marker to cash in, and he wondered how much it would amount to. Probably enough for a woman or twenty. And definitely enough to keep a man in fine spirits until he had to fight again. Halm didn’t know when that would be. He wasn’t eliminated from the tournament, but he had to return when called upon, else be removed from contention.

  A ghostly roar of the crowds reached him through the ceiling. The fight on the sands was an entertaining one.

  “Good Halm?” a voice from an alcove reached his ears.

  The Zhiberian stopped and turned. A man of medium height and dressed in well-made robes stepped from the shadows. The stranger raised a hand in greeting.

  “What is it you want?” Halm asked.

  “A moment of your time, good sir.”

  He thought about it, his hand resting on the pommel of the Mademian blade jutting from an ill-fitting scabbard.

  The gesture didn’t go unnoticed.

  “I assure you, sir,” the stranger said, “that’s not needed. I have some very good news, if you are inclined to listen.”

  “Lead on, then,” Halm said, wondering if this person was responsible for the poisoned blade.

  The stranger led Halm to a wooden door and ushered him inside. The room was empty, illuminated by torches. Halm knew they were on the level underneath the general quarters, and he wondered why the room was bare. Not a chair and table lay within it. Only warm air.

  Halm turned to the stranger. “What is it, then?”

  “I won’t keep you any longer than necessary, good Halm.”

  The Zhiberian didn’t like the way the man called him good. Halm knew Vadrian had been poisoned and it was that reason alone he’d managed to defeat the screaming hellpup. That knowledge tainted his victory over the Sunjan. It also didn’t make Halm feel particularly good. At least, not in the way the stranger meant it.

  “My name is Varno.” The man’s blue eyes were steady. “I represent the School of Gastillo. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  “I have.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” The other smiled, displaying fine white teeth. “My master, Gastillo himself, has noted your skill in the arena, and would like to extend to you an invitation to join his school, to further your training, and prepare you for the day you might very well fight for the arena title.”

  “I see.”

  The response drew a perplexed expression from the man. “Well, I might add that it’s a great honour to receive such an invitation. From one of the top gladiator schools in Sunja, no less. To be chosen is a compliment to your skills at arms.”

  “Hm. That so?”

  Varno paused. He cleared his throat. “To be chosen to––”

  “Yes, you’ve explained it all well enough.”

  “But I have not explained the benefits of being a gladiator.”

  “I already am a gladiator.”

  Varno smiled. “Of course. I meant a recognized gladiator, belonging to a prestigious school or house. The value of such––”

  “I daresay,” Halm interrupted, already bored, “I’ll be plenty recognized after today.”

  “Where are you going?” Varno asked, suddenly alarmed.

  “To collect my gold,” Halm replied. “Then to get drunk. Mead and ale are the best killers of pain I know of.”

  “What about my master’s offer?”

  “What about it?”

  A confused Varno blinked. “Are you refusing his generosity?”

  Halm smiled. “His generosity? I would have to pay him for my learning, would I not?”

  “Yes, that’s correct but––”

  “And you think I have to be a part of a school? Just to be recognized? Maybe to even have a chance?”

  “That is correct.”

  Halm shook his head. “Not for me.”

  “What do you mean ‘not for you’? Good––” Varno smiled again.

  Halm didn’t like the smug expression. “I will do this on my own.”

  “But… you cannot.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “You are a Free Trained,” Varno explained as if talking to a child. “No Free Trained warrior has ever won the games.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes. In fact, there has never been a Free Trained warrior in any of the later rounds.”

  Halm grunted.”We’ll have to change that.”

  “We’ll have to…?” Varno sputtered. “You don’t understand. None of the gladiatorial schools will let a Free Trained warrior progress. Even if you manage to win a few matches, they’ll single you out, in or out of the arena, and do whatever it takes to… to… “

  “Kill me?” Halm cocked an eyebrow.

  “I never said that.” Varno held up his hands. “But they will not allow you to advance in the games.”

  “Let them try, then,” the Zhiberi
an growled.

  Varno appeared to be at a loss. “You simply don’t understand. They will stop you by any means. They don’t recognize Free Trained warriors––”

  “Gladiators.”

  “For you to even fight amongst them,” Varno continued, offering no apologies for the slight, “is seen as a slap across their bare kog and bells! You’re an affront––”

  “A what?”

  “An affront! An insult to their profession. If you say no to me and to any other offers, they will eventually find out. And when they learn you actually refused an invitation, they…” Varno trailed off, shaking his head. “They’ll punish you.”

  “I see.” Halm stepped to the door. “I still say no. Go back to your master and tell him that.”

  “You’ll be a hunted man,” Varno warned. “One against hundreds.”

  “I’m that now, you punce,” Halm growled.

  With that, he left the stunned messenger alone in the room. Halm smirked as he closed the door. What did he care about joining a group of pampered warriors? The games were always suspect for being underhanded, and the poison he had detected on his own blade soured his own beliefs. This invitation business and warning ruined it all the more. He wondered if he should just take his winnings and run?

  His shadow appeared and disappeared on the wall as he walked through pockets of torchlight. Halm decided to not head to the surface right away. Instead, he made his way back to the armory, holding his side as he did so. He pushed through the masses housed in general quarters and stopped before the barred window of the armory

  The quartermaster within looked up from inspecting a dagger.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  He was a taller man, gaunt, with his hair shaved close to the skull. A different man entirely than the one who handed Halm the poisoned blade.

  “Where is the other man?” the Zhiberian inquired, keep his voice calm.

  “What other man?” the quartermaster stated.

  “The other man.”

  “There is no one here but me.”

  “What about the short one here earlier.”

  “The short one?”

  “Yes, he allowed me to…” Halm trailed off and shut his mouth. He could tell by the quartermaster’s puzzled expression he knew nothing of what had happened. Saying anything more might incriminate the Zhiberian in ways unknown to him. Without another word, he patted the iron bars and left the armory, deciding it best to put the entire event behind him. Vadrian was dead and Halm was due some coin.

  He found a stairway leading to the surface. It was time to collect his gold.

  Thoughts of listening to Goll entered Halm’s mind. That house idea of his wasn’t an entirely bad thing. Perhaps being drunk would help him think more on the subject.

  It certainly couldn’t hurt.

  But the poisoning of Vadrian remained at the back of his skull, scratching at bone.

  Not as happy as he would have liked to be, Halm of Zhiberia climbed the stairs to daylight.

  *

  Later that night, after the day’s fights were done, a content Nexus lounged on a bed of fine pillows and sipped wine from a goblet of polished silver. He relaxed in his private chambers, with shuttered windows curtained by long flowing drapes of dark satin. The smell of rosemary hung in the air, heavy and choking to anyone unaccustomed to it. Nexus, however, breathed it in deeply and loved its heady scent. Wine, incense, and perhaps a woman or two was his way of celebrating good fortune. The day at Sunja’s Pit had seen his wagers bring in gold aplenty, and he had watched the death of the Sunjan responsible for the slaying of one of his own at the start of the games. The Khas-Jantos were expensive, but they were always reliable. When the time was right, he would allow a whisper of the revenge to circulate into the populace, and that would cause people to fear the name of Nexus.

  He lay back on a hill of cushions, careful not to spill any wine. The games. He’d only been part of the games for a short while, but in that time he’d learned much. Nexus was a quick study of the sport and its attention to strategy. It was certainly much more exciting than haggling with merchants. The only thing he didn’t like, but saw as a necessity, was feigning ignorance in front of his fellow, more experienced, owners of older houses and schools. Gastillo wasn’t so bad, and malleable, but Curge was a barbarous swine dressed in expensive clothing and calling himself otherwise. No, Nexus corrected. That description better fit Gastillo. Curge was a dolt in thinking Nexus was inexperienced in matters of the games. The games were business, in reality, and Nexus excelled in business. It was easy to play the ignorant newcomer around Curge and Gastillo, even going so far as to throw exaggerated fits in their presence.

  Nexus supposed they would eventually see through his ruse, but the wine merchant hoped it didn’t happen this season. Eventually, yes, but not too soon.

  He wanted his slyness to be recognized and appreciated.

  His thoughts returned to the day when he’d first seen Vadrian the Fire fight his man. The Sunjan had killed his gladiator, but that wasn’t really the knife in his craw at all.

  Nexus sipped his wine.

  The killing had only mildly put him off, as he recognized Vadrian’s skill straight away. He used the guise of being infuriated, however, to leave and give instructions to one of his agents, charging him to find Vadrian, extend the offer to join the School of Nexus, and fight under that banner.

  It was an offer that scant few Free Trained fighters would decline.

  Vadrian had, however.

  Even further insulting, Nexus believed the savage had murdered the agent sent; another slap in the face. If Vadrian had been a rival merchant, Nexus would’ve made it so that the fanatical Sunjan would suddenly discover it exceedingly difficult to purchase goods from other producers. Nexus had done it in the past, exerting all of his considerable influence upon lesser merchants to break them or drive them out of business entirely. There were plenty of ways to deal with slights in matters of moving goods. Some more deadly than others.

  In this business, if a gladiator died, no one cared in the least. It was all part of the games.

  Well, the venerable business man thought as he drank and smacked his lips, see how you like rotting in your grave.

  Vadrian the Fire was the first Free Trained warrior to cross Nexus. Sipping on his wine, he wondered if there would be others.

  Seddon above as his witness, he hoped there would be.

  Part II:

  TEN

  1

  Chipped pitchers rose up in the middle of the table, creating an empty fortress that towered over a surface worn with pockmarks, gouges, and lettering of unknown meaning. Wooden cups surrounded all this, long abandoned in favour of drinking straight from the pitchers. When one was as numb as the present company, it was important to get as much down as possible with the least amount of refilling. Halm held on to his pitcher for dear life and blinked slowly at the curved container. Wine. It was half-filled with the shite. Somewhere during the night, he’d stopped drinking ale and switched over to this particular poison. Not that it was bad. He’d learned long ago that, if one started out drinking one kind of slop, one should finish the night drinking that same slop. It was in one’s guts’ best interest. Changing halfway through the evening was a guarantee that he was going to regret the dawn—if he lived to see it.

  One good thing about the wine’s magic was how it suppressed the ache in his ribs and belly. Halm gazed at the white bandages covering his wounds and noted that they weren’t bloody at all. “Keep them clean; change them often,” the healer had told him, saying nothing about drinking until blind. Still, the Pit’s healer had trussed him up damned fine. Halm would have to thank him again sometime.

  Halm leaned back, thudded against the wall, and knew it was going to hurt that much more in the morning. He and his three companions sat and drank in the same alcove of the same alehouse they’d come to occupy a couple of times. The air boomed with laughter. Bar wenches squealed whi
le nuzzling into their men. Slurred insults cut across the smoky interior. Halm picked up smells of sweat, foul body odour, and spilled drink. Muluk sat next to him, partially concealed in shadow, whispering in a woman's ear and making her smile. Pig Knot roamed about the main floor, appearing and disappearing amongst the glistening mob of flesh occupying it. Two wenches clung to him as if he were a broken spar keeping them alive in a sea of drowning men. Pig Knot’s eyes, dark and unsettling as a crazy rat’s, seemed to Halm to have swelled three times their size, giving his smile an unsettling, predatory gleam in the gauzy air.

  “Are you still with us?” Goll’s voice. From across the table.

  “Aye that,” Halm said after a moment, blinking dreamily.

  “You look dead.”

  “Really?” Halm cocked a curious brow. “Feel good. Can’t even feel this.” He touched his bandages.

  Goll stood up, stumbled, and inspected his companion’s dressings. Frowning, he reached across the table with his own heavily bandaged arms and pulled Halm’s hands away from his belly. He dropped them on the table, across a moat of wine that had somehow collected before the pitchers. Halm made a face. Nodding to himself, the Kree plopped back into his seat, landing hard and mussing up his sandy hair, which fell into his eyes. The swollen part of his jaw and face pulsed like a fat vein. Like Pig Knot's, the Kree’s eyes appeared dark and soulless and seemed to bulge out of his skull. Halm regarded him as he would some sort of curious bug undergoing a strange, yet-undecided metamorphosis. He looked from Goll to the wine, back to Goll, and back to the wine once more.

  Not bad. Halm’s mind buzzed, and he belched hard enough that he thought he might’ve just pissed himself. Then he paused and wondered if he only thought he just had or if he'd actually done it. Seddon above. The wine was getting better. He’d be buying more. Saimon’s hell, he’d buy them all more of the swill.