131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Curge stopped then and gazed towards a dark wall, shaking his head in dangerous reflection. “Zhiberians. More trouble than they’re worth. Thank Seddon that only a few ever venture this far southwest.”

  “It is rare to have them in Sunja.”

  Curge sized up the curves of the woman serving him and looked away in mounting annoyance. “How goes the wagering?” he finally asked.

  Bezange’s face revealed nothing. “Poorly, my lord. But we’ve only had the one victory, that belonging to Samarhead. It’s still early.”

  That got Curge thinking black thoughts once more. A pinch of pain, sharp and lingering, took him in the belly, and caused him to fume all the more. If he got any angrier and didn’t release it soon, he imagined he’d burn a hole in his very flesh.

  That made him rise. He walked over to a wall covered in the weapons he used when he was a gladiator fighting in Sunja’s Pit. He chose to keep them like old, venerable friends in the meeting room, as he knew such a collection both impressed and unnerved his guests. And rightly so. Curge stopped and beheld the shortswords, daggers, maces, and spiked bucklers that gleamed in the torchlight, spread over the wall to maximum effect. The decorated face cages and helms stared back, their surfaces polished but still dented and scratched from blows that Curge remembered as if they had happened yesterday. He was proud of his collection, and his one known weakness was prattling on at length about each weapon and each story that came with it. Curge remembered every fight he’d ever bled in and the weapons he'd used at the time.

  He studied his old but still-serviceable tools of the trade before finally reaching up and wrapping his fingers around the grip of one. The mace came down from its perch with a rasp of metal on metal. The shaft stretched as long as a man’s arm, while the head was nothing more than a heavy block of wrought iron with ruts covering its surface. Curge looked at another mace, one with spikes covering a head the size of a small child’s, but there was a menace about that solid wrecking block of iron with the ruts. Many a time, he’d heard men talk about it in fear, as if Curge were about to stamp his mark upon their flesh in the same manner a face might be pressed into gold or some other soft metal. It was easy to cut or stab, but Curge found he greatly enjoyed smashing things with the weapon. There was no greater feeling than splitting flesh from the sheer force of impact, not from edge or point, but simply from power. He knew no better rush than feeling bones snap with one heavy blow, seeing the blackening of a man’s bare skin and muscle as the mace tenderized it with every dense kiss.

  He hefted the weapon with his good arm, appreciating its weight and studying its face.

  “Come with me,” he commanded Bezange. He left the room with mace in hand and the female servant following. He didn’t look to see if that composed little bastard was on his heels. Bezange would be. Curge had to get rid of the energy building in him, and he couldn’t think of a better way than hitting something.

  He descended to the ground floor and made his way to the empty training area. Racks of wooden and metal swords, all weighted, greeted him, as did the heavy timbers the men tossed around as part of their strength and conditioning training. At one end were the long upright logs, each as tall as a man. Their trunks were chipped, splintered, and battered from countless strikes. It was a goal and honor to be the gladiator who finally toppled the wooden practice marks. In his life, Curge had chopped down five from repeated blows with swords and axes.

  Curge walked to one heavy timber, feeling the sand get into the spaces between his toes. The log was a new one, replaced after the day’s exercises. He leaned the mace against it and ran his hand over the wood’s rough skin, keeping it there for a moment. Curge rubbed his forehead with the stump of his left arm and stepped away from the practice target. He picked up the mace, not choking it, and let the weapon’s weight pull it towards the ground until Curge caught it at the end of its leather-bound shaft.

  Lifting the mace with his right hand, he waved it at the target and looked about until he found Bezange. “Have you ever used one of these?” Curge asked.

  “No, my lord.”

  With his one arm, Curge whipped the mace into the base of the wooden pillar, the connection ringing out. Wood chips scattered to the sands. Dark Curge bared teeth and brought the mace to his shoulder. He let it rest there for a moment then whipped it once more into the target.

  The sound made Bezange involuntarily jump. The woman stood off to one side, no doubt hoping that the partial darkness cloaked her from her master’s attention.

  Curge struck again and again in a merciless rhythm. Particles of bark and fibers sprang from the wood and sprinkled the ground. Though in his sixties and using one arm, Curge channeled the angst he was feeling into each swing, meaning to topple the log this very night. The mace left a white spot where the bark had been smashed away. The old warrior swung repeatedly until his sweat beaded and fell, and the strokes began losing their power. He didn’t care if he woke up his fighters. He didn’t care if he woke up the dead and gone. He just needed to hit something, and it was best no one interrupted him.

  And no one did.

  In time, Curge stopped swinging and stood back from the pounded spot on the midsection of the timber. Wilting fibers hung off the point of impact. Curge lazily swung the weapon through the night air for a moment. His shoulder ached from the exertion, but it was a comfortable ache and not something serious.

  He glanced at Bezange. The little man stood at attention, and Curge had to hand it to him. He didn’t seem uneasy at all with the display.

  “Are you listening?” Curge asked.

  Bezange swallowed then, and that one motion sent a stab of satisfaction through Curge’s heart. “I am, my lord.”

  “Keep an eye on that punce Zhiberian. Let it be known that the House of Curge has unfinished business with him… when he’s ready.”

  “And if he flees from the city?”

  That quieted Curge. It was a good question. He looked back to the post and hefted his mace.

  “Seddon help him if he does.”

  He swung with all of his remaining might.

  3

  When morning found Pig Knot, he was in bed, tangled under a pile of expensive limbs and cheap blankets. With a sniff, he stared at the white arms holding him down before taking in the high, bare plank ceiling and the thick beams supporting it. His insides felt ravaged, and a deep, deep thirst seized his attention. He wanted water this morning, and he studied the arms and legs on top of him for a moment, searching for the best way out of the fleshy puzzle.

  The women he’d slept with the night before did not move as he extracted himself. One moaned in protest before burying her dark head in a pillow. Pig Knot got both arms free and sat up. A mistake, as he felt the room whirl. Cold sweat broke out on his face and skin, and he knew if he saw his own face, he’d probably find that he looked like something shat out of a dead man’s hole.

  Worse, he had to fight this day. And he didn’t know what time it was. Sounds of activity from a closed, shuttered window reached him, and he figured it was late in the morning. Feeling his stomach sink all the more, he struggled to get his legs free from his two darlings, both of whom were naked underneath the blankets. It took a few moments longer than he wanted, but he untangled himself from the ladies. He got to his feet and shook his head at the sight of both of them on the bed, their bare, ripe asses pointed at the ceiling.

  He was a fool to leave that.

  The clothes he'd worn the night before were scattered around the room as if a windstorm had ripped them from his person, and it took a while—time interspersed with moments of physical weakness—to pick them up. Getting into his pants, shirt, and boots required more effort and focus, and he almost fell getting out the door. A thick wooden rail stopped him from going over the edge of the second floor, and he stopped there, feeling sick from the height.

  Before him, the alehouse's main floor stretched out, lit by wide beams of sunlight from open windows. A barkeep moved about
, humming as he cleaned up the garbage and vomit from the night before. Pig Knot’s frame shuddered at the smell of spilt wine and ale, and he opened his mouth for a settling breath of fresh air. There was no such thing in the place, however, and what he took over his tongue, what he tasted, was the foulness of the night before.

  But the windows are open. He blinked in confusion and held onto the railing for dear life as he eased himself down the stairs. Each step shook him just enough to give him pause, for fear of voiding right there.

  “You all right?” a gruff voice asked.

  Pig Knot felt the sweat drip from his face as he regarded the mopping barkeep.

  “No.”

  “Don’t heave up in here. Do it outside.”

  “Fine.”

  Grunting, the barkeep moved away, continuing to clean.

  “Any water about?” Pig Knot asked.

  “The pitcher on the counter, if you like.”

  “How much?”

  “Coin, you mean?”

  “Aye that.”

  “Drink what you like. I’ll not charge a man thirsty for water.”

  Thank Seddon. That motivated him down the last few steps and to the bar. He picked up the brass pitcher, took a quick peek to make sure it actually contained water, and then downed the liquid in large gulps. He felt life come back into his body, and when he placed the pitcher back on the counter, it was almost empty.

  Pig Knot palm-wiped his face and gazed about the cave that was the alehouse, feeling himself shiver. He looked towards the alcove where his boys, as he now thought of them, were and saw that they were scattered over the table and long chairs as if slaughtered to a man. Every step he took towards the alcove warned him not to move too fast or sudden. Then his bladder suddenly awoke and demanded attention.

  Sighing, Pig Knot hurried to the adjoining latrine and unsheathed his manhood just as he thought he wasn’t going to make it. The foul smells from the small, open room disgusted him and almost tipped his stomach. Emptying his bladder weakened him, and he leaned heavily against a wall, something he would never do in the right frame of mind. That movement made him miss the trough with his stream, and he pissed everywhere before he realized what had happened.

  Groaning in sick frustration, Pig Knot got himself back under control and finished. He banged through the doorways back into the alehouse and staggered to a stop at the alcove’s edge, ignoring the hard looks from the barkeep. Muluk snored while sitting upright, a woman facedown in his lap. Goll was nowhere to be seen, but the cripple couldn’t have gotten far. Halm was on the opposite seat, stretched out as though it were a narrow bed. His bare gut pressed up against the edge of the table was the only thing keeping him in place. The man’s face was pointed at the ceiling, and his mouth was open to allow a view of his terrible teeth. Light snores ripped the air, which seemed fresher down here.

  “Hey,” Pig Knot called weakly. “Wake up.”

  No one heard.

  “Hey.” Pig Knot reached out and tousled the Zhiberian’s short hair, not liking the greasy touch of it at all.

  “Wake up.” He wiped his fingers on his leg.

  One of Halm’s eyes cracked open, rolled around sleepily, and focused on Pig Knot. He smacked his lips once before the eyelid closed, and he fell back to sleep.

  “Wake up, you git.” Pig Knot slapped the top of the man’s skull.

  “Ughhhh huh?” Halm lurched and peered once more at the Sunjan standing over him.

  “I have to go.”

  “Huh?”

  “I have… to…” The strength almost left his legs then as a new wave of nausea overtook him. Another sheen of cold sweat glazed his face, and he leaned against the alcove’s corner, thankful for it.

  “Go?” Halm suggested softly.

  “Yes, go. I have to… to fight this day.”

  “You?” The Zhiberian blinked in confusion. “You can’t fight like that. You’ll piss yourself first. Then you’ll piss on the one you’re fighting.”

  Pig Knot chuckled. “We’ll both be fortunate if it’s only piss.”

  Halm struggled to get into a sitting position, casting concerned looks at both Pig Knot and the toppled fortress of empty pitchers littering the table. Muluk and his companion didn’t interest him, but he regarded Pig Knot from head to toe.

  “Dying Seddon, have you looked at yourself? I’ve seen cow kisses in finer shape.”

  Pig Knot didn’t need this. “Are you coming?”

  “With you?” Halm balked and winced as if in pain. “You’re joking. Look at me. I’ll be lucky to get to a piss trough. Doubly lucky to get to a shite pot. And if I do, I doubt if I’ll make it back.”

  Across from them both, Muluk snorked a loud, startling snore that almost brought him back to consciousness. His head rolled to one side, and he started a slow slide, stopping gently on the motionless woman in his lap.

  Halm directed his attention back to Pig Knot. “You can’t fight this day. You’ll be killed.”

  “I have to. Or I’ll be heaved out of the tournament.”

  “What do you think you’ll do on the sands? You won’t have that corner to hold you up.”

  Pig Knot scowled and moved away from the wooden arch, standing on his own power and trying to project an air of defiance. He felt very close to dropping to his knees, however, and just letting his bowels run empty in one spine-shivering gush. “I’m going.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait…”

  But Pig Knot was already moving for the door, ignoring the Zhiberian’s pleas for sense. Pig Knot couldn’t afford to miss his fight. He needed to win. He needed the coin. The money would help him pay back what he already owed and keep him in food, drink, and women until the next fight. If he didn’t make it to the Pit, life would be worse than what it currently was. That thought didn’t give him any extra strength, however, and when he entered the brightness of the streets and the streams of people, the light and bodies struck him as solidly as any maul tap to the head. The nearby wall of the alehouse caught and supported him for the moment it took to compose himself. The sun overhead was almost at its apex, and that caused another cold bolt to surge through his frame.

  Pig Knot set his jaw.

  He was going to make it to the Pit.

  Travelling the city and entering the arena’s gate was a torturous blur. Bodies bumped against him, and once, he even shoved back. As big as he was, Pig Knot was a handful even when he was as sick as a dog. He pissed often, never near a latrine. Somehow, he managed to sign in with the Madea and later find the Pit’s armoury and its quartermaster. He selected a leather cuirass that was tight enough to make him see stars and squeeze more cold sweat out of him. Then he took a helm that seemed to grip his brain with a sensation he couldn’t decide was cold or hot. The first sword that he chose felt too heavy, and the second one wasn’t much better. Pig Knot finally decided on a blade so thin the quartermaster cocked an eyebrow in mild amusement. One sick glare from the pit fighter wiped the look off the man’s face.

  Then, somehow, he was in the white tunnel.

  And everything caught up to him.

  Pig Knot leaned against the tunnel wall, guts churning. Whatever was in his stomach wanted out, and he had to push his visor up over his forehead before it all came up for real. A moment later, it did, heaving up his throat and out of his wide-open mouth in a soupy torrent of a roar. Pig Knot squeezed his eyes shut as he voided, seized by a terrible, shaking energy he only wished he could use in the upcoming fight. Madness—it was madness to be doing this in his condition. He remembered Halm’s expression of disbelief.

  At the time, Pig Knot had laughed it off. At the time, he’d still been drunk.

  His stomach had soured with the intake of water. He remembered pissing, each time the stream hot and gushing, until the sourness had become rotten and threatened him with worse consequences. Pig Knot moaned and placed a hand over his mouth, wiping off dark drops and screwing up his face upon realizing what he’d done. He straightened and stepp
ed back from the wide pool, fresh from his guts. The sight of it almost made him vomit again. He lurched and moaned once more, caught himself, and took perhaps the deepest breath ever. That almost helped. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness spun so sharply he could’ve sworn it had him by the ankles, so he opened them back up.

  There, not ten strides from him, stood the gatekeeper. A hardwood bench stood across from the old man, and its worn surface struck Pig Knot as being incredibly comfortable.

  “You done?” the gatekeeper asked without sympathy and placed a hand on the lever that would open the portcullis. Steps lay beyond the man, wide and leading up to the arena where another man lingered, his body crossed in the portcullis’s shadows. Pig Knot knew he waited for the signal from the orator outside, which he would in turn relay to the gatekeeper below, who would raise the gates.

  Pig Knot focused on the steps and felt his stomach growl a question. The steps alone would make him piss himself.

  Seddon above.

  He was going to die on those damned cuts of stone.

  Pig Knot gazed imploringly at the white ceiling of the tunnel and took another gulping breath as if it would float him above the tide of nausea coursing through his body. It was an immediate mistake. His stomach rebelled once again, and he found himself suppressing juice, which persisted until he could resist no more, and the flow burst from his lips, spattering down his front. Once finished, Pig Knot drew a forearm across his face and regarded the old topper with his hand still on the lever.

  The gatekeeper wasn’t a helpful sort at all. His expression asked well? as if the fight might not happen at all. That thought had merit. Pig Knot couldn’t remember if a match had ever been cancelled. He bent over and drew in air, which seemed to help a little.