131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Not sure I can go out there,” he admitted.

  The gatekeeper scowled and motioned with two fingers.

  That made Pig Knot look back the way he’d come. Fright seized him.

  Skarrs, Sunja’s keepers of the peace, guardians of the populace, and all-around killers were leaving their spots along the white tunnel and closing in. Pig Knot couldn’t remember seeing them there, nor was he exactly certain what they were going to do, but at least eight of them were coming towards him, and eight of them might as well have been an army. Their mail vests gleamed mystically in the glare of the tunnel, but they didn’t draw their shortswords. Yet.

  “I’m fine.” Pig Knot raised his hands. “I’m fine. Really. See. I’m—”

  His stomach bent him over, and he had to make a conscious effort not to soil himself. Hands found him. They slammed Pig Knot against the wall. A knife was placed to his throat, and one pair of angry eyes sized him up. More hands moved over him. They clamped his visor down over his face. His shield got fixed to his arm. Someone pulled the sword from his scabbard and slapped it into his hand, wrapping his fingers around it and squeezing until Pig Knot held it with his own strength. He doubted if he could swing the thing.

  But he wasn’t about to say anything to the Skarrs.

  “Ready?” the gatekeeper asked without remorse. The old bastard sounded anxious to be rid of him.

  “Aye that,” Pig Knot rumbled.

  An instant later, the Skarrs stepped back from him, but they didn’t go far. He realized some of them had tracked through the vomit on the floor, not that he would point that out to them. Skarrs were dangerous—not to mention humourless.

  “May Seddon take pity on you.” The gatekeeper yanked down on the lever. A rumbling sounded from above. Pig Knot’s eyes rolled in their sockets, and his head thrummed. He did not want to go out there.

  Two Skarrs noticed his hesitation and went for their swords.

  Pig Knot got moving, realizing why there weren’t any cancelled fights. Bastard Skarrs. When he reached the steps, he relied on momentum and the nearby wall to keep him moving upward. He paused at the halfway point, feeling the sun’s heat. His stomach curled up like a snake nailed into the dirt and left thrashing. He caught a pungent whiff of his own stomach juice coating the front of his armour. The Skarrs had moved up to the base of the steps, barring any retreat and appearing more than willing to cut him up if he didn’t go through the open entryway at the top of the stairs. Pig Knot tipped his helmet towards them and regretted even that little movement.

  He shuffled forward, feeling the uncontained wall of sound that battered his senses, feeling it grow as he neared the opening. The voices of thousands were out there, drawing him into that hateful, hot sunlight, twisting his guts like a sailor’s wet, dripping knot.

  The sheer volume of noise almost dropped him right there on the threshold as he stepped out into the light. He swooned, feeling the might of the sun on his helmet and having an image of his very brain stewing inside his skull. The heat and noise of the midday punished him like a god’s hammer to his body. Once more, he thought about turning around.

  But the portcullis dropped behind him.

  Across the way, a monster of a man came into view, making Pig Knot wince in hungover exasperation. It was bad enough that he was unfit to fight, but looking at his brutish opponent made him feel like dying on the spot. The man wore heavy armor with spikes decorating the shoulders. A grinning, jawless skull was somehow tacked to the visor, which did nothing for Pig Knot’s confidence, nor did the hellpup’s long-shafted mace and wide shield.

  The Orator’s voice rose above the crowds, calling for silence and introducing them both. Pig Knot caught the name Darcevo and thought it sounded as if it might belong to a daisy.

  Then the Orator stopped speaking, and the noise of the crowd intensified. Lords above, Pig Knot thought with cold clarity. I’m going to die this day.

  “Is this to the death?” Pig Knot croaked, burning precious energy just to do that.

  The gladiator across from him, Darcevo, didn’t show any sign of having heard.

  Wonderful. Pig Knot shook his head. He didn’t have the strength to repeat himself.

  Darcevo shrugged his big shoulders and made no move to raise his mace or shield, keeping them both at his sides. Pig Knot couldn’t see the brute’s face, but he still had the mind to sense all was not well. The sun beat down on them, and Pig Knot got a whiff of his own skin cooking in the heat.

  “Is this,” Pig Knot shouted to be heard over the crowd, “to the death?”

  No answer, but the monster moved towards him. Darcevo came on in a slow, almost off-balance stagger, as if all wasn’t well with him either. He was as tall as Pig Knot and perhaps even a few fingers taller with the helmet. The black eyes of the jawless skull fixed on him, then the stands, then back to him, and so on. He came onward, and the ripe stench of sweet sweat perfumed with the overpowering odour of a man who had drunk himself silly some time before, made Pig Knot blink with realization.

  Darcevo was drunk.

  Even better, Darcevo appeared insanely drunk.

  And this wasted form of meat and metal lurched towards Pig Knot, bringing his mace up to his shoulder and his shield to guard. It wasn’t uncommon for Free Trained fighters, as Darcevo clearly was, to combat their nerves by drinking something before their matches. Pig Knot never did it for any of his fights, though he was guilty of it the night before at times. Such was the risk when a person came to see a Free Trained battle. The houses and schools would string a man by his kog and bells if he did such a thing, but the Free Trained had no such worries. A part of Pig Knot swore upon having drawn Darcevo this day, as fighting a drunkard wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time. It was just bad form. Anything was possible in a Free Trained match.

  Sputtering inarticulate sounds Pig Knot didn’t understand, Darcevo grunted as he closed with the Sunjan and swung for his head.

  Despite being hung over, Pig Knot’s reflexes got him out of the way of the mace’s arc. Darcevo staggered to his right, carried in that direction by the momentum of the swing, and came close to falling. But at the last moment, he stomped both feet into the sand and firmed up.

  Pig Knot regarded the man over the edge of his own shield, his arms suddenly finding the energy to maintain a guard. Darcevo turned and actually started, as if surprised Pig Knot was still standing.

  “That’s right, you drunk bastard, I’m—”

  Darcevo came at him with a roar made metallic by his bony visor. Pig Knot dodged one swipe of the mace then another. He ducked and moved around the man’s shield, hearing another grunt as Darcevo swung once more and missed. Pig Knot circled to his foe’s shield arm, and the movement made him dizzy. He stabbed with his sword and missed, attempting wildly to regain his own balance before his opponent. Darcevo got his bearings first, however, and charged in, swinging and missing badly.

  Pig Knot’s equally clumsy counterstrikes and graceless dodging were just as sad. He swung at the man’s head and rang his sword off Darcevo’s helm with a gong, causing the brute to shriek and then moan like a boy.

  For long moments, the two men attacked each other in poorly executed attempts. They waved their weapons before each other’s faces, coming nowhere close to making contact, before staggering away as if engaged in an awkward dance. Pig Knot lunged, missed, and skidded face first in the sand. Darcevo tried to smash his head in, but lost grip of his mace and sent it flying twenty paces behind him. He drew the rage of crowds when he turned about unsteadily and walked over to pick it up, allowing Pig Knot time to get to his feet.

  Pig Knot allowed him and took the time to just sit on the sand, basking in the growing insults and taunts. The Sunjan didn’t blame them. He’d do the same.

  From his place on the arena wall, high above the combat, the Orator looked at the audience watching the battle and shook his head in barely concealed contempt.

  The people, incredulous at the display of arms, jee
red at the fighters, spiking the hot air with insults.

  “What shite gurry is this?”

  “Fight, he-bitches, fight!”

  “Unfit!”

  “How did the Chamber allow you two tits onto the sand?”

  And on and on. Pig Knot’s mental anguish now matched his physical state.

  Darcevo walked back towards his foe, perhaps having had enough of being goaded or having sobered enough to do something. Pig Knot stood up heartbeats before his opponent lashed out with the mace and cracked it off his shield, driving him backwards. The heavily armoured fighter whipped his mace into the Sunjan’s shield once more, ringing it like a dinner bell and numbing Pig Knot’s arm. He retreated, wanting a breath of air. But Darcevo came forward, snapping his mace out and making Pig Knot duck. The crowd cheered the attacker on, quite happy that one of them had finally taken the initiative. Darcevo stepped up his pace, swinging at every part of Pig Knot within reach—an arm, the head, a shoulder, a knee. The Sunjan deflected strike after strike with his shield, steadily retreating and not daring to look to see where the arena wall might be. Drunk as he was, Darcevo was strong, and each blow had the full might of his arm behind it.

  Pig Knot’s shield, a wooden barrier ringed with a thin band of iron, abruptly split down the middle. He felt his guts go cold as the iron head of the mace punched though the wood just above his forearm in a burst of splinters. Darcevo stepped into him and smashed his shield into Pig Knot’s weapon arm, pinning it, pushing him back, and creating room for another swing.

  The mace flew at Pig Knot’s helm and clipped his metal cheek, spinning him around. He stumbled and fell in a spray of sand. Darcevo slammed his mace down, missing the Sunjan’s weapon arm by a finger.

  Pig Knot drove his feet into the sand, pushing himself away, but Darcevo matched him and swung his weapon. The mace barely missed Pig Knot’s head. The Sunjan kicked out and struck the greave protecting his opponent’s left leg.

  Again and again Darcevo rained down punishing blows with his mace. Pig Knot rolled away, avoiding each attack by hair widths, horrified as his shield fell away from his arm in a crumpled wreck of splinters and shards.

  Then Darcevo backed up. He staggered, his arms hanging at his sides as if completely spent. Metallic coughs and hoarking issued from the skull helmet, and for a moment, Pig Knot realized just how quiet it had become in the Pit. The big man straightened and then stumbled forward, as if uncertain as to how to proceed. Then he stunned the crowd completely when he retreated two more shuffling steps and fell on his arse in the sand.

  Pig Knot couldn’t believe his luck. He got up, hearing the growing chorus of insults and disbelief from the audience. Some screamed at Darcevo to haul his carcass to his feet, and Pig Knot thought those men had placed wagers on the pit fighter. Darcevo moved slowly however, the skull visor studying the sand about him as if suddenly curious about it.

  Pig Knot brushed off the remaining ruined fragments of his shield and freed his arm. He held his sword with two hands and moved in on the fallen man.

  Darcevo saw him but made no move to defend himself. The crowds begged the gladiator to get back up.

  Pig Knot raised his sword. Someone cried out something about doing the honorable thing, to give the fallen man a chance to get up. The Sunjan almost barked a laugh. Just as the topper had done for him?

  Darcevo seemed to realize the danger just as Pig Knot’s sword came down. He threw up his mace in an attempt to parry but misjudged badly as the edged steel lopped off two of his fingers. The digits disappeared in the sand, and Darcevo took the moment to simply study his gurgling stumps, as the weight of the weapon slowly wrenched itself free of his ruined grip.

  Pig Knot thought his foe was trying to say something.

  “Mercy,” Darcevo finally garbled out but got stabbed through the shoulder instead. Pig Knot fell on the wounded man, laying him flat with one well-placed knee. He placed another knee on Darcevo’s chest and poised the tip of his sword at the warrior’s throat.

  Pig Knot might have felt merciful any other day of the week, but it was Darcevo’s misfortune to catch him in foul spirits.

  The Sunjan punched his sword through the white throat of his foe. Darcevo’s legs didn’t even kick as his life was taken. Pig Knot twisted the steel, managing to hear the gristle crinkle over the roar of the people and left the weapon in the dead man’s neck. It was, perhaps, the only thing he’d done correctly all morning.

  Sweating, choking on dust, and suddenly feeling miserable, Pig Knot distanced himself from the body, crawling away on hands and knees. Insults fell about him, every bit as stinging as edged steel. He stood up, swayed on his feet, and walked as slowly as he could to the entryway. As he neared it, the portcullis creaked upwards, and somewhere behind him, Pig Knot heard the Orator declare him the winner.

  The people lavished him with more verbal barbs, making him want to find a very deep hole and drown himself with drink.

  Once inside the tunnel, Pig Knot ripped the helm from his head and threw it at a wall. It rebounded off the stone with a clatter and a spark, earning the attention of the old gatekeeper below. Pig Knot leaned against the tunnel for moments, while outside, the crowd still taunted and voiced their disapproval of the finished fight.

  “What?” he barked at the still-staring gatekeeper.

  “Get down from there before I call the guards.”

  His face flushed, Pig Knot shook his head in derision and straightened. He walked down the stairs, not once meeting the weathered look of the gatekeeper.

  “You fought like shite out there,” the old man grumped.

  “I won, didn’t I?”

  To that, the gatekeeper had no reply.

  Pig Knot walked past the impassive visors of the Skarrs lining the white tunnel. The crowd became less bothersome the farther he walked. Even half-drunk and sick to his stomach, he'd still managed to win his fight and kill a topper. He realized he'd forgotten to place a wager on himself, but that was fine. A small purse of gold was coming to him, and he was still alive to enjoy it. That thought made him smile.

  In the end, that was all that mattered.

  *

  All around him, the crowds continued talking about Pig Knot’s fight. They flung insults at the Gladiatorial Chamber for allowing such men to participate in the games, and for once, Goll had to agree. What he had seen on the sands was a disgrace to the sport and the spirit of the event. Even though he’d won his wager, having placed gold on Pig Knot, he was far from pleased with the Sunjan’s sloppy victory. The only reason Pig Knot was alive, Goll realized, was because the other idiot had been even more inebriated. And even then, the dog had still managed to put up a fight, unlike Pig Knot, who merely took advantage of an exhausted opponent, killing the man.

  The Weapon Masters of Kree would not approve.

  Glowering in dark thoughts, Goll sat in the stands and mulled amongst the still-livid crowd. When they settled down, he intended to make his way to the Domis and collect his winnings. He’d wait until the people watched the next match, not wanting anyone to know he’d wagered coin on the sick dog known as Pig Knot.

  The embarrassment would be too great.

  4

  They called him Crowhead, although his real name was Brozz. He preferred his earned name, mostly because it was intimidating. There was a simple delight in disturbing people, Crowhead found, and he discovered that people were much more honest with him because he was frightening. It would probably damn him to Saimon’s Hell—of that he had little doubt—but he still enjoyed scaring people. He relished staring fighters in their eyes and projecting that fear.

  And the fear was justified.

  He was tall, perhaps the tallest he had ever encountered in his own travels. A great, long moustache flowed down the edges of his mouth, as black as pitch. The ends were actually longer than his beard, which was short and non-existent compared to his forked whiskers. His complexion was dark and moody. He wore his hair short but not spiky, just eno
ugh to keep it out of his eyes, which were just as black as his beard and gleamed with malevolence. But the thing that got most people’s attention, the thing that started people whispering as he walked through a crowd, was the chilling necklace of severed crow heads hanging from his neck. There were five dried heads, their black beaks as sharp as claws, dangling from his necklace and separated by knots. All were threaded through the eyes, as if the last thing they had felt was the knife tip.

  In the depths of Sunja’s Pit, amongst the rest of the Free Trained, he stayed in one corner and removed the nearby torches, claiming the ensuing void as his own. He’d been one of the first to enter the general quarters at the beginning, and he’d gotten no argument from any of the others when he settled on the corner. Outside the arena, he usually wore an open leather vest, which showed off his washboard stomach and muscular chest. His physique was chiseled but not heavy, with lanky limbs.

  When he was in general quarters, inside the dark he claimed as his own, he sat with his back against a wall and watched whoever was closest. He studied how the men interacted with each other and made note of the friends, the fake friends, and the potential enemies. The fake friends, the ones who stood and joked and listened to their companions but smirked when backs were turned, were snakes in Brozz’s opinion. They couldn’t be trusted. The men who outright hissed at one another… well, he didn’t mind them. At least one knew where one stood with them.

  There were very few real friends in the Pit, which didn’t really surprise him.

  The air was hot and unpleasant with so many men in the bowels of the arena, but Brozz didn’t mind. He gathered his weapons and armor in the dark and prepared for his fight. A part of him figured he’d have to kill a man this day. He didn’t want to, as killing a man in the arena invited retribution from other quarters—friends, or worse, even more proficient gladiators if the victim was part of a house or school.