131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “I visited the Weapon Masters of Kree several years ago,” the speaker said. “Watched them train about thirty of their whelps. I wasn’t impressed.”

  Goll’s back stiffened ever so slightly.

  “But I’m not surprised one of their hellpups has made to it our games to participate. To try their luck. I wonder what your… masters would say if they knew you were here? Bowing down to us. Asking for permission to establish a foothold in great Sunja. That amuses me. You’ve put a smile on my face this day and given my companions quite the subject for conversation once you’re gone.”

  Halm didn’t think that sounded so good.

  One Ear paused for a moment and sized up the Kree before him. The other members leaned in like jackals waiting for a bite of something taken down by the pack leader.

  “I know what they would say. The Weapon Masters of Kree would choke if they saw you now. Here. Asking for such a thing. It’s not their way to do things.” One Ear cleared his throat with effort, his face turning somewhat red. He smirked then, baring teeth that lit up half of his grizzled features in a sour light. “Yes, they would paddle your balls, I imagine, if they knew you intended to do such a thing. You see, I know those men. I know their arrogance. If you were sent here, you were probably sent with their blessings of war. Expected to… dazzle us all with your skills. No doubt expected to win it all. Looks to me that you had the shite pounded out of you on the first try. Imagine that, a disciple of the Weapon Masters of Kree being beaten, being punished, so soundly.”

  The rest of the Chamber members smiled in contempt.

  “I wasn’t defeated,” Goll said quietly.

  “From here,” One Ear stretched out an arm, “it looks you were.”

  “I killed Baylus the Butcher.”

  “Ah. I saw that match. Yes, I did. Well fought.” The sarcasm dripped and scalded. “Well, with the fighting season only lasting two months, I think it’s safe to say you’re eliminated from champion contention. Weapon Master.”

  Halm raised his chin. Old One Ear did not think much of the fabled group of taskmasters and trainers from Kree.

  “What is it you’re taught? Hmm?” One Ear cleared his throat once more. “When faced with defeat, do the unexpected? Well, this certainly is the unexpected. Rousing the rabble underfoot. Inciting the gurry. What is it you hope to achieve by doing this?”

  “To offer a place for any Free Trained to ply their skills, like a regular school.”

  One Ear smirked and shook his head. “I don’t think so. That’s what you’re telling me and that brute next to you, but I don’t believe you. You see, I learned a bit about the Weapon Masters’ art of deception.”

  One Ear held up an open hand and fluttered it. “See, this is dangerous, this one here. Pay no mind to this,” he said as he raised his left fist. “The trouble with the Weapon Masters is that they believe their tricks are still new. Still magic. They’re not. The world has moved on. Learned.”

  One Ear leaned back and studied Goll then, searching his face and thinking deeply.

  “No matter to me,” he finally said. “You wish to establish a house here? A stable? I’ll recommend to my esteemed companions here to accept your request.”

  One by one, the other Chamber members nodded.

  One Ear cleared his throat again, making a horrible noise that even made Halm feel a twinge of disgust. “I see it’s unanimous. You have the Gladiatorial Chamber’s permission to start your house.”

  Goll smiled.

  “On condition…” One Ear raised his rattling voice as if he badly wanted to cough. “On condition that you pay the fee to register your house. Pay the fee, and you may hang your flag, so to speak. Whoever you have under your name may continue fighting as a gladiator representing your house, provided he has not been eliminated. If he has, well, any additional fights taken are non-tournament matches. Good practice, but just as deadly. Those are the terms. Though it’s quite unusual to set up a school during a season. Quite unusual.”

  “How much do you want?” Goll asked stoically.

  “A thousand gold,” One Ear said, saying it as if it were no great sum. It was great enough to make Halm widen his eyes in disbelief.

  “A thousand,” Goll repeated. “Anything else?”

  One Ear shook his head, suppressing a cough.

  “I may bring it to you anytime?”

  “Anytime. I doubt your Weapon Masters are so lenient.”

  Goll appeared to think it over. “Then we are done. Thank you for hearing us.”

  One Ear dismissed them with a hand as if it were nothing. Halm felt as if he had been paddled by a maul. A thousand gold to enter the games as a house? Games that had already started? That amount of coin would give him a new life anywhere but here. All that money just to be recognized as a—

  Goll turned about and briefly met his eyes, indicating it was time to leave.

  Halm kept quiet, but he swore he heard the low rumblings of laughter on their way out, and the doors were closed behind them. Not even the Chamber thought it possible to get that amount of coin. Not amongst Free Trained warriors. By the time they got outside, Halm couldn’t believe he’d kept his dismay suppressed. Every step away from the Chamber seemed to increase the disbelief of what had to be done just to be recognized amongst the other houses.

  The nearby arena was silent, the fights done for the day, yet some people still hung about the walls. Goll said nothing to Halm, seemingly content to just lead him into the milling crowds of the streets. Halm waited for something from the man, feeling it wasn’t prudent to speak while still so close to the Chamber building, but as they walked deeper into the crowds, away from general quarters, Halm’s impatience swelled until it nearly burst.

  “Wait.” He made Goll stop on his crutches. “What are you going to do now?”

  Goll studied him for a moment. “We have work to do.”

  “What?”

  “We have to get that coin for the Chamber.”

  “You can’t do it.”

  Goll’s eyes narrowed. “I can do anything. You heard them. They don’t expect anything from a group of Free Trained fighters. They certainly don’t expect much from me. We’re all beneath them. Nothing more than children playing at something meant for men. Well, we’re going to prove them wrong. So very wrong. We’re going to get what they want and more, and you’ll be there to see their faces drop.”

  “You’re unfit.” Halm was horrified by what he was hearing. “In the head.”

  “Not at all. I’m determined. I’m going to bring back that fee and watch that one-eared bastard choke on his tongue. I’ve already told you what I intended to do. Why are you doubting me now?”

  Halm stood and stared. “It’s the gold.”

  “The gold is nothing. I can have that in…” He thought about it. “One or two weeks. No more than two.”

  “You are unfit. Where are you going to get it?”

  “Where do you think? Come now, Halm. Think for a moment. Where can I get that amount of coin? Certainly not from winning my matches. And I won’t steal it. So where?”

  Halm thought about it. The only place that came to mind… “You mean to gamble,” he muttered in disbelief. “The juice of Saimon’s balls, I’ll have no part of that.”

  “Listen to me,” Goll insisted, leaning in close and glancing around. “Listen. I’m going to gamble with my coin. Not yours, so rest easy on that. If you want to throw in, that’s your decision. I’m already working on building up our pot. There’s no magic involved. It’s just a study of the fighters before they step out onto the sands, knowing their history, their opponents, and their strengths and weaknesses. Know all of that, and a wager is as good as won. The gold is already yours.”

  “Not always.”

  “Not always,” Goll granted him that. “No. But I’m not going to throw all of my coin into one single wager either. I’m more careful than that. Any loss will be absorbed. But you don’t have to worry about any of that. If you want to
be a part of this, you only have to do three things. Fight, win, and guard my back. Can you do that?”

  Halm thought about it. “I think I can do two of those.”

  “Really? I need to know now if you are with me or not. This is what we both want. You want more than just fighting from season to season, and this is it. A chance to be a part of something grander without having to bend your knee to any of the toppers ruling their own houses. You would be a founder of a house just by doing those things I asked. After that, anything more you can give is up to you. Chances like these don’t often appear. They aren’t commonplace.”

  “I just turned down one of those chances.”

  “To fight for another’s house? To further their name? You’re smarter than that, Halm. We’re smarter than that. Not only that, think of the stab to the guts we will give them all if we do it. No one considers any Free Trained to be of worth to anyone, but they secretly think some of us are worth something. Think of how rankled the houses will be if we rise above them and prove them wrong. Just establishing a new house that will take in Free Trained and train them even further. Into champions. It can be done. That picture alone is enough to make me do whatever I can. I want the dogs to rise, Halm. To rise. And to latch on to the hands feeding them bloody scraps.”

  Halm stood before the Kree, thoughts swirling in his skull and settling on none. He rubbed his jaw and mouth, glaring at Goll, who returned it and waited. People passed them.

  “Can you do this?” Goll asked him. “If you don’t think you can, I will find others who will.”

  Feeling the heat rise up his neck and into his face, the Zhiberian screwed up his face and looked around. Could he do such a thing? It seemed insane, and to start on this road while the games were in progress… Then thoughts from another time entered his head: he was getting older, and after the games, he had nowhere else to go. No trade to fall back on. Like it or not, he was nothing outside of the arena. Just another brute with a blade going through the days like pitchers of cheap wine… until he died.

  Or until he tossed a spear into the crowds and got dragged out of the arena on meat hooks.

  Halm sighed and locked gazes with the Kree. “All right.”

  To his surprise, Goll gave him a little, satisfied smile. “Good.”

  He held out a closed fist. Halm considered the gesture and eventually pressed the hand with his own, almost pushing Goll over. The Kree righted himself on his crutches.

  “We have work to do,” Goll told him. And with that, he swung past Halm’s bulky frame and got walking. Halm watched him for a moment, and then he followed.

  The pair of men walked off then, cutting through the masses and heading deeper into the city while sunset burned the sky orange and the smells of cooking meats and spices hung in the air, thick enough to make them both long for just a taste.

  And from one side of the busy street, a man watched them go.

  And eventually followed.

  10

  Grey Beard’s name was Borl Grisholt, of the Stable of Grisholt, and after leaving the Gladiatorial Chamber, he quietly fumed all the way back to his residence outside the walls of Sunja. He rode in the back of a brown koch pulled by a team of four horses. Fancy red cloth decorated the cabin’s interior, and Grisholt idly picked at cushioning worn with age while looking out at the passing landscape. In his other hand was a bottle of Sunjan mead, and the drink did little to placate him. He measured the passing country with sips and glares, wanting it all to go up in flame. It wasn’t often than Grisholt got into such a fury, but that fat Free Trained lout had gotten the best of him—in front of his lads, no less. And a Zhiberian, at that. Barbarians all, hardly worth his time, but the insolence of the bastard stuck in his craw like a meat hook. It was enough to brand the face of the one called Halm in his mind’s eye. He’d instructed one of his men to stay behind and find out where the man slept, but Grisholt guessed the wretch probably slept in the Pit’s general quarters with the rest of the stray dogs.

  Still, he was going to make it his hobby to find out more about Halm of Zhiberia.

  Try as hard as he might, Grisholt didn’t have a great selection of fighters in his stable this year. In fact, for three years now, Grisholt had struggled to keep his house in order and pay off his debts, all while cultivating what he hoped would be champion stock, or at least fashion a fighter notable enough to elevate his name in the arena circles. His father had much more success back in his day, yet times had changed. The competition had grown, become fiercer. His father’s greatest fear when he was alive was actually living long enough to see what Borl would do with the stable. During some of their heated exchanges on the future of the family business, Borl had challenged the older man, vowing that he’d “see.” In the end, however, the older Grisholt died of a fever at sixty-eight. And he died quite right about his worries.

  Grisholt had taken over the stable, keeping the name intact when all others were changing theirs to “houses.” The first year was a good one. He didn’t win an arena championship, yet he placed high enough that he didn’t lose his standing in the rankings and almost got invited into the owners’ viewing box, the place held in high esteem for all in the business. An average showing saw him slip in the rankings the following year, and from then on, it seemed Grisholt only barely managed to hold on. His fighters were average, the victories balanced by an equal number of losses, and his fortune dwindled. His taskmasters tried to prepare the fighters as best they could, but only so much could be done with the stock they possessed. Prized warriors got killed unexpectedly when Grisholt thought they would be the names with talent to win it all. He placed wagers on his own and others, consistently winning and losing enough to make him wonder enviously at how other managers did so well. What was he missing? There was coin to be had wagering on the Free Trained, but their mettle was spotty, unknown most times, and carried a high risk. It was better to wage coin on the house gladiators whose abilities, weaknesses, and strengths were known or could be learned.

  The coach bumped its way along the main road until it made a short turn. It rattled towards a walled compound with its stony hide reared up against a small forest. Creepers veined the wall, almost completely hiding the red brick, while apple trees stood in front with crooked majesty. The weathered gates opened, and the hinges squealed, for Grisholt was unable to spare the grease. He knew two of his own gladiators manned the gates as he could no longer afford the extra servants. The cook was a necessity, so Grisholt still employed one, but the rest were gone. He didn’t even have any women serving him. The thought of Dark Curge having his way with the veritable harem at his beck made Grisholt’s bile bubble. Then there was half-faced Gastillo with his golden mask and womanly hand towels; the image of him dabbing at that wreck of a mouth made Grisholt shake his head. After that came Nexus the wine maker, lowering himself to the level of the games just so he could see a bit of blood. Grisholt really didn’t know much about the man personally, other than that he’d made all of his coin being a shrewd merchant of wine and other valuables, unlike Curge and Gastillo, who were both former gladiators. It wasn’t so unbearable that a merchant owned a house of pit fighters, but what rankled him the most was that the man was rumoured to press his beliefs that Curge and Gastillo didn’t know what they were doing and that it would only take a merchant with an astute sense of value and proven business skills to rule the games. Grisholt even heard from his spies that what truly annoyed the old guard was that Nexus was actually proving himself to be right.

  The koch door opened, and his one-eyed henchman, Brakuss, stood waiting. Grisholt regarded the man for a moment. Powerfully built, he’d been one of the stable’s prime fighters until one stroke from a blade robbed him of his left eye, ending his career. Though still as menacing as one of Saimon’s underworld hellions, to send him into the Pit crippled as he was would result in a loss. Still, the man stayed for merely lodgings and food and, in turn, served as a bodyguard, for which Grisholt could do no better. Brakuss had no p
roblem slapping someone if ordered or of his own volition. In fact, it wasn’t a problem at all for him to start brutalizing someone; the problem lay in getting him to stop.

  Grisholt sighed and finished his Sunjan mead, gnashing his teeth as the last swallow went down. He got up, swayed slightly before grabbing the frame, and stepped down.

  Home again.

  “When that weasel Caro arrives, bring him to me right away.” Grisholt stroked his beard and moved inside his house. He considering walking about the open grounds and seeing how training was progressing, but at this point in time, with a bottle of mead in his system, he decided not to. If only he could afford the firewater… yet the fabled alcohol was far too rich for him these desperate days.

  He ignored the places in his walls where the mortar crumbled, the dust collecting on the floors, and the cobwebs hanging in the corners, and proceeded to the wine cellar. Though he barely had enough gold to keep his head afloat, he did have the foresight to make certain that Marrok, his cook, was also versed in wine and ale making. Marrok didn’t have time to cultivate grapes, but ale was a different matter. And while apples grew about his property and could be pressed and fermented into cider, Grisholt could not afford the labour to harvest the fruit. Still simmering with dark thoughts, he went into the larder, found three sealed bottles on the shelves where Marrok kept the finished drink, and took them all.

  From there, he wove his way through his household, knowing that the roof overhead leaked in places when it rained. He arrived at his study, which had once been his father’s before him. Tomes of history and poetry filled the shelves covering three walls, not that he read any of it. History was depressing to recall, and poetry was simply painful. He wandered behind his desk and dropped into in a large padded chair, the green cloth material every bit as frayed as everything else in the room. There he stayed, directly across from an oil painting depicting a small warship on a flat sea, steering into a sun being swallowed by the horizon. Grisholt knew he was drinking far more than he could afford and staring at that painting far more than he should, as if it might reveal some sorcerous path to profits. Though his window, between a set of shelves, was shuttered closed, he could still hear the calls of the trainers as they carried out the taskmaster’s overseeing will, honing the warriors to the best of their ability.