131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “We see that down here as well,” Grisholt said quietly, trying hard to not look at Dark Curge’s stump. Lords above, the man was well over sixty, yet the aura he projected was as menacing as a full complement of battle-hardened Sujins. “As a matter of—”

  “Down here,” Curge cut him off, “you are limited. You have no idea how limited until you are up there, looking down. Do you get my meaning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I wish to say two things, and I’ll be off. One, thank you for the information. To be honest, I haven’t thought of Clavellus in an age. What the Free Trained want with him, I have no idea, nor do I truthfully care as long as he stays away. And two, don’t ever send your man to visit me at such a damn early hour ever again. Not if you wish him back.”

  Grisholt nodded his understanding. “I apologize for—”

  Curge’s chilling smile killed the sentence. “Saimon’s unholy ass crack, I can’t keep this up.” He shook his head wearily and glanced back at his killer. “Demasta, what’s the best way of dealing with a weasel?”

  “Kill it,” the brute answered, glowering.

  “Kill it. My father warned me of men such as you, Grisholt. ‘There’s only one thing worse than a house with a vengeance,’ my father would say, ‘and that is a house wanting your place.’ So I’ll be blunt and not mince words. Don’t cross me, you grey-haired prick. Nor toy with me. And Saimon take you now if you actually think to outwit me. If you do, I’ll start a house war and see your shack crushed like balls under my boot. I’ll make it my hobby to see that every one of your maggots is matched against my killers each and every time they set foot on the arena sand and hacked to pieces in the most horrific way possible. I’ll destroy whatever you have beyond these walls, Grisholt, whatever few planks nailed together that your father had such high hopes for. I’d even make the argument for bringing back the old custom of master fights and challenge you personally. I’d take great pleasure in splitting that skull of yours, just to see how unfit it is inside.”

  At this, Brakuss bristled and visibly restrained himself.

  And, unfortunately, drew attention.

  Curge glared at Grisholt’s one-eyed bodyguard. “Something bothering you? Maggot-shite?”

  Tension, the likes of which Grisholt had never experienced, lashed at his heart and senses, causing him to stroke his beard with brisk flicks of his hand. Brakuss didn’t like being talked to in such a manner, only because Grisholt was certain his bodyguard wasn’t entirely aware of Dark Curge’s reputation. Grisholt was very much aware. His father had also been exceptionally wary and had taken time to ensure his son understood the dangers of any contact with the Curges. Dangers that never seemed more imminent than this exact moment.

  When his one-eyed guard looked at the floor, Grisholt almost expired with relief.

  “No, I thought not,” Curge rumbled, his attention lingering on Brakuss for a few moments more. “I don’t wish to see you again, Grisholt. I certainly don’t wish to see that messenger of yours again. And I certainly never want to smell this lavender shite you must have bathed in for a year to smell so damned ripe. Do you understand?”

  “I think you and I—”

  Curge waved his stump as if clearing the air. “Do you really think there is a ‘you and I’ here? Does this look like a meeting of equals? Hm?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You understand then?”

  “I understand,” he whispered.

  “Excellent. Thank you for the winnings, by the way.”

  Grisholt didn’t get the man’s meaning, and his expression said as much.

  “Ten gold on Gunjar.” Curge screwed up his mouth. “Bit obvious, don’t you think? Especially when my lads know your man’s face now. Caro is his name, I believe. I don’t suppose Caro was wagering all that coin against Gunjar, do you?”

  Grisholt blinked, suddenly unable to muster his voice.

  “Oh, he placed your wager, have no fear,” Curge hissed. “This time.”

  “Thank you,” Grisholt managed, trying unsuccessfully to regain his dignity.

  Curge made a face. “And I tell you. Perfumed shite is still shite.” The one-armed beast locked eyes with him for a moment, and Grisholt blinked, fighting down the urge to look anywhere else but into those steely blue chips of ice.

  Then Curge gestured with his stump, and the bear behind him threw the door open. Curge left then, his bald head glistening with sweat. The one called Demasta followed, showing his back to Grisholt’s guards and letting them know what he thought.

  Outside, the Orator cried out the introductions. Gunjar’s name could be heard, but Grisholt did not bother standing up to watch.

  He no longer felt lucky.

  21

  Demasta followed his employer outside and slammed the door behind him. He turned, not bothering to nod at the four extra warriors standing in the corridor, and all of them fell into step behind Curge as he stalked away. Little shite, flashed in Curge’s mind. Some of these lesser houses and stables had to be watched, and Grisholt in particular. It was as his father said: never turn your back on a hungry dog. He’d get Bezange to keep an eye on him. He walked through the whitewashed walls a short distance before climbing the stairs leading back to his viewing box. His house had maintained their ranking for so long that it was difficult to think otherwise and that the other two owners were merely temporary, unwanted guests. Curge consoled himself with that very thought. Hungry dogs, he thought as he directed Demasta to stand just outside with his men. And now, wolves.

  Curge opened the door and snatched a silver goblet from a serving tray, startling the wench holding it. He downed the wine in gulps, smacked his lips while staring at the wall, and waited for her to refill it. Once done, he made his way to his seat and plopped down on the green satin cushions.

  “Decided to join us, eh?” Nexus asked him. Curge didn’t bother looking at the old wine merchant who, in his opinion, was a noisy nuisance. The gold-faced Gastillo he could bear as he’d been brought up near the fights, but not this silver-haired, black-eyed weasel trying to learn everything at once and believing himself to be the best. The arrogance of the man cut at Curge’s patience. It was only a week ago he’d lost a fighter to a Free Trained, something that put the merchant in his place. Curge didn’t know how much control Nexus was wresting from his taskmasters during this season, but while in the city and assuming in his role of manager, Curge believed the merchant was probably close to driving them insane.

  “Don’t answer me, then,” Nexus said in an unbothered voice.

  Curge glared past the fitted brick of the box and into the arena. The fight had finished. One gladiator strutted off the sands while another had to be walked off by a pair of men.

  “You missed it.” Gastillo sounded bored, his words carrying the barest note of metal as they passed the lips of his golden mask. “The Stable of Grisholt almost lost a man this day. To another Free Trained lout. The upset of the day, I imagine.”

  That softened Curge’s mood somewhat. When his agents saw both Grisholt and Caro place their wagers, he gave the nod to Bezange to find out who Caro was wagering on and placed his own wager. He couldn’t remember the last time any of Grisholt’s lads had actually won a match, but he had to shake his head at the simplicity of the ploy. Instructing his fighter to lose, making a show of placing coin on him while having another man place a much larger wager on the opponent wasn’t unheard of amongst the owners. One had to have gold to keep it all running, but pompous Grisholt was just so obvious about it. It made Curge ill. The gold he’d won would relieve some of that discomfort, some of which he’d pass off to Bezange for detecting the scheme in the first place, but he told himself once again to keep an eye on the man and his stable of fighters.

  “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Gastillo asked.

  “What’s this?” Curge tore his attention from the arena and focused on his companion to the far right, sunlight flashing off Gastillo’s metal f
ace. “Are you stabbing at me, good Gastillo? A man of your honour? Let me remind you, since your brain is obviously cooking under that sheet of cheap tin you’re wearing, that I lost a warrior just recently. A particularly expensive investment, I might add. We’ll see how well you take such a loss when the day comes about. And it will. And I’ll be right here when it does, remembering this exact moment.”

  “It was saucy of you,” Nexus agreed in smug fashion.

  “Don’t come to my defense, Nexus,” Curge said out of the corner of his mouth, waving his goblet underneath his nose and inhaling its scent. “I haven’t the stomach for it right now.”

  Nexus and Gastillo exchanged looks, sly ones at that, and returned to watching the sands. Curge took in the sheer stony scope of the arena, noting the seats were half-empty. He knew in his blackest of hearts the pair would not stay quiet for long.

  “Sour mood you’re in,” Nexus said eventually.

  Curge rolled his eyes. “Who wouldn’t be sour when he has to put up with the likes of you beside him?”

  “Seddon’s heaven,” Nexus bit back. “If I’d known the entertainment was going to be as good up here as on the arena floor, I’d have come here much, much sooner. Usually, the men about me listen to what I have to say. These little lashes you throw out are amusing.”

  “I hope my boot amuses you when you find it up your hole.”

  Nexus’s smug expression sagged almost immediately.

  “That’s better.” Curge pressed on. “I like it when you’re quiet. Just like a woman. Eh, Gastillo?”

  But Gastillo did not answer.

  “Ahhh that’s right, you’re still kissing his ass behind my back. Let me guess the conversation when I’m not about. ‘That lad looks about done—yes, you’re quite right, Nexus.’ ‘I believe these Free Trained punces are thicker these days than any other. Yes, once again you’re quite right. It surprises me how observant you are in your first season of the games!’”

  Nexus’s lips puckered as though his wine had soured, but Gastillo’s golden face was unreadable.

  “You go too far, you loud bastard.”

  “That’s the first real thing you’ve said to me since I arrived here, Nexus,” Curge said. “Just remember whose tongue is in your ass when I sit down. Or perhaps, if my words are too salty, you might seek company that’s more agreeable?”

  “I’ll be looking forward to our matches together, Curge. If your hellpups are as good with a blade as you are with barbs, perhaps I’ll manage to stay awake. Oh hold on, that’s right—one of your dogs was killed by a Free Trained. You’ll be busy with blood matches, I expect.”

  “You can be sure I’ll have time for your lads, once that’s done,” Curge rumbled.

  “I look forward to it.”

  Curge regarded Nexus for a moment and saw the hard stare directed back at him. Say what one would about the man, Curge told himself, the wine merchant was more than willing to sling barbs. Unlike the gold-plated tit on the far side.

  “What does Gastillo have to say about that, hm?” Curge asked in a loud voice. “You look like you might be shivering over there underneath that shiny face of yours. When does one of your lads grace the arena sands? When will we see Gastillo’s hellpups fight?”

  The golden visage didn’t move. “Soon,” brushed past the metal lips.

  Curge let him be, hoping that Nexus might learn something about keeping a quiet tongue.

  22

  A boot nudged Halm, waking him from his sleep. The early morning smells of the surrounding forest made him crack his eyes wider and sit up amongst some sparsely growing grass.

  “You’re taking to sleeping outside very well,” Muluk informed him.

  “After the Pit, anywhere’s a good place to sleep.”

  “You’re right there.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  “Only if you brought it yourself.” Muluk walked deeper into the forest.

  “Where are you going?” Halm asked.

  Muluk turned and grabbed his crotch before disappearing behind some thick trunks. Halm ignored the gesture and spied the other Kree already on his feet and crutches.

  “Fine morning, good Goll.”

  “You Zhiberians call everyone good?”

  “It’s a fashion I’ve taken after the Sunjans. Are you buying us breakfast this morning?”

  “Why not,” Goll grumped. “Buying everything else for us. No reason to stop now.”

  “My friend, good Goll.” Halm beamed, getting to his feet. He placed his hands behind his back and stretched it with a crack.

  “That didn’t sound good,” one of the nearby coach guards commented.

  “Sounds terrible but feels good. Now for that breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome to eat with us.” The driver walked towards the vehicle. “Not much, but I can spare you a bit.”

  Both pit fighters nodded their approval before moving closer.

  A little later, the rays of sunshine piercing the overhead canopy of green, they sat in a circle around an uncovered basket full of breads and hard-boiled eggs. Sweet red jam was applied with knives and eaten with gusto. They drank water from a barrel at the rear of the koch, measured out with a deep ladle.

  “How was the alehouse last night?” Muluk asked from where he sat, the corner of his mouth flecked with the remains of his single egg.

  Halm grunted.

  “What was that?”

  “Yes,” Goll asked drily, “what was that?”

  “I said”—Halm swallowed his last bite of bread—“I almost had a fight.” The Zhiberian then recounted his experience in the alehouse and the words exchanged with the old man and his two dangerous-looking companions.

  “A damn good thing you didn’t fight them,” Goll scolded. “You’re to fight later this week, and I’m counting on you to win. Anything between now and then… well, you walk away. Run if you have to.”

  Halm shrugged at this as if it were no matter.

  “I’m serious about this,” Goll continued. “You risk yourself in such a manner, and you’re no use to any of this. What can you contribute?”

  “My stories of distant lands?” Halm beamed. “The women I’ve bedded. The company I’ve kept.”

  “That might be something to hear.” Muluk chuckled.

  Goll shot a dark look at his fellow countryman and pointed a warning finger at Halm.

  “All right,” the Zhiberian conceded before Goll could say anything more. “I’ll do as you say.”

  That placated the Kree as he settled back with only a hard look at his portly companion.

  “Right, so where’s this Thaimondus?” Muluk asked of the driver. The man, a middle-aged sort with a face darkened by the sun, jabbed a hand in the direction of the lake.

  “Down there. You’ll see a palisade. And a wharf with some small fishing boats. All his property. He’s like a small lord here.”

  “You know about him?” Goll asked.

  “Only that he used to train fighters for the games… and now lives here.”

  “What’s he look like?” Muluk wanted to know.

  “Small man. Old now. Haven’t seen him for a while, but I’ve heard he’s become sickly. His mind addled.”

  From where he sat, Halm’s face drooped.

  “He’s usually walked around by a pair of his lads.” The driver focused on Goll. “Two big men. You’ll see them soon enough.”

  Halm drew a hand across his forehead. Even in the shade, he was finding it uncomfortable.

  Goll noticed immediately. “Those men you almost fought…”

  “Might be them.” Halm’s words caused the Kree to close his eyes, seemingly wishing it wasn’t so.

  “We could be finished then,” Muluk said for them both.

  “Shut up,” Goll snapped, flustered. Then to Halm, “We could be finished, you realize.”

  “It might not be them,” Halm offered.

  “Might not,” Muluk added.

  “Are you some damn echo her
e,” Goll slung at his fellow Kree, who became sullen and set his jaw.

  “These two men, one of them walk around bare-chested like myself? Tall man?” Halm asked the driver.

  “Aye that. I’ve seen him such.”

  Goll squeezed his eyes shut in quiet agony while Muluk rubbed the side of his face.

  “I didn’t know,” Halm muttered at them both. “There was no way of knowing. They were right on me from the moment I was in the place.”

  “What should we do?” Muluk asked.

  “Find out if it’s really them,” Goll answered, setting his shoulders. “Then go from there. My thanks for the meal. We’ll be back before noon if we can—or send word otherwise. If we’re able.”

  “We’ll be here then.” The driver stood up to tend to the horses.

  The three gladiators got to their feet and followed the dirt road. They passed houses built on either side without any forethought other than simply claiming the spot as their own. Small gardens with wild garlic divided up the space between the rough dwellings while stone chimneys smoked idyllic plumes into the quiet morning air. The sun hid itself behind some low-hanging clouds, giving the land and the lake a pleasant, dull quality.

  “Nice little place.” Muluk eyed the free chickens strutting about. Goats could be heard somewhere to the left.

  “Nothing here to do,” Halm said.

  “Daresay this is just the start of a little town.” Goll swung along on his crutches. “The lake ahead is quite large. Plenty of land about. Quiet. I’d like to see this place again in twenty years.”

  Halm scowled, struggling with both his like and his loathing for the quiet life. And the idea that he might have made an enemy of Thaimondus without even knowing made all other thoughts trivial. It was a wonder he managed to get down breakfast.

  They approached the lake, a great, dark-blue thing laid out before them like a poorly framed mirror with a small rocky beach. A small wharf jutted out into the water, long and set low to the surface, with three small boats tied to its length. The town had been built alongside the small waterside clearing, but to the left and right, a fence of elms almost completely ringed the rest of the water’s edges.