131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Pig Knot frowned. “What do you know about it?”

  “I saw the first one where you took on a handful of gladiators. Not Free Trained either. Those were groomed war pigs if I ever came across any. And you put them down. While pissed, no less.”

  “All I wanted then was a place to drink.”

  “And they didn’t want you there; I understand both sides. But when they sought to punish you for it, by Seddon’s ball sack, you gave back.”

  They were probably just as drunk, Pig Knot thought, but he didn’t voice his opinion.

  “You are indeed a scrappy one.” Toffer chuckled in admiration. “I like that. You’ve run up a bill with my friend Bindon this day. We both wondered how you’ll be able to pay. You managed the first instance, but I suspect this time will be different.”

  “I’ll pay him.”

  “I already did.”

  Pig Knot straightened on his cot. He didn’t like that in the least. Owing debts to friends, merchants, and even healers was one thing. The feeling he had about owing coin to Toffer wasn’t something he was sure he could sleep easy over.

  “Yes,” Toffer explained. “You owe me now. And I do require payment. My friend here”—he tilted his head to the brooding Sujin—“needs coin as well. In case you don’t already know, you were a mess last night. You’re a sewn-up mess this morning. We carried you here, me and a few others. I thought that one of your nature would appreciate the gesture, especially when you left those three men in the alley last night.”

  Pig Knot started, but Toffer kept on. “I also know those three lads aren’t particularly happy with you. Probably searching for you right now, in fact. You were half-right in fighting them in a dark alleyway, but you probably should have stayed away from the light.”

  Toffer traced a finger around his jaw. “My guess is they saw your face. In any case, anyone who looks upon you now, well… you’re memorable. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “What do you want?”

  “My coin, of course.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “You have that sack at your feet,” Toffer pointed out.

  Pig Knot fumed. “That’s a friend’s. Not mine to give.”

  “I understand. Well, that means you must pay me. Pay us.” Another dip of the head to the menacing hell pup standing to one side. “And I wish to be paid soon and in full.”

  Pig Knot glanced to the window once more. Truthfully, he felt terrible, but it might indeed be the time to bolt. “Said I don’t have any.”

  “Well, what do you have of worth?” Toffer peered at him down the length of his nose.

  “Nothing.”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong,” Toffer hissed. “A man who can hold his own against a handful of house pit fighters isn’t nothing in my eyes. I’m interested in your skills, young man. Those are invaluable. I want those.”

  What was this topper speaking about? Pig Knot’s expression shifted into dark confusion.

  “You fight in the games this season,” Toffer said as though suppressing bad air. “Your first fight was a terrible mess. I won coin off you, but you were shite, honestly.”

  “My thanks,” Pig Knot said sardonically.

  “What I saw in the streets, however, changed my mind about you. You’re a killer. An animal. One of Saimon’s hellions unleashed when riled. And I smell opportunity.”

  “Like what?”

  Toffer’s eyes bore into Pig Knot. “Not the most intelligent, it seems.”

  Pig Knot didn’t like that. “I can tell you’re the smart one around here.”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “If you were alone right now, I’d toss your ass-licking carcass right out that window.”

  Toffer’s expression soured. “You think I need him?”

  “I do. You had a few other lads with you in the pool, I remember. Strength in numbers, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  The Sujin’s baleful gaze seemed to intensify, or perhaps it was Pig Knot’s growing nervousness.

  Toffer spoke. “Well, you know I have the numbers. You also know I have at least one Sujin with me. But honestly, when you have one such as Klytus here, well, you don’t really need many more.”

  “Hmm,” Pig Knot conceded.

  “Well, here’s my offer. I’ll get you a fight in the Pit. I can do that. Even if your match isn’t until later, I can move it up. You win that fight. You fight like you did on the streets there, win, and you’ll repay me.”

  That sounded easy enough, but Pig Knot had to ask, “And if I don’t fight and perhaps pay you later?”

  “There is no later,” Toffer said curtly. “There’s no refusal. If you breathe the words, Klytus will convince you otherwise. And if he’s convincing you, the longer he takes, the less interested I’ll be in having you fight, because you’ll have all of your fingers broken. Probably some ribs. Your jaw. And anything else he can snap. Of course, I just might heave you into the Pit with your wounds anyway and let the dogs devour you. The choice is yours.”

  “Give me a moment.”

  Toffer smiled. “You have. One. Moment. Klytus.”

  Upon hearing his name, the armoured Sujin animated with a rustling of mail links and took a heavy step forward, arms dangling at his sides and fists clenching.

  Pig Knot inwardly winced.

  The Sujin grabbed the end of the cot and lifted it with a creak. One of the warrior’s huge hands reached for Pig Knot’s head.

  “I’ll do it!” Pig Knot blurted, and the hand stopped. The helm turned in the direction of Toffer.

  “Excellent,” the other man said. “That wasn’t so bad, after all.”

  Klytus released the cot, allowing it to crash to the floor and making Pig Knot shudder with the impact. The Sujin backed up to the steps once more, moving as if his limbs were controlled by unseen strings. Pig Knot felt something snap beneath him and believed he sank a little lower in the straw.

  “Now then,” Toffer said. “Business. You rest here for the day. Relax. Heal. I’ll make the arrangements. We’ll try to get you into a fight tomorrow perhaps. Or the day after. I’ve left another coin with Bindon, so you’ll have food to eat.”

  “My thanks,” Pig Knot said without meaning it, watching Klytus distrustfully. “Except I can barely see out of my eyes. They’re swoll—”

  “Then stop prodding them with your fingers. You’ll see well enough when it’s time to fight. Besides, I’ve seen you fight, remember? These taps will only spice up the stew.”

  Pig Knot’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

  “Ah, don’t worry. I have nothing but confidence in your skillset. You’ll pay me back from the coin you win.” Toffer stared him in the eyes. “And Pig Knot, don’t think about leaving the games or the city. That would be… unwise. You only see two men here this day. I can tell you there are many, many more of us.”

  Pig Knot paused. “I won’t. Leave, I mean. What’s one fight?”

  “Excellent. That’s my sentiment exactly. What is one fight?” Toffer smiled, but then it frosted over. “Just don’t lose it.”

  Pig Knot blinked with uncertainty.

  “Well, that’s all I have to say.” Toffer exhaled and slapped his knees as he rose. “I’ll meet you here again once everything’s been arranged. Don’t go anywhere except the shite trough.”

  “I have the chamber pot underneath. I’ve been here before.”

  Toffer nodded, studied Pig Knot for a moment longer, and finally departed, plodding down the steps until he disappeared from sight. Klytus followed him like some monstrous dog nipping at his master’s heels. Pig Knot once again marvelled at the size of the man. He figured he’d avoided a close thing.

  Sounds from the street drifted into the room, eventually swallowing the heavy footfalls of his visitors. Pig Knot lay back on the cot, no longer concerned with how his backside seemed to sink in the middle of the bed, and wondered if he had just made a very bad decision.

  27

  Early
that morning, as a red sky simmered below the horizon, Clavellus climbed aboard a wagon his men had prepared the night before. The vehicle soon left his estate in a plume of dust, travelling upon wheels that would soon need replacing. The morning heat beat down on the driver, but the two other passengers rode under a cloth canopy covering the rear like a tent. Clavellus held a rough hand towel to his face and neck, soaking up the moisture already gathering there, and gnawed on his inner lip for a moment. He was taking a great risk in travelling to the city, one he lied about to his Nala, but he could no longer wait. His patience just wasn’t there anymore. He doubted the three Free Trained men would come back to him, not after the verbal lashing he delivered while half drunk, so he decided to search for them. He took Koba along, who sat across from him wearing only a pair of brown trousers that looked much too warm. His upper body, broad and muscular, was bare and sweaty, and several times during their trip, Koba wiped the moisture from his body and palmed it off on his leg.

  Early morning and the sun had only just begun grilling the land.

  “I don’t like this,” Koba said once more as the wagon rattled along.

  Clavellus ran his trembling left hand over his beard and regarded the man. “Too late to go back now.”

  “I don’t want to go back.”

  “Well, now you’re just being difficult.” The taskmaster smiled crookedly.

  “Machlann didn’t want to come.”

  “No, Machlann didn’t.”

  “I would have thought he’d want to.”

  “Machlann isn’t… as fond of the place as I am.” However, he knew it wasn’t true. Machlann was one of three trainers who’d been cast out along with Clavellus years ago. Pinnak had fallen from his horse while crossing a stream one morning and had his ribcage crushed by a single hoof. Basen had simply up and died shivering while eating a meal of fish. Both had met their ends within three years of being exiled from the games. Machlann was the only one to have lived as long as Clavellus, and the trainer had admitted the night before to his taskmaster that to even gaze upon the city would tear his heart in two. And he didn’t want to break down before the Bear—the nickname they’d given Koba.

  Clavellus had stayed away from the city himself since his exile. There were other smaller cities in the country, farther away, but if he had to go or needed something, more often than not he’d travel to them or to one of the smaller towns. Not even Nala asked to enter Sunja’s capitol anymore, and as time went on, fewer of her friends remaining in the main city came to visit her. For that, Clavellus was eternally sorry and, as a result, he’d attempted to make his wife’s life as comfortable as possible with what they had.

  “Do you miss it?” Koba asked him.

  Clavellus met his trainer’s eyes and, with a ghost of a smile, looked away.

  Once they passed the grassy flatlands of Plagur’s Reach, the city rose up on its immense plateau like a tarnished crown saddling a dusty wave of rock and dirt. The wagon shook as its four horses pulled its weight up the terraced road towards the main gates and towering walls. Both Koba and Clavellus subtly braced themselves as their driver urged the horses up the incline. The huge fitted blocks of granite composing the walls of Sunja grew larger as they got closer while banners of colour hung from crenellated heights and fluttered in an easterly breeze. Traffic into the city increased, and at times, the travellers leaving the city had to carefully squeeze past those arriving. Shouts of warning and anger in languages other than Sunjan pierced the dusty air, and Clavellus looked out the rear of the wagon to see men and women hauling wagons bearing livestock and other dry goods down the terraced road.

  Koba had turned to watch the river of people, wagons, expensive koches, and animals, showing Clavellus his profile and his hideous scar.

  “Is it always this way?” the trainer asked with wonder.

  “It is. Sometimes worse.”

  Koba’s incredulous smile made Clavellus momentarily feel better about returning.

  They entered the city after being approved by a knot of Skarrs wielding spears or bows guarding the south gate. Rows of impassive warriors stood at attention outside on stone ledges, with their backs to the wall, their mail armour already dimmed by dust. More Skarrs threaded their ways through the deluge of wagons and people, hailing and searching vehicles and goods before allowing them to pass. A face covered by a metal visor threw back the tarp covering the rear of the wagon and peered inside at Clavellus and Koba at the same instant another Skarr demanded the driver reveal the purpose of his visit. Clavellus’s man answered more questions before the Skarr gave the signal to pass on. The warrior at the rear let the tarp drop without a word.

  “They’re careful,” Koba stated.

  “It’s a time of war,” Clavellus reminded him.

  Soon the road became a little smoother, the crowds thicker. The driver steered them onto a wider venue specifically for wagons, and they made good time towards the Pit. Clavellus peered out through a slit in the cloth, beheld the droves of people dressed in both drab greys and explosions of vibrant colours, and reminisced about another time with a sigh and an ache. He half-expected to see men who were ghosts now, standing along the street, perhaps even with a wave for him. But there were none.

  Just more people.

  Sunja had grown fat with them.

  Before noon, they arrived at the Pit, and Clavellus instructed his driver to stay with the wagon. Anything that needed to be done, Koba and he would manage. The older man and his big trainer eased out of the wagon, and for a moment, they stood and basked in the menacing yet majestic size of Sunja’s Pit. Red brick and massive oak timbers, Vathian black-veined marble columns, and Sunjan might completed the four-level structure capable of holding thousands. Brick archways ringed the very top, decorated with plunging waterfalls and warrior figures of scintillating blue and gleaming copper. Painted murals depicting battle scenes from the arena’s bloody past covered the lower walls, depicting men and beasts alike in heroic or ferocious poses. The smell of sweat permeated the scene, but it was barely noticed due to the extraordinary sight.

  “It’s…” Koba whispered in awe and faltered, not possessing the vocabulary to place his thoughts into sound, and Clavellus barely heard. Elation filled him, as he secretly had feared to never be able to return to the one place where all of his skill and knowledge meant something. It was still dangerous, even with the death of old Curge, but it felt as if a thick noose about his throat had been removed. Any fear of the risks evaporated in the presence of the Pit, Seddon save him and Nala forgive him. He didn’t care. The arena was truly his first love, and he’d missed her dearly.

  He gazed upon on the open square about the arena, the people already heading into the Gate of the Sea. He heard the rising excitement in their voices and sensed the rumble of energy in the air. They had gotten here right on time.

  “This way.” Clavellus led his trainer into the Pit’s stony breast.

  *

  Later that day, when the sun scorched the people in the stands, men raked the sands below, covering up the blood before the next fight began. The games were in full ferocious bloom, and the sand soaked up sweat and blood enough to become a thick broth that took effort to cover. In the viewing boxes at ground level, heat shimmered off the areas untouched by the last fight. Through that dancing veil, the people glistened. Hellish heat, Clavellus thought, straining to see who sat in the stands. It was one thing he hadn’t missed about the place. The temperature reached him even here, below the surface where it usually was cooler. Not this day, however. This day transformed the arena into a brick oven. The old taskmaster stood at the arched window and gazed out, running his fingers over his chin, bearing the stickiness of it all while simply enjoying the spectacle of armed might, flesh, and blood.

  Koba’s mouth hung open as though about to catch grapes while the trainer’s eyes never left the sands. He stood beside Clavellus, bowed over to see better, his attention birdlike. Clavellus had to thank the Madea for allowing hi
m to enter the Pit. Though he was not the Madea of his day or an old friend, the official remembered his name and was indifferent enough to the unwritten decrees of dead men. He saw nothing wrong with allowing a former taskmaster of champions to enter and watch the glory of the games. And in the Madea’s eyes, Clavellus was still a taskmaster, regardless of no longer being active. He permitted him his own private viewing chamber.

  Free Trained men fought this day although Clavellus had missed perhaps the first two matches. He quickly pulled his shaky hand down over his face and peered outside, memories flooding his person. The stone and brick of the Pit had aged much better than he, and he fondly patted one side of the arched window.

  “More wagering?” Koba asked.

  “In between the fights, yes. There’s a schedule posted at the end of each entryway. People can see who fights whom there and place their wagers when they wish, really.”

  “The Free Trained are shite.”

  “They are,” Clavellus agreed. “Well, usually are. There are some that might hold promise, and those who do are quickly snapped up by the established houses. Future fodder, you see. And it’s best for them. The house fighters despise the children playing in games meant for men. Hate them. Feel as if the Chamber sullies the sport by allowing them onto the same field.”

  “Then why do it?” Koba asked.

  “Coin. Fodder. One has to feed the masses something before the main events, and there aren’t really enough pit fighters—trained and prepared gladiators—to fight in every match. Allowing these men in lengthens the season and earns the Chamber more coin. Earns the owners more coin. It’s best this way.”

  “Business,” Koba hissed.

  “Yes,” Clavellus agreed once again. “Business. Exactly.”

  Just then, the Orator bellowed the introductions for the next pair of fighters, much to the crowd’s thunderous delight. Clavellus didn’t recognize the name of Gastillo, nor Prajus, who belonged to his house. The gladiator wore armour that shone in the sun; a lovely vest of scale that shimmered in the heat covered his upper body while a black iron helm with a face cage protected his features. Clavellus had always liked that style of helm. It made a man look intimidating. Prajus’s arms were bare and muscular and covered in metal bracers. A set of bronze greaves protected his lower legs up to his knees, where thick spikes protruded. Clavellus inwardly winced at the spikes. There was only one reason why the gladiator had such, and that was to gut his foe at close quarters. A knee strike tipped with one of those would kill a man—slowly. Prajus stood with his legs spread apart and held a broadsword and shield, both well maintained. The shield had the iron head of a dragon on its surface.