Fine equipment, weapons. Clavellus knew money when he saw it. Gastillo outfitted his boys well.
The other man wasn’t allied to anyone. He wore an old leather vest and pot helm, with a narrow slit and perforated mouth area. Clavellus wondered if the topper could see from the thing, let alone properly breathe. Leather bracers covered the fighter’s arms, and strips of leather protected the upper thighs. His lower legs remained as bare as a babe’s ass and practically begged to be cut out from under him. A wooden shield banded with iron and a broadsword filled the Free Trained man’s hands. The arms of the man were beefy but with more fat than muscle, and certainly not toned like his opponent’s.
Clavellus sighed heavily. This wasn’t going to be pretty.
Upon the scream from the Orator, the fighters moved. The Free Trained was called Valobra, from Balgotha. Some champions had trickled down from that country just beyond Marrn, but this one appeared to be on his own. Clavellus observed the man was nervous in his movements while Prajus, the House of Gastillo gladiator, seemed as relaxed as if he’d downed half a cask of Sunjan firewater.
The old taskmaster shook his head. The Free Trained had been tossed to a hellpup.
Valobra rushed Prajus, swinging for a head, then a shoulder, and finally thrusting for the gut. Prajus ducked, leaned away, and parried before backing away. The crowd, oooohing at the sudden flurry from the Balgothan, became silent, stunned by the quickness of Prajus. Then their voices rose in eager anticipation of the house fighter’s response. Prajus did nothing, however, and simply stayed light on his feet, knees bent and guard up, waiting and poised with confidence.
Counterstriker, Clavellus gauged. The man was a counterstriker, looking to punish his foe after he’d committed to his own attack and with his guard lowered. They weren’t the most exciting to watch, but when they did lash out, it was with extraordinary speed and deadly consequences.
Clavellus then realized with a chilling detachment that the pit fighter from the House of Gastillo wasn’t wasting time. He was prolonging it.
Valobra turned and sized up his foe while Prajus stepped to his left, shield protecting his forward leg, sword ready, never taking his eyes from his opponent. Solid form.
The Balgothan lunged at his opponent to a ragged cheer from the audience—and missed. Prajus got out of the way and seemingly swatted at the Free Trained warrior as he rushed by. With their positions changed, Valobra showed his back to Clavellus and Koba.
Clavellus frowned.
Koba hissed.
The crowd erupted in a harsh rumble, aware one man had been hit.
That seemingly innocuous strike had slashed the Balgothan’s back to the spine, the leather cut open like an ugly, toothless mouth. A sheet of blood seeped across and under the material, running over the man’s ass and onto his legs. Valobra moved as if quilled with arrows. Clavellus knew the battle rush was the only thing keeping the Free Trained on his feet.
Even as he thought it, Valobra painfully lashed out with thrusts and slashes, targeting everything yet connecting with nothing. Prajus nimbly ducked and dodged, deflecting a sword and passing up an opportunity to drive the tip of his blade through the man’s gut.
Clavellus shook his head ever so slightly. Valobra had truly gotten the poor draw, as Prajus was in no hurry.
He was playing to the crowd.
Valobra stabbed for Prajus’s arm, which the fighter took on the shield. The Free Trained made a wide looping cut that Prajus ducked under, which made Clavellus palm-wipe his face in embarrassment. Then a final desperate flurry from the Balgothan, heralded by a dramatic roar the spectators drowned out. Swords clashed in that unnerving clang of edges.
This time, Prajus didn’t get out of the way. This time, Prajus stood right before the man and allowed each attack to roll off him in a dizzying display of defense. Then he flicked his wrist at his opponent in apparent boredom, halting the man in his tracks. The house gladiator stepped away as Valobra dropped to his knees, clutching at the red line across his chest. Blood dripped from the cut like snow thaw. Valobra pressed his forearm against it to stem the flow, but it spilled over his flesh. Prajus stood strides away, keeping an eye on his opponent and not relaxing his impressive guard in the least. Although the man was making an example of the Free Trained, he wasn’t entirely taking him lightly.
Confident, but not overly.
Clavellus concluded the House of Gastillo was a force attending the season’s games.
A grimacing Valobra got to his feet amongst a cruel shower of insults and wailing. The audience hadn’t changed in the least, the old taskmaster observed. They were still bastards and bitches as fickle as weather and just as quick to change.
Hearing them and deciding to put on one last show, the Balgothan slashed mightily, his blood fanning the sands and actually backing Prajus up a step. The air crinkled as Valobra’s slower blade probed and tested Prajus’s defenses, each thrust turned aside. He finally stabbed, unbalancing himself, and Prajus stepped into his man. Unstoppable, he smashed the edge of his shield across the man’s pot helm twice, the sharp sounds startling.
Prajus cracked him twice with the shield and stabbed him once through the throat.
The Free Trained did a little breathless jig on the spot. Then the blood burst forth, and he collapsed to the sand.
Prajus stood over the fallen man, blade dripping.
The arena exploded in adoration.
Even Clavellus nodded at the impressive display of arms.
“He’s one I’ll have to be careful of,” a voice rumbled when the cheering died down.
Clavellus and Koba turned to see Dark Curge standing in their chamber, watching them with icy eyes. Dressed in shiny green satin with black trousers, the bald, one-armed owner did not visit alone. A shorter, solid-looking boulder of a man stood behind him, wearing a thick X of studded leather crossed his otherwise bare muscular chest.
“You came back,” Curge whispered in awe. “I never thought you would. My father did, but…” He faltered and shook his head in disbelief.
“Curge,” Clavellus greeted cautiously, as if one twitch might provoke an attack. Koba straightened up at his side, waiting for a gesture from his taskmaster, but Clavellus gave no such signal.
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Dark Curge rumbled, ignoring Koba entirely.
“I decided to chance it.”
“I could kill you right here.”
“You could murder me right here,” Clavellus corrected. “There’s no law backing you or forbidding what I did in the past.”
The word murder made Koba shift uneasily. The taskmaster hoped his trainer would not do anything rash… yet.
“Only my father’s.”
“Only your father’s reputation. I see you took that as your own?”
Curge nodded sagely. “One thing he left to me. Amongst others.”
“I doubt there’s anyone left of the old guard to remember Curge casting me out.”
To this, Dark Curge smirked. “More than you would like. They haven’t all died of old age.”
“Who’s left?”
“I’m sure you’ll find out on your own if you’ve the balls to come this far.”
“Hmm. What about this Gastillo?”
“Once a pit fighter. On his own for a few seasons now. Well financed but… manageable. Truth be known, the House of Curge still dominates these games.”
Clavellus could not suppress his own smirk. “I’ll ask around on that.”
“Have you found the Free Trained men that visited you?” Curge asked, his eyes sly.
The question caught Clavellus off guard, and in the moment he took to think of an answer, Curge had him.
“Yes, I know about them,” the one-armed man rumbled. “There’s… little that happens in the Pit that I don’t know about. I’ve known perhaps even longer than you.” His smile opened like a long, gleaming stitch pulled apart. “I know they’re searching for a taskmaster of their own. Seeing you here makes me
believe you are thinking about coming back to the games, so I’ll be brief, old master. Any man taken under your wing will be punished on the sands. Gutted. One by one, so that you’ll know you made a mistake in coming back. I’ll place a bounty large enough on any of them to make the Domis shite themselves and the Madea break a sweat. And once started, it won’t end. I’ll let slip that your head is also up for payment, just to make things more interesting. Saimon’s hell, I just might hunt you myself. Surprise you, like this time, eh? The streets won’t be friendly to you in the least, not amongst those who kill for a living. Do you truly wish to be constantly looking over your shoulder? Checking every shadow? Not I. And when you’re gone and your estate is in ruins, I’ll ravage that as well.”
When he finished, deadly tension thrummed between the four men.
“There’s no need for any of this.” Clavellus locked gazes with Curge. “What happened was long ago.”
“My father said you’d say such things,” Curge droned on, sounding bored, “just as he said you would crawl back. He knew you better than I. Obviously, he knew you better than you knew him. You went against him. Challenged his word under his own roof. In front of his fighters. You questioned the word of Curge. Now you know how deep a mistake that was. Only now… after all these years.”
For a time, neither man spoke. Clavellus felt as if he’d just been punched hard in the guts, and he struggled with his composure. To show weakness here would mean spilled blood.
“It’s a surprise that you didn’t lose more than just your arm,” Clavellus finally retorted in a controlled voice.
“This?” Curge lifted his stump and regarded it with pursed lips. “What was it you once said? ‘Pain is just a friendly tap to get your arse moving.’ This got me moving—quite fast in fact. The man that did this—well, I aimed higher with my cut, and my life with one arm is considerably easier than his with no head.”
Curge lowered his arm. “Stay away, Clavellus,” he growled, all cordiality having bled from his voice. “Be good to yourself and die peacefully in bed. Perhaps with that old bitch you call a wife if she still draws breath. You’ve stayed away for so long. Why trouble yourself now with returning? With knowing I’ll make you and yours bleed for transgressions against my father? The House of Curge remembers. Always has. Always will. When you leave here this day, do not come back. Know that I’ll be watching. And listening. A maggot could squeal within these walls, and I’d hear of it. You won’t get this warning again.” The big man shook his head and suddenly appeared almost apologetic. “This day, I’ll be merciful and allow you to take in the spectacle of the games. Just to see what you’ve missed all this time. My gift to you for the old days. Think of it as a cup of water… offered to a man dying of thirst. But don’t linger here.”
Curge’s eyes became as hard as the glare off polished Vathian marble. “In fact, get out the moment the day’s fights are finished. Do you understand?”
“I do.” Clavellus swallowed.
Satrisfied, Curge’s face softened. He glanced at Koba, and the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.
Then he turned dismissively and left, his burly henchman following, showing his back. They left the door open.
Koba strode across the room and peered out, turning left and right and watching for a few moments while Clavellus took a deep steadying breath and longed for a tankard of firewater. His heart and lungs seemed to have stopped sometime during Curge’s visit, and he struggled to hide the pent-up anxiety pounded into him by the warning of his once student. He’d wanted to return, and he’d done so.
Now he wondered if he had the balls to go further.
The banishment had not lessened. As long as one remained of old Curge’s line, he would make it known that Clavellus was still a pariah to the games. Thinking back to the instance when he crossed the brooding bastard, in front of his fighters no less, filled him with a quivering stinger of regret lodged deep in his bones. He should’ve just let old Curge have his way back then. He should have just given the order and walked away.
But he didn’t.
Seddon above, he thought. To be lectured by old Curge’s only son left him wishing for a taste of venom. The very man whom Clavellus had taught perhaps everything he’d ever known about combat, and to have his once student warn him… the underlying, insolent dare in his words. That was a nail that Clavellus knew he couldn’t swallow.
Then he smiled feebly. Young Curge—Dark Curge—had done well. He’d gotten inside his old instructor’s head. Clavellus saw the trap clearly then, and the realization spread over him like the sun’s heat. Curge didn’t want him to stay away. Just the opposite. Curge wanted him to partake in the games with whomever he was training. Whether he knew Clavellus didn’t have any gladiators at the moment was unsaid and uncertain. And how he’d known about the Free Trained was beyond him. Regardless, Curge wanted his old taskmaster back in the Pit.
With whoever had the balls to stand with him.
To take up steel against Curge’s own students.
The old teacher versus the pupil.
“He’s gone,” Koba returned, appearing every bit as tense as Clavellus felt.
“No, he’s not. Not really,” the taskmaster said distantly, appearing calm on the outside while hiding the conflict within. He’d run from Dark Curge’s father, but running from the son did not sit well on Clavellus’s heart. The sheer audacity to confront and lecture him did not sit well on his mind. And embarking upon what Clavellus had known all along he’d finally do, what he’d done for half his life, even in the shadows of Sunja’s games… did not sit well on his nerves.
Outside, the crowds had quieted down.
“We have to get moving,” Clavellus said finally.
“Are we leaving?” Koba wanted to know.
“Far from it.”
28
The day following the burning of Thaimondus’s house, Halm and Muluk felt as if spikes were being hammered into their temples while their stomachs upheaved with a storm’s strength. They were far too hung over to travel, so an irritated Goll reluctantly gave in to staying another day in Karashipa. The next day, however, the Kree rallied his dried-out companions at dawn and left the little village when the sun had just pulled itself above the distant treetops, turning the sky gold-white. They rode away on horses as Goll decided there was no need to take a wagon. The horses would be handful enough.
Feeling eyes on his back, Halm turned around once on his mare, and saw the small gathering watching them leave. Miji stood there, just a shape set against the picturesque scene of sleepy, roughshod houses and the black mirror of the lake beyond. Goll purposely steered his horse directly behind the Zhiberian, blocking his view and regarding him with an annoyed question on his features. Halm cleared his throat and righted himself in the saddle, a wistful expression on his face. His mare’s ears flickered to the quirky chortles of morning birds as he got used to the sway of the animal underneath him. The villagers had provided them all with saddles and saddlebags in addition to the horses, and Goll in particular had struggled getting onto his gelding, which was a sturdy sixteen hands high and the tallest of the three animals.
“Think I’ll miss this place.” Muluk glanced about as he rode beside the Zhiberian. “Good place to live. Not in the city.”
“Aye that.” Halm caught himself the moment he said it.
The stocky Kree smiled at him. “So, you ah…” He flexed his brow with sly meaning and tossed a nod towards the village.
“No,” Halm answered. “Just talked.”
“Talked? What is it with you and talking? All Zhiberians like you?”
“No. Just me.”
“Lords above.” Muluk turned in his saddle and looked back at an uncomfortable Goll. “You hear that? He talked to her.”
“You expect him to club her across the head or something, you tit?”
Muluk scowled uncertainly at his countryman before directing his attention back to Halm. “Well, did you kiss her even?”<
br />
“No, none of that. Nothing. Only talk.”
“And here I thought that look on your face was from being spent.” Muluk scratched at his dark hair. “Next alehouse we get to, I’ll show you how to do things right. Guaranteed.”
Behind them both, Goll groaned and gazed at something interesting in the underbrush.
Muluk ignored him. “I know just the one for you.”
A bemused Halm eyed the Kree. “It’s all right, good Muluk. I think I’ll be seeing that barkeep again in the future. I’ll wait on that.”
“Pah. Your choice. I’ll ask again later when you’re drunk.”
“No more drinking,” Goll declared firmly.
“What?” asked a surprised Muluk.
“No more drinking. You, I don’t care, but for him,” he dipped his head at Halm’s back, “nothing. Not even a sip. He’ll be fighting soon, and it’s all poison to a man fighting.”
“Bit strict, isn’t it?” Muluk asked.
“You’ll find my boot strict in your ass if I catch you buying him a drink.”
Muluk frowned and shot a disapproving glance back at his countryman. “Uncalled for.”
“I’m telling you both, but especially you, Zhiberian. If you’re serious about this, you will now observe what I had to observe while preparing for my matches here. On my own. No spirits of any kind. Only practice and rest. With a day of rest before the match.”
“I like that part,” Halm confided to Muluk.
“What’s the good of it?” Muluk demanded. “You can’t drink. And you aren’t interested in a woman. Damn boring if you ask me.”
131 Days [Book 1] Page 37