131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Trouble clung to his ass these days.

  Across the way, the one called Kurlin ate with gusto, pausing once to salute him with a fistful of pork and a greasy smirk.

  *

  Koba found all three men splayed out on the tables, resembling dead men waiting to be butchered, so he rapped his club off the nearest set of shins to get him howling. Muluk yelled out and clutched his lower legs in pain, waking in an instant. Koba administered the same to Pig Knot next, catching him just as Muluk’s cry roused him from sleep. The trainer didn’t reach Halm in time as the Zhiberian jumped off his table, grinning at the obvious disappointment on the big man’s face.

  “Not this time, you don’t,” Halm said and winked, placing the table between them. The great scar on the side of Koba’s face wrinkled as he frowned.

  “You’ve crippled me!” Pig Knot wailed as he hobbled along. “I’m crippled!”

  “I’m crippled!” Muluk took up the cry. “Sweet, dying Seddon!”

  “On the sands,” the trainer ordered, herding them into daylight. The sun had gone behind some clouds, but the sand grilled their bare feet. Machlann stood waiting for them, dour and squinting in displeasure.

  “Where were they?” the trainer asked.

  “Sleeping on the tables.” Koba’s voice was tainted with disbelief.

  “Sleeping?” Machlann bellowed. “Sleeping? Well, that nap will just be taken from your sleep this night since you started on it already without permission. You stupid dog blossoms. I hope you’re well and rested this afternoon as I’ve all manner of torture in mind for you. Seddon might take pity on you and strike you dead, but I doubt that. No, right now you’re with me, and I’m about to show you why you don’t sleep in the middle of the day. With your approval, Master Clavellus.”

  Machlann turned his head in the direction of the balcony. Clavellus stood there with his mug in hand, gazing down imperiously with Goll next to him.

  The taskmaster nodded to continue.

  “Master Goll?”

  “Break them if you must,” Goll yelled out.

  Pig Knot stopped wincing upon hearing the words. “Right serious, aren’t you?”

  Koba lurked behind him.

  Machlann faced the three men with an expression of barely suppressed smugness. “Right serious is all Koba and I are about, you steaming piece of shite. Dog balls. After this afternoon, meat hooks will seem a blessing to you.”

  None of the three had anything to say to that.

  Truth be told, they were frightened.

  More practice on the wooden men, the same chop-and-slash technique they’d done all morning. Machlann watched them from the side, his voice blaring unpleasantly through the summer air.

  “Terrible shape, all of you. Eeeeeee, what are you lads doing? What are you doing? And two of you are still in the games? Not for bloody long. You’ve no stamina to speak of. None that I can see. Can you see any, Koba?”

  “None.”

  “Hear that? You there. Pig Shite!”

  “Pig Knot,” Pig Knot grated, sweating as if he suffered from innumerable puncture wounds.

  “You’re swinging that stick as if you’re fanning someone. Eeeeeee, put your hips into it. More power. Stop tickling and carve your name out on that timber, boy! Eeeeeee! Swing! Don’t worry if you break the sword. We have lots to spare. Swing! Smash it over that wood because your foe is training to do the very same to you and gladly.”

  Machlann stopped and studied Pig Knot, who doubled his efforts, clacking his wooden sword repeatedly off the cross. After a barrage of heavy strikes, his strength began to wilt.

  “Harder!” Machlann roared. “This isn’t some tavern wench you’ve hauled off to a dark corner. Hit it! Eeeeeee, Saimon’s black hanging fruit. I’m not so sure I’ve seen such weak limbs or shortness of breath. A child would put more push into it. Dying Seddon.”

  Machlann marched over to Pig Knot and grabbed the sword. “Watch!”

  In a flurry that stunned and amazed the three fighters, the trainer laced off a steady one-two combination that made the wood tremble with each impact.

  “See my hips? See how I’m twisting them as I throw the cross strike? That’s power! And I’m not even rutting! Eeeeeeee. I should be five years dead in a grave, and I’m making that timber rattle more than you ever did.”

  Machlann tossed the sword back to the Sunjan, who got back to work with a weary expulsion of breath.

  “Koba, these lads might have warmed up as much as possible considering.”

  A stern Koba nodded his agreement.

  “Then let’s get them working.”

  Halm straightened and rubbed his shoulder, his face a snarl of exertion and disbelief. It did not go unnoticed by Machlann.

  “That’s correct, my fat little slab of pork. Now the work begins, and I pity you all. Stand aside with Koba there, Zhiberian. He’ll take care of you. Try not to bore him.” Machlann smirked and glanced towards the balcony.

  “Here.” Koba gestured, wanting Halm to follow. They moved away from Pig Knot and Muluk, who were both listening to Machlann’s guttural shrieks and shouts. The big trainer pulled on a worn hauberk and hood over his sun-bronzed torso and head. Once that was on, he put on a stout iron helmet that swallowed up his face. Righting the helm, he picked a round shield from a rack and fitted it onto his left arm. A second shield went onto his right. Then he turned to the gladiator, his eyes gleaming behind the visor.

  “You fight soon. I want you to come at me and take my head off if you can. Everything you have, everything you know, use now. I can only improve you by knowing what you can do.”

  “Might kill you.” Halm stared at the man.

  “Pah! You can try. I’m wearing this.” He spread his arms to show off the metal mesh of the hauberk, which covered all of his torso and his upper legs. “At best you might knock me out.”

  The trainer loosened up his arms and rolled his head on his shoulders. “Now, come at me. Everything you have left.”

  Halm looked at the balcony. Both Clavellus and Goll were no longer watching the others but focused on him. They stood motionless at the railing and leaned forward.

  “Now!” Koba urged.

  And Halm came on.

  The Zhiberian tore into the metal man, but his arms were tired from bashing wood for the better part of the morning. Still, he swung for his trainer’s head and arms and even tried to feint but then realized Koba wasn’t attacking and gave up. Koba blocked everything with his shields, backing up when necessary, his arms deflecting each strike away from his body.

  When Halm paused for breath, Koba bashed his arm with a shield, sending him staggering for balance. “You wait too long. Don’t be lulled by the shields. I can put one of these edges into your face and break it.”

  Halm didn’t doubt that he could and suddenly wasn’t certain he wouldn’t. Unlike the trainer, he wore nothing except his loincloth and felt very exposed.

  Koba urged him to come forward.

  Halm thrust, and Koba turned it aside, spun, and bashed a shield across the back of the fat Zhiberian’s head, sending him forward kicking up sand.

  “Mindful of the spin. If that was a sword, you’d be wondering why your body was lying on the sand in full view, if you get my meaning.”

  Halm did. He regained his balance and dug his bare feet into the sand, feeling the grit between his toes.

  Then he rushed his trainer.

  *

  Clavellus and Goll watched from the balcony, observing the paces put to the three men and keeping to the shade when possible. Clavellus sipped on his mug. He switched from wine to mead, savouring the dull edge of the drink before swallowing it, reflecting on what he was seeing below. A pensive Goll had his own mug filled, but it rested on the nearby table.

  “Your man’s powerful,” Clavellus observed. “But he’s not using that two-strike combination he’s been practicing all morning. And he tires quickly. The first gladiator to realize that and draw the fight out will kill
him. Or maim. And you say he has a blood match with one of Curge’s lads? Let’s hope they don’t figure it out.”

  “Perhaps they won’t.” Goll kept his eyes on Halm, struggling to strike his trainer.

  “Perhaps.” Clavellus smiled and sipped. “But truth be known, I only said that to make you feel better.”

  Goll looked at the man, but the old taskmaster merely grunted and kept his eyes on the sand below.

  *

  Machlann wailed like a dying bear. “Eeeeeee! What was that? What was that? Seddon’s kog and bells, boy, you swing that stick like you have one jammed up your dog blossom! Widen your stance the width of your shoulders. A narrow stance takes away from your base, your power. Slows you down, and Seddon knows you move like a sick cow as it is.”

  “I’ve won two matches this season,” Pig Knot countered, panting as he straightened and stepped away from his wooden practice man. He lifted a hand to his brow and mopped away the moisture there while his bare, hairy chest gleamed with sweat. Muluk paused as well, bending over at the knees.

  “You did?” Machlann exclaimed, clearly appalled. “That’s… disturbing. Either they didn’t know what they were doing, they were worse than you, or they were drunk when they stepped onto the sands. Tell me if I’m wrong?”

  Muluk held up a hand, distracting both men and sparing Pig Knot’s from answering. “I’m done.”

  “You’re what?” Machlann’s blue eyes widened. “You’re what? Saimon’s blue pisspot. What do you mean, I’m done? You think you have the authority here to just stop when you feel like it, my missus? Say it again. I dare you. You best get back into a stance before I take to paddling your balls. That’s after I squeeze the juice out of them with my fist.”

  “I’m no longer in the tournament,” Muluk explained with heavy breaths. “I’m just the armourer.”

  “The what?”

  “The… the armourer!”

  “Then why did you line up this morning?” Machlann demanded.

  “Figured I’d have some exercise.”

  “Exercise?”

  Muluk blinked fearfully at the reddening features of the trainer.

  “And now you’ve had enough?” Machlann snorted.

  Muluk looked at a panting Pig Knot for support and found none. “Ah, yes,” the Kree answered hesitantly.

  “On your guard and come at me.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “On. Your. Guard.”

  Grimacing, Muluk straightened his back and regarded the angry trainer with growing apprehension.

  “By Saimon’s black balls, you come at me this instant, or I’ll make it hurt, so help me sunny Seddon,” Machlann growled.

  Shaking his head, Muluk walked to the trainer with his wooden sword held at length, resigned about the beating he was about to receive. Machlann wasn’t impressed in the least with his approach. When the Kree swung at him, the old man cracked his club across the other’s wrist, making him drop the sword before stepping in and battering him about the skull. He hit the Kree three times in rapid succession before Muluk fell to his knees, holding his head and dripping blood from his nose.

  “You’re a right proper bastard,” Pig Knot hissed. “He said he was done.”

  “He’ll think twice about wasting my time. I’m no nursemaid. Nor am I here for a bit of unfit exercise.”

  “He’s done.”

  “Aye that, he’s done. I hope that he’s a better armourer than swordsman. You hear that, you sun-baked cow kiss?”

  Muluk rolled over on the hot sands, grimacing in pain, still holding his head.

  “You’re right to stay down there. Wasting my time when I could be forging others. You think I do this for fun? Seddon’s rosy ass. I’ll chew you up and shite you out in the morning if you ever waste my time like this again. You hear me, topper? Armourer. Pah! I swear if I ever see or hear of you talk about fighting in the games, I’ll thumbscrew your eyes out. Get out of my sight!”

  Getting to his knees, covered in sand and dust, a dejected and exhausted Muluk made to rise.

  Machlann stepped up behind and kicked him to the ground.

  “Crawl off the sands, you miserable piece of maggot shite!” Machlann shouted. “Maggots crawl, not walk.”

  His head slouched between his shoulders, an exhausted Muluk did just that. Machlann simmered behind him, hefting his club as if debating whether to let the man go or to lay into him once more as a lesson to the others. In the end, he allowed Muluk to slink away, untouched, onto the stone ringing the training sands. There, the Kree sat and drew his legs up to rest his chin on his knees.

  The trainer whirled upon Pig Knot with angry eyes. “You still here?”

  “I’m still here, you old bastard.”

  Machlann didn’t flinch at the insult. “This means I have only you to watch over now. You best be on your game from here on, my missus. I only smashed him. You, I don’t care for at all.”

  Pig Knot glared at the trainer.

  “Keep that anger close by,” Machlann warned. “You’ll need it for the rest of the day.”

  *

  Pig Knot tried to feed off the energy of his anger, but it didn’t last. The trainer pushed him through seemingly meaningless drills that were embarrassing for him more than improving his current set of skills. They worked on principals of leverage, angles, and taking advantage of unprotected joints when close to an opponent, which Pig Knot knew nothing about. Machlann delighted in displaying the Sunjan’s lack of knowledge to Clavellus and Goll, who remained silent onlookers. Several times, Machlann had Pig Knot overreaching or off-balance before slapping him violently into the sand. They also practiced over-the-shoulder cuts and back slashes, attempted to connect the attacks into a seamless flow, and followed the technique with counterstrikes. Machlann would demonstrate twice at most and then have Pig Knot try, and if he failed, the trainer would flounce him with his club across a shoulder or a thigh and scorch the air with a cutting remark at his lack of skill. The old trainer worked him hard and cursed him harder, and by early evening, both were sweating, but Pig Knot was almost exhausted.

  “All right, you shite-caked topper,” Machlann announced after returning from a water barrel near the smithy, “have a rest. In a moment, Koba will show you a few things.”

  Pig Knot had no wind to reply as he sank to his hands and knees. He pressed his forehead to the hot sand. A moment later, Halm collapsed beside him.

  “Seddon above, I’m done,” Halm wheezed through his ruined teeth.

  Pig Knot only panted.

  “That hellion,” Halm gasped, “had me swinging at him for damn near half the afternoon, and only at the end did I seem to please him, but my arms feel like rocks.”

  “You still think this is a good idea?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Becoming part of a house?”

  “There’s no house yet.” Halm worked his parched throat. “But yes, I do. Attempting this, this day, only tells me… more that, while I think… I might’ve had potential, I’m past my prime. And if I’m past it, you certainly are.”

  Pig Knot lifted his head from the sand. “Yet here we are.”

  “And to what end? I’m too old to farm or anything else. I was only ever good at cracking heads together. This might even be my last season. And to think they have lads who train for years to go into the arena before they even set foot in one. That’s something I find unthinkable. No wonder we were always defeated in the second month of the fights. We were fighting ones like ourselves, louts with some skill but who would be outclassed by these hellpups who trained for it. Now I see what they mean when they say house gladiators hate us. Most of the Free Trained strut around thinking they’re dangerous when they’re not. They’re unpolished animals trying to win what they can before the real fighters step onto the sands.”

  “Not always. You killed one this season.”

  “My first and probably my last.” Halm shook his head. “Here, this day, I’m thinking there’s so muc
h more to learn and no time for any of it.”

  “You don’t sound so happy.”

  “I’m not.”

  They became quiet then for a moment, resting on the hot sand, gathering themselves before having to go back at it.

  “This is gurry,” Pig Knot said with venom. “All of it.”

  “Stay with it,” Halm stressed. “That could be us up there one day, gazing down on our fighters. All we need to do is win a little. Just a little coin to get ourselves established.”

  “I’ve been swinging my arms, been watching a friend get pummelled, and been beaten and yelled at practically all day. You really think it’s going to get better?”

  “I do.”

  Pig Knot shook his head and was about to retort when Muluk appeared with a water bucket and two cups. The smell of the drink took away anything Pig Knot had to say, and both he and Halm grabbed the cups and guzzled.

  “Easy, you toppers.” With distrust, Muluk eyed the trainers standing on the other side of the practice area and talking in front of the weapons rack. “You fill up too much, and they’ll take it out of you.”

  “You still here?” Pig Knot gasped. “After that beating you got?”

  “No worse than what I might’ve gotten from my father,” Muluk replied with a rueful smile. “But I’m still here. There’s work to be done over there.” He finished with a nod to the open smithy and the bare anvils.

  Pig Knot scowled and shook his head once more.

  “Eee, you. Pig Shite!” Machlann suddenly shouted, taking their attention. The two trainers, shining under the waning sun, wandered to the side of the smithy.

  “Surprised he knew your name,” a bemused Halm said under his breath.

  “Just my luck,” Pig Knot said.

  “You’ll be with Koba for the rest of the day. You, fat man, are with me,” Machlann finished with a throaty wheeze and coughed.