“We have to go,” Goll explained. “This brute fights in the afternoon, and we’ve spent most of the morning working with you. Here…” Fumbling for his purse, he counted out five gold pieces and handed them over. “I hope this is enough?”
“More than enough.” Shan took the gold, Muluk’s blood staining his hands.
“Keep him here until we come get him. If it’s longer than two or three days and that gold runs out, we’ll pay you again. Fair enough?”
“More than fair,” the healer said, taken aback.
“Do you have any extra bandages? Can we have them for him?” Goll pointed at Halm’s belly.
“Certainly.” The healer gestured toward a wall filled with rolls of cloth. “Take what you want.”
Halm took three, thanked the healer, and jabbed the bandages into his sack of gear.
“We’re leaving,” Goll announced. He placed a hand on Muluk’s arm, held it briefly, and released him.
A pensive Halm rested his hand on the Kree’s forehead before nodding sternly at Shan. He then gathered up his sacks of equipment and coin and followed Goll out the door.
Outside, Halm fell into step with the Kree. “What do you think happened?”
“I don’t know,” Goll answered. “And I’m not happy about it. We weren’t careful enough. Should’ve had more men with us to guard the gold.”
“Or placed it in a bank.”
“Or placed it in a bank,” Goll gave up. “Didn’t think thieves would be so cutthroat in Sunja.”
“More than cutthroat. They were butchers. You didn’t see the people inside. They cut up everyone. No one survived except our lad back there.”
“Were they after the coin?”
Halm thought about it. “All three rooms upstairs had their doors booted in. I figure they knew.”
“How did they know about it?”
“Perhaps they saw us?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps they didn’t even know about the coin at all, but I’m going to assume they did. And they attacked in the morning. That tells me they had been watching us since last night. Perhaps even longer. And they made plans to strike early in the morning. There were six men. We were probably expected to be in the alehouse as well if we didn’t rise for breakfast.”
“Would’ve been a different fight,” Halm scowled.
Goll agreed with a nod. “But you can’t dwell on that right now. You have your own fight. Try and keep up.”
With that, the Kree moved faster towards Sunja’s Pit.
Halm kept up as best he could with the man on crutches.
It was past noon when they arrived at the arena, and the Domis were just opening their shutters, accepting wagers on the fights of the day. People meandered about the square though there weren’t many placing wagers. Halm wondered if the morning’s action had anything to do it, or perhaps it was still too early. Goll swung his way up to the first window and placed his wager, and Halm saw the look of interest on the Domis’s face when he heard the amount of coin. Goll took his marker and placed it inside his purse.
“Now, we get below,” the Kree informed him.
“Was that all of it?” Halm asked as they walked towards the Gate of the Sun.
“Most of it. We’ve been spending a little more than I wanted, but yes, most of it’s just been placed on your hide. Lightens the load, I must say.”
Realizing what rested on his shoulders took the wind out of Halm, and he lagged behind.
“Hurry!” Goll shouted at him, prompting the Zhiberian to move faster.
Within moments, they were below the Pit and descending towards general quarters. The air reeked of fetid latrines, a cloying stench that made Halm wonder if he’d had really fought and lived underneath the arena for so many years. When the stairway opened up, torchlight revealed an enormous underground chamber filled with writhing bodies seeming to be stumbling over one another.
Goll stopped at the sight. “Seddon above. Must be a big day.”
“Never imagined…” Halm trailed off, unable to describe what he was seeing and feeling.
“You see this?” Goll half-turned to him. “And I know if we are successful here this day, we’ll rescue several of them from this hell.”
“Only to place them in another.”
“For some, perhaps.” Goll became thoughtful as torchlight flicked over his bruised features. “Perhaps.”
Then he continued his descent.
They made their way to the matchboard and the intimidating wall of Skarrs standing at attention, facing outwards. The Madea sat behind his heavy wooden desk, perusing documents and charts of information, making the matches days before they would happen. Goll studied the mighty board behind the arena official, perhaps the best-lit area of the entire chamber, while Halm stood nearby, searching the shadows, on guard for would-be thieves. He was certain nothing would happen in general quarters, but a part of him wouldn’t allow relaxation.
“You’re two fights away from your match,” Goll informed him.
“Hmm.” Halm looked up at the chart, seeing the matched-up names and not understanding a word.
Then Goll’s mouth hung open.
“What is it?”
“Can’t you see it?”
Halm didn’t want to reveal his illiteracy. “No, what?”
“Pig Knot fights the day after tomorrow.”
“Pig Knot? That’s soon, isn’t it?”
“Very soon,” a familiar voice commented to one side. Both men turned to see Borchus staring up at the matchboard. “But don’t worry. I’ve sent word back. He’ll be here in time. His opponent isn’t a house fighter; that much I can tell.”
“How do you know?” Goll asked.
“There’s no black circle next to the fellow’s name. If it was a house gladiator, there’d be a black circle next to or around the name. Pig Knot’s opponent isn’t marked, so chances are he’s a Free Trained. Who it is isn’t really important. If I wanted to find out, I would.”
“Where were you this morning?” Goll asked the shorter but much thicker man.
“About,” Borchus replied, unconcerned. “Why?”
“Muluk was attacked and almost killed.”
The agent’s face became drawn. “Almost killed? He’s alive?”
“Alive at a healer’s house but sliced to pieces.”
The news made Borchus’s face crunch up in thought. “Do you have any enemies?” he asked, not bothering with offering condolences.
“Besides Curge?” Halm asked.
“Yes.”
“No, no one.”
“How many attackers?”
“Six,” Goll informed him. “They killed everyone in the alehouse. Muluk was the only one who survived.”
“Six men?” Borchus’s eyes narrowed. “Why would they do such a thing? You still have your coin?”
“We do.”
“Perhaps they knew about it, then?”
Goll didn’t reply, studying the agent’s face.
“I’ll look into it,” Borchus said, mulling. “Concentrate on your fight. You’ll have your hands full with him.”
“Who?” Goll asked before Halm could.
The agent frowned. “You just looked at the matchboard. You can read, can’t you?”
“Of course I can read,” Goll snapped back. “I just saw Pig Knot’s name.”
“His name’s Bhor,” Borchus informed them, leaning in close yet not meeting their gazes, wary of the other men walking about in the underground chamber. “One of Curge’s many favourites.”
“Why are you whispering?” Halm asked, aware that he was whispering himself.
“Just a plump child with his belly hanging out, aren’t you?” Borchus smirked as if adoring a newborn producing words for the first time. “No idea of who you walk amongst down here. Of who takes note of the matchboard? Why the Madea has the number of Skarrs about him? There are games within games here, fat man, manipulated by forces concealed by shadows. Far and above what you know or think yo
u know and well beyond the myopic urges of the Free Trained. Look about. You think all the men down here are fighters? Hmm? Did you pick me for one?”
“You do look it,” Goll muttered.
Halm didn’t comment, not liking Brochus’s fat jabs in the least.
“And that’s why I’m here. I blend in. Much easier to do what I do.”
“And what’s that?” Halm blurted, heat in his cheeks.
“Calm down, large one. Not the thinking type, are you?”
“I think fine. Having a right proper thought about you now, in fact.”
“Wondering how I get the best of you in our verbal exchanges, no doubt.”
Halm’s face scrunched up in dislike. “Wondering if you’ll ever grow any taller, you shortened piece of maggot shite.”
Borchus stared at the Zhiberian for a moment as if he hadn’t heard anything at all. “Well, I’ll be on my way then. I’ve things to do. Try not to perish out there. Coin has been wagered on your head.”
“Wait. Where are you going?” Goll demanded.
The agent became sly. “Who are you to ask about my business? Hmm? Concentrate on your bulbous lad there. That’s all you have to do this day. Try not to think too much, however. This place smells bad enough as it is.”
With that, Borchus moved away from them and quickly disappeared within the tide of bodies and shadows.
“I’m truly beginning to hate that little stump,” Halm grumbled.
“I can see why.”
“What does myopic mean?”
Goll regarded his companion, his brow knotted up in doubt. “Weren’t you educated?”
“All Zhiberians are educated.”
Somehow, Goll doubted that. “Come on. We’ve got to get you suited up. I’ll help.”
“You think you can?”
Goll scowled. “Was that a jab? After you just asked about myopic? I just said I’d help. Might not be as quick as before, but I’ll do what I can for you.”
Halm glowered for a moment.
“And it means shortsighted.”
“Oh.” Halm’s expression lightened. “That’s not so bad.”
Goll could’ve taken the time to explain that it was an insult, but he was becoming much too occupied with preparing Halm for battle. They made their way to the entrance of the white tunnel, found an open spot nearby, and dumped the contents of Halm’s sack onto the floor.
*
In another part of the Pit, in the area designated for gladiators from established schools and houses, Dark Curge paced in his waiting chamber exclusive to the House of Curge. Ten fighters filled the confines of the room, and Curge stared out at the ground level through a brick arch at shoulder height. This day, he opted to watch the fights from here, not wanting the company of half-faced Gastillo or the excitable Nexus. From this window he’d watch, looking upon the sands with his boys. He reached out, pressing the pit of his good arm against the stone, and cupped a fistful of sand. Feeling the grains, he made a fist and withdrew it, kneading the particles out the bottom of his hand where they fell to the floor.
Curge didn’t look at the armored frame of Bhor, who dominated the center of the chamber. The old owner and once gladiator glared at the falling sand, his face as hard as the stone surrounding them all. None of the others spoke, and in short time, their attention focused on their master.
His hand emptied, and Curge made a show of opening his fist, finger by finger, revealing his bare palm.
Dark Curge’s eyes settled on Bhor’s frame, his leather curiass dull in the light.
“The man you face this day slew Samarhead.” Curge spoke calmly, but his eyes blazed with checked fury. “Kill him. I don’t care how you do it or how long it takes. Kill him. Samarhead was a brother, and to have your brother taken down by shite-feasting vermin is an insult that must be… not only paid back in blood… but made an example of. Men fear to whisper our names. Show them that they are well and right to have that fear. This day, out there, no mercy. No pity. Kill this… Zhiberian.”
Bhor lifted his heavy war hammer, the curling motion making the muscles of his thick arms flex. Spikes the length of fingers decorated his powerful shoulders like monstrous sea urchins. A full caged helm concealed his features, making him appear even more intimidating.
Curge took a breath through his nose, the tension in the room close to bursting. He stepped in close to his pit fighter so there would be no misunderstanding.
“And bring me his crushed head.”
*
The outfitting done, Goll stood back and studied Halm: conical helm, leather sleeve on his sword arm, metal bracers and greaves, square shield on the left arm. It all appeared so very worn, and both Goll and Halm wondered if it would fall off him on the first step or during the fight. The only things new on the Zhiberian were the bandages on the wounds sustained in his fight with mad Vadrian.
“Remember what they taught you,” Goll said.
“Who?”
“The trainers.”
“Taught me?” Halm exclaimed softly. “My arms and legs are still stiff from the gurry they had us doing.” He chuckled at how concerned the Kree became. “Fear not, good Goll. I don’t. Neither should you. I’ll either win or lose, and if I lose, I don’t think I’ll be alive. I’ll do what I can for the house.”
“You must.”
“I will.”
The Madea called for Halm, making the Zhiberian look up. “It’s time.”
“Luck to you, Zhiberian,” Goll said in a sombre voice.
Halm chortled, baring rotten teeth. “I told you once already—”
Goll joined in, saying the words with him, “The only luck I have is bad.”
They shared a smile at that.
Almost shyly, Goll stuck out his fist. Halm regarded it for a moment before tapping it with his own, holding his Mademian sword. The contact seemed to lift the Kree’s spirits.
Then Halm got walking. His huge belly, brazenly on display, quivered with each heavy step.
The white tunnel.
He marched past the Skarrs standing at attention and made his way to the gatekeeper. The old man, bent over and mining at his nose, paused as Halm came into sight. The same gatekeeper as before, Halm saw.
Above, the crowds cried out anxiously.
“I remember you,” the gatekeeper hissed. “That fat gut of yours. Right saucy, aren’t you?”
Halm shook his head. Compared to Borchus, it almost seemed a shame to trade barbs with the gatekeeper, like smashing a child. He kept quiet, gazing up the stairs, which ended in a thick iron portcullis. Black bars stamped blue sky.
“Not so talkative this day, eh?” the gatekeeper leered with evil mirth. “Frightened, I s’pose.”
“Frightened you might die on me right here, and I’ll have to pull that lever,” Halm replied calmly, knowing the keeper wouldn’t keep his mouth shut, and silence, at least in his feeble mind, was weakness.
“I still have plenty of life left in me, youngster.”
“You must whisper that in the goat’s ear just as you shag it.”
The fury on the gatekeeper’s face amused Halm, but he supposed it wasn’t wise to get the old man’s blood going in such a way.
“I hope you die out there this day.” The gatekeeper shook.
“As do I, especially if it keeps me away from the likes of you.” Halm shrugged.
With that, the gatekeeper yanked down on the lever, and the man above, just inside the portcullis, stepped back at the clanking of chains and the rusty rattle of the rising gate.
“So quick to get rid of me, my myopic prick?” Halm asked the old man.
“Get on, you brazen pisser.”
The Zhiberian did just that, privately delighted that he had learned and made use of a new word.
The crowds erupted in an applause that momentarily stunned him when he stepped out into the light. Fists shook and pumped the air. Women screamed at him. He turned around, still numb from the reception, taking in the seats of the
arena and noting how full they were. The place positively teemed with people this day. He scuffed at the sands, lowering his helm for a moment and grinding his jaw. Even though he wore sandals, he could feel the hot sands underfoot and around his toes.
Across from him, his opponent stepped out of the mouth of the raised portcullis.
“This day,” the Orator blared, “we have the second blood match between this pit fighter and the house hunting for his head. Already he has two victories to his name, and he seeks to defy the fates and add yet another. To do this, he must first survive the wrath of the House of Curge. He is… Halm… of Zhiberia.”
More startling applause came, the sound crackling in his ears like violent rains. Halm wasn’t sure if he should wave to them all or not. He chose not to, knowing full well how fickle the crowds could be once blood began to fall.
“Across from him is a killer of men. He is Sunjan born and no stranger to the games of the Pit. There is nothing he enjoys better than punishing his opponents with his heavy hammer, destroying whatever it touches. A stout follower and a master from the House of Curge, he has taken a vow to avenge the life of his fallen brethren, whose life was taken by the man he now faces. From past matches, I know he will not rest until his hammer has cracked open the Zhiberian’s skull. He is Bhor… of Sunja!”
Hearing his name, Bhor lifted his weapon in salute to the masses and in the direction of the vacant chair of King Juhn. The cheers the Sunjan received were as loud as Halm’s reception. The warrior’s warhammer possessed a thick spike for puncturing heavier armor.
Halm figured his bandaged stomach would be a tempting target for his opponent, just like all the ones before him. Bhor’s armour appeared to be only leather, despite the array of spikes pricking his shoulders. Light. The man would be fast.
And he looked unsettlingly powerful.
“Begin!” the Orator shouted to the rousing approval of the onlookers.
Bhor immediately marched towards Halm, and the Zhiberian tightened his grip on his Mademian blade. The Sunjan wore a full-cage helmet, covering his features entirely and making him exceptionally menacing.
“You’re a right pretty one!” Halm shouted.
Bhor did not reply.
Right serious, too, Halm thought.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 49