131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Machlann appeared with Koba. The old weapons topper engaged the taller brute in a quiet chat, turning his back to the recovering gladiators.

  “They gather,” Pig Knot observed darkly. “Training as usual, it seems.”

  “Aye that,” agreed Muluk. “No rest for our bastards. And I can see the reasoning. With the season half done, our lads need every waking breath spent on the sands.”

  “And they’re the bastards to see to it,” Pig Knot said with contempt. The urge to shout and berate the trainers came upon him, but Goll stepped through the entrance of the living quarters, his limp much less noticeable.

  “Ho, the master rises,” Pig Knot remarked with a sneer.

  The Kree squinted at the rising sun and regarded the trainers, ignoring the Sunjan’s jab. Two manservants pushed a cart around the corner of Clavellus’s main residence. They labored toward the barracks. Goll lowered his gaze to Shan.

  “Good morning, Master Goll.”

  “Good morning, good Shan. Master Muluk. How are the wounds?”

  “Sealed but still raw,” Shan reported as he leaned back from Pig Knot’s fresh bandage. “He’ll be recovering for a time yet.” The healer then took to fussing about Pig Knot’s broken jaw.

  “You lost a few lads yesterday,” Pig Knot growled through teeth and probing fingers, glaring at the housemaster. “Two dead and one deserted, I hear. What happened, Master Goll? Sapo refused to lose?”

  Instead of answering, Goll focused on Muluk. “What about you then? Feeling any better?”

  The man shrugged halfheartedly.

  “I asked if Sapo refused to lose,” Pig Knot repeated, smiling at being snubbed. “Did he? I’ll keep asking the same question until I get an answer.”

  “Ask if it amuses you,” Goll said, uninterested. “But I’ll save you the breath. Sapo left when he discovered a bounty had been placed upon his head, a large sum offered by the House of Curge. No loss to us. I’d wondered who was truly loyal to the House of Ten and who was pretending.”

  “I have a feeling… you know all about pretending.”

  Goll smiled coldly and faced the Sunjan. “You asked a question, and I gave you an answer. Anything else you wish to know?”

  Pig Knot pushed away Shan’s fingers. “Let me think about that, Master Goll. I’m finding I have plenty of time to think about things these days, all paid for in flesh and bone. If I think of anything, I’ll be sure to call for you.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  “Ah.” Pig Knot’s face brightened. “I just thought of something. The coin! All that coin won from wagers placed by our fighters. I suspect I’m entitled to a portion of it. A sizeable portion since I’m a master of this house. Isn’t that right?”

  Silent and sour-faced, Goll straightened and focused on the servants bringing breakfast into the gladiators’ living quarters. “Get something in you. All of you.”

  To Pig Knot, he said, “Try not to choke while you’re eating.”

  With that, Goll marched off toward the trainers.

  “Bring us back something to drink, Master Goll,” Pig Knot shouted. “Some of Clavellus’s Sunjan Gold if he’ll part with it. I’ll pay for it myself. Out of my large share of yesterday’s winnings. How much was there, by the way?”

  If Goll heard, he did not answer.

  *

  Brozz selected one corner of the common room and walked toward it, his dark head and shoulders hunched over to clear the ceiling. The imposing Sarlander wore no shirt, displaying the lean and wiry muscle coating his tall frame. He didn’t wear his intimidating necklace of crow heads this morning, but he’d chosen the farthest corner of the common room to sit and eat breakfast, implying that he wished to eat alone. In peace.

  He sat down at a bench and table with a bowl of warm porridge and sliced apples. Breakfast. A warm breakfast. Not something Sunja’s Pit would offer if he’d remained in general quarters. The fitful sleep he’d managed despite returning late was something he favored as well. Not that many bothered him while in the Pit, but he had to admit he appreciated the sense of security with the House of Ten. Thus far, the choice to join the young and brash house pleased him. Brozz regarded the nearby open window and saw the sky was clear. He regarded his food and wiped his forked mustache down. Then he started in with great bites.

  Junger sat down across from him, causing the Sarlander to stop mid-chew. The shirtless Perician didn’t seem to notice, however, as he fussed with his own bowl of hot oats sweetened with diced apple. He glowered at his food for a moment, then at Brozz’s, and stood. He returned to the serving area where two men doled out food. Junger found the water barrel and poured himself a mug. Then another.

  His hands full, he returned to Brozz’s table and placed one cup before the big man. Junger sat once more with his own cup. He smiled faintly at the staring Sarlander and, without a word, inspected his food again.

  Brozz’s dark face pinched in puzzlement. He finished his mouthful and, scowling a question, watched Junger eat. Holding his spoon in an overhand grip, Junger shoveled food into his face. The man apparently enjoyed his morning meal. Brozz looked out the window once more, decided to carry on, and returned to his own food.

  The two men ate in silence.

  “Well,” the Perician declared softly after he’d finished. “That isn’t bad at all. You think they’d mind if I had another?”

  Brozz stopped chewing and regarded the man.

  “They have plenty.” Junger glanced over his shoulder. “If we don’t eat it, I daresay they’ll only throw it away—or feed it to the pigs. I’d prefer to have one more bowl, in any case, in memory of the lads underneath the Pit. You know they aren’t enjoying their morning.”

  With that, he stood and walked back to the serving area, leaving a puzzled Brozz to consume tentative bites.

  In short time, the Perician returned.

  “You fought well yesterday,” Junger said. “Short. Clean strikes. No waste. To the point.”

  Brozz lowered his spoon.

  “You’re from Sarland.” Junger took a drink. “I know a little about that place. You know about the elite guard? The Vanzani? Deadly warriors. Very much to the point. Like yourself.”

  Brozz straightened ever so slightly, his scowl deepening with curiosity. Torello entered the common room, distracting him. The Sunjan barely acknowledged anyone. He got his breakfast and retreated to a table on the far side of the common room. As he passed, the smell of sour sweat drifted past Brozz’s nose. Torello wasn’t an easy man to behold at any time, but this morning, he seemed particularly disheveled. His black hair and beard hung about his scarred features in matted clumps and greasy strands, rendering him almost frightening. He sat alone at his chosen table, lowered his face, and starting eating.

  After Kolo’s death, the man had quieted considerably. He’d barely made a sound on the journey back to Clavellus’s villa.

  “The Vanzani guards the Grand Vir,” Brozz said quietly, out of respect for the mourning Sunjan.

  Junger stopped eating. “They aren’t the feared killers of the Sarlander army?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “You are thinking about the Gorsha.”

  “The Gorsha.” Junger brow twisted in thought. “That means… what?”

  Brozz’s grand moustache lifted at the corners. “There is no meaning. The Gorsha are… reavers. They kill upon a word. They’re summoned when the regular army cannot complete a task.”

  “Ah.” Junger prodded his food.

  “There are those in the Gorsha who would even kill the speaker for saying their name in the same breath as the Vanzani.”

  “That so? Puzzling. Why?”

  Brozz took his time in answering, studying the rustic interior of the common room for a moment. “The Vanzani only have a reputation. The Gorsha have history.”

  A look of surprise spread across Junger’s face. “You know the difference?”

  Brozz nodded in dramatic fashion, the ends of
his moustache nearly reaching the base of his neck. “I do.”

  “Perhaps you know firsthand?”

  Brozz said nothing.

  “As if you might’ve been a part of that group…” Junger met his dark gaze. “Or at least one of them. I know something of the Gorsha. Fearless warriors. But you can’t be one of them. Can’t be. Please, correct me if I’m wrong. My knowledge of the Sarlander military is foggy. There’s the Spears of Seddon, the regular army. The Vanzani. And the Gorsha. The Vanzani and the Gorsha are the harsh ones. From what I’ve heard, there’s no leaving any of either one of those groups, not until you die or become old and feeble. Deserters are hunted down and killed, but that’s common with any army. But if you desert the Vanzani or the Gorsha, they take particular offence. And also take extreme measures to find the deserters. At least that’s my understanding. Again, please correct me if I’m mistaken.”

  The Sarlander waited a beat. “You’re not.”

  Junger absorbed that. “I’ve seen a few of the Vanzani fight and the Gorsha, for that matter. You actually… remind me of them. Isn’t that interesting? A young man like yourself, obviously well trained with a blade, fighting in such a faraway country like Sunja for the amusement of her citizens? But you can’t be a soldier from Sarland. They wouldn’t allow such a thing.”

  Brozz didn’t answer. His posture remained rigid, and his eyes didn’t leave Junger’s face.

  “It is a mystery,” the Sarlander finally answered.

  Junger’s expression remained unconcerned. “It is.”

  “There are several mysteries surrounding these games.”

  “Are there?”

  Brozz nodded. “I’m speaking with one this very morning.”

  That brought an expression of really? to Junger’s face.

  “I find myself wondering…” the Sarlander began, sucking on a tooth, “how is it that a warrior in these games––a very skilled warrior––sides with a house of unproven pit fighters? A house of Free Trained, for that matter. What kind of man excels at the day’s exercises when the others are just learning? Struggling, even. And what manner of gladiator fights in the arena without any armor at all? It isn’t often one will witness such… confidence. Some might even call it brazen foolhardiness. Then there’s the matter of skill with his weapons. One seldom sees a warrior so skilled he leaves all who behold his mastery in a near-sorcerous daze.”

  Junger nodded. “Well, I can solve one of those mysteries.”

  Brozz waited.

  “I remove the armor because it’s hot. Nothing more.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What more could there be?”

  Brozz turned to the nearby window. “So simple.”

  “Some mysteries aren’t so difficult to unravel.”

  “I suppose not.”

  They stared at each other for a short time, sensing no ill will.

  Junger resumed eating.

  Brozz did the same.

  *

  Halm woke upon a single blanket laid over a cot stuffed with straw to make it comfortable. Movement beyond the curtain drawn across his sleeping area drew his attention. He lay there, hearing the remaining house fighters lumber along the floor into the common area, and realized it was morning. The lads were probably getting some food into their guts before the day’s training.

  Training.

  Memories rushed through the Zhiberian, along with relief at having paid off Skulljigger and avoiding fighting the father of at least one son. At least Skulljigger said he would stay away from the remainder of the games, but who truly knew if he would honor his words? Halm could only hope. A pang of uncertainty twisted within his guts as thoughts of Targus entered his mind. Somehow, the man had witnessed Halm handing a sack of coin to Skulljigger and sought to profit from the knowledge. He’d died instead.

  Targus had reminded him of Pig Knot, but the Sunjan was not his friend.

  Were any of them? They were his companions. But friends? Could any of them be trusted?

  Certainly not Goll. Halm realized he’d been blindly following the Kree, allowing the man to think for him. He’d been far too trustworthy, far too quick to leap into Goll’s plans of establishing a house and challenging the upper houses for supremacy, to lift them up from the ranks of the Free Trained and fashion them into true fighters. It was a grand dream to tell around any table, but the Zhiberian had doubts. He doubted the men around him were his companions. He questioned Goll’s motives. The man seemed more like a sly weasel than the young warrior who’d killed Baylus the Butcher. Halm’s head ached when he attempted deeper thoughts about everything that had happened in the very season where he’d been performing at a personal best. Still breathing and undefeated. This string of victories was the most he’d ever amassed during the games. Any other year, he’d have been long finished by now and his purse half-empty.

  But he’d be happier, or so he suspected, for it seemed the longer he’d remained in the games, the deeper he’d sunk into a mire of shite. He’d taken it all too lightly, too carefree, and only now did the weight of it all strike him.

  Should he remain with the House of Ten? Would it be wiser to walk away and leave the headaches behind? The House of Curge would be livid, as the opportunity for blood matches ended with the season and weren’t carried over to the next. If they wanted him next season, they would have to wait until the Madea paired them.

  If Halm decided to return for another round, that was.

  And go where?

  He knew a place. A woman’s face came to mind. That memory made him smile.

  A knock distracted him.

  “Are you awake?” Shan stuck his head inside.

  “I am, good Shan.”

  “Still alive, I see.”

  “Still.”

  “May I look at your wounds?”

  Squinting one eye at the healer, Halm rolled onto his back and waved for him to enter. The appearance of Goll surprised the battered pit fighter.

  “Master Goll,” Halm said.

  “Master Halm.”

  “You look well this morning.”

  “And you look ready to perish.”

  Halm smiled. He supposed that was truth. Shan placed a stool next to his cot, distributed fresh bandages upon a small table, and tugged at the dressings and poultices he had placed the day before, giving each one a solemn peek before moving on to the next. Each inspection seemed to darken the healer’s face a little more.

  “Well?” Halm asked, the hateful bruises upon his swollen face lending him an evil appearance.

  “This one cut. Here along the ribs… is a nasty one,” Shan reported. “I’m going to have to prepare a mixture in case of infection. Truth be known, I wouldn’t send him back into the Pit.”

  That news melted Halm’s ghastly smile. Nor did it please Goll.

  “Oh, I’ll fight again,” Halm reassured the Kree. “Don’t worry.”

  A frowning Shan directed his attention to the man’s head and dabbed at the gruesome slash across Halm’s scalp. The healer ran fingers along stitches.

  “These are unbroken,” Shan said. “Thankfully. A wonder they held when the rest of his face looks like a squashed plum. Are you able to see from that eye?”

  “Aye that,” Halm’s smile returned, thinking himself clever, and he forced it open wider.

  Neither effort impressed Shan.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen worse,” Halm said.

  “No, I haven’t. That’s as wide as you can open that eye?”

  “Ah, yes––I can see from it.”

  Shan exchanged a dire look with Goll before inspecting Halm’s broken nose, a painful parting gift from the fearsome Iron Games fighter called Sibo. Shan picked daintily at the maroon crust about the nostrils, gently blowing away the resulting flakes. He stopped when the Zhiberian hissed in discomfort. Shan lifted Halm’s left arm and checked on a bite-sized chunk of flesh missing from the forearm, the result of an unfed Iron Games pit fighter. Purple and sepia bruises
had yet to fade from where they exploded across Halm’s face and abdomen.

  “Take a breath,” Shan asked. “As deep as you can.”

  Halm did, only a shallow one before his broken ribs caused him to grimace.

  The healer drew back and shook his head. “You shouldn’t even be standing, let alone going back into the arena.”

  “You’re saying he’s finished?” Goll asked.

  Shan took a deep contemplative breath and faced the housemaster. “Oh, yes. Exactly what I’m saying. He’s been brutalized too often in too short a time. The stitches are holding, but those missing bits of flesh snacked from his person still need to be checked daily for infection. His lower ribs are perhaps the most telling. He can’t draw a deep breath without feeling pain, correct?”

  Not liking what he was hearing, Halm nodded.

  “Time to heal?” Goll asked.

  “Three weeks, under my care,” Shan informed him. “No training, no fighting, and certainly no bloody surprises like the Iron Games. I’m surprised he isn’t dead already.”

  That caused Halm to unleash a horrid chuckle. “And if I refuse?”

  Shan frowned. “Well, you might refuse.” He placed two fingers against the stitches in Halm’s hair line. “But your body won’t. Listen, lad. That eye alone makes me ill. The white is entirely red. You look like you fell off one wagon and got rolled over by the next half dozen. Your skin’s a meadow of wildflowers in full bloom. Dezer hounds would sniff at your hide and leave you for dead. Are you understanding me now? A dead man’s hole is in finer shape than you, if you’ll forgive my being crude. Those ribs? They’ll burst with one deep breath. Might even snap apart with one good sneeze. It’s a wonder you even competed yesterday, much less survived and won. Now, I can keep you walking… but I only have so many bandages to keep you together, and I certainly can’t resurrect the dead.”

  The Zhiberian’s smile faltered.

  The healer’s eyes twinkled. “So come now, good Halm. You’re smarter than this.”

  A resigned Shan leaned back and regarded Goll.

  “He’s done.”

  4

  The rasping of feet on stone roused Arrus from his sleep. He shifted his head, realized he faced a wall, and squinted toward the crossed bars of his cell door, hard iron he’d long given up pulling on. Voices sounded from beyond. Some asked for food and water. Others screamed, laughed, or complained the rats were eating them alive.