131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Rats.

  Arrus reached down and scratched his instep where an unwanted visitor had bitten him only a fortnight ago. He shivered at the memory of his sleep disturbed by the sharp pinch of teeth. Up until then, the only bites he’d received had been from fleas or other unknown pests––little Sunjan bastards that waited until he was asleep before feasting on his blood. And those bites didn’t wake him, but the wicked itching afterward did. He couldn’t see his legs, as the Sunjans kept them all in perpetual dark, but he imagined his bare skin ravaged with welts and worse. He also suspected he’d lost weight. Whatever fat had clung to his bones had long since melted away. His hair and beard seemed to be the only things growing. And his toenails.

  Darkness. Arrus now knew what it must be like to be buried alive, to exist without a sun. The dungeon was like that, an enforced night so deep, so brooding, that it had already driven some of the prisoners to madness. Or at least it sounded like madness. He didn’t understand the Sunjan tongue or any but his own. Based on what he’d heard, he suspected the dungeon contained not only Nordish and Sunjans but a handful of prisoners from other countries as well.

  Arrus sat up from the straw floor. The cell didn’t allow him to stretch out when sleeping. If he stood, his head grazed the cool stone of the ceiling. Cramped. The Sunjans had entombed him in a box of rock, clothed in a filthy loincloth, with scarcely enough room to even piss. When the need did arise, he’d shuffle to the unclean latrine at a back corner. The foulness wafting from that opening had repelled Arrus at first, but Dogslaw told him to be thankful there was a latrine in the cell at all and that he didn’t have to sleep in his own filth. Several nights, Arrus had awoken with a foot dangling over the hole, which no doubt attracted the toothy hellions. They were down there. Many times, when the dungeons’ occupants were quiet, he could easily hear them. Rustling. Scratching. Even chattering, letting him know that they’d visit soon enough.

  Rats. The vermin stalked the prisoners whenever they sensed it quiet in the perpetual dark. The only light came at mealtimes when the jailor and his assistants waded through, holding torches high whilst they fed the prisoners. The jailor’s name was Balazz. He’d thumped his chest and introduced himself to the Nordish prisoner, stressing the word until it was understood as a name. Balazz, a powerful brute who would grab any hands reaching for him and cut them, towered over the dungeon cells. Or he would break them between the iron bars. Balazz and his men fed the prisoners twice a day, and Arrus couldn’t tell which was breakfast or supper. During each visit, Arrus cringed and shied away from the torchlight, finding it unbearable in the rank blackness of the dungeon. He stole glimpses, however, recognizing Balazz’s meaty frame.

  Over the days and weeks spent in Sunja’s dungeons, mealtimes became the high points in Arrus’s life. Though he could not understand the words Balazz spoke, he and his men were proof that a world still existed beyond the iron bars and stone walls.

  Arrus slapped at an arm, flattened a body, and flicked it in the direction of the latrine. He scratched at his hair and beard, feeling things crawling there. Fresh bites tormented him. Blood. Arrus had seen enough blood on a battlefield, but being imprisoned made him realize having blood was perhaps his sole remaining worth.

  “Arrus.”

  The voice belonged to Dogslaw in the cell to his right.

  “Yes?”

  “Sleep well?” the voice asked, a whisper compared to the wailing misery in the other parts of the dungeon.

  “Not really. Something is truly devouring me a piece at a time.”

  “The rats in this place are ravenous.”

  “And the fleas. Or gnats. Or whatever lives here in the straw.”

  “Have you taken to eating them?”

  “The fleas and gnats?”

  “The rats,” Dogslaw answered calmly.

  That took Arrus off guard. “No.”

  “Lokan has.”

  Lokan. Mad Lokan lurked in the cell to the left. Others spoke of how Lokan had always been a touch insane. Arrus never fully understood just how mad until he’d been jailed next to him. Arrus didn’t like speaking to Lokan. He was thankful to have a barrier between them. Since his imprisonment, the man had become increasingly disturbed. Many times, Arrus awoke to Lokan pounding on the stone walls or having extensive conversations with himself, heated whispering punctuated by curses and grunting and, of course, the unnerving fits of giggling.

  “I hear him eating them. Feasting, at times,” Dogslaw continued, much to Arrus’s swelling horror. “He waits for them to crawl up through the latrine, up over his open hand. When they do, he grabs them, and that’s it. One squeak. Maybe a crack. Then…”

  “You’re not joking?” Arrus whispered. “You heard all of that?”

  Dogslaw didn’t immediately answer. “And worse.”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “And I don’t want to speak of it.” Dogslaw chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. There’s a wall between your cell and his.”

  “Unless he worms through the latrine system.”

  “If he attempts it, then yes… worry.”

  Words failed Arrus. The sound of a fist striking rock caught his attention.

  “Someone is busy.” Arrus scratched at his crotch. Almighty Curlord, the fleas had infested him.

  “Little to do.” Weariness lay heavy upon Dogslaw’s voice. “At least when sleep comes, one can escape in a dream. I bedded two tavern wenches last night.”

  That made Arrus smile. “Only two?”

  “I’m not complaining.”

  “And then you woke?”

  “And then I woke to things crawling around in my beard.”

  Arrus chuckled. He savored that for a moment before asking, “Do you think we’ll ever be executed?”

  They never spoke about freedom.

  “Possibly,” Dogslaw admitted. “But if you’re truly interested in leaving these fine quarters, I’d suggest getting on the bad side of that jailor, Balazz. He seems quite willing to brutalize a person.”

  “He does.”

  A blood tick chomped into Arrus’s thigh. He crushed the insect with a slap before rubbing it away into nothing.

  Somewhere nearby, a door clattered open, and unmistakable Sunjan curses echoed through the corridor. A terrible hush fell over the dungeon as the Sunjans approached. Most prisoners feared drawing the wrath of the jailor.

  Orange light grew outside the iron bars. Arrus grimaced and withdrew deeper into his cell. Chains rattled along the stone. Metal scratched metal and resulted in a clack that stirred Arrus’s curiosity. More shouting and a scuffling of feet, followed by a slap of flesh on flesh.

  “What’s happening?” Arrus asked, enduring the light.

  “Can’t see,” Dogslaw answered.

  “They’ll kill us,” Lokan hissed. “Butcher us. Our day’s finally come at last. They’ll kill us, but I’ll take the life of that curnos hellion called Balazz. I’ll thumb the eyes from his skull.”

  Arrus didn’t doubt the Jackal would try.

  The racket continued along the corridor. Men shouted. Heelslik yelled out in Nordish that they were at his cell door. An unseen force silenced his voice. Noll, always pleasantly pessimistic, was oddly quiet.

  “Something is happening,” Lokan said.

  The light grew stronger. Men’s long shadows flittered through the glow.

  “Lokan! Can you see anything?” Dogslaw asked.

  “They’re at my door. They’re at my door. So many of them. Damned Sunjans. Oh, how I hate––come in, come in, you ugly bastards. Come in, so Lokan can hook your eyes out!”

  A rusty yawn of hinges and Lokan shrieked at his invaders, startling Arrus. He peeked toward his own cell door as Sunjan voices yelled. A thick knot of men gathered there. Lokan continued shouting, followed by the sounds of a hard struggle. A dull clap silenced the crazed Jackal, and he said not a word more.

  They continued hitting him, however, the punches hard and meaty.

  H
e hoped Lokan had killed the jailor at least before they struck him down.

  The light swung over to float outside his door, illuminating wicked faces. Mail shirts gleamed. Perhaps eight or more men, all very interested in Arrus, stood beyond the bars. The Nordish man pressed himself against the wall of his infested chamber, mindful of the latrine hole. Balazz barked, and a man fumbled with the lock. The door opened, and Balazz––at least the man was big enough to be Balazz––bent over and motioned Arrus to come forward.

  He refused.

  Balazz bared half a rack of bad teeth and gestured again, growling words that made no sense to Arrus. Light needled his eyes until he covered them with a hand.

  Cursing, Balazz stepped into the cell and grabbed Arrus by his neck. He slapped the smaller Nordish man against the wall, holding his throat in an iron grip. Arrus pawed at forearms as thick as firewood.

  A fist smashed into his face.

  His world went lopsided, and he crumpled into hard hands. A powerful force yanked him along by his lifeless limbs, and Arrus became distantly aware of a bubbling buzzing in his head, as if he’d been submerged into deep water. Light flashed hotly before his face, causing him to moan. His feet and toes slapped against stone steps, and the sensation of rising touched his floating consciousness. He stole painful peeks at his surroundings, glimpsing Sunjan warriors on either side of him, their flesh shining in the light.

  They’re going to kill me. The thought lanced through his addled brain. Finally.

  More Sunjan voices. Shouts. A hand grabbed his chin and whipped his face about. Another hand pulled him along before shoving him through a portal.

  Into a world of agony.

  Arrus landed on his hands and knees, scuffing them hard enough to draw blood. Daylight flooded his sight. He squeezed his eyelids shut in reflex, moaning. After existing for so long under the earth, the sun rejected him. Hated him. Its glare caused his naked skin to sizzle. He smelled his cooking flesh.

  Callused hands lifted Arrus to his feet and dragged him toward another cell, one perched upon a wooden chassis. Five other men were crammed into the prison wagon. Arrus glimpsed faces before his knees painfully clacked against the wagon’s lower lip, leaving behind blood and skin. They heaved him into the cell. Arrus sprawled into the tangle of bodies as the door slammed on his feet. Hands grabbed him while foreign curses flowered the air. Others crowded in, forcing Arrus to stand with his face shoved into a lattice of iron bars. He grabbed on for dear life and pressed his cheeks to the metal, taking deep breaths. More bodies crowded into his back, almost crushing him. Arrus gasped and squeezed his eyes shut. He stood with his face wedged between the bars and sucked in hot air.

  A shout and the prison wagon lurched into motion. Arrus’s knuckles whitened from tension. Hips squished into his lower back while hands held onto his shoulders for support. Warm fluid rushed around his bare feet. No one could fall, but every bump rippled through the caged men, causing them to shift one way or the other. Torsos mashed against his back.

  The wagon rolled onward.

  Sunlight, denied to him for so very long, glowed through his lids and needled his eyeballs, yet Arrus wanted to see life above ground.

  People.

  Sunjans and non-Sunjans went about their business, glimpsed over the helmets of armed guards walking beside the prison wagon. As much as Arrus wanted to look, he couldn’t bear to open his eyes for anything longer than a painful blink.

  Women fussing with merchants.

  Children running.

  A man studying a length of fabric while another babbled nonsense.

  Washed clothes hanging above bustling side streets.

  And the smells. Arrus gasped at the good smells––roasting meat, stews, even baked bread, which stirred memories of his mother’s brick oven. Whiffs of exotic spices, herbs, and mysterious pots left to simmer cut across his nose. After weeks of stale bread and beef slivers, the smell of real food tormented his hunger.

  The wagon dipped. Bodies squashed Arrus against the metal until he thought his ribs would snap. The prisoners recovered and righted themselves, allowing him to breathe again.

  He chanced another glance at his enemy’s capital and glimpsed an architectural behemoth, squatting upon the land like a monstrous, unmovable weight.

  The sun forced his eyes closed before he could better see the structure. Daylight glowed through his eyelids until all darkened. Arrus glimpsed red brick. The wagon had entered a wide tunnel and left the sun behind. He opened his eyes. Dusky murals appeared, adorning the walls in a scrolling history. He watched the striking visuals, painted by a master of the art, leaving no question as to meaning. Men fought one another in a constant stream. They killed with sword, spear, or mace and appeared as armored hellions or bare-chested monsters. Tiers of empty faces watched. Arrus glimpsed one figure, devoid of features yet held high above all, wearing a crown.

  A king.

  A faceless audience. An indifferent ruler. Fighters killing fighters on a canvas of brick.

  The breath caught in Arrus’s throat. His eyelids fluttered in discomfort, unaccustomed to seeing so much for such a length of time. The images he saw left little doubt as to where they were going or the fate awaiting them there. Even Nordun knew of Sunja’s blood sports and the season when they took place.

  Pit fighters. Gladiators.

  Arrus struggled to remember the name the Sunjans had called their arena.

  The Hole?

  Arrus wasn’t sure, but he understood why they’d been fed actual meat instead of rancid, why they’d received stale bread instead of moldy crusts, and why a punishing jailor like Balazz had left them largely unharmed.

  For the games.

  The prison wagon halted among a large host of armed guards Arrus believed were called Skarrs. Swords gleamed while a corridor of shields led to a grim entryway. Fear rippled through the prisoners. Four Skarrs walked past Arrus and stopped at the rear of the cage. One spoke curtly, his voice strained, perhaps from shouting.

  Arrus could guess the meaning.

  They were to fight in the Hole—probably to the death.

  For the amusement of the Sunjan populace.

  A sword tapped the cell bars. Another Skarr babbled a stream of unintelligible gibberish, but the Nordish man could guess that meaning too.

  You’re about to be released. Attempt to fight, and you’ll die. Flee, and you’ll die.

  Arrus preferred to live.

  The cell door opened, and men spilled onto the ground. The weight slackened and eased off Arrus, and he took the opportunity to right himself. His features twisted into a near-permanent squint. He held a hand to his eyes and stepped down out of the cage. A line of wagons had stopped behind the one that had transported him. There were too many prisoners to see, all surrounded by Skarrs.

  Guards herded him toward the waiting portal along with other prisoners. Arrus did not resist when the Skarrs grabbed his arms and walked him through the opening into another wide passageway. Torches burned at intervals. Arrus passed more watchful soldiers. There were enough Skarrs to deter even Lokan from escaping.

  The prisoners descended steps as the Skarrs led them through a dismal maze of stone, past doorways reeking of excrement and sweat. Arrus sighed. His eyes welcomed the absence of the sun, but now his nose suffered. They marched through an arched door and down another staircase, deep into the ground, where the walls crumbled and the torches colored the corridor. More grim Skarrs appeared out of the dark, their armor gleaming. Arrus kept his eyes downcast while passing them, sensing their eagerness to hack away at Nordish flesh.

  Another door materialized, and the stream of men flowed through its arched frame. A Skarr shouted. The guards directed Arrus to a waiting cell. They shoved him inside and slammed the door. Cranky tumblers turned over as other cages closed. Arrus went to the bars. Locked away like animals yet again. Outside the new cell, braziers burned, illuminating a wide corridor. Arrus gripped the iron bars, tugged them, and placed a cheek ag
ainst the metal. Another prison, but this one was situated beneath a mighty arena.

  On impulse, he called out to his companions. Harsh voices answered. Arrus rubbed his bearded face and scowled at the noise. No Nordish man answered. Either his companions had been shoved into a different cellblock or killed outright, perhaps for resisting or attempting to escape.

  Arrus stared at the shadowy floor. He supposed the Skarrs would come for him soon enough.

  And when they did, death would follow.

  5

  The constant clatter of wood on wood filled the training grounds of the House of Ten.

  “Eeee, that’s it,” Machlann bellowed with heat, smoothing his bushy moustache. He marched back and forth, watching the three gladiators from behind as they smashed swords into the practice men. “Flow from one strike into the other. Twist the hips. Make those wooden frames tremble. That’s it! That’s it! Make them buckle with each and every strike. Eeeee.”

  “Why do you suppose he makes that noise?” Muluk asked the two companions sitting to his right.

  Halm shrugged and immediately winced.

  Pig Knot didn’t seem to hear at all.

  “Eeee!” Machlann stopped and held his hips, nodding. The gray tuft of hair atop his head bobbed and waved. “Only three this day. Three. Saimon’s dewy sack, we’re getting down to the core here. The almighty core! The heart of the slop. Two fallen, Seddon take their souls. And one deserted like a treacherous leech no longer wishing to suckle. That rots my guts. Rots my guts.”

  Machlann rolled his shoulders and walked past Junger going through the motions, performing the drill with effortless perfection. The tall and shadowy Brozz worked beside the Perician, not as crisp or smooth as his sword brother, but he rattled the target with solid blows all the same. At the end stood Torello who, upon Kolo’s death, had quieted his complaining. The housemasters all noted Torello seemed a changed man. Upon finishing a solitary breakfast, he’d stood and walked onto the sands before anyone, reached for a wooden sword, and started swinging, practicing what he’d learned up to that point. Muluk had even thought that Machlann and Koba would drive the man back, away from his wooden target, but the trainers did not. The constant noise had even roused Clavellus from his roost.