“Dog balls,” Clavellus rasped. His glassy eyes bulged at the sound, and he immediately sought to smooth it out. He lifted his mug and downed a sloppy mouthful of whatever it contained. Two swallows later, he noticed the Kree, blinking in surprise.
“Well, then.” He belched softly and squinted. “I thought you were Nala.”
Goll scowled.
“We’re both relieved.” Clavellus smacked his lips. He inspected his drink and found it all gone. With a look of determined concentration, he reached with his shaky hand for the pitcher. He didn’t offer any to the Kree.
Goll sat down on a chair on the opposing corner of the balcony.
“Say it then.”
Goll gave him a look of, say what?
“Go on, you tightened ring of a dog’s ass. You know you want to. And I know… I know you do.” Another chest-expanding belch escaped him, one that almost felled the taskmaster from his chair. His eyes alternated between narrowing and widening. He righted himself and, while his left hand trembled, poured another drink.
“I don’t care what you say—or think,” Clavellus said with exhausted venom. “We won yesterday. We lost three, but we won four. That calls for a celebration. Ordinarily, in season as we are, I wouldn’t partake, wouldn’t think of it. But this is different. This is a new beginning. So I’ll drink, drink until my pisser lets loose with a flood.”
Clavellus’s words slurred. He gripped his chest as if in pain. “This is a new beginning, you crust of Kree shite. New. And it would be dishonest. No, dis… despicable to …”
The taskmaster lost his trail of thought, and it showed on his face.
“How much have you had?” Goll’s scowl darkened.
“More than…” Clavellus screwed up his mouth, white beard going with it, and struggled to think. “More than the river Trysis. More than the Southern seas. I’ll die of old age long before I finish pissing myself dry. Guaranteed, you righteous he-bitch. Guaranteed. And I fully intend to drink for most of this day, too. I don’t care who you are.”
Clavellus’s red eyes blazed, but the Kree decided not to rise to the bait. Instead, Goll turned and studied the men under Machlann’s and Koba’s instruction. “Isn’t it early for drinking?”
“Pah.” Clavellus spat and lifted his mug to his near-hidden lips. “It’s only early if I stopped the night before. Which I didn’t.”
The sight of Muluk waving caught the taskmaster’s attention. He leaned over the railing and bawled. “Ananda, go into the cellar and take out whatever spirits we have plenty of and bring them to those three punces sitting over there. I’ve already asked Clurik to have more delivered, so whatever we have left, let them have it. I’ve seen bastards happier dead. Send over as much as they wish, whenever they want it.”
He flicked a warning glance at Goll, daring him to say otherwise. But Goll heard Nala’s voice in his head, so he took a settling breath and got comfortable. For some unknown reason, he didn’t want to disappoint her.
Below, Machlann bellowed instructions for his remaining students to devise and practice four- and five-strike combinations.
“We did win, you realize,” Clavellus stated with effort. “You have… you have the coin to prove it.”
And the bodies, but Goll didn’t say that. “We have plans to make.”
“Then let’s make them.”
“When you’ve finished drinking.”
“That could be a long time. I just started.”
“You can’t drink the entire day away.”
Clavellus felt his wet bread and appeared disgusted with himself. He fixed Goll with a drunken look of irritation. “You’re a pinch in my pisshole. Can’t drink––why not? You’re here now. And I have plenty of kegs to crack.”
“I’m surprised there’s any wine or beer remaining in this place. I’d’ve guessed you would have downed it all last night.”
“Ha. You don’t know me, you unfit flicker. Of shite. And asses. A drinker…” He took a huge gasp of breath as if about to take a lengthy pledge. “A drinker always hides away a few kegs for mornings just like these.” Clavellus finished with his lips puckered and listed to one side. He straightened himself by grabbing onto the railing, nearly upsetting the pitcher. He nodded and took a well-timed mouthful. “And we have cause to celebrate.”
“With two dead?”
“I understand that. I do, you hateful bucket of soup scutters. I had wine. Wine in their memory. I’m… grieving.”
Goll glanced away. At least Clavellus wasn’t disrupting the training.
“Take comfort, Master Goll,” the taskmaster said, his voice much smoother than before. “I see… I see your bruises are almost gone. That’s good.”
Clavellus swung his shaking hand at the gladiators below. “Watch the training… for any improper technique, any fault in their execution. Watch for… anything Machlann might miss. Or Koba. They’ll both have them––have them practice striking all day. Up to five strikes now. All day long. By morning’s end, their arms will be on fire. By day’s end, that fire will have exhausted itself.”
“What happens after five-strike combinations?”
Clavellus shrugged, his eyes red and glassy. “Six-strike combinations. Different patterns, of course.”
Goll sighed. Different taskmasters. Different methods of training.
“I’m surprised at you, Master… Master Goll. I’d have thought you’d have done––have done all of this––with your renowned Weapon Masters of Kree.”
“Ask me that again when you’re not unfit from wine.”
“Just wait a few moments.” Clavellus winked. “The older one gets, the faster things flow. And I’d rather not think about you thinking about my frequent pissing. So just answer the gurry question.”
Very well, Goll thought. “We never trained like this. It strikes me you’re missing some important steps.”
Clavellus palm-wiped his mouth and inspected his beard. He checked his loose-fitting shirt and frowned at the stains. “Nala made this for me. That woman’s…” Clavellus took a shoulder-shrugging breath, and his tone softened considerably. “You’re correct,” the taskmaster explained in a firmer voice. “We discussed it early this morning before you rose, while I was still stumbling about in the cellar. Machlann and Koba and I. The season is half gone, and our lads––well, some of them––can’t be expected to… absorb everything from a lifetime of learning. So. The best we can do is prepare them to survive.”
Goll’s scowl caused Clavellus to wince, remembering an earlier conversation. “And win, of course. I’m not being brazen. Too happy to be here. But in winning… in winning, they’ll survive to fight. Next season. So we’re teaching them to win and to survive. But I mean win. After the games, we can properly put them through their paces—all the paces—not simply choosing bits as we’re doing now. Our opponents? And I mean those sunbaked, shite-trough bastards poising as house gladiators. All of them. They’ll have prepared longer. Harder.”
The clatter of wooden swords connecting with targets distracted Goll, and Clavellus interpreted the Kree’s silence as a sign to continue.
“I’ve known trained pit fighters who knew hundreds of different combinations. Countless sets of strikes. Defensive movements. Not that a man has ever used so many, but… seeing a warrior move through a set––at full speed, mind you––against one foe or several, real or imaginary, well, it’s a spectacle. One to admire. Respect.”
Clavellus whispered that last word.
“Savor,” he blurted dreamily. “Admire. Did I say that, already? I did? Well, it’s true. Those who can perform such magic deserve to be called sword master or weapon master, for that matter.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Goll eyed the older man.
“Don’t worry, Master Goll.” Clavellus smiled behind the bulk of mug. “I’ve as much invested in our lads doing well as you. My thoughts of them, of their worth, has changed. Dramatically.”
The word popped from the taskmaster. His br
ow knotted. “These plans you speak of. Are they concerning blood matches?”
Though the man was pickled, smelly, and near senseless, Goll couldn’t help but smiling at him.
6
The Gladiatorial Chamber member called Soranthus hobbled through the dungeons underneath the Pit. He clutched a cloth to his mouth, despising the foul air and fearing that every breath blackened his innards. Of the nine appointed Chamber members, he was the youngest at fifty-eight. He trimmed his gray beard to a modest length to maintain a youthful appearance, and his ample belly, gifted to him from a fondness of beer, bulged under his gold-and-white Chamber robes. Unlike the others, Soranthus’s wounds from a career of arena combat did not seriously cripple him, thus he was chosen to inspect the meat being transported to the Pit.
How fortunate for Soranthus. It almost made him wish he’d lost a toe or two.
A handful of Skarrs surrounded him as befitted a man of his considerable position. They stopped before an iron door that led to the lower levels. A soldier slid a pair of locking bolts free and pulled the door open with both hands. Hinges squealed. An expulsion of breath—a subtle yet ageless reek of spilled blood and excrement soaked into stone—yawned into the men’s faces, and Soranthus squeezed his eyes shut, almost burying his face in his cloth.
Saimon only knew what existed in such a place, and Saimon only knew what Soranthus would find. None of the nine members relished descending into the history of Sunja’s Pit, but Lord Schull, speaking for King Juhn himself, demanded it.
The forward Skarrs held their torches high, illuminating solid stonework that refused to break or crumble. Moisture lined the walls. As Soranthus descended steps with his armed escort, he recalled the arena’s history, back to an age when criminals fought within the Pit. Thieves and cutthroats, hellions and the insane, all fought. They hacked and stabbed at each other for the amusement of the crowds. For those earliest pit fighters, victory meant living another day, a brutal existence and one fit for the condemned. An age not widely remembered.
And now, King Juhn had charged the Chamber––Soranthus in particular––to bring back those ancient blood spectacles, where untrained brutes butchered each other under a red sun. The arena was a much different place now, Soranthus knew, for the quality of the games had long since improved. Sunja’s sport had evolved from those primitive shows of butchery to the battles of today, where the masses gathered once a year to witness an unrivalled level of skill at arms, where a mastery of weapons, mind, and body could ensure victory within the Pit.
Sunja’s rulers had supported and funded the arena with coin from abundant treasuries. Honor and prestige had been heaped upon the event. The populace hailed skilled gladiators as heroes, and champions were arguably elevated to a status rivaling kings. Coin, women, and even property awaited the victors battling their way through the yearly games.
Men were no longer sentenced to the life of a gladiator but rather chose and embraced it.
Soranthus glanced over his shoulder at the Skarrs, secretly glad for their number. He’d even slipped his scabbard onto his belt and filled it with a thirty-year-old short sword, the very blade Soranthus had wielded when he became a champion of the games. He’d enjoyed the blissful afterlife and still enjoyed watching the sport, even though the antics of the Free Trained sometimes annoyed him. But at least the Free Trained weren’t as low as criminals.
Soranthus gripped the hilt of his sword, drawing comfort from the weapon’s serviceable weight.
Make the experience… dramatic if at all possible. Uplifting. Anything to take minds off what’s happening on the front. Anything to instill pride in the watching populace. The king wishes to see sport and theater if you can manage it.
Words read from a delivered scroll and signed with Lord Schull’s scrawl. The message had stirred the Chamber into an outraged, yet fearful, twitter: the wishes of the king, commanding them to foul the games with the condemned.
Dark times, Soranthus thought. Dark times indeed. The Chamber wondered how bad the Nordish war had become. One only needed to walk the streets and listen to know the people wondered the very same thing. It was a disturbing thought, disturbing enough for Soranthus to consider abandoning his city and country of birth. Perhaps the time was nigh.
At the bottom of the stairs, the former champion followed his Skarrs through an open archway. Glowing braziers spaced at regular intervals illuminated a wide corridor. Domes of red brick loomed in the ceiling. The walls appeared as grills of iron bars that eventually vanished into the smoky black. Faces and squinting eyes peered through the nearest cell. They tracked the Skarrs and Soranthus, perhaps curious about his robes.
Three jailors emerged from the warm gloom and approached. Their faces and arms were filthy with dungeon grime.
“Master Soranthus,” the lead man greeted them with a dip of his chin.
Impatiently, Soranthus nodded back and lowered his hand cloth. He twirled a finger. “This isn’t all of them,” he said, aghast.
“Not all,” assured the lead man, a beefy fellow with a mangy beard. An unclean leather vest covered his torso. Keys dangled from a belt. “This block contains two hundred cells. We couldn’t possibly fit the rest of the prisoners in here, unless you wish us to place two in each cell.”
Soranthus scowled at that notion, dismissing it.
“Not the wisest course, is it?” the jailor asked. “As it is, we now have almost half a prison here: two hundred strong out of four hundred and seventy-three. As the bastards are killed off, we can send for the remainder.”
“What’s your name?”
“Runson.”
“Many years at this?”
Runson smiled, exposing half an upper shelf of teeth. “About twenty-two or so. I kept watch over these dogs with Balazz at King Juhn’s dungeons.”
“These same dogs?”
“Aye that, Master Soranthus.”
“So you’re well acquainted with them?”
“Most of them, sar,” Runson said as Soranthus inspected one of the closer cages. “You have the worst of the lot, if I might say so. These are the right and proper bastards, whose crimes were so foul, not even the Sujins wanted them. That should tell you all you need to know right there. Murderers all. Of men, women, children, and animals. Anything that breathed in the light of day, well, they butchered it. Some of these unfit pissers even dabbled in rape before pulling steel. Balazz and the lads and I vowed to never allow any of them to ever see a dawn for what they’ve done. Not one. They’re hellions wearing the skin of men, you see—bloody savages, and those are the ones still sane. I daresay Seddon above won’t have anything to do with this pack of gurry, and Saimon, well, Seddon only knows what he’ll do with them below. Unfit. Unfit, the lot. If I may, I think letting them slaughter each other in the Pit is a fine idea. Considering what some––”
“They’re in fair health?” Soranthus cut in as he walked toward one of the cells, prompting the Skarrs to move with him. The prisoner leered at him like a starving rat.
“Ah, fair is fair to say.” Concern marked Runson’s face. “About a month ago, we were told to put them on a diet of meat. Usually, it’s only bread and water, you understand, nothing but the best for our guests.”
The jailor chuckled.
“Who?”
“Beg your pardon, Master Soranthus?”
“Who gave you that order?”
“Ah, a man working for a king’s official. I have the document about somewhere. The official wouldn’t set foot into the dungeon.”
Soranthus scowled. King Juhn had been mulling his decision for some time then.
“And what did you feed them?” the Chamber member asked, confronting the prisoner. The man grinned, displaying rotten teeth worn down to needles.
“Ah, well, they’re a pack of right and proper ass-lickers, Master Soranthus. As I’ve said, these are the ones the Sujins didn’t want. And they’ll press almost anyone into service. Cooked meat was a bit of a luxury for these maggots, s
o I confess, they might not have gotten exactly what was ordered. We heaved scraps their way, mind you. And they were glad to have them.”
A pungent, eye-watering stench of unwashed flesh emanated from the imprisoned man. He shuffled back into the depths of his cell, where the meager light didn’t reach. All the while, his feral gaze and smile fixed upon the visitor. Darkness enveloped the criminal until only the gleam from his unblinking eyes remained.
“And how long have these men been in cages?”
Runson glanced at the other two jailors. “Difficult to say. Balazz was told to bring along all the bastard savages who could fight. Most of these unfit dog blossoms are perhaps eighteen, nineteen, all the way to forty or so. I don’t think there are any alive over fifty-five years. Some who’d been passed over were missing limbs: arms, legs, that sort. A few had been blinded. Them with one eye we brought over if they had their limbs. And there’s the ones who’ve been in a cage long enough to have their minds rot.”
Soranthus realized he’d been choking his sword’s hilt the whole time he’d inspected the ghoulish prisoner. He didn’t release the weapon.
“Murderers,” Soranthus said, distracted with sizing up the surrounding brickwork.
“Cutthroats,” Runson emphasised. “Savages all. The worst of the lot. The unruliest and the unwanted.”
And they’ll grace the majesty of the Pit. The thought seeped through Soranthus’s skull and made his mind ache and his heart heavy. Suddenly, the Free Trained were entirely tolerable.
But these men?
A nearby voice chortled, the sound unpleasant and taunting in the scant dungeon light. One of Runson’s jailors excused himself and marched off to a cell, smashing a club across a set of iron bars.
Truly not wanting to be there, Soranthus sighed heavily and scratched the side of his face. “Runson. That’s your name?”
“Aye that, Master Soranthus.”
“I hear you even have Nordish prisoners. What of them?”
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 7
