The hairs on Grisholt’s neck bristled. All gladiators had a secret face for the arena, a rarely-seen battle mask, but Kossa’s…
Kossa’s was special.
Grisholt approved. “Brakuss.”
On cue, the one-eyed former gladiator produced the iron flask of the liquid fire that had transformed Barros into a monster. Brakuss undid the brass stopper and offered it to Kossa with both hands. Kossa took the flask and held it aloft.
“Careful,” Grisholt warned him. “And only a taste. Not a mouthful.”
Kossa sniffed at the container. He grimaced, repelled by the gut-wringing smell.
Grisholt suppressed the dark chuckle in his belly. Two nights ago, Brakuss, Turst, and Grisholt himself had gathered in his departed father’s study. They’d surrounded the container in silence, marveling at its power. Armored by three bottles of wine, Grisholt had removed the potion’s stopper and tempted Saimon to sniff. What he’d smelled had seemingly scorched the hairs of his precious nose, made his eyes water, and brought him to the brink of retching. Turst had sniffed as well. He’d managed to keep his supper down and compared the potion’s aroma to rancid meat steeped in the bloodiest of scutters. That description alone almost made Grisholt sick. Brakuss had choked and grabbed his nose after the barest whiff.
Death, he’d called it. Death, Grisholt knew it to be.
“Barros drank this?” Kossa asked in undisguised horror.
Grisholt nodded.
The gladiator became tight-lipped. He pinched his nose and tipped that awful juice into his mouth. His cheeks puffed out in reflex. His frame shivered. Brakuss snatched the container from the pit fighter as he struggled to send the mixture down. Kossa bent over, grabbed his knees, and swallowed with visible effort. He sucked down a great breath when he straightened, as if hoping air alone would remove the taste.
Grisholt doubted it would.
Kossa barked a series of coughs and wiped his lips. He gagged, appearing ready to vomit. Nothing came of it, however, so he hacked out another bout of coughing, his back bucking with spasms.
“Oh, sweet Seddon,” he choked out between breaths, threatening to retch.
Brakuss flashed a concerned look at Grisholt, but the owner ignored it, focusing on Kossa’s furious reaction to the potion.
“Do you feel sick?” the owner asked.
“Aye that.”
Good, Grisholt thought, remembering Barros’s identical experience. He glanced at the gladiators nearest the chamber door and sent them a silent message of get ready.
With a great gasping breath, Kossa held his stomach and straightened. His face reddened as if boiled raw. The cords of his neck stood out once again, but this time, they bulged and rippled with gruesome force. Brakuss flashed a second look of concern to Grisholt, and this time, the old man’s outer calm faltered.
Kossa grunted, a long-winded sound as if he were about to lift a mountain. His bloodshot eyes flared, and a violent shudder ripped through his frame like a man impaled on a lengthy spear. He stomped his sandaled foot three times in succession, great smashing blows that caused Grisholt and everyone else to back away. The gladiator abruptly stopped, chest heaving, and regarded the sword brother holding his helmet. Kossa snatched it away. He slapped the open helm over his head with such force that Grisholt feared blood. An enraged Kossa grabbed for his small, rounded shield and fixed it to his left arm. He sputtered syllables that might have been a language but scorched the air as gibberish. He held out an impatient hand. A pit fighter immediately filled it with a long-necked warhammer. A single grooved spike protruded from the opposite side.
“Kossa,” Grisholt managed to say, blinking in uncertainty and wondering if Barros had been a stroke of luck.
Bloodshot eyes beheld the old manager, freezing the words in his throat. Grisholt thought Kossa had looked frightening before. Now, however, the gladiator’s unstable condition filled him with fear.
Kossa wasn’t listening, anyway. Opening his mouth in a feral display of glee, the tall man spun around and barely cleared the doorframe on his way out. For an instant, Grisholt thought the pit fighter would brain himself on the portal’s upper crossbeam.
Then he was gone. His howls echoed in the white tunnel.
Brakuss’s one eye appeared ready to pop free of his face. Grisholt exhaled and realized, with gratitude, that he hadn’t pissed himself. He clenched a fist and shook it at the door.
“Make them fear,” the owner whispered with newfound wrath.
*
The audience chatted, joked, ate, and drank in the stands, filling the time before the next clash of arms and wills. The odd yell spiked the rumble of conversations. The Orator stood on his podium positioned at the east end of the arena, dividing his time between surveying the masses and reading from a scroll. To his right and to the north stood the boxes reserved for the ruling owners and trainers, while to the left and the south was the raised platform, fashioned from rich hardwoods and drooping banners, reserved for the king and his guests. Qualtus held a scroll before his old eyes and inspected the names, remembering the house gladiators and noting additions. He scratched at his loose-fitting robes, fixing the material before it revealed too much of his skinny arms. Having done that, he went back to the day’s schedule.
A savage pounding of metal on metal disturbed his thoughts.
Qualtus looked up and listened with a frown, pondering the source. He located it in short time: a relentless, rhythmic beating of iron coming from the eastern portcullis. Qualtus’s puzzlement deepened, and he wasn’t the only one. Each impact stole a little bit more of the crowd’s attention. People stopped talking, stopped eating and drinking. Questions formed on their features. The seated section just above the eastern entrance became aware of the noise, and the people’s yammering quieted in a spreading, wondering rush. In heartbeats, all conversation had stopped, and eyes and ears focused on the barred gateway.
Even the heads of the most skilled houses—Dark Curge, Nexus, and Gastillo—paused in their bickering and leaned forward, wondering what the hammering was all about.
Before its time, the portcullis cranked upward. A startling bellow issued from the depths. Some onlookers glimpsed a figure moving behind the crossed iron, throwing itself at the timbers and metal. Sand scuffed from the yawning opening. Another roar of impatience, a shocking bawl, was heard the length of the arena.
When the portcullis reached waist level, the head of a warhammer and a shield appeared underneath the rising edge, awkwardly lifting the gate.
Qualtus’s puzzlement shifted into dismay. Dark Curge, Nexus, and Gastillo froze in place. The crowds shifted and muttered with unease.
And when the portcullis lifted high enough, Kossa ducked out from under it and threw his arms wide as if newly birthed. He raged at the spectators sitting at the lowest level, causing them to draw back in terror. Kossa whirled in the rays of the sun, calling for Seddon or the Lords to strike him down, daring the divine entities to smite him. He cursed and stomped out a circle, marking the sands as his own.
Everyone seemed spellbound by the gladiator’s frightening presence. The Orator adjusted his robes, gathered up his scroll, and cleared his throat. Kossa cleared his own pipes in a fearsome cry of discovery, rattling the elderly announcer and robbing him of his voice.
Heedless of arena decorum, Kossa charged the opposing portcullis, drawing the collective disbelief of all watching. He gripped the rising timbers and heaved, not moving the weight any faster but impressing onlookers nonetheless.
A sword lashed out, a thrust meant to ward the attacking Kossa away from the opening. Kossa jumped back, but only for an instant, before charging the gate again. This time, he ducked and disappeared within the tunnel.
A horrified Qualtus straightened and met the incredulous gaze of Dark Curge.
The sounds of a scuffle ensued, ending with a sword-and-shield-bearing gladiator being ejected as if forcefully shat. The top of his helmet twanged against the lower edge of the portculli
s, and he staggered, arms floundering for balance, before landing on his back.
The fallen gladiator, called Stonum, belonged to the House of Vandu. He clambered to his feet, teeth bared, as Kossa strode toward him. The Vandu pit fighter brought his weapons to guard just as Kossa reached him.
Stonum stabbed with his sword, aiming for a stomach. Kossa parried it with his shield, spun in a complete circle to the outside, and smashed the flat of his warhammer across Stonum’s helmet, cracking it askew. The Vandu man collapsed in a heap, and Kossa brained him, flattening him on the arena floor. With a feral grunting, Kossa stood, stance wide, and lorded over the defenseless man before unleashing a horrifying barrage about his victim’s head and shoulders.
Qualtus covered his mouth when Kossa paused long enough to turn the warhammer around so that he could employ the spike.
Some of the more bloodthirsty amongst the spectators yelled in delight at the spectacle, but the majority did not. Qualtus composed himself and waited, hiding his shock at the relentless killing. Every swing the hammer flung an arc of blood.
Eventually, the crunch of metal faded. Kossa straightened. He swayed on his feet as if drunk and backed off the unmoving lump that had once been a man. The crowds did not cheer, but a ripple of disturbed and stunned conversation swept through the Pit. Kossa regarded the dead man mashed into the ground and staggered to his side of the arena. The portcullis lifted as he approached.
Qualtus found his voice and announced the victor.
*
Kossa disappeared into the opening, and Grisholt released the widest of predatory smiles. A rush of excitement had overcome him upon Kossa’s first strike, and after that, nothing else really mattered.
“Seddon above,” old Turst whispered.
“Praise Seddon,” Grisholt added with near-breathless delight. He quickly fixed Brakuss with a look. “You alerted our companions about Kossa, correct?”
The one-eyed guard frowned but nodded, having already answered the same question as he accompanied his employer to the private viewing chamber.
“Excellent.” Grisholt felt even better, knowing that the Sons of Cholla would be happy with the day’s victory. He did a quick mental estimate of just how much he’d won with Kossa’s victory. The rich pot nearly robbed him of his breath. There wasn’t anything better than gold coin spilling from stuffed coffers.
“He slaughtered that man,” Turst said with awe.
The comment failed to ruin Grisholt’s mood.
“And so will the others, Master Turst. So will the others. From this day forth, the denizens of the games will take notice of the Stable of Grisholt. They’ll start talking. And they’ll start watching for our appearances in the games. People will hail us, and our adversaries will tremble. Many years have passed since the Stable of Grisholt has been regarded as a threat.”
Turst divided his attention between the body being gathered up by arena attendants and his employer. “How many of these do you think you can win before you arouse the suspicions of the other houses?”
Grisholt studied Turst’s sun-wrinkled face and sinewy frame. Sixty-seven years on, the taskmaster was solid of mind and body. He’d raised a valid concern. Grisholt had even wondered himself since Barros’s victory in the arena. How many victories could his men amass before suspicions were raised? And what would he do if the other houses discovered his secret?
“Don’t concern yourself with such matters, Master Turst. I’m already devising plans for that very possibility. We’ll be selective with our matches, use the potion sparingly. If we do that, I believe our lads will still win without arousing suspicions. And if there are questions, we’ll just attribute it all to your training methods. Who can dispute those?”
“That’s two deaths on our stable,” a pensive Turst pointed out. “Two blood matches.”
The words still failed to dim Grisholt’s cheery mood.
“And two examples laid out for all to see, Master Turst. Don’t worry yourself about those deaths. The season’s half done, so we’ll be cautious with the time remaining and lay plans for next season. Instill some fear. The Stable of Grisholt will no longer be an easy mark. All will come to fear our name, and that’s to our advantage. Far too long, we’ve been rabbits toyed with by wolves.”
Turst looked at the sands, and Grisholt sensed his taskmaster’s masked concern. Grisholt didn’t worry. In time, Turst would relax. Grisholt had just won a considerable amount of riches, and with wealth came power. For years, his stable had been perceived as a joke.
It was time to become a force.
9
“What was that?” Nexus exclaimed with heat, his black eyes nearly bursting from his face. “What was that?”
“That,” Gastillo rumbled from underneath his golden mask, “was a fighter from the Stable of Grisholt. Seems they’re keen on spilling some blood these days. Wouldn’t you say, Curge?”
“Mm,” Dark Curge grunted, replaying the all-too-short match in his head.
Nexus thrust his almost nonexistent chin toward the sands. “That wasn’t spilling blood, you gold-faced ass packer. That was butchery! That was an outright spreading of one’s cheeks! As you said, one of Grisholt’s hellpups killed a gladiator only days ago. Seddon above, I don’t know what that man is thinking, but if––when—our paths cross, I’ll tell him my mind. Saimon suckle his black heart if he thinks he can kill any of my investments.”
Gastillo didn’t comment, having been stung with the ass packer reference, so he sat and brooded in the shade afforded by the overhead tarp, his fingers tight around a goblet.
Dark Curge didn’t blame Gastillo in the least for his silence. In his opinion, Nexus was an idiot of the worst possible kind, which meant the wine merchant not only held influence and power in certain quarters but possessed vast enough riches to back up his words. Curge had become accustomed to Nexus referring to his gladiators as investments, either sound or bad, and hoped the merchant would lose more than just a few by season’s end. It amused him when Nexus ranted.
And the hostility toward Gastillo wasn’t at all a result of the match they’d all witnessed. Dark Curge smirked. Nexus had been obviously forcing cheer and calm into his speech and actions ever since the day’s opening fight. The effort reeked of ill-concealed nerves. Nexus had reason to be tense. Gastillo’s man Prajus fought the next contest: a blood match, against one of Nexus’s appointed punishers.
Dark Curge’s smile widened, oozing smug wickedness. He could watch Nexus’s and Gastillo’s prized dogs bash one another all day.
“You seemed pleasantly happy, Curge.” Nexus snorted, as if sensing those very thoughts. “Looking forward to the coming battle, are you? You must love it when you see our lads killing each other at no risk to yourself.”
Curge reared back in his seat and lifted his goblet to his lips. “Nature of the games, good Nexus. I do enjoy it. Or would you rather I honey your ass and offer false well wishes? It’s all sport, despite how bloody it becomes. Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy it when that Zhiberian defeated one of my lads.”
Nexus’s mouth became a slit. “I relished every moment, you one-armed punce.”
“Take care, good Nexus.” Curge bristled at the insult. One of these days, Nexus would catch him in a very violent mood. “You aren’t among your merchants now. You’re addressing a man who once took his share of lives and more within the Pit.”
“I know your history, Dark Curge.” Nexus sneered, condescension dripping from his words. “You might have killed a dog or two, but I’ve ruined lives on a scale you haven’t even considered.”
Curge didn’t like the ‘dog or two’ remark. That one got his blood boiling. He’d take it from Gastillo or any other man who’d fought in the Pit but not from some merchant playing at the sport.
“I hear the Orator.” Curge’s mouth puckered into an angry bud.
“Time’s come then,” Nexus said and swung his attention to Gastillo. “Good Gastillo. And believe me when I say, my lad fully i
ntends to open your man’s throat and turn the air red.”
Gastillo didn’t appear to have heard.
*
Prajus lifted his sword to the crowd and received mixed applause. He paid no attention to the Orator’s prattling on about his victories and his kills. Prajus knew his worth in the arena. All he had to do was impart that knowledge to everyone watching—including Gastillo.
The urge to slowly twirl took him, and Prajus did just that, embracing the theatre of it all and grinning with malice. He kept his broadsword high over his helmet and his shield at his waistline. His vest of meticulously conceived mail blazed in the sun like dragon scales, while the knee spikes of his greaves resembled upturned claws. When one possessed skill such as his, was it arrogance to know it? Prajus recalled Gastillo’s warnings, and he smirked even now at the owner’s words. Gastillo projected anger, but Prajus sensed fear lurking beneath, fear that didn’t make any sense to him. He’d killed a warrior from the School of Nexus, but that didn’t mean raw gurry. Nexus would have his chance at revenge, could take as many chances as he could stomach, but Prajus certainly wasn’t about to lose to any of them.
Far from it.
Prajus decided that he didn’t rightly care for Gastillo anymore. The weakness wafting off the owner offended him. He didn’t understand why Gastillo would fear further retribution from those obviously lesser. The argument of not being able to afford a war didn’t make sense. There would be no war, no risk. There would only be Prajus smashing each and every pit fighter into the dust, regardless of who they were or what house or school they belonged to. This season was his, and by Seddon’s sunny ass, he’d take it and the lives of any who dared stop him. Gastillo might have provided training and comforts, but Prajus gave him riches and a measure of fame in return. The gladiator with the dragon’s head upon his shield didn’t like to be cautioned. He didn’t like to be warned.
131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges Page 10
