131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Something crashed to the floor above Garl’s head, and he whimpered. His head bunched into his shoulders, and he lifted the blade up as if it would ward off evil. Muted gibberish permeated the planks, even a short laugh. The laugh was the worst. Strach would bray laughter as he drew a knife across a person’s bare belly. Garl shuddered at the horrors his memories conjured and wrung the sword’s hilt even harder. He waited, expecting a second clatter any moment. Perhaps the Sons were above him, torturing the cobbler for information.

  Garl wouldn’t blame him if he talked. He wouldn’t blame him in the least.

  Garl held his breath, hearing scratching at the cellar door. Eyes near ready to pop from his skull, he waited for the door to fly open and bodies to tumble through, charging into the depths that stank of that Saimon-cursed salve Borchus smeared over himself. The Sons would find Garl at the back and swarm him. Maybe he’d strike one down if he swung in time, but in the end, the Sons would have him. And they’d punish him.

  Garl waited and waited, his ears cocked and straining to hear, his tongue lapping at the cold sweat coating his upper lip. The drumming of his heart became footsteps. The churning of his stomach became evil whispers.

  Nothing came through the door. Garl didn’t relax. It was obvious. They wanted him to come out.

  Gulping and hearing his throat click, Garl whimpered and clamped a hand over his mouth. More voices overhead, no doubt the treacherous cobbler explaining that yes, they were down there. Just wait for them to come out. In the dark, Garl rubbed his face as he mouthed another anguished oath.

  They’d take him easily. And they’d torture him. They wouldn’t have to torture him for long because, truth be known, Garl would give Borchus up right there and then in exchange for a quick death. He would scream out everything he knew about the agent because they were the Sons of Cholla.

  His throat constricting, eyes watering, and sinuses drooling, Garl slid to the base of the floor, letting his crutches fall with the barest rattle. His hands shook—actually shook—with fright, raw and unchecked. He swore he felt his hair whitening.

  Shadows flickered across the lines of light outlining the cellar door.

  They’d found him. Garl knew it. There was no escape.

  But then he realized he had Borchus’s shortsword, an old length of well-used steel that might have trouble cutting butter, but it certainly had sliced Strach’s miserable carcass. Garl wondered if the weapon retained enough of an edge to cut his own throat, or if its point would pierce the soft flesh under his chin.

  The light fluttered again.

  Seddon above. Garl decided the Sons would not corner or capture him. Not ever again.

  He held his escape in his hands. He hefted the sword, took a deep steadying breath, and with a boyish sob, placed the weapon’s point beneath his chin.

  The light tracing the cellar door remained unbroken…

  Muscles tensed, Garl waited for it to open.

  *

  Before mid-afternoon, Naulis walked down the crowded lane hedged in by low houses, sometimes disappearing among clusters of people. Borchus tracked the man. He quickly scanned the figures and faces behind the messenger, ensuring that he wasn’t followed.

  In short time, Naulis arrived at the alcove.

  “Were you followed?” the agent asked.

  “By who?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. Any news?”

  “The one called Brozz is scheduled to fight the day after tomorrow. The Madea said he was waiting for the house’s decision on the blood matches.”

  No surprise there. “That’s all?”

  “All he would tell me,” Naulis said. “Right and proper hole, that place that is. And the smell…”

  Borchus held up a hand. “Forget that. Who’s Brozz scheduled to fight?”

  “A gladiator called Zilos from the House of Tilo.”

  The House of Tilo. The mention of the name chilled Borchus. My old friends.

  “Anything wrong?” Naulis asked, sensing something amiss.

  “Nothing. Right, then. You’re on your way to the villa right now with that very information. Inform the house. Tell them I don’t have any information on Zilos, but I’ll attempt to find out who he is. Find out if they have any reports for me. Now hurry. I’ll meet you here tomorrow at noon. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Good man.” Borchus sent him on his way. He waited before venturing out into the streets, wondering about his next move. He hated to think what his choices might actually be. In the end, he decided that this day was the same as any other, except there was the very real possibility of men hunting him. And he’d be much more careful of alleys and side streets at night. A dull, painful throbbing reminded him of his near-fatal stabbing.

  Taking his time, Borchus did his best to blend into the crowds.

  16

  The flickering brazier hypnotized Arrus for long moments. He sat on his cot––the only other thing in the cage––with his back to the far wall, facing the line of light. A small wooden bucket of water lay inside the bars to the left of a slot just big enough to slide the container through. The cot possessed one blanket and nothing else, but compared to his previous accommodations, this was a vast improvement.

  Arrus scratched at his beard. Scratched at his crotch. He wished he could have left the gnats behind.

  Outside his cell, voices babbled in that unknown Sunjan tongue. Attempting to understand the language exhausted him. He quickly isolated and remembered the few words he heard most often but didn’t know what they meant. He’d try them sometime, perhaps on a jailor. Balazz had appeared earlier that morning, making his rounds with a few others Arrus didn’t recognize. He remembered the big jailor from the other dungeon. He might have been a man once, but Arrus didn’t like the gleam in Balazz’s eyes. The jailor looked upon his prisoners like pieces of meat in need of cutting. Runson prowled about as well. Balazz once stood next to Runson, discussing matters in that maddening language of theirs, dressed in the same garb all jailors seemed to wear. Runson was a big man, but Balazz towered over him almost a full head taller and just as powerful. The jailor had no definition in his musculature as a ruddy layer of fat covered it all, but anyone could tell Balazz was an intimidating ogre of a lad. He’d chosen his profession well.

  “Anyone there?” a voice yelled in Nordish.

  It took Arrus a moment to realize he’d understood the language. He bucked off the cot, springing for the cell door.

  “I’m here.” His eyes searched. A hairy face not two cells away turned and brightened.

  “Arrus, this where you landed?” the man called Heelslik asked, his shaggy head offering a rare smile.

  “It is. Good to see you.”

  “And you.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “I don’t know,” Heelslik admitted. “This place is big. Maybe another section or level. They only just moved me here.”

  Arrus nodded. The prisoner occupying that very cell had talked to Balazz last night. The message had been lost upon him, but the tone was one of madness. The fearsome jailor had stopped before the cell door and regarded the insane man like an annoying dog. Balazz had unlocked the cage and entered. Arrus remembered a short but violent scuffle before a squeal erupted—then nothing.

  Balazz eventually emerged and strolled away as if in a garden. The cell door had remained open in his wake. A short time later, a pair of underlings had dragged the dead man past Arrus’s cell, the head rattling upon the uneven floor. Arrus remembered the head twisted all the way around and how stone tiles peeled back lips.

  A burst of angry Sunjan echoed along the corridor, and the Nordish men paused.

  “That sounded important.” Heelslik winked.

  “Have you picked up any of the language yet?” Arrus asked.

  “Not really. A few words perhaps. Un-fit. Ah… piss-her?” Heelslik thought about it. “Dog blos-som.”

  “That last one seemed interesting.”

 
“I don’t think it is.”

  A Sunjan appeared behind the bars of the cell located just next to Heelslik’s. The prisoner shouted and offered a ruined smile. When the Nordish didn’t answer, the Sunjan’s tone changed, as did his temper. He ranted at the pair and ended with a stomach-turning gob of spit lobbed onto the floor.

  Heelslik chuckled at the outburst. “I have a friendly neighbor, it seems.”

  Arrus smiled, appreciating his countryman’s humor. “If we live long enough, perhaps we’ll learn a few Sunjan words to share with the man.”

  “With that miserable curnos?”

  Arrus chuckled. “It’s very good to see you, Heelslik.”

  “Hm, well, we’ll see how good it is after a week of my conversation. I bore myself very quickly.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You say that now. I’ll remind you in a week.”

  “Will we be alive then?”

  Heelslik quieted. “Good question. No idea. By the grace of Ivus, we might, if we fight and live. We’re in the Sunjans’ arena. We’re not here to visit.”

  “You think they’ll make us fight?”

  “Make?” Heelslik chuckled. “Not me. I’ll gladly limb these Sunjan bastards all day and every one after that. Whoever they put in front of me––as long as he’s not Nordish. I’m not particular. I hope they have a few Sujins waiting for us. At least that will be a challenge.”

  Arrus didn’t share the Jackal’s view.

  “Do you hear any hammering?” Heelslik asked.

  “No.”

  “Sometimes, I do. Hear a hammering. Metal being pounded upon. Fashioned. There might be a smithy nearby.”

  “Or a length of iron just being straightened,” Arrus offered.

  “Yes. That could be.”

  “I think you’re right,” Arrus said. “We’re here to either fight or be butchered. I’m sure this is the hole, however.”

  That quieted Heelslik. “The what?”

  “The hole. That’s what the Sunjans call this place.”

  “They call it a hole?”

  “I think.”

  “Strange name for an arena.”

  Laughter erupted across the way, harsh and evil.

  “Not very flattering,” Heelslik continued, ignoring the outburst, “but I suppose it fits. And they are Sunjans, which is reason enough.”

  Another babble of angry syllables issued from the cell next to Heelslik’s. The imprisoned Nord paused until the words stopped, but his once-friendly expression darkened into something unforgiving. Arrus didn’t really know the man beyond sharing a few words around a campfire, but Heelslik had survived the Sunjan wilds for a long time. Kra had spoken briefly about him, calling him a good warrior to have at one’s back.

  That look, however, suggested that Heelslik had two sides to him, the friendly one and the one that would lop a man’s face off his skull.

  “He doesn’t like our talking,” Heelslik commented, still making hateful eyes toward the cell door. “That’s unfortunate. For him.”

  “Unfortunate for many,” another voice said in roughly accented Nordish, from two cells farther down.

  The words caught both Arrus and Heelslik off-guard.

  “You speak Nordish?” Heelslik peered in that direction.

  “I speak Nordish.” A pale face appeared at the bars of his cage door. “It’s been a long time, however.”

  “You’re a Norseman.” Arrus recognized the accent as belonging to Norjos––the small but populous country situated on Nordun’s northeastern border, a semi-frozen timberland that barred the way to the fractured Ice Kingdoms. The two countries shared the same tongue, heritage, and interests, but the Norsemen possessed a rougher, thicker accent that some Nordish characterized as noble yet barbaric.

  “Aye that,” the man from Norjos said. “You’re Heelslik, and you’re Arrus. Well met. I’m called Rullik.”

  Greetings followed.

  “You were the one that laughed a time ago.” Arrus tried to separate shadows from Rullik’s heavily bearded face. The Norseman’s pale head was bald, marred only by a few scraggly wisps of hair.

  Rullik chuckled softly. “It was, Nordish. It was. You’re in the Pit—Sunja’s Pit—though I’ve often heard it called a hole. Not in the Nordish tongue, you understand, but that’s how it is with most languages. They have different-sounding words, but the meaning is the same as our own. And with the same… ah… power.”

  “You speak Sunjan?” Heelslik asked.

  At that point, the vocal Sunjan next to Heelslik’s cell rushed the bars and unleashed a hot stream of sounds.

  Rullik barked back in that foreign tongue, and the Sunjan quieted almost immediately, surprising Arrus and Heelslik.

  “What did you say to him?” Heelslik asked.

  “That he’d best quiet down, else they––meaning you––would paw their way into your cell and eat your tongue straight from your head.”

  “Blessed Curlord,” Arrus whispered while a huge smile split Heelslik’s face. “I like you already, Norseman.”

  “It shut his mouth,” Rullik observed. “But in truth, he’s not the smartest. He’ll start swearing again once he thinks things through. Sunjans. It’s a wonder they lasted this long in your war.”

  “How long have you been here?” Arrus asked.

  “Ah, long enough to learn the language.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Rullik looked at the ceiling and sighed, the sound mournful. “I’m a thief by trade. Not a soldier. And I robbed the wrong people.”

  “Sunjans?” Heelslik asked.

  “Merchants,” Rullik clarified. “Sunjan merchants. With exceptional Harudin mercenaries’ protection. It’s a long and terrible, terrible story. I’ll tell you sometime.”

  “We have plenty of time now.”

  “Suppose that’s true. And it might be the only time. You’re half-right, Heelslik. We’re in Sunja’s Pit to fight to the death as long as we draw breath. I’ve heard the jailors speak of it. The Sunjans are in the thick of the blood-sport season, and it seems their pig bastard of a king wishes to clean out his dungeons.”

  “So that’s it,” Arrus said.

  Rullik agreed with a barely audible grunt. Their conversation lagged, the silence filled with ghostly Sunjan voices, close and far, engaged in their own conversations.

  “That’s it,” Rullik repeated, resigned to his fate.

  “We suspected as much,” Heelslik said.

  Arrus felt his stomach drop, and his eyes studied the floor.

  “Don’t worry, Nordish,” Rullik said. “After all, you’ll die killing Sunjans, your sworn enemies of twenty years or more. You’ll get to face them upon the sands in single combat, one last chance––perhaps even several––to send as many of those ass lickers to their death as you can.” The Norseman’s face brightened. “Personally, I can’t think of a better ending to my life.”

  Rullik’s words brought a smile to Heelslik’s face.

  And Arrus had to admit, his blood quickened at the idea.

  17

  There was a time when, upon entering the city of Sunja, anxiety gripped Grisholt’s perfumed person, a dreadful, buckling pressure that tortured him ahead of the day’s competition, knowing that his gladiators had been prepared by his trainers to the best of their ability but that their stock still paled in comparison to their opponents. His own financial woes weighed heavily on his wagers, forcing him to lose fights to simply keep his father’s stable alive. Word had gotten out, as reported to him by his right hand and bodyguard, Brakuss. Even the other owners knew his real worth in the games and no doubt laughed at him.

  Now, however, times were changing. Grisholt sensed the momentum shifting, gathering behind his stable. His men, their egos and spirits usually inflated with good—but false—bravado, sensed it as well.

  The Stable of Grisholt had halted its losing ways. Their fortunes were turning for the better. No longer did unease plague Grisholt wh
ile passing through Sunja’s gates. Excitement replaced his doubts. With the aid of the Sons of Cholla and their heavenly potion, victory had returned to the stable like a sun finally beating its way through an overcast sky.

  Victory, the messenger from the Sons had called it—and rightly so.

  Grisholt had thought to use the potion sparingly, but his mind had changed since yesterday’s fight, especially after his agent Caro had requested Brakuss and a few more guards to help him transport the sizeable winnings from the Domis. The amount of coin won from Kossa’s match had astounded Grisholt. He’d barely contained his excitement in front of his men. The immense sum had set his skin and soul tingling, his mind racing. Never before had wagering returned such a bounty.

  And he realized the potential for so much more.

  At first, he’d decided that discretion with the potion’s use was best. It seemed the sensible path, the careful path. Stay low, secretive, and selective in choosing who swigged that foul concoction. After Kossa’s win, temptation got the better of him. Greed sank its claws into his mind.

  And, truth be known, with victories delivered to the stable by Kossa and Barros, just how secretive could he remain? He’d try. He told himself he’d try. But the urge to have his fighters wreak havoc remained. The yearning for more riches tested his willpower.

  On this day, two of his lads were slated to fight. Barros was one. The House of Razi had lost little time in calling for a blood match. Perhaps the sting of losing to Grisholt’s stable was too much to bear. Best to correct that loss before it drove old Razi mad. Unfortunately, fate would not be kind to the third-line house. Grisholt did not intend Barros to lose, not to Razi. The punce. The potential coin to be won guaranteed Barros would, once again, partake of the Sons’ potion.

  Grisholt stared out the koch’s window. Faces and figures blurred against a background of houses and taller buildings, but he didn’t take any further stock of Sunja’s sights. He held an old but still usable goblet from his mother’s collection and sipped Sunjan mead. Mead today, but firewater lingered at the back of his mind, as did perfumed water other than lavender. He suspected his lads didn’t approve of that particular kind. He wore the best clothing left to him, fully intending to add to his wardrobe. A rosy vest of satin covered a black shirt. Beige breeches hid his legs, complemented by high leather boots of worn but distinguished-looking leather. Grisholt paused with his drink and inspected his boots. Perhaps he’d flick a coin in Marrok’s direction and see if the cook could put a shine to the leather.