131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  The koch stopped just outside of the city’s bay, and Grisholt’s head rose. He glimpsed Caro moving around the corner of the lead wagon, toward the koch’s door. Grisholt pulled the shutters closed and waited for the knock.

  “Enter,” he said when Brakuss rapped on the wood.

  Caro climbed aboard with a huff. The agent seemed brighter in recent days, as did they all, but Grisholt still couldn’t gaze upon the once-gladiator’s hard features for too long—not with a belly full of mead.

  “Master Grisholt,” he greeted.

  “Caro. Thank you for not keeping me waiting.”

  “When have I ever kept you waiting?”

  “Never comes to mind at the moment, but I am halfway through a bottle of mead.”

  Caro glanced at the bottle. Grisholt could have offered his agent a drink, except he didn’t have a second goblet. A pity.

  “Well, then.” Grisholt drained his last mouthful and placed the cup in a nearby slot. He pawed at a red cushion until his fingers hooked an edge. He pulled the cushion away, revealing the wooden underside and uncovering the koch’s private latrine. Rolling back the sleeve of his shirt, he reached in and pulled forth a small cloth sack, much larger than the usual leather purse he kept there.

  “That’s quite the sight,” Caro exclaimed softly.

  Grisholt handed it over and replaced the cushioned lid.

  “And a weight. How much is there?”

  “Five hundred,” Grisholt stated with a poised smile and shifted his bottom.

  Caro paused in mid-heft and regarded the sack and his employer.

  “Two of the lads will accompany you to the Domis,” Grisholt informed the agent. “For added protection. Five hundred. A pleasantly rounded figure, wouldn’t you agree? When I considered the match today, I said to myself, I said…‘Borl, the odds are against us this time.’ That set my mind in motion. With Razi looking for blood, he’ll send his best after Barros. All the managers know this. The audience will know this. And even though the stable has been victorious recently, sentiment will attribute our good fortune to luck. Thus, what better opportunity to truly empty the pockets of whoever wagers against us, hm?”

  Caro had no reply, so Grisholt continued. “Don’t worry. When we win, I’ll have the lads accompany you. I daresay—no, I expect the coin to be considerable, enough to raise some interest.”

  “Perhaps too much interest.”

  “For the future, yes,” Grisholt admitted with a frown. “But not today. The arena still doesn’t respect the Stable of Grisholt. I believe they will, eventually, but not this day. As such, the time is ripe to win a fortune. A fortune, Caro. It’s been a very long time since I’ve held a fortune in my hands. And here.” He handed over a leather purse. “Take this. Pay yourself first and then whatever you usually give your spies. Place your own wagers, if you wish.”

  The hefty weight in this hand caused Caro to place the sack to one side. He glanced at the coin, and a rough smile split his face.

  Grisholt answered with a smirk, his fingers playing in the ashen wisps of his beard.

  “A fortune, good Caro. A fortune.” He looked at a shuttered window. “Many consider these games to be of spikes and edges, of blood and consequences. They’re only partially correct. Truth be known, these games are all about coin. Coin is the lifeblood, more so than bone and flesh, more so than skill and spirit. Coin—gold—draws us here, much more than the spectacle of butchery. There is nothing foul or distasteful about any of that… I just want my portion.”

  Grisholt flicked a finger across his nose and met his agent’s eyes. “Place the wagers upon our lads. Both of them. We’ll collect at the end of the day. Don’t worry about our… benefactors. Brakuss will alert them.”

  “Anything else?” Caro asked.

  “I was about to ask you the very same.”

  “I’ve nothing to report.”

  As Grisholt expected. Caro did his job quite well, and the lads slated to face Grisholt’s were known to them all. It would have been helpful if perhaps one of them had sustained an injury while training or even during a match. With the potion, however, Grisholt didn’t think any extra information would be needed.

  “Then I’ll see you after the day’s matches.”

  Taking his cue, Caro nodded and opened the koch door. Once it was closed behind him, the vehicle lurched into motion, and Grisholt cracked open a window, eying a few overhead lines of festive streamers. He shook the bottle at his side.

  Enough for one more drink.

  *

  His name was Jonca, and he waited at the base of stairs leading up to the closed portcullis. The gatekeeper stood by idly, an older man with a beard so unruly, it reminded the pit fighter of shredded washrags or sacks with the bottoms frayed away. The thin iron mask of Jonca’s helm hid his smile.

  The House of Razi had charged Jonca with avenging Shoor’s death. Jonca didn’t know what had gotten into the likes of Grisholt’s lads. Like any good pit fighter, he kept abreast of the history of all the houses in the blood sport. Despite collecting a deplorable record of wins and losses last year, Grisholt had still somehow managed to have his stable listed as a second-line house, a feat of magic many believed Grisholt had purchased with whatever gold he might have remaining in his coffers. The stable rarely killed anyone in the games, simply because they couldn’t afford the wrath of the opposing houses or schools. Even the Free Trained might cause the stable trouble if one actually managed to kill a pit fighter under Grisholt’s roof.

  Yet, here Jonca was, seeking to avenge a friend’s death, a friend slaughtered by a fighter from a stable of questionable history and reputation.

  Jonca listened to the Orator overhead, introducing him. He inspected his chainmail vest and the various slabs of metal protecting his limbs. Jonca heard the crowds cheer his name, but he knew their fickle nature all too well. Thus far, he’d managed to stay undefeated this season, with five victories credited to his name. Old Razi knew—Seddon bless his fat belly—that Jonca would want the blood match against Barros, a man whose life was about to be as fleeting as an unfit stream of dog piss.

  Old Razi knew.

  Jonca lowered his head. He held his long-shafted mace across his pelvis. The weapon bristled with spikes filed to lethal points. He flexed fingers encased in metal gauntlets, the knuckles rippling with shiny pyramids. Jonca had crushed bones and taken five lives over the course of his career. Old Razi didn’t have to tell him to take one more. He fully intended to rip it from Barros’s chest.

  At thirty-one, Jonca had stood against some of the best in the sport. He’d fought fellow Sunjans, Vathians, Pericians, and every other nation that had sent a son to the games. In the off-season, he felled trees until it was time to report for training. He had a pretty wife and two children. When he finally became too old to fight, he imagined he’d take to chopping down trees and selling them to mills. His wife, perhaps like all wives unfortunate enough to be married to pit fighters, pleaded with him at the beginning of each season not to fight, to find something else.

  The Pit called him back, however. It always called him back.

  This time, Sunja’s Pit wanted him to exact revenge for an old friend, and Jonca would not fail. So he shut away his wife’s cries. He didn’t think of his children’s worried faces.

  The Orator finished his introduction.

  Shrugging shoulders that topped the heads of most men, Jonca watched as the portcullis rattled open. Taking steps three at a time, he went forth to kill a man.

  The crowd oooooohed when he stepped into the glare of the sun, his towering size impressing all who laid eyes upon his bulk. He regarded them once, unmoved by their vocal enthusiasm, and settled against the portcullis.

  A roar blasted the air, making Jonca squint in grim amusement. They’d all seen and heard this before.

  A brief shower of sparks flickered as something struck the portcullis from the inside. A hand appeared underneath the lower timbers and heaved, actually lifting the h
eavy gate up a fraction. Such a feat of strength had amazed Razi the first time. Jonca had been beside the owner and witnessed it firsthand. Barros had displayed incredible power.

  But Jonca was strong too, and he meant to inflict that strength upon his opponent.

  Not waiting for the portcullis to fully rise, Barros ducked under the lower edge and straightened. A pot helm masked his features. A vest of studded leather stretched over his chest. He bellowed once again, stunning the audience with his ferocity. He brandished a long-shafted war hammer and not the sword-and-shield combination from before.

  It didn’t matter to Jonca. Unable to wait any longer, he hefted his mace and walked toward his opponent.

  Livid with frightening energy, Barros sighted him and charged. Great chuffs of sand flew with every step. Each expulsion of breath was an enraged squawk.

  Jonca angled his shoulders toward the attacker and cocked his heavy weapon to his shoulder, ready for that almighty first swing. He smiled at the inevitable contact. The pot helmet lifted with another beastman shriek, and for a heartbeat, Jonca thought he glimpsed madness filling a set of wide black eyes.

  He swung his mace. Barros swung his war hammer.

  The two heavy weapons crossed in a deafening clang, the impact causing both combatants to tremble. The jarring contact rushed up Jonca’s arms, and he experienced something he’d never felt before: a force greater than his own.

  Jonca staggered to the side, hooking Barros’s war hammer while he attempted to recover. Barros recovered faster, however, much faster than Jonca had anticipated.

  The Grisholt pit fighter yanked his weapon free with a grunt, almost ripping Jonca’s mace from his grip. Jonca fell back as Barros swung for his head. Jonca parried with his mace, but the war hammer’s momentum drove the spiked ball back into his mask. The visor crumpled, crushing his nose in a spurt of red.

  Jonca’s legs buckled, leaving time for Barros to smash his foe’s head to one side, the connection ringing over the hot sands. Jonca dropped to a knee.

  Barros’s war hammer swept over his shoulder and down like the arc of a wicked moon and squashed Jonca’s helmet. Blood gushed from underneath the metal. Jonca teetered long enough for Barros to reset his swing and, with a scream of unchecked insanity, attempt to take the dying man’s head clean off.

  *

  Grisholt cringed with evil delight as Barros’s war hammer crunched into Jonca’s face visor, backing the head up upon shoulders before slamming the entire torso to the ground. The impact didn’t decapitate the gladiator, but Grisholt was both horrified and astonished all the same.

  “He nearly took his head off,” Brakuss muttered nearby.

  “That man,” Grisholt said as he massaged his throat, “was dead from the first blow. Just didn’t realize it.”

  On the sands, Barros roared, demanding more—more opponents to kill. He stomped around the unmoving carcass filling the middle of the arena, waving his hammer as if fighting ghosts. He punctuated his rage by pounding the body even more, splaying the dead man across the arena floor like a bleeding warning to all. The audience drew back, fearful of attracting his attention.

  In time, however, Barros tired. His shouting lessened. His curses became gasps. His arms dropped, and he looked around as if awakening from a dream. He quieted and, with barely a word, walked unsteadily to the rising portcullis.

  “He’s spent.” Grisholt tugged on his beard. “Brakuss, send two lads to help him back.”

  Brakuss did as instructed.

  Voices cheered the victorious gladiator, a few at first, then more. The sound distracted Grisholt. He stood at the arched window, drinking down the people’s growing enthusiasm, an icy smile spreading across his face. The Pit damn near vibrated with applause, praising the brutal death. A warm tingle overcame Grisholt, and he knew his stable had just crossed a threshold. No longer would they be laughed at behind closed doors. In the stands and alehouses and taverns, his name would be spoken with a genuine awe. And perhaps even fear.

  Grisholt wanted that. More than anything.

  Then he remembered the five hundred gold pieces upon Barros’s head. Five hundred gold pieces. Sweet Seddon above, the potential winnings stunned him as effectively as a blow from Barros’s hammer. He was rich.

  Rich.

  The word crashed down upon his senses and lit up his brain. Better food, more servants, women, and drink. Firewater and perfumed water. Clothing. Everything and more. More! All the luxuries denied him because of dismal finances. No longer.

  His gaze came to rest upon the iron flask. His thoughts whirled with extravagant possibilities. When his men returned with the exhausted Barros, Grisholt smiled broadly.

  “Well done,” he said, hiding his excitement. “Well done, indeed. Brakuss. Get Olibo ready for his match.”

  “He gets a taste?” That was what the one-eyed gladiator had come to call the Sons’ potion.

  “He does indeed get a taste.” Grisholt turned to the waiting gladiator set to fight three matches later. “You’re willing to partake, of course?”

  Olibo nodded eagerly.

  “Excellent,” Grisholt said, nearly trembling. “You know the effects and the aftereffects?”

  “I do.” Olibo, a stout Sunjan, nodded as he spoke. He reminded Grisholt of an energetic hound anxious to please.

  “Excellent, excellent.” And with that, Grisholt turned his attention back to a wasted Barros. “Get him some water. Watch over him. He’s––”

  Three short, hard blows struck the door to the private viewing chamber, rattling the wood and startling everyone. Grisholt didn’t know what to make of the interruption, and he glanced from face to face. He eventually signaled the nearest gladiator to see who had come knocking.

  In strode a red-faced, bulbous Razi, of the House of Razi.

  Facing his unexpected visitor, Grisholt’s brow lifted in a question. “Razi, this is unexpected.”

  “Unexpected?” Razi spat. “You’ve killed two men of mine! Saimon’s dry crack, what are you trying to do? You know as well as I how expensive it is to train one of these louts! What are you doing?”

  Two of Razi’s men stood in the doorway, armed and with swords in scabbards. Brakuss and the five other pit fighters tensed, watching the armed visitors for any aggressive moves—not that Grisholt expected any. He studied Razi’s ruddy features, his loose white robes that draped him from shoulders to ankles. The red vest hung open, allowing his boulder-shaped belly unrestricted room to bounce.

  “I’m truly saddened by your––”

  “You don’t know what saddened means, you ass-packing topper,” Razi snarled, dispelling the words. “Don’t try to butter your words. I’ll not stand for it. Know this: if it’s a war you want, it’s a war you’ll have. A war, Grisholt. A right and proper war!”

  The raging fat man’s perfectly round eyes almost popped from their sockets. He jabbed a finger at Grisholt and his gladiators. “You think you can kill off my dogs without consequences? There are always consequences. Always. I’ll make it my personal hobby to ensure you suffer from here to the end of the season.”

  Grisholt smiled calmly in the face of Razi’s storm. “Come now, good Razi. It’s blood sport. You wouldn’t be here––”

  “If you were Dark Curge?” Razi stuck out a chin and took two steps toward Grisholt, violating the edge of his personal space. “Is that what you’re about to say? You’re right. I wouldn’t be here. If it had been one of Curge’s butchers, I would’ve stayed well and clear of the man. But it’s not Curge. It’s you. And you’re the most underhanded and shifty slip of gurry these games have ever known. You’re the foul crust on the lip of a pisspot, the piss stain upon the front of a drunk’s breeches. Just being in your presence turns my guts, but I wanted to see your face today. Next time, you’ll feel the pinch of losing one of your dogs. Not me! And I’ll not stop there. From here on, my fighters will look to decorate my mantle with the heads of yours—one by one—just so you feel the bleed.”
<
br />   Grisholt’s mood darkened. “Leave, Razi. You’ve had your say. When you send another of your bastards after one of mine, you’ll see what I think of today’s visit.”

  “I look forward to it! Oh, I intend to make my thoughts known to the Madea immediately.”

  That almost made Grisholt laugh, but he suppressed it and caught Brakuss’s eye. “See this unfit honeypot to the door.”

  Razi’s cheeks quivered at the jab, but he realized he stood within Grisholt’s quarters, where the man possessed greater numbers.

  “I’ll have my revenge. I’ll have my revenge!” the heavyset owner shouted. Brakuss herded him into the corridor.

  Grisholt inhaled and showed his back to the departing Razi. The open arch of the window framed the arena attendants dragging Jonca’s body out of sight. Heat shimmers warped the air, suggesting it was all a dream. Grisholt hoped not.

  “Another day, Grisholt!”

  The slamming door cut off the words.

  Grisholt lost himself in the delightful thoughts of what awaited at the Domis. Razi’s rant had failed to move him. He didn’t mind having an open enemy within the Pit, especially one of Razi’s quality. It might even draw more interest to the fights and make every loss sting all the more. Not that Grisholt intended to lose, not to that overflowing shite trough.

  He caressed the iron flask and tapped the stopper with a single finger. “Razi, Razi,” Grisholt muttered. “You’ll regret your visit.”