131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  There he stayed, weapons splayed out on either side of him. One hand flopped to his chest while a pitiful hur… hur… hur replaced the nerve-splitting howl he’d loosed only moments earlier. His mouth bit weakly at the air, attempting to pull it down into desperate lungs.

  His posture relaxing, Junger approached the gasping man and hovered just out of reach. Bubruk’s eyes fluttered in pain, but he hadn’t officially yielded. Junger studied the wrecked form. He focused on one clutching right hand. This he stomped on, breaking the last two fingers.

  The jolt of agony revived Bubruk, and he rolled onto his side, cradling his hand.

  Junger stepped away and looked to the Orator, who struggled to find his voice.

  “Your victor!” the old man finally bellowed.

  The arena erupted with approval.

  Junger basked in the unexpected adoration for a short time, feeling the sun’s attention on his face. He backed away from the prone Bubruk, who struggled to sit. The stricken pit fighter finally got to his elbows and knees and stayed that way, his forehead kissing the sand.

  Junger let him be. Tumber had been avenged.

  At his end of the arena, the portcullis rose. Junger marched toward it while the crowds continued their applause.

  The cool air inside the portcullis refreshed the victorious Perician, and he took his time descending the steps.

  At the bottom, the heavily bearded gatekeeper regarded him with beady eyes and a ready smirk. “What are you about, anyway?”

  Junger shrugged. “Didn’t feel like coming in after the first one, good gatekeeper. Hope I didn’t offend.”

  Pleased at the genuine show of respect, the gatekeeper blinked before chuckling. “No offence taken. Just unexpected, is all. I don’t remember a gladiator ever fighting twice in a day.”

  “Doubt it’ll happen again,” Junger said as he reached the bottom. Just ahead, a handful of Skarrs surrounded a pit fighter sitting with his back to a white wall. The helmet-covered head drooped to the man’s chest. One of the Skarrs slapped him.

  A pang of concern took Junger, and he halted, causing the gatekeeper with that great length of bear fur hanging off his chin to take notice.

  “Just pickled, is all,” the gatekeeper explained. “Not the first time one’s tried to calm his nerves with drink—or strengthen them.”

  The Skarr handling the drunken pit fighter’s chin hauled the helmet off. The soldier slapped him again and got a slurred string of syllables for a response.

  “He can’t fight,” Junger said.

  The gatekeeper shrugged in sad agreement. “Some get like that. Not all can handle being in front of thousands. Then there’s the ones who realize who they’re fighting––usually a house gladiator––and they go off and drink whatever they can before the fight. As I said, it calms them. Sometimes.”

  “What’ll happen to him?” Junger asked.

  “Skarrs will punish him, make it so he won’t ever fight in the games again.”

  “Kill him?”

  The gatekeeper frowned. “Well, perhaps, if the mood takes them. But… they will paddle him. Right and proper. Maybe even close to death. Can’t let the Free Trained think they can decide not to fight at the last moment.”

  An uneasy Junger watched the Skarrs haul the near-senseless pit fighter to his feet, revealing a puddle of soupy filth. The drunk man groaned in protest, his lower chin covered in drool and blood. The lead Skarr pushed the warrior’s head against the wall and ordered him to focus. The pit fighter’s face was miserable, pleading. His eyes flickered in Junger’s direction.

  Show them something to remember.

  The Perician approached the Skarrs.

  *

  A short time later, an out-of-breath attendant stopped at the length of another white tunnel, where a house gladiator waited for his introduction. The fighter, called Curn of the House of Vandu, turned his armored bulk toward the panting messenger and listened to what he had to say.

  The pit fighter’s eyes narrowed.

  “Aye that,” Curn said and sent the attendant running once again. Curn watched him scurry off, a steely leer growing behind his face cage. Day or night, in the Pit or outside of it, the gladiator didn’t care who he fought, as long as he was paid for his efforts. He’d already killed one of those unfit Free Trained punces calling themselves warriors. He hated them, hated the Gladiatorial Chamber for ever allowing such gurry to poison the games. He hated the Chamber even more for allowing a pack of the walking maggots to form a house and formally enter the games. Curn didn’t know what the exact process was for establishing a house, but the sudden formation of the Ten’s house seemed as off as rancid meat.

  News of the Ten had traveled quickly throughout the older houses and schools. There wasn’t a soul in Sunja who didn’t know about the house of Free Trained.

  As well as Curge’s bounty.

  27

  “Men and women of the Pit, I hope you’re enjoying the day’s entertainment?”

  The raucous answer made Qualtus the Orator smile with predatory delight as his fists clenched and unclenched in the air, calling for quiet. When the arena settled down, he started again.

  “This, the eighth fight of the day, has a killer from the House of Vandu making his fifth appearance of the games. This man doesn’t fear. He doesn’t panic or hear the wounded pleading for mercy. The House of Vandu found him savaging a pack of Nordish Grinders one day, managed to put a chain on him, and led him back to our fair city with the intent of unleashing him upon the games! He’s already killed two men this season, and he’s looking for more heads to split! Undefeated and unrelenting, he is a troll capable of ripping out limbs and throats alike! I give you Curn! Of the House of Vandu!”

  From the shadows of the raised portcullis, Curn stepped through and rolled his head left and right. Large and fearsome looking, the gladiator wore only spiked leather pads on his shoulders and his shins. A black band of toughened hide had been draped and tightened around his mid-section, leaving his thick chest bare. From his right hand swung a heavy broadsword. From his left dangled a war flail with a horsetail of chains that ended in chunks of jagged iron and spikes. Muscles bulged and flexed under a thin sheen of fat. A helmet fashioned in the guise of a grinning skull protected his head, the eyes dark and sinister.

  That skull plate gazed expectantly across the arena sands at the other, still-closed portcullis.

  “To meet this hellion upon the sands is a brave soul indeed, a Free Trained warrior who has battled to this point, defeating four of his own ilk to arrive at this juncture. He has proven himself to be made of ice with no fear of death and certainly no fear of Curn. He has clawed his way through a pack of dogs and emerged victorious, ready to lay waste to the gladiators willing to face him. He is… Worlo of Vathia!”

  The gate of crossed iron bands cranked open as the crowds wailed their greetings. They made it known what they thought of Worlo’s chances against the likes of Curn.

  As quickly as the disrespectful sound grew, it abruptly died… then rose again, twice as strong as before, and with significant cheer.

  The Orator peered into the Pit. His eyes near popped from their sockets at the half-naked bastard strolling back into the light.

  *

  “Well,” Clavellus stated as Junger emerged from the brick mouth. “There’s our missing lad. Returned to the sands and not quite done yet.”

  Machlann blinked. The unconcerned pit fighter was about to fight an unheard-of third match in one day and against a house gladiator.

  Muluk simply stared over the trainer’s shoulder, eyes wide, mouth slack.

  Goll, however, could only gawk at the Perician gladiator. “What… is he doing?”

  Clavellus didn’t bother replying.

  He didn’t think the Kree would care for the answer.

  *

  Gastillo leaned ahead while Nexus spoke for them all. “What’s he doing? What’s that bloody bastard doing?”

  Curge leaned on his le
ft arm as he came to attention in his seat. “Seddon above, he’s fighting again.”

  “Fighting again?” Nexus blurted and stared in horror at the owner. “How can he fight again? Is this even allowed?”

  “If one fighter cannot fight for whatever reason and backs out with little notice,” Gastillo said, “and the Madea is pressed for a replacement, it could happen. If the opponent allows it.”

  “That’s what happened,” Curge rumbled and scratched at his chin. “The Free Trained scheduled to fight could not. Surprising since they have the Skarrs nearby to discourage any change of heart. Something happened, and Junger was the closest to consider for a replacement. Or he volunteered.”

  “Three fights in one day?” Nexus marvelled in unchecked dread. “Has that ever happened before?”

  Curge locked gazes with Gastillo. The gold-faced owner shook his head.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Curge admitted, the knot in his guts tightening with every beat of his heart.

  *

  The Orator called for the fight to begin.

  The banners hanging from the arena heights stirred in the barest of afternoon breezes. The wind teased the sweaty masses, leaving them wishing for more. Amid the drone of anxious chatter, the skull-faced gladiator walked toward Junger. Cavernous eye sockets studied the Perician with cadaverous mirth.

  “Free Trained,” the skull said, its smile tainting the greeting.

  “Curn,” Junger returned, not bothering with anything else. Sour sweat wafted from the House of Vandu man.

  “I’ve heard you’ve done well this day.”

  Junger nodded. He supposed he had.

  “You enjoy punishing your own kind?”

  “They weren’t my own kind.”

  “I thought you Free Trained were all cut from the same hide.”

  “Not I.” Junger’s fingers tightened around his sheathed sword. “And not the House of Ten.”

  “House of Ten,” the skull scoffed darkly. “House of shite.”

  Junger’s eyes narrowed. “I see you’re the disrespectful kind.”

  “I’m the killing kind,” the skull declared, those chilling twin wells of pitch still studying the Perician.

  Junger didn’t comment.

  “Your run of good fortune ends here,” Curn announced and cracked his flail of chains for punctuation.

  Smiling thinly, Junger believed the conversation was indeed finished.

  Curn charged without warning, chopping with his broadsword while winding up with the flail.

  The broadsword missed. The flail missed.

  Junger did not.

  Stepping back to avoid the killer sweeps of Curn’s weapons, the Junger darted forward and cracked his sheathed blade soundly across Curn’s left elbow.

  The flail flew from nerveless fingers.

  Junger didn’t stop there, and the House of Vandu gladiator discovered firsthand just how fast his opponent could be.

  The Perician smashed Curn’s head left and right. He slammed his sword into a spiked shoulder pad before thrusting the tip to the man’s chest. He hit the left arm, the right, then speared the armored gut, buckling the man before uppercutting and nearly ripping Curn’s skull helmet from his head.

  Curn collapsed onto his back in an explosion of dust. There he stayed.

  His skull faceplate lay skewed after the onslaught, uncovering part of a jaw. Curn’s hands pawed weakly at the air, senseless as to what had just happened.

  Junger knelt on the gladiator’s chest and unsheathed a hand’s worth of steel. He placed the edge to Curn’s throat, scraping stubble.

  The fallen gladiator had presence of mind to realize his predicament. Somewhat.

  “Yuh,” he croaked, wholly blinded by the shifted faceplate. “Yuh.”

  Yield.

  The one word that granted life in the Pit.

  Satisfied, Junger rose and backed away from the defeated man.

  The audience exploded with approval.

  *

  From their private perch, not one of the three owners commented on Junger’s speedy victory over the gladiator belonging to the House of Vandu. The boisterous cheering of the crowds soaked their skulls, as shocking and thought-clearing as ice water. Though Curn and his bloody reputation were known to a lesser degree to Curge and Gastillo, perhaps even Nexus, they did not consider Vandu’s house to be a threat to their plans.

  The hellion named Junger, however, was a genuinely glaring concern.

  As soon as the day’s games concluded, Curge would have his agent Bezange double his efforts and uncover any information on this gemstone of a swordsman under the House of Ten’s roof.

  “Master Curge?”

  He turned at the sound of his name, as did Nexus and Gastillo. An arena attendant dressed in white-and-black robes held out a scroll.

  “This is for you,” the man said and handed him the document. The robed fellow moved to the other owners.

  “What’s this, then?” Nexus demanded, snatching his scroll from the messenger’s hand.

  Curge quickly opened his scroll and scanned its contents. His leathery brow furrowed with dangerous curiosity.

  “Seddon above,” he rumbled and stared into space. “Is this some kind of amusement by the Chamber?”

  The attendant stood back after delivering Gastillo his copy. “I’m only the messenger, Master Curge.”

  But Curge had already dismissed the man. Never in his life had he ever read such news. Never. Yet there it was.

  “The season’s to be lengthened?” Nexus piped, attempting to fathom what that might mean for his school. “And what this other item? About forcing criminals to fight in the games? And… what’s this?”

  Nexus brought the scroll in closer to his face, not believing what he saw.

  Curge said it for them all.

  “Jackals,” Curge cut him off, the cogs of his mind also moving, wondering what it all meant for the future. “They’re going to unleash a handful of Jackals.”

  *

  In another part of the city, down a long alleyway where the applause for Junger did not reach, stood a pair of hard-looking men. They wore light clothing that hid ink picked and etched into the flesh, ink depicting serpents and chains and blades. A third man stood at the junction to the street, warding off any potential intrusions with hateful looks.

  The other two gang members lingered around the sewer grate, taking great interest in the maroon stains splashed across the iron bars and surrounding stone. One fellow crouched and fanned away a few flies. The gang man froze, catching sight of something gleaming in the shadows. He went to the base of a wall and cleared away a few fragments of broken wood. In a short time, he finished and picked up the object that had caught his attention.

  The second man watched, eyes narrowed with all the interest of a rat smelling fresh meat.

  Without a word, the first gang man stood held out his open palm. Half a gold tooth lay upon it.

  28

  The afternoon sun cooked the ragged line of people and livestock waiting to enter Sunja’s gates. A spicy blend of animal sweat, offal, and unwashed bodies clung to that long procession. Those travelers in need of relieving themselves did so along the sides of the winding road. Some individuals held up blankets for the privacy of children and womenfolk, while the men simply stood without embarrassment and let drift. A child sobbing sounded from farther back, awakening Pig Knot. He glanced up and took a moment to realize where he was, pushing away the blanket he’d bundled up beneath his head. Despite the blistering heat of the day, he’d still managed to fall asleep in the wagon’s bed. He straightened and glanced over his shoulder, meeting the driver’s eyes. Neither man said a word. Pig Knot twisted himself around to see how much closer the gates had become. Not far, he saw, and pulled at his sweat-sticky shirt, the only clothing he wore other than the loincloth. Having no legs freed him of breeches, which suited him fine.

  A short time later, the driver stopped the wagon. Skarrs asked him questions and c
hecked the wagon. The city guards took a quick inspection of Pig Knot, discovered him legless, and left him alone. That bothered Pig Knot. He knew the soldiers didn’t consider him a threat. He was a threat. In his mind, he was probably the biggest threat entering the city this day.

  After a brief inspection, the wagon rattled into the city. A fuming Pig Knot sat with his back against the driver’s perch and glared at the passing Skarrs. Returning to the city, however, brightened Pig Knot’s spirits… for a short time. The wagon rolled past houses and tall inns, storehouses and merchant stalls, tall wooden buildings of immaculate craftsmanship decorated with colorful streamers. A deluge of people crowded the wagon at times, some noticing the man with the missing legs. Pig Knot stared back. Sometimes, they met his eye and quickly looked elsewhere. Sometimes they just looked elsewhere.

  “Here,” Pig Knot said to the driver.

  “Here?”

  “Aye that. Here.”

  The driver halted the team of horses in the crowded street and half-turned in his seat. “You want to get off in the middle––”

  Pig Knot pushed himself toward the rear, startling the man. The driver tied off the reins and hopped down to the street. He rushed to the back and lowered the rear gate.

  “No need to be like that,” the driver said.

  “Help me down,” Pig Knot commanded.

  The man hesitated. He didn’t have the same muscle mass as the scarred trainer back at Clavellus’s villa. Pig Knot didn’t seem to care. He looped his arms around the smaller man and used him as a fleshy rope to lower himself to the ground. Once off the wagon, Pig Knot scooted along, his face contorted with an odd mix of freedom and pain. He wobbled over the road, through the masses, to an alley situated between a tall house and a three-story alehouse.

  The driver watched him cut through the people, stopping some flat in their tracks. Shrugging, the driver returned to his perch and got his wagon moving again.

  Pig Knot reached the alley mouth and shuffled inside. The short exertion left his heart and blood racing. Already, the grit bit into his palms, and he slap-wiped them clean. He had narrowly avoided a cow kiss on his left, and that was all he needed that day: for Sunja to welcome him with a handful of shite. Chuckling, Pig Knot leaned against the alehouse wall. He gazed out at the passersby. Some spared him a glance. Most did not.