131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Imagine that,” Muluk said as Goll marched off the sands. “We have another hellion amongst us.”

  Clavellus liked that idea.

  The games needed more hellions.

  38

  Goll walked back to the Ten’s chambers, looking for the house’s familiar door. The victory had lifted his spirits immensely though he appeared calm, if not winded. He’d sustained a bruise or two, but nothing serious. Sweat saturated the cloth under his leather vest, and Goll cringed at being unable to bathe until he returned to the villa.

  His thoughts returned to the fight just won.

  Damnation, he thought. That was the start he should’ve had at the very beginning of the games.

  Just then, a shadow led a man along the torchlit tunnel. He slowed to a stop and regarded Goll. He wore armor––a leather vest––and a full scabbard hanging from his waist. The stranger had his hair pulled back into a war braid that hung over a shoulder, reminding Goll of the missing Pig Knot.

  “Goll of Kree,” the man called in a deep voice. “Weapon Master. House of Ten.”

  Goll stopped not twenty paces from the individual, with the Ten’s chamber door roughly at the midway mark. “Who are you?”

  “An impressive return,” the man said, ignoring the question. His eyes, extremely angry eyes, warned the Kree of some unknown danger. “But not so much when one realizes you killed a Free Trained. Of course, you know all about them, don’t you?”

  Goll placed him as a gladiator, older than most others within the games. “I don’t know you.”

  “You knew Baylus the Butcher.”

  A jagged spear of ice went through the Kree then, but he kept his expression blank. “What of him?”

  “He was Balgothan. As I am.”

  Goll gripped his blade’s pommel and kept his hand there.

  “And he was my friend,” the man finished.

  “So?”

  That brought a skull smile from the gladiator. “I expect nothing less from the likes of you.”

  “What’s this about?” Goll demanded.

  The Ten’s door opened, and Muluk eased into view. Koba and Junger followed, taking in the newcomer. The Balgothan gladiator ignored all three, keeping his eyes upon Goll as if the Kree might disappear.

  “Revenge, Goll,” the man announced. “In Balgotha, we take revenge very seriously. You killed my friend. I’ll kill you. In the arena. Before the whole world. I’ll cut your heart from your chest. If you’re fortunate, and I know you are as you bested Baylus, you’ll die quickly. Without much pain. Before you hear the snapping of your ribs.”

  The threat left Goll speechless, his mind clawing for traction. “I… didn’t mean to kill Baylus.”

  The Balgothan’s stony stare didn’t relent, as if he hadn’t heard, but then he glanced a warning at the men emerging from the Ten’s chamber. Goll became aware of footsteps approaching him from behind. A complement of Skarrs arrived to ensure peace was kept.

  “I’m called Sorban,” the man declared, his hand tightening on his sword’s hilt. “And I’m pleased this day. Because I’ve found my friend’s killer, and when I cut your heart out, I hope he’ll be there, to throw you into the dark.”

  More gladiators and armed men appeared behind Sorban.

  “Don’t disappear again,” the Balgothan warned, pointing a finger at Goll.

  His message delivered, Sorban turned away from the gathering crowd and parted the onlookers at his back. Some of the pit fighters followed while others stood their ground, quietly hostile toward the Ten.

  Muluk looked from Sorban’s departing person to Goll.

  Both Krees were at a loss.

  After the Skarrs and scowling gladiators dispersed without incident, the Ten regrouped behind a closed door.

  “His name’s Sorban,” Goll stoically informed his companions.

  “Sorban?” Clavellus repeated and scowled. “This is why we need Borchus.”

  “Doesn’t matter about Borchus,” Muluk said, standing nearby. “The man made his point. He’s Balgothan, and he wants Goll dead for killing Baylus.”

  Goll sighed. “Sorban has been waiting for me to appear. Now I’m here. I’ll fight him when he wants it.”

  A faint smiled flickered across Junger’s face.

  “What?” Goll asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh I saw that, so explain yourself.”

  “Just thinking that was very brave of you, Master Goll,” Junger quietly explained. “You put down a man friend’s at these games, and you’ll give him the chance to avenge that death. That’s admirable.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Well then,” Clavellus said and wrung his hands together. “I believe it’s time to leave this place.”

  “This man shouldn’t travel just yet,” Shan announced, gesturing to where Brozz sat upon a bench. “I’d suggest moving him to my house until the morning.”

  “Will your wife be angry at the short notice?”

  “Well, Master Clavellus,” the healer said, “perhaps when you have the time, I might ask you about building a small house upon your land. If I’m going to remain in your service, that is.”

  Clavellus looked at Goll.

  “Why not?” the old taskmaster said brightly, barely concealing his delight at having three more victories for the House of Ten, credited to himself and his trainers. “You’ve caught me in a good mood, good Shan. Now then, why don’t we wait here for a bit, just to allow the crows to scatter, and then we’ll go see the Domis. I think I made myself a little coin this afternoon.”

  39

  When the cheering died down and attendants arrived upon the sands to drag the Free Trained fighter away, Dark Curge slapped the arms of his chair. He rose with a bear’s growl.

  “Day’s done, you unpleasant toppers,” he announced with weary satisfaction. “Until tomorrow. Perhaps if I’m fortunate, it’ll rain. Save me the pleasure.”

  “I was thinking the same thing, you miserable pisser,” Nexus said with unconcealed dislike, but Curge was already halfway out the door. The wine merchant stood and turned to follow.

  “A moment of your time, good Nexus,” Gastillo said, the golden mask muffling his words.

  Nexus rolled his eyes. “I’ve nothing to say.”

  “I wish to discuss your latest offer.”

  “What latest offer?”

  “The last one… when we talked.”

  “I thought I made it clear there was no last offer the last time we talked.”

  That robbed Gastillo of all speech.

  The wine merchant waited, however, brow furrowed. He studied the shining mask for moments. With a sigh, he motioned for Gastillo to walk along with him.

  “Say nothing until we are aboard my koch,” Nexus warned. “Say nothing, and I’ll give you a moment. But just a moment.”

  “My thanks, good Nexus,”

  A short while later, they were aboard the merchant’s koch.

  “Well, speak your mind,” Nexus said with a cranky pout. “I’ve other matters to attend to this day.”

  Gastillo spread his hands. “I’ll be brief. I’ve thought about your offer and believe it’s more than a fair price. I’ll accept the twelve thousand gold pieces for my house and my fighters.”

  The wine merchant stared with grave offense, eyes slitted and cold, studying Gastillo for fault.

  “Twelve thousand?” Nexus seethed as if releasing a blast of foul, pent-up gas. “Are you unfit? That was two days ago. Do you think that shiny face you wear somehow impresses me? That moment has long since passed, and I’ve moved on to greater things, you understand. You’re no longer in my thoughts at all, Gastillo. Not in the least.”

  “I beg you to reconsider,” Gastillo interrupted, not bothering to check the desperation in his tone.

  “What’s to consider?”

  “Please, good Nexus.”

  That screwed up the wine merchant’s face. He glanced at a shuttered window as if hearing
the voices of Sunjans lingering just outside, beyond the ring of his personal guardsmen.

  “I’ve no interest in purchasing anything from you,” Nexus said.

  Gastillo felt his stomach drop.

  “For anything more than, say… nine thousand gold.”

  The number shocked Gastillo. “Nine––” His voice fluttered.

  Nexus locked gazes. “And not a piece more. You said it yourself. Twelve thousand is more than a fair price. Well, now you have the absolute final worth of your property, Gastillo. Nine thousand. See how you should’ve taken fifteen? Hm? When I so generously offered it to you? See what a flicker of greed will bring a man? Consider this your first lesson in trade, lad. Remember it.”

  Gastillo struggled to find his voice.

  “Nine,” Nexus repeated. “And not a single coin more. I’ll have the sum delivered to you by koch. In strongboxes. Twist and whine at this final offer, and there’ll be no more.”

  “I’ll approach the other houses.”

  Nexus rattled his head with disdain. “You think they can match my price? Or offer something better? And that you’ll actually have your coin in a day? A day? Go, then, Gastillo. That’ll be your second lesson. You’ll be back here within a week, and I’ll take that golden face of yours just to listen to you plead. And then I’ll offer you seven. Seven.” Nexus’s eyes widened with the threat. Then his expression calmed and returned to normal—or as normal as could be with his sallow features.

  “I can’t accept that,” Gastillo whispered. “My reputation alone––”

  “Is worth half that offer and no more. My spies have been asking about you. About your potential champion called Prajus. A regular hellion he is, isn’t he? Both in the arena and upon the training grounds? Even likes to piss in the odd alehouse? Eh? For amusement. Insolent one, isn’t he? Far beyond what you are willing to tolerate. That’s the main reason you want to sell, isn’t it? To be rid of that right and proper bastard. A rat-pig dollop of spit that hasn’t been scuffed under a boot like he should’ve been the very instant he discovered a backbone. He’s the reason, isn’t he? He’s poison to your ranks and your authority, but you can’t do anything with him since he’s the best you’ve got. And if I know about him, you can be certain the others know. Nine thousand gold, Gastillo. Now be off with you. Return to your house. Think on my offer. See if it fits you.”

  Nexus rapped on the koch’s door, and it came open. The wine merchant indicated with a look that the time to leave had come.

  Stunned, Gastillo stepped out, the koch trembling in his passage. When his feet touched the ground, he sought to get one last word with Nexus, but the satisfied smirk on the wine merchant’s face stopped him cold––glimpsed as the door slammed shut.

  Nexus’s manservant regarded Gastillo with a question, but the owner ignored it. That fleeting peek of Nexus’s smug smile blazed in his mind, enough to rot Gastillo’s guts to the coiled core.

  Nine thousand gold.

  It was an insult, a right and proper insult.

  Then it struck him.

  Nexus had been schooling him in the art of haggling from the very beginning, whittling him away to nothing. He was a wine merchant—a merchant straight to the core of his black, deceiving, putrid heart.

  Nine thousand gold.

  Reins snapped, and a voice hollered. The extravagant koch pulled away from the arena gate, the circle of guards moving with it at a brisk trot. Gastillo stood behind, watching the transport vanish upon making one turn down a street, leaving only people in its passing. His own guards, two men that usually watched his back, crept into the edges of his awareness.

  “Master Gastillo?” one of the men asked.

  The house owner didn’t respond.

  A part of his mind played over Nexus’s not-quite-final offer, and Gastillo hated himself for it. He’d been played, perhaps from the very beginning, by a master, and the trouble was everything Nexus had said was true. No one would take Prajus off his hands. The gladiator was poison—potentially the best of the games, but poison all the same. If Gastillo drove the man out, that would only significantly lessen the value of his property, but if he kept him, no one would bother purchasing the property anyway, not with Prajus attached to it.

  Gastillo realized he’d gone over those facts before with very little satisfaction.

  “Master Gastillo?” one of his guards asked.

  “Yes?”

  “Will we be heading home?”

  His face burning underneath the mask, Gastillo nodded.

  He intended to have a drink or two along the way.

  *

  The compound gates opened, and Gastillo huffed across the far-off walkway, head down, shoulders hunched, and making straight for his front door.

  Prajus watched the house master return home. He sat among a few of his companions––he didn’t think of them as friends, not during the games––and eyed the gold-faced topper march across the grounds as if in dire need of a lengthy squat. The gladiator didn’t like the way the man carried himself. Certainly didn’t like the air of entitlement that hung about the character. An aloofness there was only magnified by that golden faceplate. The more Prajus gazed upon that pretentious piece of jewelry, the more it bothered him. Dark Curge had had one hand chopped off and wore that battle wound like a crown—not Gastillo. His pretty face had been raked from his skull, and as a result, he replaced it with an even prettier one.

  A once champion didn’t sulk along darkened walkways with his head held low as if he’d just been kicked in the skull. Gastillo wasn’t a champion, wasn’t deserving of respect.

  Prajus sighed. There he was, still fighting for the golden punce.

  He should’ve left long before. He knew that now.

  As Prajus sat outside the bathhouse, the sight of the house owner scurrying along the training grounds turned his guts rancid. He wondered if Curge would run to his private house in such a way and decided the man would not. Weak. Their lord and master was weak.

  With a wink and a smile to his sword brothers, he gestured at the skulking Gastillo.

  “Just look at that,” Prajus remarked. “You’d think he was running for a shite trough. Or in need of a good scrubbing. You hear me, Master Gastillo? You look like a cat who’s just been pissed on by dogs.”

  Three of Prajus’s five followers chuckled. The newest pair smiled nervously.

  Halfway to his home’s front entrance, Gastillo stopped walking. He straightened his spine as if removing a crick, and looked to the purple-and-pink heavens.

  “He heard me that time, lads.” Prajus smiled. “Any of you who don’t want extra exercise tomorrow or his rations reduced best leave now. If you stay, I’d say it’s all that, plus a cursing. Maybe even a whipping, which wouldn’t surprise me, but I don’t think Master Gastillo would do such a thing.”

  Gastillo remained looking at the heavens. House guards walked toward the lounging gladiators, ready to apply force if necessary. For some odd reason, Prajus wasn’t impressed by them either.

  “Well?” the gladiator shouted and stood. “What is it? Master Gastillo? Pissed on by dogs or maybe mounted by one?”

  The smiles dimmed upon the newest faces of Prajus’s gang. The three regular members fidgeted with unease, their own leers fading.

  Prajus had clearly crossed a line with that last jab.

  Even more unsettling, something was different about Gastillo that night.

  Before, it had been strictly a jab and jab until Jaco and the other house guards stepped in or the house master summoned them. That evening, however, Gastillo was taking far too long in responding to Prajus’s insults. No haughty jab came in return, or a promise of taskmaster Sowin drilling them into the sands the following day. There was a deepening silence, a reckoning, with all eyes centered on the poised house master in dreadful anticipation. Some of the lads had wondered about such a time, when the house master would decide he’d had enough of Prajus’s mouth. They’d wondered what the punishment might
be that fateful day, only to have Prajus himself dismiss such talk, explaining at length how Gastillo was too old, too fearful, and too smart to risk injury or release such a prize from his roster.

  But now, at that last lightning strike of words, the very air hummed as if gathering power. All life beyond the property’s walls seemed distant. A child squealed in the distance. The guards slowed to a stop and waited for a command.

  Gastillo, however, made not a sound.

  With a saucy question upon his face, Prajus glanced at his gang.

  After the passing of several long moments, Gastillo faced the speaker. Three cups of firewater lit up his person, adding even more fuel to his growing anger. The golden mask hid that rage, but Gastillo knew—as he’d always known and perhaps even feared—that he’d been vastly too kind in punishing Prajus, that he’d exerted nowhere near the level of discipline needed to straighten out the mouthy warrior. Gastillo had worked and trained and bled on his own journey to become a champion of the games, and no champion would tolerate disrespect from unproven hellpups. Prized fighter or not, a gladiator held a line of decorum, of respect, for his house master and peers.

  Prajus had failed to show that respect, perhaps even refused to, and despite all the discipline forced upon the man, he’d only become worse, to the point where Prajus had actually possessed the swollen balls to mock Gastillo as if the owner were one of his little band of ankle nippers.

  That realization embarrassed Gastillo—enraged him.

  He studied the four faces still smiling at him, knowing he wasn’t about to let that last jab pass.

  No more.

  Perhaps it was the knowledge of Nexus having played Gastillo in their negotiations. Maybe it was because Gastillo knew deep down the wine merchant truly wanted the gladiator after all, at any price, but it amused him to torment Gastillo with ruthless bargaining. Or it might be Gastillo simply didn’t have the patience or the mind to endure any more gurry from anyone, especially one wet curl of shite called Prajus.

  “What did you say to me?” Gastillo asked quietly, his golden mask bright in the fading evening light.