131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Halm turned a corner and stopped at a set of steps. Sunlight streamed in from above. He had been there two days ago, and yet it seemed much more recent.

  The aged gatekeeper, the same one as before, gazed upon the fat belly of the Zhiberian and shook his head. He smiled, revealing bare pink gums. “You’re a fat punce, that’s plain to see.”

  “I’m surprised you see anything, you ancient punce.”

  The gatekeeper straightened, recognizing the fighter.

  Halm indicated the lever in the wall. “Are you going to wait until I’m your age before you pull that thing?”

  “Brazen bastard,” the old man muttered, yanking down on the device.

  Ignoring him, Halm went to his fate, sword and shield swinging as he chugged up the stairs and entered the light. The Zhiberian stepped onto the sand just as the Orator finished introducing him. The crowd heaped both praise and curses on his name. The Zhiberian smiled at the curses. Some toppers had obviously lost coin on him recently.

  Served them right, he thought. They should have a better eye for talent.

  With a raucous roar, the one called Samarhead stepped into the light.

  He was dark, tall, and protected by plate armor the likes Halm had never seen before. In one hand, Samarhead held a gruesome double-bladed battleaxe that any other man would have held with two. His helm sported two great horns, his face completely hidden by a red iron visor.

  Halm took a steadying breath. He’d heard stories of the warriors from the Lands of Great Ice, and none of them were good. Even as he recalled those tales, the Orator introduced Samarhead, lavishing title upon bloody title on his name.

  Halm sighed.

  The Orator obviously enjoyed his own words.

  “A thing of hell. An abomination forged of flesh, bone, blood, and steel. A child of war and a destructor of man.”

  A destructor of man? Halm grimaced. His mother was a destructor of man. The Orator had a way with––what was the word?––theatrics. He had a way with theatrics.

  “He is a monster of a pit fighter!” The old man continued. “A brute amongst brutes, if you dare call him that. He. Is. Samarhead!”

  The arena erupted with cheers, letting Halm know who the favourite was.

  Unfit, the Zhiberian thought and brought up his sword and shield. He intended to make more than a few of them regret placing wagers this day.

  Encased in a tower of armor and taking his time, Samarhead turned and bowed to the king’s platform, then to the boxes of the schools and houses. Finally, he turned back to his opponent.

  “Begin!” The Orator shouted.

  The crowd blared excitement, forcing Halm to concentrate on what Goll had told him.

  He just waited for the bastard to get closer, the crippled Kree had said.

  Halm glanced at the clear skies and the early afternoon sun high overhead. The temperature was fearsome without wearing armor. He suspected the destructor of man cooked in that pot of his.

  A plan took form in the Zhiberian’s head.

  With theatrics of his own, Halm marched out a few steps and threw his arms wide, turning to the right and soaking up the sudden deluge of curses. He thought of asking Samarhead if their fight would be to the death or not, but he guessed what the reply would be… if the imposing brute bothered to answer at all.

  Halm completed his turn, faced his opponent, and lowered his weapon and shield.

  And there he stayed.

  Expecting more action, the crowd grew restless within a few heartbeats, realizing the Zhiberian wasn’t going to willingly move. They screamed displeasure.

  Halm cocked an eyebrow at the angry voices, refusing to budge. Already the sun warmed his armor and drew sweat from his skin. His leather-draped arm felt slick, as did his head. Moments passed, and the jeering became vicious, matching and even surpassing the heat. Sweat beaded upon Halm’s back and slicked earthwards, but he did not move any farther.

  The Zhiberian exhaled and sighed at the rising temperatures. The games just had to be in the summertime. Lords above, he would need a bath after this day. Halm didn’t move his helm, peering ahead, studying the warrior from the Lands of Great Ice, far from his native clime.

  More curses cut the air, the people even more incensed with the lack of action, aiming venomous insults in Halm’s direction. They ranted and roared, gesticulated wildly, and even called for the Skarrs to intervene.

  That wouldn’t do.

  Not for Halm.

  So he cast an eye in Samarhead’s direction, rolled his shoulders, and took another step, followed by another, which evolved into a walk. He trod warily to the center of the Pit.

  The people shouted and grinned, applauding themselves for taking the initiative.

  Then Zhiberian stopped.

  Just shy of the midway point, Halm stopped with fingers flexing on his sword, not taking his attention off the house gladiator.

  There, with theatrics, he drew a long purposeful line in the sand. Halm dragged his sword across the arena’s face and he took his time doing so, making sure that the onlookers saw what he was doing.

  Once finished, Halm hefted his weapon and stepped back a pace.

  Groans flew from the audience.

  Then he gently gestured with his sword, inviting the brute from the Lands of Great Ice to cross it.

  The groans became cries of excitement.

  But that terrible heat was slowly cooking the Zhiberian.

  It was time to get dirty.

  “This a fight to the death?” Halm shouted, spreading his arms in a question. “Why don’t you meet me halfway, you stupid topper? Haven’t the bells? Come on, then, you unfit kog. Cross the line, and I’ll ring those bells. Even make it quick. Come on, you shiny pisser. I’ll send you back to your snowy mother.”

  The silent gladiator did not move.

  “Dogballs, man,” Halm yelled and half-turned as if ready to leave. “You’re a stubborn one. Or are you purposely being as thick as that pissy ice you think of as home? Come on, you great steel-plated asslicker! I’ve come halfway. I’ll not come any farther.”

  Hateful sunlight beamed down on the house warrior, transforming that tower of meat and metal into a dusty ogre. No reaction from the man.

  The spectators, however, agreed with the Zhiberian.

  They directed their displeasure at the heavily armored gladiator, urging Samarhead to close the distance and use that terrible axe of his. They shouted at him to move, to even say a word or two—something to show he was still alive.

  An impassive Samarhead showed no indication of hearing any of it.

  Halm wondered if his foe was deaf.

  “Get on with you!” shouted someone in the stands.

  “You came all the way from the north, what’s a few more steps?” came another.

  “Move you kogless bull, move!”

  From where he stood, with the sun’s rays pressing down upon him, Halm couldn’t help but smile behind his visor. The spectators grew increasingly scathing of Samarhead’s lack of interest. More insults scorched the air. Standing as he was in the light of the day, the house gladiator’s dark demeanor began to thaw.

  Samarhead shifted, from one foot to the other.

  Delighted with the weakening of will, Halm bent at the waist and encouraged his adversary with sword and shield. He didn’t bother shouting anymore as the crowds drowned him out. He rapped his blade against his shield, thought of something better, then turned and showed the reluctant fighter his ass, giving it a saucy shake.

  Laughter amongst the onlookers, the exact effect Halm desired.

  “He’s offering it to you, lad!” a voice shouted. “Go get it!”

  “Ah, these men of the north prefer sheep!”

  “Any livestock is fine in that frozen hell!”

  “Mount him, lad, mount him, just like your father did that he-bitch of a mother!”

  Halm winced at that insult, thinking it particularly poisonous.

  That rancid barb struck, h
owever. Samarhead’s bull-horned helm turned in the direction of his school’s box. The jeering was reaching the brute amongst men.

  Halm sensed it wouldn’t be much longer.

  Then, for whatever the reason—the sun’s heat, the growing insults of the crowd, the unseen prompting of his manager, or his own chagrin at Halm not playing the way he wanted—Samarhead stepped forward.

  A single step, then another, and he stopped.

  “The bastard moves like an old woman!” someone sang out.

  “Perhaps that armor is too heavy for him!” added another.

  Samarhead resumed walking, swinging both his massive shield and battle axe, and the crowd’s taunts changed to approving roars.

  Halm swallowed nervously.

  The lad got bigger the closer he got.

  “Unfit,” Halm muttered to himself, taking a better grip on his own tools. An idea lurked in his head, one he possessed ever since he’d talked to Goll about the grim north man.

  Halm had to be wary of the battleaxe. The weapon resembled a ceremonial killing tool purely for the show, but that Samarhead wielded it with one arm was almost bewildering. Frightening, even.

  True to their treacherous core, the crowd resumed flinging insults at the Zhiberian. Halm ignored them and adjusted his sword’s grip for a backhand thrust.

  In just a few heartbeats, he intended on shutting up the works of them.

  Samarhead shambled forward, a charging mountain picking up speed. The north man raised his axe until sunlight rippled along its edge. His shield seemed an iron wall, his red visor, inhuman. An immense shadow fell over the Halm and he realized just how damn big his opponent truly was.

  The spectators’ roar reached a peak.

  Halm turned slightly and narrowed his stance. Here it comes…

  Samarhead’s mighty axe came crashing down and the Zhiberian lunged underneath the cut. The ogre from the Lands of Great Ice slammed the edge of his shield down into the sand, barring any frontal attack on his legs. But Halm, surprisingly quick for his size, rolled under the axe and past the giant’s barrier. He turned and stabbed backward, thrusting his blade’s tip deep into the thin armor about the man’s ankle.

  Steel punched through metal and meat.

  Samarhead roared. His foot jerked away, wrenching Halm’s sword from his grasp. Blood spurted, a black ribbon that lashed clouds of dust. The armored giant fell, unable to keep his own body weight and that of his heavy armor upright. He crashed to his hands and knees and looked up in time for Halm’s greave-covered shin to smash into the side of his helm, jarring the gladiator’s remaining senses.

  The blow stunned the crowd to silence.

  Grunting loud enough to be heard and shattering the illusion of a murderous thing from Saimon’s hell, Samarhead recovered enough to swing his axe.

  Halm stopped the swipe on his lower greave and chopped his shield’s edge into his foe’s shoulder. Samarhead dropped his axe and fell flat onto his face. He tried to rise almost immediately, but Halm kicked him square in that iron visor, flipping the gladiator onto his back. The resulting clang of metal on metal briefly echoed.

  Grimacing, Halm glanced down. The last kick had dented his greave.

  It was time to end it.

  The Zhiberian threw away his sword and shield and picked up Samarhead’s axe. He held it across his pelvis as he gazed down at the dazed beast at his feet. The axe was heavy, and Halm wondered how in Saimon’s hell the big man had managed to swing it with a single arm.

  That was a question for another day.

  With a groan of effort, Halm brought the axe up over his head and decided to send a message. For an instant, he saw the dark, understanding eyes of Samarhead before the descending axe chopped the bull-horned head off at the shoulders. The axe blade went deep into the arena sand.

  Halm left it there. He noticed the spasmodic shiver that coursed through the headless torso. He also didn’t miss the little jump of Samarhead’s head as it came free of his body. Blood gushed to a steady ooze.

  The Zhiberian grimaced, straightened, and adjusted his conical helm. He considered the quiet audience, just for a moment, before he slapped the fat rolls of his belly.

  The masses recoiled as if stung by burning pitch.

  Feeling good, Halm turned in the direction of the Orator. The old man appeared just as shocked as everyone else.

  The Zhiberian raised his fist.

  “Your victor!” declared the Orator, finding his voice. “The Free Trained Halm of Zhiberia.”

  Aye that, a defiant Halm projected and flung his arms wide as cheering mixed dangerously with threats and angry howls.

  Not that it bothered Halm. Not in the least.

  Arms flung wide, Halm strutted toward the rising portcullis, taking his time, soaking in the moment.

  And in short time, the growing cheers drowned out even the most murderous of voices.

  *

  The sudden stiffness in Dark Curge’s posture didn’t go unnoticed.

  And when the Free Trained fighter raised the axe over his conical helmet, poised to end Samarhead’s miserable life, Gastillo thought Curge was about to cry out in pain. The intimidating owner had even reached forward, clutching at air as if to catch something falling, when the battleaxe flashed down and the blood truly began to flow.

  “Ho!” Nexus blurted with an evil grin. “How the big ones fall, eh, Gastillo?”

  Curge flinched at the outburst, and Gastillo became aware of the heat rising from the manager’s direction.

  “Unfortunate round,” Gastillo said somberly, his golden mask concealing his delight at seeing a Free Trained dispatch Dark Curge’s favorite. “My sympathies. Pains me to see a gladiator fall under the rabble.”

  Gastillo inserted a cloth underneath his mask and dabbed at the corner of his ruined mouth, soaking up the drool.

  “Well, not for me,” Nexus bellowed without a care. “Your man was butchered like an ox. And look at all that blood! I’ve not seen juice spilled like that at even one of my own wineries! That may very well be the kill of the games. What say you there, Dark Curge?”

  In answer, Curge swung his murderous gaze upon the wine producer. The cords of his muscular neck stood out, his face as red as any grape in the sun. Without a word, the intimidating owner stood, kicked his chair out of the way, and stalked out of the box.

  Nexus chuckled merrily at the man’s abrupt departure. “Not much to say at all, I see.”

  Gastillo nodded at the victorious pit fighter disappearing underneath the raised portcullis. “You can be sure that’s one Free Trained who’ll be fortunate to live to see the sun rise. To kill anyone’s man is one thing, to kill one of Curge’s trained dogs is another. And to make a spectacle of it?”

  He shook his head.

  Nexus chuckled again. “Really? The great House of Curge can be so vindictive? Unfortunate. It’s only sport. I must say, this game for the commoners can be an enjoyable one after all.”

  Gastillo considered his own future plans and how they involved Nexus. He took a careful sip from his silver goblet and held the wine in his mouth, savoring it, while dabbing at his face. Halm of Zhiberia, he thought pleasantly. He would remember that name. Not that it would matter. The wine merchant had said it all: Dark Curge could indeed be a vindictive one.

  Having witnessed several seasons come and go, Gastillo had the good enough sense to avoid Curge when he was in such a mood. He hoped Halm of Zhiberia would be wise and do the same… and to watch his back.

  Both in and out of Sunja’s Pit.

  • 10 •

  Words

  “You hellpup!” Pig Knot exclaimed, slapping Halm on his back as he returned from the Pit.

  “Did you expect otherwise?” the Zhiberian asked.

  “I don’t know what I expected,” Pig Knot said with a grin. “But I’m happy you’re in one whole piece.”

  “Thanks to this one here,” Halm gestured at Goll. “You gave me the idea. Samarhead was an armored giant,
so I went low on him and cut out an ankle. Truth be known I wanted his toes, but his shield was too big. I had to change targets.”

  “I don’t think I did much at all,” Goll replied. “But I’m glad that you won your match.”

  “I’m glad you’re still alive,” Muluk said, as Pig Knot helped the Zhiberian free himself from his leather sleeve. “We ran down here to meet you.”

  “Did you place the wagers?” Halm asked, suddenly anxious.

  “Oh, we did that,” The Kree chuckled. “We did that and more. I got five gold coins for my sword, and I dare not think about what I won.”

  Pig Knot nodded to Goll on his crutches. “That one made a bigger pot.”

  “How much?” Halm asked.

  “All that I had,” the injured Kree answered. “Fourteen gold.”

  “To my one,” Halm scoffed. “There’s a reason why I’ll never be a merchant.”

  “You don’t have to be a merchant,” Pig Knot said. “You’re a winning gladiator.”

  Depositing his sword and shield on a bench, Halm began getting out of his greaves. Upon removing the plate he had kicked Samarhead with, he noted the large bruise underneath and the dent in the armor.

  “Have to get that pounded out,” Muluk said with a critical eye. “I can take care of that for you. For next time.”

  “I thought you only chopped things?”

  “And pound things, when I have to,” Muluk replied. “I can fix that easy enough.”

  “Leave it here for now.” Halm wiped the sweat from his body. “Only two things concern me now, collecting my coin and getting to a bathhouse. I’ll pay for you all.”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” Pig Knot said. “Unlike these two, I haven’t a coin to my name.”

  “You didn’t wager?”

  Pig Knot shook his head. “Nothing to wager with. But that’s talk for another time. And if you lend me a few coins, I’ll pay them back when I can.”

  “I think I can do that.”

  “Let’s be off from here, then,” Pig Knot said.

  With that, the four made their ways through the fleshy clutter of general quarters, passing the other men who would fight that day. Some of the assembled men congratulated the Zhiberian. Others got out of his way.