131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “You have… my word.”

  “I do?” There was a smile to the words. “Like this poor dog over here? The reason for the perfume?”

  The light shone in a direction Vadrian could not see, but he knew what it revealed.

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You just went and twisted his head around like that and hung him off a hook for amusement?”

  Vadrian winced. “He tried to speak with me.”

  “He did?” Another smile around the words. “About what?”

  “He wanted… me to join his master’s school.”

  “And you killed him for that?”

  “Aye.”

  “Which school?”

  “I did not ask.”

  The ghost paused. “Did you happen to kill another? I sent two men to you, and one has gone missing.”

  Vadrian knew the second man but, thankfully, he had possessed the sense to bury the body outside in an old grave. “No.”

  The ghost thought for a moment, then exhaled harshly. “You’re a special one, Vadrian. I’ll give you that. My men will release you upon my word. If you rise up in arms, they will hang you by your guts from the rafters overhead and leave you swinging. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “Kill Halm.”

  “I will.”

  “Good.” A reflective silence. “Sleep well, then.”

  The silence stretched on, as if the ghost had paused to consider something, but then he was gone.

  Tense heartbeats later, the knife at Vadrian’s throat left. Hands released his limbs. He didn’t rise straight away, so he lay there, listening as his visitors departed, the sound of their passing receding.

  Only when they had gone did he move.

  With a trembling hand, Vadrian wiped the cold sweat from his brow. His stomach knotted. Never had he come so close to dying. Never had he felt so helpless. He took a deep breath and got to his feet. The gloom of the church’s interior never seemed deeper.

  Kill Halm, the voice said.

  Vadrian rubbed the stubble of his throat.

  Praise Seddon, he silently prayed.

  *

  In another part of the great city of Sunja, across a bridge and river, three men made their way toward the innermost parts. The leader was a man called Bojen, of average height and build, in his early forties, with a head of clean white hair. Bojen didn’t like being in this shadowy part of the city. His master had given him a task to do, however, and he dared not disappoint him, not even if it ultimately meant traveling to this filthy place. Bojen didn’t know he was going to be sent into the sewers, however. If he had, he would have dressed for it. Expensive leather sandals meticulously stitched and fashioned covered his feet, while soft silk leggings and a white shirt dressed the rest of him. His cloak was one of rich fox fur, and he found himself hitching it further up by the fistful, not wanting the hem to make contact with the ground.

  The three men quietly made their way off the main road, down a stone stairway which slipped below the bridge and waterline. Foul vegetative matter crusted the stonework. To their left, behind a thick brick wall ran the inner river and moat surrounding Sunja’s palaces. To their right was another solid barrier, red and scratched in places, but otherwise remarkably well kept. Sewage percolated the air, causing Bojen to cover his mouth and nose with a cloth. He released his cloak, allowing it to drop to his ankles. Cursing, he stopped and inspected the length and saw that it didn’t touch the wet steps. Not yet, anyway. It would sooner or later, he knew, and that made him swear again.

  Behind him, his guards said nothing.

  The little group halted at the bottom of the stairway, before a brick tunnel brimming with darkness. The smell became far more potent, threatening to gag Bojen, and he knew he’d have to bathe soon after this meeting. If he was truly unfortunate, he would have to burn all of his clothes.

  “This way,” he muttered miserably, hoping the passageway remained dry.

  They entered that black maw, feeling their way along the wall. Bojen’s fingers dredged up damp sludge that had collected on the brick, and he fluttered his hand to dislodge the filth.

  A torch came into view near the end, the glow appearing damn near magically. The visitors paused at the sight. A figured dressed in black robes stepped around a corner, his face partially concealed by a deep cowl, his torch lifted to the ceiling.

  “Only one of you may come closer,” the figure spoke.

  Hesitantly, Bojen signaled his guards to remain.

  The robed man beckoned the Bojen closer and led him around the corner, down a surprisingly long length of brick and mortar. Bojen sidestepped puddles and ducked under strands of filth hanging from the ceiling, often taking second glances at the pitfalls.

  The mysterious guide didn’t slow in the least.

  The guide’s torch disappeared around a corner, becoming a glow. Bojen barely caught a whimper as he scurried to catch up, wincing as his right foot splashed through an unseen puddle. Water soaked his toes, the touch sickening.

  Muttering curses, Bojen proceeded carefully. He wasn’t fit to such dealings under the earth, in the smelly damp and wet. He should have sent another in his place.

  Turning the corner with a bump and a grimace, Bojen saw that the torch had stopped just up ahead. He closed the distance, seeing that the light had been placed in a sconce but the guide had vanished, perhaps continued ahead in the dark. The air thickened with moisture and the puddles widened into pools. The sewage smell became much stronger. Bojen stopped in the light, peered deep into that blackness beyond, and wondered if he was supposed to proceed. Keeping the cloth firm against his mouth and nose, he reached for the torch set into a sconce.

  “Come no further,” spoke the voice in the dark.

  That stopped the agent.

  “I cannot see you.” Bojen said, the words muffled by his cloth.

  Silence. “What did you say?”

  Sighing, Bojen lowered his cloth and winced at the stench. “I said, I can’t see you.”

  “No one looks upon the faces of the Khas-Jantos. If you did, you would die. You were told to come alone.”

  “The streets are a dangerous place after dark,” Bojen answered, quickly covering his mouth.

  “State your business.”

  “My master wishes a man dead.”

  “Who?”

  Bojen lowered the cloth. “A gladiator. Free Trained. Shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  “What’s this dead man’s name?”

  Bojen said it with a gasp, knowing full well he’d have to burn his clothes later, and that he was no longer sure it was just water seeping between his toes.

  “Describe him,” commanded the voice.

  Bojen did so, coughing at times.

  “You know our fee?” the voice asked.

  “I have it here.”

  “Show us.”

  Fuming, Bojen reached for a small sack hidden beneath his cloak. He held it up to the light and shook it. Coins jingled.

  “Stand where you are and hold it at arm’s length.”

  The sack was heavy, but Bojen did as he was told, stretching his arm further into the darkness as thick and fragrant as sewage water. He jumped, startled by two white hands appearing and plucking the payment away from him. They vanished back into the gloom.

  Coins rustled. “When do you want the gladiator dead?”

  Bojen composed himself. “He fights tomorrow. The first match of the day. We want him killed then. In the Pit. And we do not want to be connected to his death.”

  A pause. “His death will not come back to you.”

  Eyes watering, Bojen nodded vigorously while all but smothering himself with his handcloth.

  “Take the torch and leave us. Tell your master this man will die. Tomorrow, during his match, as instructed.”

  Bojen dropped his cloth. “Do not fail.”

  That summoned an ominous silence.

  A d
ifferent voice whispered from the dark. “Do not threaten us… lest you be given a stronger warning.”

  Those haunting words raised the hair on Bojen’s scrubbed neck. He held the cloth to his face again, fearful he’d said too much. The moments stretched, and he tensed, ready to shout for his guards if anything should rush him from the dark. Nothing did, however, and time stretched on.

  “Hello?” he called tentatively.

  No answer.

  “Are you there?” Bojen tried again, and heard only the dripping of water. Tsking to himself, yet relieved the encounter was concluded, he sighed. He plucked the torch from its sconce, the flame flickering low, and considered venturing deeper into the tunnel.

  That brought on a scowl. Bojen scolded himself for such a foolish thought. It was time to vacate this miserable place.

  He made his way back through the tunnel, the smell receding as he went, and remembered the words of the killers in the dark. They spoke of warning. Bojen wondered what they meant by that.

  He slowed, detecting a new smell on the air, one that brought him close to retching.

  The torchlight revealed the corpses of his two guards lying dead on the brick stairway, their throats cut, their blood flowing over the stairs.

  Bojen stopped and gazed upon the dead men, his torch hand trembling. Panic rose in his chest, and he quickly looked behind him.

  Then ahead.

  Then the two dead men again.

  “Seddon above,” he whispered.

  He stooped to study the pair, cringing at their opened throats. Both men had been taken from behind. Bojen straightened and regarded the narrow staircase, wondering how they could have been killed in such place. It was much too small for a killer to take them by surprise. Bojen hadn’t even heard a thing. Not a single squawk of terror, and he hadn’t gone on that far ahead.

  Sorcery! flashed through his mind.

  That was all the impetus he needed.

  Bojen quickly edged past the dead men and ascended to the streets.

  He ran back to his employer, fur cloak blowing in the wind.

  • 12 •

  Day 4

  On the morning of the fourth day, Halm awoke in his rented room. He breathed deeply and yawned. The straw bed was too comfortable to leave, so he lay there and gazed at the bare timbers of the ceiling. Here and there, a cobweb could be seen, and Halm even thought he spied the makers. Outside the wooden-shuttered window, the world was coming alive, and there was a sleepy goodness on the air.

  Halm’s eyes narrowed.

  He had to kill a man this afternoon.

  Blood match. Blood fight. Blood feud. They all meant the same thing. For whatever reason, two men had agreed to fight to the death. It happened all the time in the games. That didn’t bother Halm. The Zhiberian had no qualms about sending a man on his way, especially a noisy ass-licker like Vadrian, but the unpleasant business of what was to happen later that afternoon crept into the purity of the morning, ruining it, like spilled blood touching a piece of parchment.

  He then remembered the words of the Kree, Goll.

  Halm knew he was good enough to fight a few men and win some coin. He could win enough to make it through a winter or until some other work came along, if he was wise with his money––and he rarely was. Then it would be a struggle to find something to take him to the next set of games. Truth be known, Halm wasn’t much good at anything else besides fighting. He couldn’t work wood, and he was clumsy around a forge. He couldn’t read or write, except to scrawl his name. Farming was too boring, and handcrafts of any kind were laughable for his rough fingers.

  There was only one thing he was good at.

  One thing, Seddon save his soul, he enjoyed doing.

  And that was smashing heads.

  A mighty sigh left him. There wasn’t anything else for him to do, and do well. The sad thing was he fully understood he couldn’t do it forever. These games might be the last for him. Today might even be the last day for him. It would be merciful if it was, but what if it wasn’t? If he survived this day and even the next, he wondered what then.

  He was getting older. Slower.

  Perhaps that was reason he found Goll’s idea appealing. He’d have to give the notion greater thought. After this day.

  He got out of bed, bare-arsed and brazen, as his mother used to say, and wandered to a table where a pitcher of water and a clay basin waited. He drank and poured the rest into the basin. Then he plunged his head into the water, wet his face and hair, and snapped everything back out. Water flew. He massaged his scalp with one hand, considered cutting his hair as he disliked having it too long.

  Perhaps after the fight.

  He had no shirt as it was too warm this time of year, and he had no qualms about walking about with his gut hanging out. He pulled on his breeches and slapped the bare flesh of his belly. Then came the sandals, which he slipped his feet into. He checked his leather purse—still quite full—and made his way to the door. Today would be a serious day, he thought, and removed the timber barring the door from the inside.

  Halm exited the alehouse alone, leaving his companions. They’d talked the night before, and the Zhiberian informed them all he would see them at the arena. He wanted to collect his thoughts and not speak to anyone if he could manage it. Halm knew himself, and while he enjoyed company and conversation, he equally enjoyed solitude and quiet. This time, he preferred not speaking to anyone.

  Trouble was, there were a lot of people in the city of Sunja.

  The morning sun warmed the stone tiles of the street, but overhead clouds threatened to blanket the sky. That wasn’t a bad thing in Halm’s mind. He liked the idea of fighting in the shade.

  The streets weren’t too crowded this morning but that would soon change. Halm walked against the growing current of people. Merchants took boards down off their street side stalls as Halm strolled by, while others worked at unpacking their goods. Livestock were led down alleys. Workers climbed ladders to where other men hammered repairs into old rooftops. Under wide canopies to shield them from the sun and rain, leatherworkers with awls and strings settled in at tables. Two men coaxed a forge to life, while a handful of women scrubbed clothing in wide washtubs. Halm caught a whiff of sewage, which didn’t bother his senses.

  He spotted a stall with an old woman cooking eggs and fresh bread, and he stopped for breakfast. Others gathered around the old woman’s offerings, making purchases and either walking away with the food or standing and eating it right there. When Halm finished his meal, he headed to the arena.

  It was early, but he had decided on something.

  He found the closed booths of the Domis and plopped down beside one, content to wait until it opened. There was nowhere else to go and waiting was as good an idea as any. Halm placed his back against a wall, squinted at the sun, and relaxed.

  The open area surrounding Sunja’s Pit gradually filled with people waiting for the day’s games. Merchants set up their food stalls. Some of them recognized the Zhiberian and nodded. Others watched him warily. None dared approach.

  That suited Halm just fine.

  Later in the morning, a handful of Skarrs arrived. They stopped and positioned themselves around the small buildings, and Halm moved farther away so as not to bother them. All he needed was the attention of the city guard.

  The shuttered windows of the Domis opened shortly after the Skarrs’ appearance. The coin keepers sat behind bars and busied themselves with coin matters.

  When he felt ready, Halm stood, dusted himself off, and went to one of the windows.

  He produced his leather purse. “I wish to place a wager.”

  “On who?” the middle-age keeper said, squinting.

  “Halm of Zhiberia.”

  The keeper consulted a list. “First fight of the day. How much?”

  Halm slid his purse through the slot beneath the bars. The keeper took it without comment. He emptied the leather and counted. Upon finishing, he reached underneath the counter and
brought up a white marker.

  “We take one gold piece for the wager. Agreed?”

  Halm already knew it. He nodded.

  “Place your scrawl on this marker,” the keeper instructed.

  Halm did so with a quill and ink from a small container.

  “Do not lose this, understand?” the keeper admonished.

  “I understand.”

  “Off with you, then,”

  A pensive Halm walked away.

  The wager was everything he had. If he won, the riches would be enough to… to do what? Well, he thought, it would be enough to keep busy, anyway.

  He entered Sunja’s Pit by way of the Entryway of the Sun. He didn’t immediately go to general quarters, but wandered over to the arena stands. He made his way up a stairway and stood at the bottom line of seats ringing the arena. Thousands would be there later but, at the moment, only handfuls sat here and there. Tanned men in loincloths and sandals groomed the sands with wide straw brooms.

  Halm watched them for a bit.

  The pissers were old and probably doing the work for a few silver coins, or even a copper. The more the Zhiberian watched, the more he disliked the thought of having to do such work at such an age, if he lived to see it. Then he wondered what they thought of their lot in this life.

  Halm thought for a long time on that. He wasn’t one to think too deeply into such matters, but there he was.

  All because of Goll and what he’d said.

  Shaking his head, Halm left the arena and made his way to the gateway of the sun, to the lower levels of general quarters. Once below, he waded through pit fighters of all shapes, sizes, and health, holding a hand to his nose. The chambers stunk with the night’s air, open latrines, and the faint stink of blood.

  Eventually, Halm located his bag of equipment, waiting for him at the base of a wall. He pulled out the old leather sleeve, waving a hand at the odor. When he reached for his shield, he noted that his sword was missing.

  Sweet Seddon. Halm straightened and shook his head.

  Had someone actually stolen his sword? He’d never heard of anyone stealing swords from general quarters since there were plenty of blades in the armory. It was considered bad luck to steal the sword of a living gladiator.