Halm wondered if someone had mistaken him as dead. He glanced around and decided to visit the armory.
“I need a blade,” he said to the quartermaster behind a barred window. The armory man was hunched over, perhaps stricken with some unknown sickness, and possessed a large nose that appeared to have been broken at least once.
“Come around, then,” the quartermaster said. “Choose what you like.”
Halm entered the large room and gazed upon dusty aisles filled with racks of all manner of weapons and armor, all free to the gladiators in the games. He meandered along a rack and studied the selection. All the weapons were serviceable, usually taken from the dead and repaired if necessary. He skipped the assortment of axes and mauls, passed on the spears and maces, and began hefting and swinging swords. Once blade in particular, a short sword, got his approval.
“I’ll have this,” Halm rumbled.
“When do you fight?” the quartermaster asked.
“I’m the first.”
“Where are you?”
“Just out there,” Halm pointed to where he had left his bag.
The quartermaster frowned. “I’ll put an edge on it, put it in a scabbard, and bring it over to you before it’s your time.”
“My thanks.” Halm said and walked back into the greater chamber. Pig Knot wandered into view.
“I’m here,” The Zhiberian called out.
Pig Knot turned around. “Didn’t run after all, hm?” He smiled.
Halm frowned. “Placed my wager as well.”
“Did you now? Everything?”
“Aye that.”
“So you’ll either be well off or dead.” Pig Knot seemed pleased. “Not a bad idea, really. Need help getting ready?”
“The day I need any help from you is the day I find myself wounded, near death, and surrounded by Paw Savages.”
“So you need help, then?”
“Aye that.”
After they had finished, Muluk appeared with Goll limping behind on his crutches. Muluk handed Halm the previously damaged greave. Halm took it, inspected the repair, and nodded his thanks.
“How do you feel?” Muluk asked, sizing up the big man in his leather sleeve, studded leather skirt, and newly applied greaves.
Halm gave him a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll feel better when I collect from the Domis.”
“We’ve placed our wagers as well,” Goll told him.
“How much?”
“Almost everything,” Muluk said.
“Everything.” Goll watched for a reaction from the Zhiberian.
Halm exchanged looks with Pig Knot.
The Sunjan smiled. “I could have shown you better gambles than this dog here.”
“Do you think so, Halm?” Goll asked.
The Zhiberian didn’t reply, but stared across the chamber, through pockets of shadow and torchlight and men.
The three companions followed his gaze.
Vadrian the Fire appeared in the general quarters. Dressed in his leather armor and sporting bared weapons, the blond man strutted to the Madea. The warrior turned in the Zhiberian’s direction. Vadrian’s face twisted into hate. He fitted his winged helm to his skull and gave it a shake.
“This day you die, Zhiberian!” Vadrian shouted. “This day you greet Saimon himself, you heathen shite!”
Pig Knot grunted. “The man’s a punce.”
Halm grunted agreement.
“Kill him just so we can have some quiet in here,” Muluk said, eyeing Vadrian in distaste.
“I will try, friend Muluk.”
Overhead, a roar shook the dark ceiling as the Orator whipped the eager crowds into a frenzy for the first fight of the day. A blood match. No other contest demanded the same level of interest as when the two warriors fighting possessed a dislike for each other.
Across the way, the Madea called out to Halm, informing him it was time.
The Zhiberian donned his conical helm and hefted his square shield.
“Where’s your––” Pig Knot began, impatience in his voice.
The quartermaster appeared almost instantly. “Here you are. Apologies for being late.”
“Late?” Halm grumbled. “I could’ve forged a new blade myself in that time.”
He looked at the smaller man, noting the broken nose again, and took the sword in its scabbard. Pig Knot helped him strap the weapon to his waist. The quartermaster retreated into the masses of pit fighters and disappeared.
Halm watched him, however, and noticed the man didn’t return to the armory.
“Halm of Zhiberia!” the Madea roared.
“It’s time.” Pig Knot held out his fist.
*
Sweat traveled down his back as Halm stood in armor at the base of the stairs. Light shone through the lowered portcullis above him. The same old bastard from before stood across from the Zhiberian, his hand on a lever. The gatekeeper eyed him evilly while chewing on something.
Overhead, the Orator introduced Vadrian.
“I wagered against you,” The gatekeeper smirked, revealing a crenellated row of blackened teeth.
“Daresay you’d wager against the sheep you call sons, old topper.”
The older man grimaced as if he’d just swallowed poison. “May Saimon take you to his hell.”
He yanked down on the lever.
Halm remained silent and supposed Saimon just might. And soon. He jogged up the steps.
The time for talking was done.
*
Dark Curge clenched his jaw and looked upon the sands. The Orator had finished introducing Vadrian the Fire, and now he focused on the Zhiberian. Curge rubbed a rough hand over his bald head and struck the stump of his left arm against a stone wall.
“You seem anxious this afternoon,” Gastillo said, lifting his mask and dabbing at his mouth.
“What would you know about it?” Curge snipped and stroked his jaw. Vadrian the Fire, he mulled, had better kill the Free Trained bastard that had robbed him of his house’s finest prospect for this year’s games. The time and energy invested in priming a warrior for the season was immense, and to have such a fighter taken away from him by the likes of the unfit pisser entering the arena was almost too much for Curge to bear. He intended to see the man killed, if not by Vadrian’s hand then by someone’s else’s, and then send whispers into the city that he was responsible.
It would all serve the greater glory of the House of Curge.
*
The introductions finished, the spectators screamed and cheered in anticipation. No one doubted Vadrian’s skill, and the crowds were equally aware of the Zhiberian’s. Both gladiators had the potential to deliver one of the most exciting fights of the games thus far. Word of the gladiators’ dislike for each other had also spread amongst the onlookers.
The best fights often erupted from those with the taint of hate on the air.
Below on groomed sands, Halm looked across the way and took in the huge form of Vadrian the Fire. The man’s bronze helm gleamed in the afternoon sun, and he threw his arms wide, accepting the thunderous applause.
“Good people of Sunja, this fight is a blood match,” the Orator reminded them from above. “Only one man will walk away this day, and may the Lords watch over the dead. And now, good people, a moment of silence for Vadrian’s prayer of the Pit.”
Halm snorted. Prayer of the Pit?
Such gurry.
A suddenly solemn Vadrian pulled forth his sword, the blade flashing.
Halm remembered the Mademian blade then, once belonging to the hellpup whose name he didn’t remember. He remembered the dead man’s face, however, along with the image of him allowing Pig Knot to hold and swing that sword.
Vadrian sank to one knee and, bowing his head, began to pray.
“Sweet Seddon above––”
To hear the words spoken by such a person annoyed the Zhiberian.
“Jigger that,” Halm muttered, and decided he wouldn’t allow such gurry. He brought up his
sword, gripped his shield and advanced.
He was tired of the punce’s theatrics.
Cries of warning flew up from the crowd, loud enough to cause Vadrian to look up in mid-prayer.
Halm increased his stride.
The Orator observed to the sand and saw the Zhiberian about to charge.
“Good people of Sunja! On behalf of the Gladiatorial Chamber and King Juhn’s best wishes-for-you-to-be-entertained––letthefightbegin!”
Vadrian stood just as Halm’s sword flashed for his head. He deflected it off the small buckler strapped to his left arm and whipped his spiked fist across the Zhiberian’s visor.
Missing by a finger.
Halm stabbed and stabbed again, driving the Sunjan back toward the arena wall. The Zhiberian cracked his square shield toward a head, thrusting with his sword underneath, but the Fire jerked himself out of harm’s way.
Vadrian circled to his right, placing Halm’s shield between both of them. “Heathen shite, interrupting my prayer so. I was right about you. You’re unfit to live.”
Halm smirked. “And you are?”
“I have––”
Halm lunged, thrusting for the man’s stomach, wanting to punch his sword’s tip through to the man’s back.
Vadrian dodged the blow.
The Zhiberian wouldn’t let him catch his breath, however, and rained a storm of sword chops and shield punches, one after the other, grunting with the effort.
Vadrian the Fire darted left, slipped right, backing away from the onslaught, until coming close to a wall.
The people voiced their approval.
“You run well enough,” Halm shouted, loud enough for the masses to hear.
From behind his visor, Vadrian’s eyes narrowed in anger. “I’ll cut your––”
Halm didn’t want to listen. He unleashed a combination of strikes and slashes, robbing the wind from Vadrian’s words. Yet the Fire got out of harm’s way every time, avoiding the more dangerous attacks and ultimately evading the Zhiberian.
“Saimon take your soul, you––”
Again, Halm came in swinging, sweat flying from his person. He aimed for his adversary’s winged helm but sliced only air. He cut for an arm but had his blade knocked aside by Vadrian’s buckler. He feinted, intending to thrust for a chest, but the opening didn’t happen.
Worse, Halm realized he was getting tired.
“Godless cur,” Vadrian taunted, looking still fresh. “You’re no warrior at all. You’re a poor excuse for a shite pile. A cow kiss. How did you ever get this far?”
The Zhiberian lunged for a leg.
The Sunjan was ready, however, and Halm caught the twinkle in Vadrian’s eye as he went by––missing the leg––and immediately had his helm rocked by a spiked fist.
Halm crashed into the sand, his helm shifting and blinding him. He rolled onto his back, then his knees, and lashed out.
Striking nothing.
The Zhiberian hurried to correct his helm.
When he did, he saw the Vadrian standing before him, waiting.
“Get to your feet, you unholy cur, and stop mucking about in the sand,” Vadrian bellowed for the people to hear. “I’ve heard you Zhiberians like to prance about in shite, but this is Sunja. Our streets are made of stone!”
Halm grimaced.
“See how he plays in the sand, good countrymen?” Vadrian shouted. “See? I’m not certain the savage knows our tongue! Come here, fat man. Come here and take the blessing of Seddon’s steel. I’ll make it painless. One quick thrust through your black heathen heart.”
Taking a deep breath, Halm got to his feet.
*
From where he watched, Curge smiled. He had to commend this Vadrian. The man did indeed have talent. He played to the masses, making them laugh while making the Zhiberian look stupid. Curge might not trust the Sunjan, and he certainly wouldn’t turn his back on him, but the man knew how to play to an audience. He even knew how to enrage a foe. That was an art form in itself.
The golden face of Gastillo remained impassive, the owner sitting beside Curge in the box.
“Free Trained idiot,” Nexus snapped on the other side of the box, shaking his head in disgust. “Get up, damn you. Get to your feet, you unfit sheep shagger. At least die like a man. Lords above! See how he drags his fat ass up from the ground? Dying Seddon. Dying Seddon!”
Curge frowned and then remembered Nexus had lost one of his young fighters to the Sunjan below. Unfortunate, he thought without truly meaning it, and focused once again on the match. Any fight that would grant him revenge, win him gold, and infuriate Nexus all at the same time was a good fight indeed.
*
From the gladiator-only viewing boxes built into the base of the arena walls, Pig Knot, Muluk, and Goll watched through open archways at ground level. Pig Knot didn’t understand what the Zhiberian was doing. He swung at every word the Sunjan threw at him.
And not only was he missing, he was becoming weary. That much was clear.
“What’s he doing out there?” Muluk asked.
“I have no idea,” Pig Knot answered.
But Goll suspected.
*
“See how slowly he rises from the sand?” Vadrian shouted at the crowds. “Like one––”
Halm stabbed, sword shooting from his shoulder like a crossbow bolt.
And as before, Vadrian stepped aside and chopped downward, aiming for the Zhiberian’s outstretched arm…
But it wasn’t there.
For most of the fight, Halm had let his foe think that his prattling was urging him on, that each verbal outburst would be answered with a flurry of cuts and jabs. Vadrian would evade the attacks and counter with his own strikes. Halm also knew Vadrian was becoming overconfident, fighting a clearly inferior Zhiberian, and would never suspect that a trap.
Thus, when Vadrian lashed out with his counter, Halm was already pulling his sword arm back, his feint completely fooling his opponent.
The Zhiberian flicked his sword in a wide sweeping arc, drawing a red line across his foe’s upper right shoulder. He charged then, seeking to take advantage of first blood, but Vadrian recovered and nimbly retreated several steps, nowhere near hurt.
Unfortunate, Halm thought.
He was nearing his endurance’s end.
“You tricky bastard.” The Sunjan growled as he glanced at his wound. “Well now, he has first blood! Seddon above, I fight a Godless dog that resorts to trickery! I knew you Zhiberians to be savages! I swear, I…”
The warrior paused and considered his shoulder a second time.
Taking deep breaths behind his guard, Halm was almost set to charge his foe one again, but his sword caught his attention.
And the faint green sheen at the blade’s base of the blade, as slick as a lamp oil.
Halm’s breath caught in his throat.
Poisoned.
His blade had been poisoned somehow.
A poison that was already coursing for Vadrian’s black heart.
The Sunjan’s eyes flashed outrage, fixing upon the Zhiberian with the very same realization. Vadrian drew breath to shout, to announce the wicked treachery to the arena, and Halm knew if the man uttered those words, it would mean his own death.
A desperate energy took hold of the portly Zhiberian then.
Halm attacked, throwing all of his remaining energy into a combination of slashes and thrusts.
Vadrian’s words never past his lips as defended himself. The Sunjan parried and blocked, turning aside blow after blow. Then he countered, swinging for Halm’s head and grimacing with the effort.
The poison slowed Vadrian.
Halm’s knew it instinctively as he ducked under the wide cut, pivoted, and hacked the Sunjan’s sword arm off at the wrist. Blade and hand flew from the Son of Seddon, and the fanatic turned as if unaffected, studying his ruined arm.
Halm reset himself, struggling for air, but Vadrian lunged with a speed that caught the Zhiberian off-guard. A h
eavily muscular arm––the stump still spewing blood––clamped around the Zhiberian’s neck and pulled him close.
“Not yet, treacherous son.” Vadrian squeezed Halm’s head to his chest. “Oh, I’m not done––”
Yet.
The close contact shifted Halm’s helm once more, blinding him, just as a spiked fist crashed into his gut. Fat iron needles stabbed deep and robbed him of his breath, twisted, and withdraw. Halm slumped, almost fell to his knees, but the Vadrian held him upright with a strength belonging to the vengeful righteous.
And he continued to talk.
“I feel, I feel…” the fanatic shouted over the building cheering from the crowds.
Halm tried to twist away, but Vadrian fastened onto his head even tighter, squeezing the air from his throat.
“The fire…” Vadrian barked to harsh applause.
Spikes slammed into Halm’s belly a second time, hard enough to cause black stars to appear.
“In me…” Vadrian shouted.
A third punch to Halm’s stomach and something ripped down there. His legs buckled. “But before I die…”
A fourth punch broke Halm’s ribs like frail kindle.
“People!” Vadrian gasped, still holding the wounded Zhiberian to his chest. “This maggot ha–”
With his last remaining strength, Halm brought his sword up and sawed at the underflesh of Son of Seddon’s right armpit, drawing his weapon’s razor edge back like a bow to a fiddle, before plunging it deep into bare, unprotected flesh.
He shoved deep, cutting for the insane man’s heart.
Vadrian shivered with violence and his mighty strength disappeared all at once. He sputtered, blood flecking his lips, and regarded his killer with jerky movements.
Then he collapsed on his back.
Vadrian’s severed stump wavered upright for a heartbeat, before falling and thumping the sand. Blood pooled about the fallen warrior. He shuddered once more and became still.
Not quite believing he was still alive, Halm bent over on unsteady legs, grasped his sword and shoved the weapon deeper. Blood gushed over the hilt, hiding any trace of the blade’s poison. Halm’s stayed that way until his head cleared, though his lower ribs sparkled with pain. The sand became a scarlet stew under the dead man, hiding any evidence of the poison. At least as far as Halm could tell.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 12
