131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

But if he had to kill, he’d do it. With no hesitation.

  When he emerged from the corner, conversations dribbled into silence. Men stepped out of the way of the tall man with a thick shortsword and handaxe and the necklace of screaming crows about his neck. Droves parted for the warrior heading to the Madea as if he were a hellion about to snatch one of them up. And so they should.

  Brozz—Crowhead—was terrifying.

  In places, the corners of the white tunnel were draped in cobwebs, which made Kade reflect on pit fighting. It was all one big web, sticky strands crossing over each over, spiraling downwards towards a center that would ultimately eat you alive. He wasn’t about to be devoured by the rabble around him. Though he was Free Trained, he considered himself better than most and certainly better than the two drunkards staggering about on the sands in the first match of the day. No wonder people had such low opinions of the Free Trained. Kade didn’t blame them for their curses and howls when they were offered such utter shite. Unprofessional louts. Thinking back on the fight filled him with contempt for the pair of so-called warriors. The dead one was lucky, in his mind, and the victor would be ridiculed long before he set foot on the sand again.

  Kade had worked with his weapons long and hard enough to think he could fight for a House, but they only selected the cream. This day, he intended to put forth the best show he could manage, even if he had to crush a few heads in the process. He had fought in the Pit last year, for the two months the fighting season had gone then, and he had won three of four matches before a brute from Osgar broke his right arm with a mace. Even now, Kade’s forearm ached during the winter as if remembering the blow.

  It wasn’t as though he needed the money. He got paid for his work and service to the crown and the men he killed upon their command.

  He did this simply for the fun.

  Kade was an executioner and a fine one at that. With his axe in hand, he could take the head off a man with one fell chop, forty in a line if need be before he had to stop for rest. He’d seen plenty of fear and death in his time. Signing up for the fights in Sunja’s Pit was almost like another day of work. It didn’t bother him as it did a few of the newer, self-declared gladiators. Kade had to roll his eyes at some of the noisy bastards. He was thankful he had a hovel in the city to return to, for if he had to stay just one night in general quarters listening to those braying animals, he’d start swinging steel before the sun rose. He knew he would.

  Thinking these thoughts, he made his way past the Skarrs standing at attention and to the gatekeeper at the end. A sword was in his hand, and a large, square shield hung off his arm. He would have preferred to take a battle axe to the men on the sand these days, but an axe wasn’t the best of weapons for such reaving. Not like a good broadsword. And with an executioner’s attention to edges, Kade had sharpened his blade by himself.

  He was a big, burly man, well-protected under a suit of mail that gleamed. Heavy for most, but Kade didn’t notice it. He wasn’t as fast as some, but he was strong in both endurance and limbs. As a greeting to the gatekeeper, he tapped the flat of his sword against the visor he wore, the grill poked with holes that gave the iron helm a grin.

  Already, the people were warming up to the next fight.

  “They’re looking for blood after the last one,” the gatekeeper informed him. Kade recognized the man from last season. He was one of a pair the Chamber seemed to keep on. Old, with no chin to speak of and a flab of flesh that jiggled like something hooked and freshly landed from a river, the gatekeeper regarded Kade with a pair of eyes that could have been mistaken for a dungeon rat's.

  “They’re always looking for blood,” Kade rumbled. “Their nature.”

  “S’pose it is. Fight hard then.”

  “I will,” Kade promised and meant it, studying the steps leading up to daylight and barred by thick portcullis.

  He intended to take the arms and legs off whoever was waiting for him on the sands.

  The gatekeeper nodded and pulled the lever.

  The Orator’s real name was Qualtus, and he was thankful this afternoon that the king wasn’t about to see the pile of cow shite that he would forever curse himself for calling the first fight of the day. Still, he glanced to the raised viewing box situated high on the south wall, just to make certain it was still empty. Sweet Seddon above, he thought darkly, squinting from the sun’s glare on the arena sands and feeling the dainty beads of sweat making their way down his back towards the crack of his ass. If there ever was an argument to stop the Free Trained from entering the Pit, those last two toppers were it.

  He looked towards the north end of the arena, directly across from the king’s viewing box, to the stand where nobles and the owners of some of the top-ranked houses sat and watched the games. That particular construction towered above the sands, with a high wall dividing the two groups. Rumour had it the wall split the viewing box so the nobility wouldn’t have to look upon the sometimes-changing owners sitting in the section. Six men sat on that side this day, and Qualtus wondered what they had thought of the first show. Nexus, Curge, and golden-faced Gastillo occupied the other side, and he could almost hear the swearing, from the wine merchant in particular. Curge probably didn’t care for him in the least. Gastillo, however, was hard to read due to the mask he wore. Who really knew what that one thought? As for the Chamber members on the other side of the wall, Qualtus hoped they hadn’t eaten heavily beforehand.

  Qualtus consulted the scroll that outlined the day’s fights, given to him by a messenger sent from the Madea, who organized and oversaw everything. The Orator didn’t envy that position in the least. A person would have to think about what he was doing, and Qualtus knew very well he wasn’t cut out for such tasks.

  He was merely the voice of the Pit.

  He was the thunder above the sand.

  And right now, he had to sway the audience back to more favorable grounds and wash away the memory of the first fight. Qualtus had learned long ago it was best not to even acknowledge such a piss-poor showing. It was better simply to move on.

  Clearing his throat, he lifted his arms, the white sleeves of his Orator’s gown slipping to reveal his skinny limbs. The people, several thousand this day but nowhere near the Pit’s capacity, took longer than usual to quiet.

  “Men and women of the Pit.” The Orator elected to go with the traditional introduction in an attempt to reset the entire day. “You are honored guests to these blood games, games which have been a granite mast of our civilization for hundreds of years. Listen for a moment. Can you hear it, as I do? The hushed cries of champions dead and gone yet whose spectres gather still to witness these new games. Time after time. When the season grows cold, dead, then awakens and becomes hot, those warriors are here. Now. Where once they stood… we stand. Where once they fought… men fight. And where once they died…”

  Qualtus let that hang in the air for a moment.

  “We watch. And we applaud skills of arms. And the rousing beat of death. For in these games, fought by men risking all for your entertainment and their own desire to be the best, in Sunja’s Pit, the only things that are certain are life, combat… and sands red with blood. On behalf of the Gladiatorial Chamber, dear guests, I present to you, for our mutual entertainment, a battle fought by two men who will stir the very sands and lift the earthy grains into the air. A fight that will make Saimon’s hellions rise up to bear witness and a fight that will have Seddon’s heralds descend from the heavens and bless the best. I present to you a war that will have you talking well into the evening.”

  Qualtus paused, allowing his words time to be absorbed. If that didn’t get their juices going, he didn’t know what might.

  Then he chopped a hand towards the taller of the two Pit warriors. “From Sarland. He is the caul ripped from Death’s face. A walking plague in man’s form that kills all conversation in a busy street. He is a hunter. A collector. And he sets to make his mark known in Sunja’s Pit for the first time this season. He. Is. Crow
head!”

  The man draped in leather armor, with the exception of his helmet and face cage, stood still upon the arena sands, showing no indication of having heard anything from the Orator. At the ends of seemingly lifeless arms hung a shortsword and hand axe. The crowds did not quite know what to make of such a tall wraith partially hunched at the shoulders, as if the very heat of the sun sought to melt him. Some of the people cheered, but it was a small few of the thousands watching.

  The Orator liked that. He quickly switched to the other and started once more in a voice that commanded attention.

  “Facing this hellpup is one of our own. A son of Sunjan and a wall of a man. Prisoners fear this brute like no other, and if your name is on his breath, you are certain his axe will find your neck. Born on the plains of Sunja and bronzed in the heat of her sun, he was a beast as a lad, and this day, he carries with him the experience of one already well wise to the ways of the Pit. You asked for a champion for these games? I give you Kade… the executioner.”

  Upon hearing the name of Kade, the arena exploded in thunderous applause. The mass of onlookers pulsated in the stands like fat veins about to gush. Kade stood motionless, a beach rock of armour, quietly appraising his opponent.

  Qualtus dropped his hands to his sides. As far as he was concerned, he had done his job and, as always, done it well. Now it was time for the chop.

  “Let this contest… begin!”

  The howls and cheers of thousands drowned out the Orator’s final word. The two fighters raised their guards like wary veterans of the Pit and circled each other while closing the distance between them. Crowhead let his arms dangle before him, his weapons swinging gently as if caught in a breeze, while Kade lifted his shield and held it in front of his body like a heavy door. Kade eyed the shadowy shape of Crowhead as he approached, keeping his broadsword just above his right shoulder like a cocked catapult. The first chance that showed itself, he would swing that blade for all he was worth and let the Pit’s servants clean up the mess.

  Crowhead got close enough for Kade to see the necklace of heads around his neck, and that set his head shaking in disbelief.

  “You’re a grim one, aren’t you?” the executioner asked the man looming before him.

  Crowhead said nothing in return.

  Not that Kade wanted him to say anything. In his line of work, more than half of the prisoners he killed begged him not to take their lives, as though it were up to him. No, he preferred it when they were quiet.

  “Come on then, you black bastard,” he whispered.

  And he got his request.

  Like a huge net flung into the sea, Crowhead lunged forward, swinging with both arms, his shortsword and handaxe flashing in a flurry of strikes. He attacked the squat head of his foe, then his shoulders, and then suddenly dropped down to make a swipe at an extended leg. Planting his feet, Kade stopped all thrusts and chops with his shield, moving the iron-and-wood door on his arm where needed, placing his body behind it at all times. The crowd became quiet with each impact, until Crowhead suddenly broke off and took a few steps back.

  The speed of the other man’s attack impressed Kade. The larger man was fast. He shifted to his left, keeping his shield in place and his sword ready, tightly wound like a loaded catapult ready to snap.

  The Orator was also taken aback by the initial flurry of strikes flying at the shorter Kade. He thought about the armour on Kade and wondered if perhaps it was a hindrance to him.

  Crowhead went at the heavily armoured man again, cutting and slashing and stabbing at the end. Kade’s shield absorbed every blow, and he counterstruck with his broadsword when Crowhead stopped. His hunk of edged metal scythed out and split the air once occupied by his adversary’s skull.

  But the taller man ducked under the slash, surprising everyone.

  Crowhead jerked to Kade’s left, prodding with his shortsword and forcing the man to match him. Kade kept his shield before him and his sword set once more just above his shoulder, waiting for the opportunity to separate head from torso. Metallic whacks punctuated the air, as Crowhead didn’t stop circling or swinging as he went, turning both men around in a complete circle and a half before breaking off to catch his breath.

  Kade countered with a straight-arm, over-the-shield chop, missing his foe’s helm and shoulder by the barest hair. Crowhead moved away then, placing a few strides between them while defensively weaving his long arms. Kade did not pursue.

  Qualtus believed the executioner was either tired or conserving his strength. The crowds were cheering the Sunjan, which was to be expected. The darker fellow had the feel of evil about him, and these games sometimes depended on a hero and a villain.

  Crowhead rushed in and again whipped his blades at the steely form of the executioner. Sounds of each connection with the shield rang out, and the crowd collectively gasped at the onslaught. Crowhead’s weapons chewed at the iron-bound shield. Sparks flared. Kade backed up, relenting against the intensity of the attack. Sword and handaxe chopped and slashed, and with every new swipe, the onlookers expected blood to fly.

  Then Crowhead broke away to catch his breath once more, and Kade jumped at him, unleashing his sword arm in a vicious counterstrike and connecting with his opponent’s head with a loud krang! that brought several cheering spectators to their feet. Crowhead moved backwards, placing room between him and his adversary, his axe hand going to his helmet.

  He ripped it from his head, and the crowd roared.

  Kade allowed him that, once again readying himself for a flurry of blows, wearing the Sarlander out and waiting for that one moment to strike, the one cut that would drop a very dark head rolling into the sands.

  Crowhead shook himself, and blood from a scalp cut dappled the ground. Hunched over and wary of the other man, he tossed the helmet away and pressed a forearm against his wound. It came away red. Taking fresh grips on his weapons, Crowhead slowly moved towards the wall that was Kade.

  The executioner watched him come forwards and smiled behind his visor. He knew what was about to come. And he knew with no helmet to protect his foe, now was the time to go headhunting. His grin growing just a little more confident, Kade readied himself for the storm and saw himself taking Crowhead’s grim skull with one almighty chop.

  True to form, Crowhead charged in. Kade tensed. And the violent clash of metal on metal filled the air until the Pit’s audience roared approval, drowning out the noise…

  Until they collectively gasped.

  Crowhead charged in and swung, almost wild with his strikes this time. His sword struck Kade’s shield while his handaxe sought his foe’s sword arm and helmet. Kade turtled up, moving the barrier almost impossibly fast, stopping Crowhead’s attacks even as his long arms looped around the shield. Kade stood firm and absorbed it all, parried everything, waiting for that break in the squall of edged steel he knew would come.

  And when it finally did, Crowhead stepped away, his weapons slipping down.

  Kade lashed out with his sword, stabbing for his foe’s black eyes.

  Crowhead ducked under the arm, stepped in as if he knew the attack was coming, and uppercut with his sword. The blade sank halfway into Kade’s chest, piercing metal links and flesh alike. Blood burst from the wound. Kade’s eyes went wide with pain a split second before Crowhead’s handaxe cleaved the side of his neck, splitting armor and flesh and driving the larger man to one knee. Crowhead left his sword in his prey, but he placed a hand on the fallen warrior’s shoulder and wrenched his axe free in a torrent of red. Kade’s sword dropped from his fingers. In the abrupt silence, there were only a few who didn’t hear the executioner’s haunting moan.

  Crowhead hacked at the neckline three times, driving the edge of his handaxe deeper into his dying opponent and opening him up enough to allow the blood to truly spray. It splashed up against his leather armour like a newfound spring. Crowhead pushed the dead man forward.

  Kade landed facedown in the sand.

  Crowhead studied the corpse
at his feet for a moment before stooping and retrieving his sword. He flicked both of his weapons, sending black beads of blood into the air. He found his helmet and picked that up as well before turning and focusing on the Orator.

  Qualtus remembered he had a voice. “Your victor! Crowhead!”

  Some of the audience cheered. Some of them cursed. The majority sat, puzzled over how the match had gone and how it should have been.

  Crowhead didn’t appear to care. With his weapons in hand, he turned and headed back to the portcullis creaking open, retreating to the more comfortable shadows.

  The Orator watched him and nodded in approval.

  He appreciated a good surprise.

  5

  The sun beat down with a heat that sought to sizzle sweat on bare skin. Halm sat outside the alehouse he’d woken up in, feeling as if his innards had been roped and tethered to the flanks of a horse that was then slapped on the rump and made to run. He sat with his back against the foundation, a few strides away from the open entryway so not to offend the owner. A river of people with two distinct currents ran by him, but he paid them no heed. With his face lifted to the sun as if that glowing ball of heat could somehow purify him, Halm tried not to move at all and kept one arm around an alehouse pitcher filled with water from a nearby well. His Mademian sword lay on his other side, in the ill-fitting scabbard.

  “Ugh,” he muttered. The dark of his closed eyes was orange-black from the sun. He knew he should find some shade and rest, but his legs didn’t want to support him just yet. On the other hand, just sitting there and stewing in his own sweat didn’t appeal to him either. The decision to refill the pitcher came to him, and then the notion to perhaps find and sit in some shade in the city’s centre where high trees were allowed to flourish. That seemed like a promising idea.