131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Who are you?” Clavellus finished from above.

  Not even Goll had the mind to answer.

  “Get out of my sight.” With that, Clavellus motioned to the men standing about Halm and the others.

  “Master Clavellus—” Goll started suddenly.

  “Get them out of my sight!” Clavellus shouted, disappearing through a doorway.

  One Ear moved in, scowling, with his hand on his sword. The archers and spearmen on the ramparts took aim while five more men surrounded the Kree men and the Zhiberian and closed in.

  “We’re going,” Goll said calmly. “We’re going.”

  Moments later, the gate rattled and clicked closed behind them. The men behind it and on the ramparts carefully watched the three. With Goll leading, they marched away from the House of Clavellus and did not look back.

  “Well, that was a cow kiss,” Muluk said quietly, studying the grass.

  “Aye that,” Halm said. “I feel terrible.”

  “Don’t mind them,” Goll said, peering ahead. “We go to Thaimondus now.”

  “And if he says no?” Muluk asked.

  “He won’t.”

  And that was all Goll had to say on the matter.

  *

  Clavellus collapsed on a divan and crossed one leg over the other. He idly stroked his beard, pausing only to sip from the bottle of mead he had gathered. It had been a fine day to drink, and he’d done enough of it in the morning that when those three punces visited, he had been feeling little to no pain. From the courtyard, he heard the squeal and clack of the gate being shut, and he shook his head at the balls of his visitors. Free Trained wanting to be trained by him, as though he would do such a thing. He might have fallen out of grace with the other houses and schools of Sunja, but he still had some pride.

  “What was that about?” Nala asked him from their bedroom, her voice sounding only half-interested. However, as his wife, she felt she should be privy to everything.

  “Nothing.”

  “You were shouting.”

  “I’m drunk.”

  “I heard only a part of it.”

  “Everything’s fine, Nala. I’ve taken care of it.”

  “All right.”

  He took another drink and beheld the purple bottle at arm’s length. It reminded him of royalty. He was royalty once—hailed like a king. Still had a few followers who had chosen to stay with him even after his fall from grace. Fall from grace. The thought both amused and galled him. Evidently, he’d fallen far enough to be courted by Free Trained.

  Oh, how he’d fallen.

  Free Trained.

  Clavellus eyed the mouth of the bottle, dark and fragrant with mead, and took another, exceptionally long pull of its contents.

  13

  They had called him a weapon enough times for him to believe it. His given name was Junger, from far-off Pericia, and he was in the games to be respected, to be feared, and to punish any who faced him. He’d trained with schools in his homeland and done some soldiering with the army there, and when the opportunity came to leave, he did so with an eye on the great games of Sunja. Coin was only an afterthought in his mind. He wanted to prove to them all that he was the best.

  And as far as he was concerned, he was Free Trained.

  When his name was called, he came forth wearing a plain helmet, brass bracers, greaves, a stiff vest of leather, and his sword hanging off his waist in a scabbard.

  The Madea stopped the fighter in front of his wooden desk, which rose above the grounds of general quarters so that he looked down on all of the Free Trained fighters. He was slim of build and dressed in white robes identifying his station in the games. Like other men of his age, he had his thin white hair cut almost perfectly down the middle. A row of Skarrs lined the front of the platform while six others stood at guard behind the Madea himself, three on each end of the massive matchboard designating the fights for the day, as well as a week ahead.

  “You there. Your name. Are you from Pericia?”

  Greatness recognized, Junger thought. “I am.”

  “Why aren’t you listed with a house then?”

  “I represent myself.”

  That put a smirk on the Madea’s wizened face, and he momentarily scratched at the finely parted crease that ran down the middle of his fine white hair. “Off you go then.”

  Junger stared at the arena official with an air that might have blown down from the Lands of Great Ice. He didn’t like that condescending slant to the man’s face. The Madea cocked an eyebrow at him in return, as if daring him to say anything while several Skarrs stood before and behind his station. The line of the older man’s mouth was a borderline sneer.

  “Off you go, Free Trained.” The Madea dismissed him and went back to consulting his lists.

  Junger gave him no further thought, thinking the official undeserving of the effort. The next time they would meet, he was certain the Madea would treat him differently. He meandered down the white tunnel, past the Skarrs standing guard at marked intervals, eyeing them with only a distant curiosity of how their training might have differed from his own. His mind then filled with images of what he had gone through to reach this point. Above, the ceiling vibrated with sound, reminding him of waterfalls in the winter. He stopped in his tracks at the noise and studied the stone above him for signs of cracking. When he saw none, he continued on his way. Junger wasn’t a large man, but he knew he was fast and well-built as well, like most of the fighters in general quarters, although he’d spotted a few who were grossly out of shape. Still, looks could be deceiving as he very well knew—as he hoped his would.

  He stopped at the gatekeeper and regarded his own boots.

  “See anything of note back there?” the old man asked him. “Saw you stop.”

  “Just listening,” Junger replied, uninterested.

  “Only wearing the leather, eh?” the gatekeeper croaked and flexed woolly jowls.

  Junger exhaled and squinted at the portcullis above. “Only the leather.”

  “You’ll be nimble out there.”

  “Hm.”

  “Going to pull that sword out?”

  “Eventually.” Junger went back to studying his boots. The gatekeeper grunted, thinking the young pup was going to be bleeding meat in only moments, and pulled the lever.

  Junger took his time and purposefully climbed the steps to the waiting daylight.

  He emerged from the tunnel and felt the hot sun on what skin was exposed. The audience cheered and cursed, the sound falling on him like rough winter surf. He only glanced in their direction, glimpsing faces and torsos mashed together like a writhing collage of sun-bronzed flesh. In a detached moment, he thumbed the pommel of his undrawn sword and wondered who’d placed coin on his head to win. They’d be happy after the fight. He intended to make them remember. To make them all remember.

  The Orator introduced him, but he was only halfway listening. The sun blazed overhead, and he felt sweat bead uncomfortably on his forehead. It was too hot to fight this day, even with the little armour he wore. He could smell the heat and the ripe sweat of the spectators. Across the sands, another Free Trained warrior waited, holding a sword and shield and dressed in chainmail. A helmet sporting a single fin down the middle nodded in his direction. Junger didn’t hear the fighter’s name. Junger frowned and wondered how hot the heavy armor must feel.

  “Begin!” shouted the Orator.

  Too hot, Junger thought. He wouldn’t make this mistake a second time.

  It was then he decided to make a spectacle of himself.

  With a gasp of relief, he pulled off his helmet and let it drop to the sand, taking all the time in the world. He swiped his hand over his bristly hair, disturbing a mist of sweat. His right bracer followed, dropping into the sand where the sun flashed angrily off their worn surfaces. The crowd’s deafening drone became one of hushed disbelief, but Junger paid them little heed. He doubted they knew what it was like to wear armor under this sun.

  H
is opponent halted in his tracks, watching with peculiar puzzlement. It wasn’t every day a pit fighter stepped onto the sands and stripped.

  Junger checked on him when his left bracer fell, making sure the man behaved. When he stooped to a knee to unlace the leather binding of a greave, the crowd’s muttering of wonder became as loud as a field of locusts. He tossed the slab of metal away, checked once more on where his opponent stood, and took his time unlacing the second.

  By this time, the jeers from sections of the audience grew louder. Laughter rang out from both men and women.

  “Take it all off, you stupid punce!”

  “This is the kind of show I want more of!” cried a female.

  “Stupid ass! What in Saimon’s hell are you doing?”

  “The lad’s unfit!”

  Junger stood up, took a breath, and grimaced with the heat. Even the Orator was looking from side to side now, gauging the reaction of the crowds and his own confusion at what was happening on the sands. Junger squinted and slowly unlaced his leather vest at the side, appreciating the time his opponent allowed him. He nodded in the direction of the heavily armoured man, who shook his helmed head in reply.

  No doubt thinks I’m unfit, Junger thought and mentally shrugged as he lifted the vest away. He pulled off his shirt then, receiving screams of delight from the female onlookers and even a few of the men. Inspecting himself while placing a hand to his chiselled stomach, Junger saw that he was free of everything that could come off except for his trousers. He wasn’t about to remove them.

  “Gut him!” someone shouted, urging the other warrior on. He didn’t think that was called for in the least.

  “Take his head!”

  “Carve his heart out!”

  Junger cocked his head, puzzled at such hatred. He didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve such venom. He undid the belt holding his scabbard and took it away from his waist. There was no need to take out the blade. The Free Trained across from him didn’t pounce while he was stripping down, and Junger intended to repay that small gesture. Bringing his sword up before him, the belt wrapped around one wrist so the scabbard wouldn’t fly off, Junger swished the weapon from left to right while the audience got even more impatient.

  In the end, it was probably them who got Junger’s opponent moving.

  The warrior crunched over and came on, peeking up over the lip of his shield. The sun made his mail look all the hotter.

  Junger stopped in his tracks and kept his sword close.

  More howls. The warrior picked up speed, shifting into a slow jog. His sword came up to his shoulder. The chuff chuff chuff of his boots in the sand rose above the voices.

  Junger took one shallow step backwards, turning his body to one side, and stretched his free hand towards the approaching pit fighter.

  The warrior closed in, his eyes glaring from the depths of his helmet, slits of concentration that saw only an easy kill. His sword lifted off his shoulder, and the shield, a rounded thing of metal and wood, aimed for Junger’s chest. The audience screamed ever louder. The pit fighter closed in, almost there…

  And swung with a yell, looking to take off Junger’s head with one swipe.

  Except Junger was no longer standing before him.

  The Perician swooped under the powerful swing of the Free Trained man and darted behind him. The pit fighter pivoted on his heel, sweeping his sword back as he turned to face his Perician foe.

  Junger ducked under that as well.

  Then he struck.

  His sword—still in its scabbard—snapped out and stuck the side of the helm with a great gong. The impact staggered the warrior back on his heels but did not drop him. Junger stepped into him and struck him six more times about the head, his sword whirling about his foe’s skull like a wooden plank caught in a windstorm, crashing into the metal helm with loud clangs that silenced the crowd.

  And on the last strike, Junger switched targets and jammed the sword in between the legs of his opponent, uprooting him from his spot. The warrior fell hard on his back and did not get back up. Junger plopped atop his chest and bared half of his blade, the metal flashing in the sun. He placed its edge underneath the chin of the fallen pit fighter.

  Stunned, the audience watched on.

  The warrior didn’t raise an arm to surrender. Puzzled, Junger leaned in and saw through the eye slits of the helm that his foe was already unconscious, his eyes almost rolled entirely into the upper part of his sockets.

  Heat shimmering off the sand, Junger stepped up and away from the fallen man, well out of reach in case trickery was afoot. When the fighter remained motionless, Junger looked expectantly to the Orator at his podium.

  “Your victor!” the old man blurted, every bit as surprised as the crowd.

  At his feet, the Free Trained man propped himself up onto an elbow and held his face in his hand. Junger backed away from him, until he deemed it was safe to turn his back. The crowds were no longer so hostile towards him, and some even screamed praise on his name. He’d heard the masses would be easy to sway. With nothing else to do but collect his winnings and get a bath, he entered the shade of the tunnel, not bothering to pick up his armour. There was no way he was going to wear any of it ever again.

  It was just too hot for the Perician Weapon.

  14

  The three companions made it back to the city just as the sky turned orange around the edges. Exhaustion kept both Muluk and Halm from talking much, so they simply followed Goll, hopping along to what they now considered their alehouse and navigating the crowd-filled streets with weary patience. The smell of suppers clung to the air—roasts, breads, soups, and sweet things that made their stomachs rumble.

  “Seddon take me, we’ve landed in Saimon’s hell.” Halm looked around, hoping he might catch a glimpse of whatever was cooking.

  “I smell it too,” Muluk said. “And it’s the best thing I’ve come across all day.”

  Goll stopped in the street and waited for the pair to catch up to him. Even after walking all day, he still seemed more than ready to do another march. He sweated, but nowhere near the amount Halm and Muluk did. Halm believed that a good chunk of him had wasted away on the journey back from Clavellus’s residence and that soon, very soon, his stomach would start gnawing away on his ribs.

  “I took you out there this day, so I’ll pay for your meals this night,” Goll informed them both. “I’ll even pay for your room—if you don’t mind sharing one. It’s better than sleeping on the floor of general quarters.”

  That brightened the two men considerably.

  They reached the alehouse and saw only a handful of people were inside. A group of men lounged in their usual alcove, so they took the one nearby. Muluk and Halm collapsed on the benches, their foreheads flat on the surface of the table. Goll slid in behind them, taking up the remaining side. He placed his crutches upright nearby and signaled for a serving wench.

  The young woman, not unpleasant to gaze upon, brought over three pitchers of water.

  “Agg.” Muluk grimaced when he took a mouthful. “Never sweeter.”

  Halm gulped down half of his own before dropping the pitcher to the table with a gasp.

  Goll ordered roasts for the three of them and a pitcher of mead for the table. The woman went off with the order, and for moments each of them sat and recovered his strength.

  “So…” Halm sat back and laid a hand on his belly. “What’s next for us?”

  Goll studied him, his dark eyes sharp. “Thaimondus. Tomorrow. Be ready to get up at dawn and walk again. His residence is once more out towards Plagur’s Reach, but to the southwest this time. Another good day of exercise, at least.”

  “Exercise,” Muluk hissed. “We’re… spent here.”

  “So you are.”

  “What about the day after?”

  Goll frowned. “Never expected to hear a Kree putting things off.”

  “I put a lot of things off. Something I probably should have let you know about,
but I put it off. Maybe I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

  “Then I suppose you can pay for your own food.”

  Muluk blinked. “Right evil bastard,” he said under his breath.

  “Your own room as well, for that matter,” Goll added.

  “You’re not doing me a favour there. This one snores.” Muluk jabbed a thumb at the Zhiberian sitting next to him.

  Halm smiled gently. “Just a little. So I’ve been told.”

  “Just a little.” Muluk shook his head and looked at Goll. “This man sounds worse than a… a thundercloud crashing down on your skull. A maul smashing an egg. Like a whole beach of rocks rattling over each other in a surf. No wonder I’m exhausted. I hardly slept last night.”

  “You can always sleep in the Pit,” Goll pointed out, stoically.

  Muluk rolled his eyes. “Oh that’s much better. It comes out of all ends down there. Saimon’s black, hanging fruit. I don’t know how the Madea summons the nerve to go down there in the morning to do his job. The smell could knock down a whole army of Dezer. Breath, shite, piss, vomit… am I forgetting anything?” he asked of Halm.

  “No, you have it all.”

  Muluk turned back to Goll. “And you know this. You’ve slept down there before. One eye open and the other on your belongings.”

  “That’s one thing a person doesn’t have to worry about, I’ve found,” Halm threw in. “No one tries to take another’s possessions.”

  “No one has any possessions to take; that’s why,” Muluk countered.

  “There are Skarrs posted throughout,” Goll said. “I’ve seen them at night, in and around the infirmary. They’re there.”

  “A handful,” Muluk added.

  Halm glanced about the room.

  “Who are you looking for?” Muluk asked.

  “Pig Knot.”

  “You seem to worry about him a lot.”

  “Not worried. Just want him a part of this.” Halm returned his attention to his company. “He’ll want to,” he directed at Goll, who said nothing. Halm was beginning to feel the Kree truly didn’t like the Sunjan at all.