He didn’t see Halm’s. Or anyone else’s he knew for that matter.
Rubbing his face, he wandered to another spot where he and Halm and the others had once stayed. That area was still bare, but the large cloth sack containing Halm’s armor and helm was missing. Pig Knot shook his head. Someone hadn’t actually stolen that garbage, had they? The thought gouged him. He gazed about the immense underground chamber, finding shadows that moved and those that did not. Huffing, he gave up and hunkered down, got comfortable, and listened to the dull, rattling snores that seemingly shook the Pit’s foundations.
He tried hard not to think about a clean cot and fresh bread.
20
The rickety gates of the Stable of Grisholt opened early in the morning as men finished preparing a wagon and a koch for departure. With a greasy saunter, Grisholt made his way from the entryway of his house and climbed into his transport. There, he shifted his ass upon the cushions until just so and waited with an air of indifference as Brakuss closed the door behind him. The stable owner truly hated travelling at such a time, not appreciating the fresh country air or dew moistening the courtyard grass. But travel he must, for on this day, his fortunes would change. In anticipation of this change, he wore his finest clothes that hadn’t been wasted by time, a rosy vest of satin over a black shirt and beige breeches befitting a man of his position, complemented by high leather boots of worn but distinguished-looking leather. The perfumed water he wore was the last to his name, and he promised himself that after this day he’d replenish his supply.
He heard the drivers snap the horses into movement, and the two vehicles rattled through the gates, eventually turning towards the grey heights of Sunja. Inside his private koch, Grisholt tugged on his beard and thought about the day and the first fight of the season for his stable of warriors. He’d already spoken with Gunjar, and though he could see the young man was disappointed with the order to lose his first match of the season, Grisholt assured him there would be other seasons for him to perform well. The fighter could certainly make a name for himself cutting up Free Trained warriors in other matches outside of the regular tournament, which would be practice all the same and opportunity to make a little extra gold. In addition, losing the match would endear him to the Stable of Grisholt, even place him in Grisholt’s favour, and that was something that couldn’t be measured in gold alone. His loss would extend life not only to the stable but also to his fellow pit fighters as well.
Gunjar accepted it, but Grisholt could see he wasn’t happy. The old owner didn’t care in the least about the man’s feelings on the matter. In the end, Gunjar did what he was told to do.
They made the short journey to the city and entered the main gate with no questions from the Skarrs. Grisholt took the time to gaze out his window and studied peasants, farmers leading livestock, and the shoddy merchants in their open stalls. He gathered a fine hand cloth and placed it to his nose and mouth. After the clean air of the countryside, smelling the shite of thousands of people pent up within city walls wasn’t something he could endure for long periods. And to think they thought it fresh! Even as the koch’s ride smoothed out, a farmer stopped in front of the horses with a string of cows. Grisholt leaned out to see what the delay was just in time to glimpse of one of the beasts defecating right there in the street. He drew back, but the image remained in his mind. And who knew how long the offensive pile would remain there, and the countless number of feet, bare and booted, that would trek right through it. He thanked Seddon above he wasn’t born to a farmer’s life.
The koch rolled past the scene and made good time until it stopped once more.
A question on his face, Grisholt again looked out his window. People of all their shapes and colours milled about, but nothing held his attention for long. He leaned to the other side in time to spy Caro pass by the window and rap on the door. Grumbling, Grisholt quickly closed all of the shutters, encasing the interior in mid-morning gloom. Assured that people outside could no longer see in, he gripped the handle and cracked the door open, screwing up his face at his agent.
“Get in, quickly.”
Caro did so and deposited himself on the cushion opposite his employer, his face veiled in shadow. Grisholt closed the door and eyed the man with contempt. He detested stopping in the middle of a street. It drew unwanted attention.
“What is it? And it had best be something, to catch me on the way to the arena.”
Caro fidgeted, not at all comfortable. Grisholt thought the man looked terrible. His shirt had been torn open to reveal hairy, sweltering parts of him the stable owner didn’t wish to see. Sweat dribbled down the agent’s face, and there was something about him that just seemed unwell.
“Well?”
“I saw Curge early this morning.” Caro glanced at the shutters as if suddenly aware of where he was.
“No one can see you in here,” Grisholt blurted impatiently. “Well? Why aren’t you at the Pit?”
“Curge…” Caro faltered. “He tortured me!”
That made Grisholt cock an eyebrow. It didn’t really surprise him. Not really. “Did he pay you for the information?”
Caro shook his head. “He… he was going to chop off my fingers.”
Grisholt looked at his henchman’s hands. All digits were in place and accounted for, which did surprise him. “But he didn’t?”
“He didn’t. Instead, he… held his hand, and I told him about the Free Trained visiting Clavellus.”
“You didn’t mention anything about the gold?” Grisholt leaned in, his temper rising. By Saimon’s blue pisspot, he’d strangle this idiot right here in the koch if he so much as—
“No, not that. Just everything else.”
“Everything else? What everything else?”
Caro hesitated. “He knows I work for you.”
Grisholt shrugged impatiently before forcing himself to assume a veneer of indifference. “As if I care what that ogre thinks. Curge is elemental at best. Now then, did he harm you in any other way?”
Caro shook his head so violently he might have just been pulled from a winter river’s icy depths. Not that Grisholt particularly cared. Spies weren’t too difficult to come by. But he could plainly see his man was somewhat unhinged, and unhinged agents could be damaging.
“All right. Now think. Did you…” Grisholt paused for a moment, for the next part was quite serious. “Tell him anything else?”
Sensing the danger he was in, Caro again shook his head and exclaimed, “No, nothing! I swear!” His hands clenched the ragged ends of his shirt.
Grisholt made the conscious effort to appear relieved. “I have to be certain, you understand. You said nothing about my plans this day?”
“Nothing, I swear!” Caro’s eyes widened in fright.
Grisholt stared into those terrified orbs.
“I believe you,” he stated after a short, considering silence. Then the owner gave his agent a wink. “You can relax now, Caro, you survived your encounter with Curge. I won’t ask you to do something like that again. It was a mistake on my part. Here…”
Grisholt pawed at a cushion and slipped if off the seat, revealing a sliding panel. He removed this as well and reached inside the hole meant for long journeys when he didn’t wish to step outside to use a latrine. Reaching just under the lip of the hole and grimacing, realizing full well where he had his hand, he brought forth a leather purse. He handed it over to his man.
“Take this. You know what to do with it. I’ll have a few lads around to ensure no one robs you later.”
Blinking and making the effort to relax, Caro reached out with two functioning hands and took the small leather bag from his employer.
“Yes,” Grisholt went on, convinced that his agent hadn’t compromised anything else to Curge, and thankful he didn’t have to dispose of him. Even though the interior of the koch was frayed, it was still clean and quite comfortable. Killing a man inside of it would only bring about bad luck on this day. Instead, he went a
bout replacing the panel and cushion, smoothing it when done. “We won’t do that again. Not if he’s going to be that way. I should have realized it was Dark Curge we were dealing with. My mistake, good Caro. Have no worries. Now then. Can you do the task at hand?”
Caro nodded, finding his backbone.
“Excellent. Then we’re done here. Bring the gold to my viewing chamber once you have it.”
With that, he leaned over and opened the door for Caro, shooing him out.
When the spy was gone, Grisholt closed the door and tugged on his beard unconsciously, swearing at himself and Curge. The gall of the brute to terrorize his messenger. Caro had gotten off lucky this time around, and so had Grisholt. It would be the last time he approached Curge with any information. Scowling, he rapped the wood behind his head. A second later, the koch laboured onwards.
As they approached the inner city and Sunja’s Pit, Grisholt opened his shutters and recognized the wagon carrying Gunjar and a handful of his other fighters steering towards the entrance of the sun, while his koch veered towards the stone and timber booths of the Domis, where wagers were placed. The driver got as close as possible to the four booths, as Grisholt ordered him to before they left the estate, and he waited until Brakuss opened the door. Then Grisholt stepped out into the sun with a snarl of a squint on his face.
“Miserable heat.” Grisholt switched from the hateful ball overhead to the lines of peasants waiting for their turn with the Domis. Skarrs could be seen in menacing full armor, watching the crowds for any sign of trouble. Four lines of people stretched back from the open windows where one placed wagers, and Grisholt had no intention of waiting at the end of any of them.
With the intimidating form of Brakuss behind him, glaring at the world with his one working eye and a hand on the pommel of his sword, Grisholt summoned a smile and made his way to the front of the nearest line. He didn’t excuse himself, and the gathered people took note of him with indignation quickly suppressed when Brakuss came into view. The seven or eight Skarrs standing about did nothing to stop the stable owner, which added even more insult to the people waiting in line. Grisholt detected the repressed sputters, and his smile widened. He knew the Skarrs recognized him, and he knew they would only act if a fight started. Unlikely with Brakuss on his heel.
The second peasant in line frowned and relinquished his place without a word when he saw Grisholt and then Brakuss. When the owner reached his selected window, he stared at the back of the head of a man who hadn’t noticed him and continued making his wager.
Brakuss stepped in and shoved the peasant aside, pushing him away from the window and surprising the Domis within. A glare from the henchman silenced any protest from both men. Grisholt stepped up with an unruffled sigh and a pleasant demeanor.
“Ten gold on Gunjar, Stable of Grisholt,” he announced just loud enough so that those nearby would hear the princely sum. He only needed a few ears, and the reaction would be swift. No one placed that amount of coin on a fighter without knowing something, and the peasants behind him would be quick to choose Gunjar themselves. Already he sensed eyes on his back and felt a greedy energy building in the air.
The Domis, a shorter man who squinted, made the wager and handed over the marker.
Grisholt snatched it away without a word of thanks.
With a glowering Brakuss securing his back, Grisholt returned to his koch, ignoring the wary looks from those he passed. He pulled to all the shutters once inside his transport. It wouldn’t keep the smell of unwashed bodies out, but at least he didn’t have to see the populace. He leaned towards one window and, after a moment, opened it just a crack. There, he spotted Caro at the back of the nearest line. Smiling to himself, Grisholt rapped on the wall behind him, prompting the koch to lurch forward. He twirled the ends of his beard. Caro would quietly place a fifty gold bet on Gunjar’s opponent, whoever he was—Caro knew, and that was all that mattered. Fifty gold coins was, in fact, almost the last of Grisholt’s existing treasury, but it was worth it. The winnings would give Grisholt’s stable breathing room once more. This year, he wanted to be more aggressive in his wagering. He didn’t want to ever reach his current financial state ever again.
The koch stopped once more, and Grisholt waited until Brakuss opened the door.
“I feel lucky.” The stable owner smiled at his bodyguard before pointing beyond him. Brakuss then became a meaty knife cutting a path between the crowds entering the Gate of the Sea. Grisholt followed with three more of his lads guarding his back. Brakuss led the little band to the private entryway allowed only for owners and other important figures. Grisholt was glad for the entrance as it bypassed the Free Trained nest completely. They had to pass the stairs that descended into the general quarters, and the stench that rose from that black throat made Grisholt want to heave up whatever was left in his stomach.
Once off the public walkways and descending another set of stairs, Brakuss steered them towards a private room, one of several that allowed owners or house gladiators to look out at the arena sands at foot level. Once inside, the door was closed behind the party. It wasn’t the most comfortable of rooms, bare except for a few benches, and built out of the same brick, mortar, and timber as the rest of the arena. But it afforded a certain amount of privacy to the owners. Sand sometimes blew in from the arched window flush with the arena floor, but this particular day, Grisholt was glad to see that it hadn’t happened yet. He waited until Brakuss got out of his way and proceeded to the archway, stopping a foot before the window and peering outside. If he leaned forward, he could very well rest his elbows on the chest-high ledge—not that he would do such a thing. He didn’t want to get any closer and risk ruining his appearance or scent. After this day, he would have the coin to place more wagers, as well as to purchase much-needed goods for both the stable and himself.
Beyond the arched window, the sand glowed, almost blinding, while rising heat distorted the very air.
Miserable heat, Grisholt scoffed, dabbing a hand cloth at his neck.
The benches in the room were hard to the ass and not at all to his liking, but he sat on the cleanest-looking one and waited for the first fight to begin. Brakuss stood, eyes flickering towards the sand and no doubt remembering his own short but violent career in the Pit.
“Do you miss it?” Grisholt asked him.
Brakuss took a moment before answering. “No.”
Liar, the owner thought smugly, kneading the end of his beard with two fingers.
“This is going to be a very good day.” He looked expectantly at the arched window. “Lucky, lucky, lucky.”
It was at that precise moment the door to the private chamber opened.
And in walked Dark Curge himself.
Curge regarded them all with a black countenance, like a venomous butcher working his blade through a stubborn piece of gristle. He stood in the center of the room, challenging any who dared take a swing, wearing black trousers and a tunic the colour of sand. A single hand axe hung off a wide black belt, and Grisholt was quick to notice that it was well within reach of Curge’s right hand if he needed it quickly.
Grisholt did not think he would need it. At all. He had to consciously let his breath out.
Curge stared out the archway, taking in the sand of the arena as though seeing it for the first time. Then he centered on a tense Brakuss, who like the other three guards, stood with his hand on his sword.
Curge eyed him with malice, his lips curling in a silent challenge to pull steel.
Behind the ogre dominating the room lurked a bear of a man, not as tall as Curge himself, but as wide as the door. A thick X of studded leather crossed his chest while a paw of a hand gripped a scabbarded broadsword. Curge’s fearsome killer, black of hair and beard, closed the door and stood with his broad back against it. He glared at Grisholt as well, delivering the unspoken message that he was quite willing to spill blood if commanded.
“Grisholt,” Curge rumbled, not taking his eyes off Brakuss. “I want
ed to thank you for this morning’s message.”
Curge then turned his murderous gaze upon Grisholt with all the scorching heat of a midday sun.
“Ah…” Grisholt started. He made to stand, but Curge tsked no. The killer that the one-armed owner brought along glared at Grisholt’s four guards, and Grisholt suspected that the man could butcher the lot if given the command.
“Ah, you’re welcome, good Curge. Glad to be of service. I had hoped to make a few gold coins with the information, but my man said he caught you perhaps a little too early in the morning?”
“He did.”
“My apologies.”
Curge didn’t blink. “I wasn’t overly offended. I left him his fingers. And his balls.”
This set Grisholt’s eyes to flutter for a moment, as if a horse had kicked in his skull. He cleared his throat, composing himself. “Ah, well, I appreciate that.”
“What do you care if the topper has balls or not? Not a daisy, are you?”
This struck Grisholt speechless. “Uh, no, I’m not,” he finally managed.
“This place.” Curge took his eyes off the man for a moment and gestured with his stump, which disturbed Grisholt for some reason he could not quite identity. “Feels like a grave. You really can’t see much down here, can you?”
“We see enough.”
“Hm. This is only my first—no—second time at this level. I was fortunate enough to inherit my father’s run of luck when I assumed command of his house. Never stepped beyond the view box of the top three. One sees everything up there. Everything. All the feints and strikes. The tactics and strategy.”
131 Days [Book 1] Page 31
