131 Days [Book 1]

by Keith C. Blackmore

  If only he had the opportunity to face Curge again. It would be a different meeting. He would tell that ogre where he truly stood in Sunja and that his threats were as worrying as a fragrant cow kiss in a road.

  The entire episode soured the gold he’d won from Gunjar losing his match. The fighter had even survived with minimal damage, and while both feats should have made the owner delighted, Grisholt fumed instead. Caro had delivered his lord and master his sizeable winnings in a leather sack after the gladiator’s fight, and Grisholt remembered the heft and the gravelly jingle of the coins as they landed on the floor of his koch. He didn’t even bother to count it while he rode back home. The owner merely sat and stared out the window at the people passing by, glaring at any that met his stare.

  He hadn’t been to the city since.

  The urge to take out his frustrations on his servants, as his father would’ve done when he was alive, was fought down and controlled. Instead, Grisholt became stricken with long bouts of brooding, making him miserable even as he portioned his winnings and channeled coin into the areas of the house and business needing it. The incident smouldered in his head as bright as freshly forged steel.

  Grisholt would make Curge regret threatening him. He’d remember the outrageous breach of etiquette and make him pay… at a later time, perhaps when he was close to his deathbed. And why wait for a natural death? His father had spoken of removing the heads of houses before. Certainly the House of Curge could be dethroned from its current position in the Pit. They had enjoyed their dominant status for too long, it seemed to Grisholt. Years, in fact. Perhaps it was time to seek alternative means, beyond the combat of the arena, to bring down the house. It would most assuredly benefit Grisholt to do so, and he knew the other houses and stables would welcome the change, however it came about. Only a sizeable amount of coin prevented him from pursuing this course of action. Gold would be needed to hire killers bold enough to strike down Curge, gold that Grisholt did not have.

  So he mulled in black fashion until word reached him that the Free Trained men had settled into three rooms of an alehouse. That was very interesting news indeed and perked the owner up considerably. And then came another report of the pit fighters leaving the city, perhaps even carrying their coin with them.

  Always something, Grisholt thought. Caro had sent a man after the Free Trained to see where they’d gone. Caro himself had gone to the Pit and discovered that the Zhiberian was scheduled to battle on the sands in a few days, fighting one of Curge’s lot, no less. Not that the match was of any importance to Grisholt. The master of the stable couldn’t help but think the Free Trained’s gold could have already been in his hands if he’d been more organized and had the proper men in place.

  But he hadn’t been prepared. Grisholt wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

  Rain fell as he entered the regular common room of the gladiators, now devoid of most of his warriors except for the summoned few. Torchlight revealed five great tables, of which only a pair were occupied. Six men gathered around them, men whom Brakuss had chosen from the Stable of Grisholt ranks. Men who weren’t particularly fussy about getting their hands dirty beyond the arena.

  Cutthroats.

  Killers.

  The pungent smell of unwashed bodies made Grisholt screw up his nose for a moment. He wasn’t surprised about the men Brakuss had recruited. The chosen men had trained hard for the arena; in fact, the brutes had to be watched closely for fear of fighting too hard in their sparring matches. Grisholt recognized the one already responsible for removing another gladiator from the active roster. Inflicting wounds and crippling potential money earners was something the owner couldn’t afford. Part of his role was to recognize the strengths of an individual and to determine where that person would best serve the interests of the house.

  In this case, regarding the gathered men, their eyes glittering like rats’, Grisholt approved of Brakuss’s selection and gave his one-eyed henchman an appreciative nod. The house master stood before the men divided up and sitting at two tables, sizing up their bare arms and chests. Scarred and muscular, they looked rough, ready, and even eager.

  Golki sat like a skinned bear, with round eyes that hadn’t blinked since Grisholt came into the room. Perhaps the most powerful of the gathered fighters, Golki preferred using two long-shafted, diamond-shaped maces in combat and actually had to be physically restrained at times from continuing well past the finish of sparring matches.

  The menacing Kurlin sat at the end of the same table as Golki, his hands flat on the wooden surface as if divining spirits. Grisholt had heard from his taskmaster Turst that Kurlin was the sort who also enjoyed punishing his fellow fighters a bit too much. Turst even asked Grisholt to reconsider entering him in the games, as he was a blood match waiting to happen. Kurlin was perfect for such shady work as Grisholt was offering.

  Morg and Sulo were usually grinning butchers, quick to anger and even quicker to use any and all dishonourable tricks known to put a man down. Morg in particular had blinded a man by jamming a thumb into his head up to the first knuckle. Grisholt still remembered the morning it happened and the victim’s shrieks. He wasn’t overly fond of the pair as he knew they scorned and taunted most around them.

  Then there was Lantus. Grisholt inwardly chided himself for not anticipating his volunteering in the first place. Good enough with a blade to enter the arena, Turst held the opinion that he would never improve his fighting ability. Lantus seemingly knew this as well, so he cheated at every opportunity. Lantus was one of those types who couldn’t be trusted at all and had to be motivated with brazen threats of physical punishment or even death. He wasn’t someone Grisholt felt confident in or comfortable around. He didn’t linger on the man and was more than a little wary of his presence in the group. The old house manager wondered if it might be better just to kill the snake outright. Lantus would have to be watched by the others, and he would make it a point to convey those thoughts to Brakuss. Perhaps Golki or Kurlin should kill him after the task was completed.

  The final man was cut and drawn looking, as if starved for some exotic dish. He kept his muscular arms folded. Inked pictures of knives ringed Plakus’s biceps, and he ran his tongue over his lips in anticipation of what Grisholt had to say. Plakus had a dirty fashion of flapping that lengthy muscle about his jowls whenever he was training or thinking hard. It was unnerving.

  Six killers.

  Overall, Grisholt couldn’t have been more satisfied with the choices Brakuss had made.

  “Boys,” he greeted and waited for a moment. “I have a task for you. Something that you’ll be well paid for and that will earn my gratitude. It might even open up other opportunities. One never knows. In any case, word has come to me that a small group of Free Trained fighters have come into a large sum of coin. I want that coin. There are at least three of them, possibly four, and they have no idea of you or your intentions. Presently, they have left Sunja with coin in hand, but they’ll return in a few days. When they do, my eyes and ears in the city will inform you of where they are sleeping and how many you’ll be facing. I want you to take whatever they have. If they have hidden their gold, torture them until they reveal where it is—then kill them. Do whatever is necessary to loosen their tongues. Bear two things in mind: Get the gold, and be quiet about it. Is that clear?”

  The lot of them had become increasingly more attentive, leaning towards their manager. When he finished, they nodded eagerly.

  “Excellent.” Grisholt folded his arms and tugged on his beard. “Bring whatever they have back to me, and I’ll be quite generous with your shares. Do well, and we just might begin a new business. With my spies out and about and listening to the very heart of the city, I’ve a feeling more opportunities such as this one will arise. In any case, I believe we are on the threshold of becoming exceptionally wealthy.”

  Grisholt didn’t bother giving these lads a speech about doing it for the greater glory of the stable. It would only be a waste o
f breath and time. They’d work for him because of the coin but also for the potential to butcher. He almost felt remorse for bringing these men together for such fell purpose. A terrible force was about to be released into the world.

  “From here on, keep this a secret. Do not speak with the other fighters. I don’t want anyone else beyond this room to know our plans. Also, keep your identity a secret. Cover your faces when you have to. Be stealthy. Kill whoever crosses you, but do it quietly. Be as ghosts with long knives. Understand?”

  They did.

  “Excellent. Brakuss will give you the particulars and anything else you need to know. Your contact in the city is Caro, and you’ll follow his orders. Understood?”

  Another series of nods.

  Grisholt let out his breath in a hiss. He looked at each of the men in turn, meeting their dangerous gazes.

  “Well then…” He was suddenly chipper. “Enjoy the hunt.”

  31

  Not wanting to leave Muluk behind with the gold for an extended amount of time, Goll had Halm rush back to the alehouse to get both him and the coin. A pair of white, cloth-covered wagons waited for the two men when they reached the south gate, and blocky Borchus got down from the first wagon and directed them to jump into the second. The storm clouds overhead cleared their throats and bulged with veined lightning, and no sooner did Muluk’s boot leave the ground than Halm felt the first few pecks of rain. The canopy of the wagon kept them dry, however, and the driver instructed them to untie a canvas if the rain began blowing in. They left the city by mid-afternoon, rumbling down the incline and heading towards the estate of Clavellus.

  With the wagon bumping and shaking them gently and the rain pecking against the shell of the wagon, Halm looked at Pig Knot and Goll.

  “What have you two been talking about, hm?”

  Pig Knot smirked. “About this idea of a house. Not bad, I must say. The Kree has big ideas. So you’re all in on this?”

  “I am,” Halm said brightly.

  “As am I,” reported Muluk, but uncertainty made his face a touch long.

  “Well, I’m in as well then.”

  Goll’s face became pensive.

  “What?” Pig Knot asked.

  “I’m not sure I want you to be a part of this.”

  “Goll,” Halm began, “we’ve already talked—”

  “We talked about this. You and I. He wasn’t here. And I’ve been waiting for your return so I won’t have to repeat myself.” Goll regarded Pig Knot as rain pelted off the canopy overhead and thunder rolled off the plains. “I’ve seen you fight. I’m not impressed. You won this time, but I’m sure if I’d watched it, I still wouldn’t be impressed. I want men who are committed to making a legitimate house successful.”

  “I see,” Pig Knot said. “But you don’t even know what this Clavellus wants. Do you?”

  “I expect he’ll want to talk about the games,” Goll said.

  “Oh, you expect? Well, before you cast me out or call me unworthy, why don’t we see what he wants to talk about. I just might not want to be a part of your house, anyway. Seem to have hit a roll on the sands on my own.” Pig Knot patted his leather purse for emphasis. “Like yourselves.”

  Goll regarded the two small sacks of coin on the wagon floor. “Yes, we’ve had our share of good luck, and I’m inclined to think it’ll continue.”

  “Let’s just keep it at that then. You really are looking to join a house?” Pig Knot asked Halm.

  “Aye that.”

  “Why?”

  “Partly because of him.” Halm indicated Goll. “And my own sense of time. I’m starting to think there might be more beyond living from season to season, getting drunk, and cracking heads in the months leading up to the next round of games. I…” Halm fluttered then, realizing he had a small audience. “I want a bit more than that. If I can.”

  “You’ve had offers before with established houses. Why with him?”

  The Zhiberian felt the wood of the wagon’s frame pressing into his back and the canopy billowing against his shoulders. “This one is just starting. Or at least I feel it’s about to start. With another house, I’d be just a fighter. Here, I would be… well…”

  He grinned then, exposing his terrible yellow and black teeth overlapping each other and making his mouth look like a steel trap for wild animals. “It’s stupid.”

  “Not until I laugh at it.” Pig Knot’s eyes twinkled.

  “That’s just my point.”

  “Out with it. You want to tell it, so go on.”

  Halm sighed and shrugged. “I think this could be a piece of history. The more I think about that, about being a part of it, the more I like it. I think Goll is the person to take whoever joins him there. He has push.”

  “Oh, he has something, I daresay.” Pig Knot smirked.

  “You should listen as well, Sunjan,” Goll countered. “You might be inspired to do something with your life. Other than swinging a blade while drunk and becoming a punce in the eyes of thousands of people, like your first fight.”

  “You saw that?” Pig Knot asked.

  “I did.”

  “Well, I wasn’t drunk then. The other man was drunk. I was only hung over.”

  “Like anyone could tell the difference on the sands. You were suffering, and the world saw it. I think you only do things halfway. I’m telling you this because I’m saving you the trouble of quitting later on. I’ve seen your type. The first bit of hard work that comes up, the first hard day of formal training, and you’ll break.”

  Pig Knot looked away.

  “Well?” Goll asked.

  “We’ll see,” Pig Knot muttered, but Halm smiled inwardly. Goll had made the Sunjan angry, and when Pig Knot was angry, he was at his best.

  “We’ll see,” Halm agreed and met Goll’s hard eyes.

  The rain continued, increasing the men’s fear that they might have to be called into service to push the wagons through the muddier sections of the road. The problem never materialized, and as rain seeped through the cloth canopy above, the conversation lulled, and the rocking of the wagon put all four to sleep.

  An abrupt stop and a cry from the driver woke them all at once.

  “We’re here.” Goll screwed a palm into his eye and wiped it.

  “Dying Seddon. Next time I’ll walk,” Muluk complained, arching his back.

  Outside, men called out greetings while wet footsteps approached from all sides.

  “Sounds like enough of them out there.” Halm looked up into the darkness of the wagon just as a drop of water spattered onto his right shoulder.

  Then the canvas was pulled back, revealing a group of men staring at them all. Lanterns glowed in a mist of rain, swinging from their handles with little squeals. The dark halved their faces until one man raised his arm, urging them to get out.

  “Well? Get out of there, you damned gurry, get out afore I yank you out screaming.” His voice thundered, startling the four. “Damnation, out! Out, I said. You think I’m holding this thing open for your benefit? P’rhaps you’d move faster with my boot up your ass? Move, you cripple. Slip, slide, or just damn drop, but get your pitiful ass-licking hide out of there!”

  The pit fighters hauled themselves out, feeling the ache in their joints from the long ride. Muluk grimaced when he landed and straightened up slowly.

  “What’s the trouble, my missus?” the same man thundered, bawling out the question as if he stood upon a hill. “What’s the trouble? Eh?”

  “Dammit, man, you don’t need to scream at us,” Muluk shot back.

  “Scream?” the face rumbled in mock puzzlement and held up a lantern. The speaker’s expression curdled at the question, hitching up one side of perhaps the most majestic grey moustache any of them had ever seen. “I haven’t begun to scream, you ripe prick!”

  Muluk flinched from the barrage as did Halm and Pig Knot. Goll wavered on his crutches but weathered the blast.

  “We’re—” was all the Kree got out.

/>   “Eeeeee,” the older man drowned him out in the deepest bass, “I know what y’are—you’re a pile of maggot shite that’s got me out in this warm pisspot of a night. Y’followed one order right, albeit slower ’n a winter’s shite, so see if you can follow the next afore I get sour. Come this way, and make sure you’re right on my tail as for the love of Seddon’s rosy ass, y’don’t want me behind you.”

  With that, the speaker strutted through the wedge of men behind him, all of whom split apart like a flimsy curtain. In the glow of lantern light, rain fell in a slant.

  “I’d get moving,” one of the guards said solemnly.

  Not bothering to look at his companion, Halm did just that, feeling the squish of wet sand beneath his foot. The others fell in behind him with Goll bringing up the rear. They were in the open, but most of the lanterns squeaking in the breeze fluttered and gave only a glimpse of where they stood. White walls of wood and brick gleamed in the wet dark, and the screamer who had greeted them marched towards a single, open door.

  Into this, he disappeared.

  The four men followed him in and stamped their feet on a fitted stone floor. Light from lanterns perched on shelves revealed a spacious room filled with worn wooden tables and benches. A shadowy archway appeared at the back, stretching almost to the ceiling and wide enough for two people to step through shoulder to shoulder.

  “Sit ’n’ shush.” The mustached man’s words came out with heat.

  Three of them complied while Goll stopped before their guide. “Don’t you—”

  “Sit your ass down, y’right talkative bastard. The man you want to see will talk to you soon enough, but not I. Seddon above. I should be drinking at home in front of a fire.”

  Simmering, Goll hesitated for a brief moment before finding a bench and lowering himself on it.