Twenty strides away.
He felt his bandages, tight across the wounds, and shifted into a crouch. Bhor brought the warhammer up to his chest. The people’s cheering quieted a touch as the distance closed. Halm shook his head once more. Bhor was a large man bearing down on him. The Zhiberian gauged where he might put his first strike—the gut, which Bhor only seemed to be partially guarding. Or a limb or hand. The arms had bracers and the legs greaves. He also wore spiked gloves as Vadrian had.
Ten strides.
“I’ll kill you,” Bhor growled, loud enough for only Halm to hear.
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t heard such things before. “Come on then,” Halm said.
Five strides. Bhor whipped the warhammer up over his head. That he could lift such a murderous hunk of metal was something amazing. Halm cocked his arm.
They leaped at each other to the rising delight of the crowd.
And a moment later, the Pit exploded with sound.
41
Below the arena, the awesome blast of cheers partially muted by the stone made Goll look up. He wasn’t the only one, as several others stopped what they were doing to gaze upwards at the murky heights. Only for a moment did they look, however, before turning their attention back to their own preparations. Any moment, Goll expected chunks of stone to fall around him. Then the harsh thunder subsided into nothing. And the Madea was calling out the names of the next fighters to walk the tunnel.
That sudden roar rattled Goll’s nerves. He’d been taken in by the Weapon Masters of Kree at the age of twelve, and one of the very first lessons he’d learned from them was that of self-reliance. Yet, here he was, relying on another to forward his goals. The fear in his guts taunted him. He couldn’t even make the journey to the stands this time around, couldn’t bear to watch, choosing to wait for Halm either to return through the tunnel on his feet or to be carried out in the meat cart. The thought of having placed almost all of their coin on the head of one Zhiberian made his stomach sink. He should have been smarter. He should have placed a smaller wager. If Halm had lost, Goll’s plans would be swept away.
The moments stretched on as he leaned against the stone lip of the white tunnel’s entrance, feeling something like a worried wife wondering if her champion would come home.
Then, from around the far corner, a man appeared, walking tall.
Goll stopped breathing. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
As each step brought Halm clearer into view and closer, Goll couldn’t see any indication of a wound on his fleshy frame. As far as he could see, there were none. Halfway down the tunnel, Halm reached up with one hand and pulled off his helm, lighting up the white stone with his infectious grin. Goll exhaled and smiled back, feeling both disbelief and a surge of joy.
“Didn’t take long at all,” Halm informed him.
“Not at all,” Goll agreed. “I didn’t have any time to go to the stands.”
“Surprised?”
The Kree couldn’t help but grin. “I am. I’d be lying otherwise.”
“Well, come on,” Halm told him as he bent over with a groan and began stripping off his greaves. “Let’s get this off me and get topside. We have a marker to cash in.”
He won, Goll’s mind flashed, almost as stunning as the rainburst of sound he’d heard earlier.
“Some bad news, however.”
Goll’s face momentarily darkened. “What’s that?”
“Bastard Curge will probably have another man on me in a week’s time.”
“You killed Bhor?”
“Aye that. Didn’t you hear?”
“I heard the people, but—”
“The very place shook on its foundation when I killed him.” Halm flipped off one of his greaves and slapped it on the stone floor. He got to work on the other one.
Goll thought of the wager and the coin wanting for him. He couldn’t stop smiling. “Zhiberians,” he whispered.
*
In the viewing chamber at ground level, Curge stiffened as if a spike had been driven through both feet, and he gripped the brickwork of the archway. His men behind him remained deathly quiet, not daring to even breathe in the wake of the stunning loss. The Zhiberian had already left the sands, and men dragged Bhor from the Pit to the open gate, where a cart waited. That cart would transport the fighter’s dead body from the sands to the waiting firepit, where all the day’s dead would go.
Curge couldn’t believe his eyes. The bastard Zhiberian had finished Bhor faster than Samarhead if that was possible. The fight replayed itself in his mind: two pit fighters, closing, closing, Bhor with his warhammer overhead and Halm with his sword and square shield at the ready, the crowds barely heard, and then…
Bhor swinging, warhammer screaming downwards on a slant, but the Zhiberian… the Zhiberian lunging, arm punching out and stabbing the taller Bhor through the torso, leaving the sword in him as the fat man ducked inside the arc of the descending weapon.
Dodging it entirely.
Bhor dropped to his knees a heartbeat later, warhammer already released, head slumping as though he was about to vomit, and then he simply rolled over.
Halm righted himself, walked over to his opponent, and worked his blade free, the steel’s tip bright with blood. More of it bubbled up in the puncture hole of Bhor’s leather vest. The people screamed approval while Bhor feebly sought to cover the wound with his hands.
The Zhiberian towered above him, ignoring the crowd, and merely waited for the man to die.
It hadn’t taken long.
Curge clenched his jaw and fumed, only faintly aware of servants raking the sands to cover up the blood, of his own men standing behind him. Streams of images raced through his mind, and he made the effort to slow them down, studying the battle in black and white. The Zhiberian was fast, deadly fast. That was clear to him now. And he was a counterstriker, waiting until his foe had committed to an attack before launching his own. That fat belly of his was only a ruse, a ruse that had taken two of his most promising men from Curge, and even the insane Vadrian if he wanted to include him.
Dark Curge inwardly cursed himself for not paying greater heed to this pit fighter.
It was a mistake he wasn’t about to make again.
*
Later that evening, in the house of Healer Shan, Goll and Halm sat about Muluk’s sleeping form, still confined to the same table they had left him on. Goll sent an untouched Halm out to fetch some food and drink, and he brought back a small feast of fresh bread, a pair of roast garlic ducks, and water, with a bottle of mead as a before-bed drink. He spread the food out on another table, the smell of the meat filling the room, and asked Shan to leave them to their privacy. The healer closed the outer shop, asking the men only to close the door and shutter the windows if they decided to leave. From where he sat, Goll asked if he had any beds and if they could stay there for the night.
“I do.” Shan scratched at his head of sandy hair. “But wouldn’t you be more comfortable in an alehouse or inn?”
“After this morning? No,” Goll replied. “I’ll pay you for anything you have upstairs. You do have some, correct?”
“I do, but they’re for patients.”
“If you have anyone come in the night, we’ll sleep on the floor.”
“Well, no need for that…”
“If it’s needed, we’ll do it.”
A smile appeared on Shan’s lined face. “Then the upstairs is yours. I live through that door there. Knock if you need me.”
“We will,” Goll assured him. The Kree grunted and thought for a moment. “Do you know of any men who might be hired on as watchmen?”
“Watchmen?”
“Guards.”
“How many?”
Goll took a breath and considered the question. “Perhaps two or three. If you know of any.”
“I’ll put the word out. I might know of a man.”
“Good.”
Shan regarded the sleeping form of Muluk then the bulky Halm.
“I’ll leave you all til the morning. Oil lamps are on the shelf when you need them. Cots are upstairs.”
Goll nodded his thanks and returned to his meal, Halm on the other side of the table. The Zhiberian was already well into his portion of the duck and smacked his lips loudly as he ate.
“Go at it quietly, man,” Goll told him. “You’ll wake up Muluk.”
“I’ll save him some.”
“We both will.”
“You think we need a guard?” Halm asked.
“I’ll feel better about it.”
Halm leaned in and lowered his voice. “How much did we win?”
Goll sighed. “Not quite enough.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What if I throw in what’s left of my coin?”
“Not enough even then. We need several hundred more. We’ll have to… have to wager on Pig Knot.”
“Ah.” Halm smiled, digging into his food again. “The coin is as good as ours then. He’ll not let you down.”
Goll didn’t share the same confidence.
*
At about the same time Halm and Goll were holding Muluk down so Shan could work on his wrecked body, Pig Knot felt as if his arms and legs were about to drop off. Under the hellish glare of both the morning sun and the pair of trainers, he marched about the open sands with a timber beam that must have weighed as much as a grown man across his shoulders. His path, as laid out by Koba, took him the width of the sands, where he would squat once before rising and struggling to the other side, where he would sink into another squat to complete the circuit.
Even when Koba did a complete two rounds seemingly without breaking a sweat, Pig Knot knew he was going to die. Perhaps somewhere during the second completion.
He surprised himself by doing six.
There was no way he could rise when he dipped that final time, and dropping the timber from his shoulders was no easy task either. They allowed him a brief moment of rest before once more having him take up a wooden sword and lay into the practice man, drumming out the exact same two stroke he’d done the day before. Pig Knot paced himself, but when Machlann shouted it was time to eat, the Sunjan’s limbs felt rubbery with exhaustion.
In the common room, he could barely use his arms to feed himself the soup they gave him.
There was more training in the afternoon, weapon practice and even some sparring with Koba, all while both Machlann and Clavellus watched with judging eyes. Pig Knot knew the old trainer waited for him to surrender, to quit and walk away, every time he gave an order. The moustached bastard wasn’t interested in leaden arms and legs or the exhausted pain. Even Koba, who sparred with him, swung his wooden sword and shield with heavy strength while Pig Knot could only defend himself and counterstrike with whatever weak reserves he possessed. Ever since yesterday, when Pig Knot had eyed that young tart, he sensed Koba projecting an air of suppressed hostility towards him, one that the Sunjan wanted to dispel.
By midafternoon, hopes of that disappeared and were replaced by wondering if he should simply quit. He didn’t seem to be learning anything, and the bruises on his arms and legs from Koba’s strikes were only getting bigger. Any moment, he expected a shout from Clavellus, commanding the trainers to ease off him, but the taskmaster seemed more interested in his damned silver mug that had to be nailed to his hand, often flashing in the sunlight.
Pig Knot continued sparring with heavy-handed Koba.
The Sunjan withdrew into himself, listening to that voice telling him he didn’t need such abuse and that he could do quite well on his own. Every time he heard it, a part of him believed it, but then the stubborn part of him saw Machlann’s wretched face waiting for him to surrender and walk away. The clacking of the wooden blades distracted him only a little from that voice while his muscles increased their pleading for him to stop. Just… stop.
Machlann stood in the shade of an overhanging roof extending from the ramparts, watching and waiting. The guards patrolling the walls were only half interested in the same man having his guts torn out. Pig Knot grimaced when Koba slapped his right bicep with the flat of his sword once more.
“Eeee stop looking at me and them and focus on him,” Machlann bawled. Then to Koba, “Seems we might have a right proper daisy in our midst, eh? A right proper daisy.”
Koba withdrew back into his fighting stance, waited until Pig Knot was ready, and attacked again.
This time, Pig Knot parried the blow and became locked up with the trainer, hissing with exertion. Koba frowned at the situation and seemed to wait. Pig Knot took the moment to push forward, pistoning his legs into the sand.
The frown became a snarl, and Koba twisted his upper body, ramming his forearm into Pig Knot’s wrist and slapping him to the ground in a spray of sand.
“Eeeee what was that?” Machlann bawled. “What was that? You right stupid punce! What did I tell you about leverage? What did I tell you? Don’t you ever do that again, or I’ll cut your bells off and string them up for wind chimes! On your feet! On your feet!”
Pig Knot exhaled, practically spent, yet he somehow stood. Machlann walked over, glaring hot enough to melt stone, and gestured with his club.
“Lock it up again,” the trainer ordered. “Lock it up. Go on. You were eager enough to get into a shoving match just now. Now I’ll show you why you never ever do such a thing.”
Koba assumed his stance and waited for Pig Knot to cross swords with him as they had done before. Not seeing the point, Pig Knot nevertheless complied. He didn’t want to be clubbed across the head once more and have to endure more stitching.
“Now,” Machlann growled, “lean in, half strength, so you’ll understand.”
Koba glared at him from behind the crossed blades. Pig Knot still wondered what he’d done. What was the woman to the burly trainer?
“This is a situation a trained gladiator won’t commit to, unless it’s a Free Trained flick of maggot shite. Now look here. You’re pushing ahead, using all muscle, when this is problem of leverage. You don’t push forward when steel is locked as all of your power is committed into going forward, and it’s too easy to put your sorry head into the dirt. And if someone is doing it to you, by Seddon’s ball sack, you punish him. You use your free arm, as Koba did. Twist your upper body and strike the wrist here.”
Machlann tapped Pig Knot’s wrist and forearm and glared at the man.
“Do that with enough force while the other is trying to push through you, and you send your daisy into the sand, bare assed and ready to be packed. Understood?”
Pig Knot blinked.
“Go ahead, then. Push forward as you did before,” Machlann said.
Without thinking, Pig Knot did just that.
Koba twisted and rammed a fist into Pig Knot’s weapon hand, sending him sprawling to the sand once more. He rolled over only to have Koba drop and make to stab him through the middle. If it were a real fight, Pig Knot would’ve been skewered.
“See?” Machlann asked loudly.
“Aye that.”
“Machlann,” a voice called, pulling both trainers back from the Sunjan sprawled out on the sand. “Go through that a bit until he understands what you’re talking about.”
Like a dutiful dog, the trainer promptly nodded and switched his attention back to Pig Knot.
“You heard the taskmaster. On your feet.”
Groaning, Pig Knot did just that.
“Once more, Pig Shite,” Machlann growled at him. “Once more. And then again. And again until I say stop or you drop. I have a fistful of gold that you’ll quit before the day’s done.”
Pig Knot huffed, red-faced, as he stared at the man. He liked that wager himself.
However, by evening, after a torturous day of drills and half-learned fighting techniques, Machlann yelled at him to get out of his sight. The day was done, and the Sunjan had done it. Pig Knot could scarcely believe it. He’d survived the day and lived to breathe. On legs that ached with each step, he limped from t
he training area and headed for the baths. His arms felt like pliable lead and sported dark welts that glowed. Sweat caked his person, and he felt well and truly filthy from the day’s exertions. With each step, he wanted to quit. Wanted to just leave it all behind, yet he knew, standing in his wake and most certainly waiting for him to do just that, were the two trainers, along with the drunken taskmaster on his balcony. Pig Knot wished for one sip of whatever the bastard was drinking from his silver mug.
Then another notion formed in his skull.
The trainers had tried hard to break him this day. Damn hard. Placed coin on it even.
Pig Knot stopped in his tracks, not five strides away from the common room door, and looked back.
There, discussing matters between them, stood the two trainers, their features dusky with the failing daylight. They eventually felt his stare and matched it.
Pig Knot smiled and nodded. You did what you could… and I’m still here.
Neither trainer said a word.
With that message sent, the Sunjan turned about and went inside. He fell asleep in the hot waters, shrouded in luxurious steam. He dreamed of the drills and a laughing Machlann whipping him relentlessly, screaming at him that he wasn’t worth the time or effort. Koba lurked in the background, grinning malevolently while sharpening a steel blade. Horns sprouted from his head.
“Only getting started!” Machlann shrieked, barbs bursting from the whip’s length. “Eeee only getting started!”
Only words, but Pig Knot knew they were true. They were only getting started. That was why no words were spoken at the end. He’d lived through the day, but there would be more to pull himself through, more exhausting exercises, more bloody drills, and more wagers on when he’d quit. All while the trainers whipped him.
Fine then. The words shored up his resolve. We’ll see if they can break me… for I’m not about to quit. Not now. For spite’s sake, if anything.
Something pulled Pig Knot back from the dream.
He opened his eyes to a concerned face. A servant had roused him. For that, Pig Knot quietly thanked him.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 50
