131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Read online

  The crowds cheered for the quality of violence to come.

  Colcus closed the distance and, at the last few paces, charged. He whipped his axe up and down in a slant, cutting for Sorban’s plumed helmet.

  Sorban got out of the way and whirled his staff, smashing a hard plate into Colcus’s lion snarl.

  The blow staggered the Nexus gladiator.

  Sorban whipped the staff about and stabbed a spike at Colcus’s gut.

  The gladiator batted the thrust away. He straightened and cocked that snarling lion’s head in a question. Then he attacked again. He swiped for Sorban’s head and missed. He chopped at his foe’s abdomen and split only air. He slashed for a shoulder, anticipated his foe darting to the left, and swung his spiked fist––

  ––which flashed through empty space, leaving him wholly exposed.

  Sorban bashed the lion’s face left, right, left, right before spinning that evil piece of wood and smashing his opponent’s armored skull. The blow visibly stunned the gladiator. Sorban then cracked a shoulder, raising a pained grunt from his foe and a cheer from the crowds. He jabbed for Colcus’s stomach, but the man deflected the thrust with his axe. Sorban used that force to whip the other end of his staff across the lion’s snout, torquing the head violently to the side.

  The crowds welcomed that metallic connection.

  Colcus took two unsteady steps back, and Sorban pursued.

  Crack! The Balgothan bludgeoned a leather-padded thigh. Then another right cut across the lion’s head. The impact rang out as blood streamed down Colcus’s neck. His guard dropped.

  Sorban stabbed and drove half a finger’s worth of spike through the tough leather of Colcus’s vest.

  The lion’s face howled, the stricken cry lost in the delighted roar of the crowds. Energized yet livid with pain, Colcus twisted off that painful point. He retreated two steps, reset his arms, and charged back into the fray. He brought his terrible axe crashing down with both arms powering the cut.

  Sorban realized he was too close.

  The descending battle-axe crunched into the upraised length of wood, breaking it in a lazy, sinewy V. Sorban jumped back, his reflexes saving him from a killing blow to the chest.

  The people favoring Colcus cheered.

  Sorban retreated and pointed a scolding finger at the Sunjan. Blood dribbled from the puncture in Colcus’s vest, staining it. Blood also drizzled down the man’s leg, but the Nexus gladiator, true to the lion’s guise upon his helmet, did not submit, did not retreat.

  Sorban turned his staff over, placed one end under a sandal, and stomped through the remaining fibers, separating the two halves. He gripped the shorter end, wielding it like a club, and walked toward his opponent.

  Colcus slashed at his foe’s gut.

  Sorban parried, the weapons crossing with a clack.

  Axe and club parted and clashed again. This time, Colcus got his boot up and snapped his heel into Sorban’s lower belly, throwing the man back.

  Sorban landed in a spray of sand.

  Colcus rushed the Balgothan as he struggled to rise. The Nexus gladiator hacked at the plumaged head with one mighty chop.

  The head came away in an explosion of dust. The body rolled away.

  Someone in the crowds shrieked.

  Colcus’s own wounds and momentum ruined him as he stumbled and crashed to the ground in a billowing cloud of dust.

  Elation and disappointment erupted from the onlookers.

  As the air cleared, a dirty and unarmed Sorban magically stood… his head still firmly attached to his shoulders but his helmet knocked clear and free.

  Sorban quickly kicked away the axe from the other’s grip.

  Stained by blood, sweat, and sand, Colcus rolled away from his opponent and regained his feet. He shook himself and raised fists the size of mallet heads. Spikes bristled. The lion’s snarling face welcomed a more personal, more brutal exchange, and he gestured for Sorban to attack.

  The Balgothan’s unprotected face was set, focused. Barely hearing the audience’s growing excitement, he beckoned his foe.

  Accepting the invitation, Colcus waded in and swung an overhand right.

  Sorban ducked and smashed a fist into Colcus’s puncture wound. The Nexus man buckled, and Sorban followed through with an uppercut that connected with the lion’s chin. Sparks flashed. Needles bent and snapped. Sorban pushed on, delivering a combination of punches, each blow knocking the lion’s face back and forth, driving the Nexus gladiator back.

  Then one punch smashed the lion’s nose, stunning Colcus, and he landed flat on his back.

  Sorban mounted him, jerked the helmet from the man’s head, and cocked a needled fist. Colcus’s face had sustained a terrible beating. The Balgothan had split skin to red bone, and blood seeped freely from purple gashes.

  The fog left Colcus’s eyes.

  Sorban’s fist hung in the air, poised like a black rock about to fall.

  “Yield,” Colcus whispered.

  *

  “Bad luck all round, good Nexus.” Curge chuckled.

  Below their shared viewing box, Sorban the Balgothan stood and lifted his arms to the crowds. Dark Curge glanced over at the wine merchant, who had been a little late joining him and the golden-faced Gastillo, arriving just after the match commenced.

  “Oh, I’ll have my day,” Nexus vowed as the applause for Sorban died away. “And I’ll leave my mark.”

  “Perhaps you’ll leave it on Prajus? Hm?” Curge smiled evilly.

  That blackened Nexus’s face, and the only sound belonged to the spectators as they filed out of the arena. Despite the summer heat, the temperature chilled around the merchant’s person.

  “I’m sure you’ll defeat Prajus when he fights in three days,” Gastillo said, careful with his words.

  “Three days is, it?” Nexus snapped, his anger bubbling through. “We’ll see, then, Gastillo. We’ll see.”

  Curge chuckled and rose from his seat. Nexus didn’t bid goodbye to the large owner, and Gastillo saw how the wine merchant’s face tightened with contempt.

  “I’ll be looking forward to that, Nexus,” Dark Curge said, his spirits high. “Perhaps something magical will happen with the third attempt.”

  “Damn your leathery ass, Curge,” Nexus muttered. “Go on with you, you brazen, saucy, one-fisted punce.”

  “Weak, merchant. Weak. I expect better from you. Perhaps that”—he gestured toward the Pit—“was too much this day? I imagine so. Go home and rest your bones. Drink some of that pig piss you call wine. Come back fresh.”

  Curge departed, leaving the female servant to close the door.

  “Ripe and evil bastard,” Nexus said after the man had gone.

  “Let me be clear here, good Nexus,” Gastillo began as spectators continued to exit. “I’m no ally of Dark Curge, but perhaps something good will happen in three days.”

  Nexus fixed him with a look of undisguised loathing. “What are you prattling on about?”

  “Just that. Your fortune might change this coming fight with Prajus. If you still intend to fight him, that is.”

  The wine merchant’s glare deepened even more. “Oh, I intend to fight him. Guaranteed, I’ll send someone to stick a length of steel through his unfit head. Just watch and see if I don’t.”

  “I have no doubt, good Nexus.”

  Attendants with wide brooms appeared on the arena floor to groom the sands. The constant chatter and cheering of thousands dimmed as people continued filing out of the arena, but the two owners remained seated.

  “It’s not like the wine business,” Nexus eventually stated, eyeing the sands. “Or the cloth. Or any other venture I’ve dabbled in. Though it’s become a true passion of mine. A true passion. And the more I fail, the harder I’ll strive to succeed. And I will, mind you. I’ve conquered everything else in this life, and I’ll conquer these games. Especially when the ruling class consists of a hairless ass licker and a gold-plated prick.”

  The insult c
aused Gastillo to sigh.

  “I’ll have my champion,” Nexus went on. “I’ll find him, and I’ll unleash him upon you and the entire gladiatorial ranks. Dog balls. How I’ll crow when that happens. You’ll see.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Nexus regarded him with a look of disgusted curiosity. “What is it you want, Gastillo? Say your peace, and then be off unless you wish to remain and listen to me rave on about how I’ll win at these gurry games.”

  That response set off a warm twinge of hope inside Gastillo as he detected a crack in Nexus’s tone. But an opening to what? He wondered how to best approach the wine merchant.

  Why not the truth? A voice suggested.

  “Good Nexus,” Gastillo began, forcing himself to speak in calm, measured tones, “I’ve grown up with these games. Participated in them and spilled my share of blood. I’ve fought the day’s best and took a champion’s title… and the coin that went along with it. I’ve enjoyed the seasons year after year. But now…”

  He faltered, watching the other man, who didn’t say a word.

  “Now, I find myself growing weary of these events,” Gastillo continued. “I… wish to explore other opportunities beyond the games. Try my hand at more civilized interests. Like wine, perhaps. Or grain. Or some other commodity. I have the finances to fund a business venture and leave all this behind, but I lack the wisdom and guidance of peers.”

  “Peers?” Nexus spat, eyes narrowed.

  “Peers.”

  “You mean me.”

  “I mean you.” Gastillo smiled behind his mask. “Perhaps we could help each other?”

  “Help each other? Have you forgotten your man Prajus has killed two of mine, you gold-faced teat? How do you propose helping me?”

  “I’m open to suggestions.”

  Nexus stared at him for several heartbeats.

  Then, as if remembering something, the merchant rose and shooed the one servant out the door. Once she was gone, Nexus glanced around, spying the few remaining people leaving the arena. Satisfied that they were indeed alone, he sat beside Gastillo and leaned forward.

  “Then ensure your man loses,” Nexus whispered, his eyes set and stern so that Gastillo knew he meant every syllable. “Do that. And I’ll help you.”

  Gastillo massaged his throat, absorbing what was being asked of him. “I can’t do that, Nexus. Not even if I wanted to. Prajus is somewhat headstrong and doesn’t always obey my commands. We’ve had words in the past. He would be suspicious of me.”

  “So you refuse to do anything.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Memories of harsh exchanges with Prajus ran through Gastillo’s head, the most recent having happened just after the insolent bastard had killed Parek, Nexus’s most recent avenger. “I’m saying anything I might… do… to ensure your victory may be suspect. Prajus isn’t some senseless animal.”

  “I mean to kill that man,” Nexus whispered, staring hard at Gastillo, who sensed the unspoken words by any means possible.

  “And,” Gastillo struggled to be diplomatic, “I hope you get your revenge. But… within reason. You must understand, Prajus is one of my best gladiators. Perhaps even the best. With aspirations to be a champion of the games. I have no doubt he will be victorious by the end of this season or the next. He will become a champion. After that, who knows what he’ll do. But if you’ve already sent your best after him––”

  “I have,” Nexus muttered.

  “Then I’m at a loss and wish you best fortune with any further attempts at revenge. I’ll admit, truth be known, despite Prajus’s success in the arena, if one of yours does strike him down, he won’t be missed. Not by me.”

  Nexus leaned in closer. “Then make it so he injures himself. Have one of your more loyal pit dogs hurt him. During practice. Cut him. Bruise him. Anything that might allow me an advantage. However slight.”

  The blatant suggestion surprised Gastillo. A part of him almost laughed in Nexus’s face for even suggesting such a thing, but he didn’t. He sensed he was closing in on an agreement of sorts—an understanding, but he was unsure of what.

  Also, he wasn’t sure he could do what Nexus was asking.

  “No,” Gastillo finally said. “I can’t do that. Apologies. If I did, I’d be no better than, say, any of the criminals set free upon the sands. Or some street snake yet to be caught.”

  Nexus leaned back. “Gastillo, you say you’re interested in leaving these games behind. In my trade, unfortunate occurrences happen all the time, natural or devised. Even harder decisions must be made, sometimes on a daily basis, resulting in people––innocent people––suffering. In this particular sport, I’ve done well. Simply because I recognize it’s a business no different than any other. That these gladiators are commodities. The owners are merchants. And the same harsh decisions must be made. You freely admit that Prajus won’t be missed, yet you refuse to make the decision that would rid yourself of the man. That speaks to me. I question if you have the mind to survive and adapt to a new profession. A business more to your liking. What about this… If you did happen to find that venture, what would you do with your house? Your fighters?”

  Gastillo stopped. Good question.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” he said, sensing an even greater opportunity. “Especially from an established merchant such as yourself.”

  Nexus wavered, his sunken chin quivering, black eyes twinkling, and finally smiled. “I may be very well speaking out of line here, good Gastillo, but I have a proposition for you. You’ll have every reason to laugh once you hear it. Ridicule me, even. What would your thoughts be on an exchange of goods?”

  Gastillo forced down the sudden sparkle of hope. “I’m listening.”

  “Could I not… purchase your house from you?” Nexus asked. “Taking control of your current roster in the process? Merge them into my own?”

  Once again, Gastillo was ever so grateful to have a golden mask to conceal his dismay. “You wish to purchase my house?”

  “If you’re willing. You might have ties not easily cut. Sentimental ones. But consider it. If that lad who deserted the Ten and later joined Curge can switch houses, I should be able to purchase and absorb an entire house itself. It would be bloodless and not at all under scrutiny of the Chamber. I’d even offer a small increase in your gladiators’ payment. Just to soften any ill feelings your lads might have.”

  “What about your revenge?” Gastillo asked. “Upon Prajus?”

  Nexus didn’t appear concerned. “Prajus would have no say in the matter, would he? He’d be under my care then. My control. And have no concern about my dogs. They’ll do as I say, for fear of being cast aside. Yes. Yes, I like that idea very much. If Prajus is as good as you say he is. If he’s a potential champion.”

  “He is,” Gastillo said, his heart thumping. “You’ve seen what he’s capable of.”

  “I have.” Nexus’s smile widened even more, reminding Gastillo of an early frost. “Perhaps we should discuss this possibility another time. In more secure surroundings. If you’re agreeable.” The wine merchant finished with a nod.

  Gastillo caught himself nodding in return. “When you’re ready,” he said, unsure if he’d heard the man correctly.

  “My good Gastillo,” Nexus said, his pallid flesh aglow. “I’m always ready…”

  14

  While the early fights were underway in the Pit, the House of Ten finished their preparations before leaving the city. Once amongst the teeming crowds of the public market, the Ten’s wagons stopped, and Clavellus lowered himself to the street. While he inspected dry goods and other valuables, he sent Pratos off to hire another wagon. Seeing they weren’t going anywhere soon, the others either relaxed inside their transports or ventured outside, watching the taskmaster buy gifts for his wife or supplies for the house.

  If he wasn’t buying, he was ordering large quantities of items and materials to be delivered to his gates. In time, he returned and directed the heavyset and wide-mousta
ched Bagrun to load more goods into one crowded wagon.

  Goll and a suffering Muluk stood outside during that, listening to Clavellus supervise. The heat was visibly crippling for Muluk, and Goll shook his head at the sight.

  “What?” Muluk asked, speaking Kree.

  “You look unfit,” Goll answered.

  “I feel unfit.”

  “Let this be a lesson to you.”

  “I will. Next time, I’ll rent an alehouse room. And return home the day after.” He exhaled mightily.

  “Don’t you empty your gullet here,” Goll warned.

  Muluk scowled. “Can’t be any fouler than what I’m already smelling,” he said, screwing up his nose at the blend of ripe dung, unwashed bodies, and an underlying taint of sewage polluting the air.

  “Masters Goll and Muluk.”

  The two Kree turned.

  Valka stood guard nearby, partially concealed by a wagon’s corner. The old soldier’s eyes flicked in the direction he wanted them to look.

  Clades was making his way through the market crowds, pleased that he’d located the Ten. A woman clung to his arm, a lovely woman. She wore a simple red shirt and loose-fitting black trousers. She was pretty, her blond hair tied back, revealing large blue eyes that looked uncertainly upon the two house masters.

  Both Krees straightened. Muluk, in particular, made a visible effort to compose himself.

  “What are you two looking at?” Clades scolded with good humor. “Haven’t seen a handsome couple before?”

  “Who’s looking at you?” Muluk smiled weakly.

  Clavellus walked into the gathering and brightened upon sighting the pair. “Seddon above, I don’t believe it. This is your missus, Clades? You’ve done much better than I gave you credit for. How is it you ever left this flower at all?”

  Clades regarded Kura. “I ask myself that question every day, Master Clavellus. That very thing.”

  “Kura, is it?” the taskmaster asked.

  She nodded. “Master Clavellus.”

  “These sorry punces address me as Master. You, however, you call me by name. No titles.” Clavellus gave a curt bow before studying her once more. “He was worried about you, you know.”