131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood Page 2

  “Too many to mention, Master Goll.”

  “Your trainers?”

  “Too many to remember.”

  Being in a particularly venomous state, Goll’s fingers curled around his short sword’s hilt. “Seddon above, I’ll strike you down if you don’t give me an answer this instant.”

  Junger cocked an eyebrow. “Master Goll. My history is my own. I think I’ve shown I’m committed to the House of Ten. That’s all that matters. I’ve avenged the Ten’s name twice over and defeated a gladiator belonging to a rival house, one fight after the other, but you know all that. You wanted the people to remember me? As of this day, they’ll remember. You wanted the other houses to fear us? From here on, they will. So, forgive me. I don’t understand why you’re angry. Didn’t you wager upon my match?”

  “The house’s finances are not your concern.”

  “Fine,” Junger allowed, holding out his hands. “Then I’d like to have my winnings for the day.”

  “Oh, you’ll get your coin, have no worries about that.”

  Junger sighed. “Truth be known, I don’t have any worries, Master Goll. And you’re as much a mystery to me as I am to you. A mystery and… a marvel. You’re a fine warrior. Anyone can see that. And you’re the master of this house. I daresay if it wasn’t for you, there wouldn’t be a house.”

  Goll’s eyes narrowed.

  “I didn’t know what you were about,” Junger continued, “that day when you addressed the Free Trained, looking for prospects. Didn’t know what to expect. I did know I’d had enough of breathing in the foul air of the Pit’s underbelly. Anything else, I could manage. I didn’t expect the villa. Or the taskmaster. Or the trainers. Say what you will of me. Think what you like. But I’ll tell you now, for nothing, I believe you alone are the House of Ten. No insult intended to the others, but you are its hub, its heart. And for that, I thank you. For allowing me to fight under the Ten’s banner.”

  Goll’s expression remained the same, if a touch guarded.

  “So, Master Goll,” Junger went on, “be satisfied that even though I didn’t kill my opponents, I did defeat them. Soundly. All in the Ten’s name. That should count for something, if not a little trust on your part. I trusted you, after all.”

  The tension slowly dissipated in the room, punctuated by a few odd yells outside the window. The voices distracted the Kree, and he peered out into the arena, seeing attendants combing the sands. Goll sighed and shook his head. Relaxing just a little, he regarded Junger once again.

  He walked toward the door, passing the Perician. “You come with me,” he said.

  “Are we done?”

  “For now,” Goll replied. “Be mysterious if that suits you. I don’t care. I have a house to manage.”

  “Master Goll.”

  The Kree stopped outside the door, framed in dull white.

  “Why are you doing all this?” Junger asked.

  The question stopped Goll, who didn’t answer right away. He gazed off at some unknown point farther on down the tunnel. “I was trained by the Weapon Masters of Kree to fight in these games. Despite what some might think, I believe the taskmasters and trainers who prepared me for these games to be the best. I was sent here to fight. Win. And win everything. Be this year’s champion. For them. And for me. Especially for me.”

  Junger waited. “And what happened?”

  Goll huffed with contained frustration. “Baylus the Butcher happened. Returned for one final season. And I was the unlucky bastard who drew him. Facing a legend in my first match. Why he returned…” He shrugged. “I’m still ashamed of taking his life when he spared mine. He cut me. Enough to ruin my chances of anything. So instead of fighting in the arena itself, I adapted. Shifted my goals. I came here to win, and I still intend to win, but a different way. I’ll hoist the Ten above all the rest. I’ll lead these men to heights no one’s ever imagined. Because if I can’t become champion myself, I’ll raise another to the title and slap the cheeks of those unfit maggots who seek to keep them down. There’s an air of arrogance about these games, Perician, and you’re hearing that from a man guilty of arrogance himself. There’s a stink of pride here, of self-importance, amongst the ruling houses, especially if they discover you’re from outside Sunja’s borders. I don’t care for it. These Sunjan overlords need to be taught a lesson, and I thought of myself as the ass slapper to do it. I still am, but sadly, not as a gladiator, but as a house master.”

  Goll’s eyes returned to Junger. “And though I changed my goal at these games, despite my saying otherwise, it’s taking me time to… accept the role. However, I see what you can do. I suspect you’re capable of so much more. Seddon take me, you just might be the one to win these games.”

  Junger studied the Kree in a new and admiring light. “Well. There’s nothing I can do about your condition, Master Goll, but if you’re looking to… outshine the other houses, then perhaps I can help. While I can, anyway.”

  Goll scowled. “Leaving, are you?”

  “At the end.” Junger shrugged indifference.

  “Even if you win?”

  “Who would want to return to competition after winning it all?”

  “Baylus did.”

  “Yes,” Junger said. “I wonder about that. About his decision. The competition gets into the blood, I’ll grant you that, but to return to this one last time?” His expression suggested he thought it unfit.

  Outside, voices drifted closer to the chamber’s window, socializing after the day’s fights. The sound dispelled the serious atmosphere in the room. Goll frowned and stared black spite at the other man, but his annoyance was fading. Despite all that had been said, staying angry at the man was hard. The Perician was right. He’d won a great deal for both the Ten and himself that day. If he wanted to be a mystery, Goll would let him.

  “Come on then, you unfit bastard,” the Kree house master said. “Just as well you fight for us than against.”

  “It is, Master Goll. It truly is. I’m glad you see it that way.”

  Their confrontation over, the pair left Sunja’s Pit.

  Outside the arena walls constructed of red brick and massive oak timbers, spectators lingered and talked amongst themselves about the day’s events. Some kept to the growing shadows, staying out of the sun. Others crowded the food and drink stalls, spending a few coins. When Goll and Junger cleared the Vathian columns of black-veined marble, heads turned in their direction. Faces lit with recognition. Conversations ceased. People pointed fingers and whispered at the departing pair.

  Goll barely noticed any of that. His thoughts were elsewhere, rejoining Clavellus and the others and preparing for the days to come. He would have kept right on thinking those thoughts… until the voices started.

  “Well fought this day, Perician!” someone yelled.

  “You’re a hellion, man!” cried another.

  “Keep fighting!”

  “Perician, when do you fight again?”

  “Are you married?”

  Some even waved.

  Taking the attention in stride, Junger smiled and even waved back.

  “Friendly lot,” he said.

  Goll increased his pace as his sour mood returned.

  In short time, they returned to Shan’s house. The healer’s wife greeted Goll with an icy air, none too pleased about her husband spending his days at a faraway villa while she minded their home alone. Only two of the Ten were inside. Torello lay stretched out upon an examination table, his swollen ankle somewhere in a hornet’s nest of bandages. Brozz sat upon a cot, stripped to the waist, his cheeks and jaw swollen to thrice their size. Red stitches lined a long gash in the gladiator’s chest. A shorter cut had split his left cheek. Ointment glistened darkly, jammed deep into the wounds, and the air stank of sour onions. Metal gleamed and the smell rankled Goll.

  Shan nodded at the pair of newcomers as he stepped in front of his patient.

  Goll thought the healer appeared a little disheveled.

  Shan fl
exed his shoulders, inhaled, and took hold of Brozz’s nose. “Now,” he whispered. “This might––”

  Crick!

  Brozz’s eyes clenched shut, but he made not a sound as the healer straightened him out.

  Shan released the Sarlander.

  “All done,” the healer announced in a tired tone. He bent at the waist and extracted a pair of dark rods from the pit fighter’s face. “Just a couple of wooden strips here. One on each side of your beak. Keep everything in place, to ensure nothing happens, and then a bundling around your head.”

  “The cut?” Brozz whispered and pointed to his face.

  “That’s next. Apologies.”

  “None required.”

  Shan went for a spool of thread.

  “Enjoying the grease, I see,” Junger observed brightly and received a dour look from the Sarlander.

  “Where are the others?” Goll asked.

  Dark eyes studied the house master. “Gone,” Brozz reported slowly, a nasal twang to his words. “To the alehouses. Left the coin upstairs and charged Pratos and Valka to watch it.”

  Goll’s face slackened. “What?”

  “They’re gone,” Torello said, one arm folded behind his head. “Wish I was with them, truth be known.”

  “And Muluk followed?”

  Torello grunted that was so.

  “Of course Muluk followed,” Goll fumed, feeling stupid for even asking.

  Shan returned to Brozz, who grimaced, clearly not enjoying the next bit of work. Needle and thread at the ready, the healer flexed his elbows, leaned in close, and got sewing.

  “Clades, too,” Torello added.

  Heat rose to Goll’s cheeks. “Which one?”

  “Alehouse?” the Sunjan asked. “I don’t know. They didn’t say.”

  “Shan?” Goll asked.

  The healer paused in his stitching and shook his head.

  Goll’s anger rose unchecked. Of course they didn’t say. That would be too easy.

  “Come with me,” he ordered Junger and headed back outside, returning to the evening heat.

  The Perician followed.

  2

  “Lads, that is a roast,” Clavellus exclaimed, a fierce glow to his sun-browned cheeks. He stopped and jabbed a finger at the food one table over, drawing bothered looks from the eaters.

  “We’ll bring something back for the lads,” the taskmaster said, his white beard flexing. “We have to bring something back for the lads.”

  “We’re going back after we eat?” Clades asked.

  “Saimon’s bells, no, we’re not going back after we eat. I intend to have a sizeable glow on by the time we finish eating. I’m talking about being pickled, good Clades. Substantially pickled. This is a celebration feast, young man.” Clavellus gripped the once Sujin’s shoulder. “The House of Ten won. Won convincingly. Decisively. Right and proper.”

  “I was merely thinking of Pratos and––”

  “The lads will be fine.” Clavellus dismissed the suggestion with a hand. “More than fine. They’ll have the others with them.”

  Clades smiled weakly. Though the taskmaster had asked him to accompany them to an alehouse, the soldier wasn’t entirely comfortable leaving the Ten’s winnings––Four small sacks of gold––with just Pratos and Valka. He’d heard about the unknown forces attempting to rob the Ten’s coin weeks earlier and thought the security a little lacking. The question wasn’t one of skill, for he knew Pratos and Valka to be more than capable—the question was one of numbers.

  That was only one concern, though, and not even the main worry.

  The old taskmaster was enjoying himself a touch too much, in Clades’s opinion. The man was loud. He had been loud all the way to that particular establishment, and he was becoming even louder with every passing moment.

  “Sit, lads, sit,” Clavellus commanded and did so himself, having selected a table in the very middle of a crowded floor, where smoke hung around the edges like a dream.

  The sun hadn’t just dropped yet, but the lamps were already lit and burning, and the smell of beer wafted across the nose. A stoic Machlann sat while Muluk appeared only too happy to plop down upon a thick bench.

  Clades decided to stand, watching for threats and noting the potential for several. Men and women were observing them from darkened alcoves, their eyes glittering, wondering what to make of the new arrivals.

  “Sit, lad, sit!” Clavellus insisted, his voice carrying.

  Clades hesitated before lowering himself next to Muluk.

  “We’re the House of Ten, dammit. Ten,” Clavellus declared and slapped the table’s surface, startling the younger men. “And we’ve cause to celebrate, if only just this evening. So let us drink and eat and enjoy each other’s company while we can, for we may never again. And by drink I mean drink. Until our eyes cross.”

  Muluk smiled, warming to the prospect. Machlann remained silent and unreadable.

  Clades, however, was very much aware of a rising interest from the alehouse’s patrons. A few men drinking at the bar’s counter paused in their conversations and half cocked their heads, leaning in the Ten’s direction.

  “We’ll have a pitcher,” Clavellus continued. “Maybe even three. You look like you’re able to take a pitcher at least, Muluk.”

  “I could,” Muluk answered brightly. “It’s thirsty work walking here. And a warm evening.”

  “It is thirsty work,” Clavellus agreed and briefly studied the man. “I haven’t talked with you much, Muluk. We’ll remedy that tonight. And no titles while drinking. Just our names, understood?”

  That was indeed fine with the Kree, who nodded.

  “Excellent, excellent.” Clavellus stood. “Four pitchers here. Bring us the Black!”

  Clades attempted to rise, but the taskmaster waved him down.

  Across the floor, the barkeep, a pudgy, bearded soul, lifted a finger to show he’d heard.

  “Now, what will you men have?” Clavellus chuckled and dropped into his seat. “Daresay you could probably finish off those yourself, Muluk. Am I correct?”

  “Daresay I could,” he answered, flashing a smile.

  Clades felt his unease rise another notch at the eager-looking Kree.

  “Daresay you could,” Clavellus repeated fondly before glancing around the interior.

  Clades scanned the floor as well. Bare timbers and posts held up an impressive ceiling. Dust puffed through cracks as unseen people walked overhead. Several patrons had gone back to their food and drink while a few more thoughtful types eyed the Ten’s table. Smoke rose from pipes, masking that lingering but not unpleasant whiff of beer.

  Still uneasy, Clades made to rise again.

  “Sit down and stay,” Clavellus insisted, pulling the man back. “Seddon above, lad, is the bench that hard?”

  Clades shook his head.

  “Then stay right there. Appreciate the alehouse for what it is. Take it all in. The sights and smells. The sounds. Ah, I’ve missed it.”

  The craftsmanship of the premises drew the taskmaster’s eye, and he studied the layout with greater interest. Then, the inspection completed, he scrutinised the people. “I don’t see anyone I know, Machlann. Not a damned soul.”

  “Be surprised if we did,” the trainer remarked.

  “Suppose so.” Clavellus thought for a moment. “The faces might change, but it’s still Sunja. Been away too long—far too long. But this is a new beginning. Start of history. This day, with the House of Ten.”

  The old man slapped the table’s surface once again. Muluk chuckled, basking in the taskmaster’s enthusiasm. Clades became even more aware of the alehouse shadows.

  “Did you already drink something before we got here?” Muluk asked the taskmaster.

  “Why do you ask?” Clavellus asked in return.

  “You seem… pickled already.”

  The taskmaster laughed. “Only on life. This life. I cannot tell you how good it is to return to Sunja. To the games. And as a victor. That alone
is making my heart damn near burst. The lads have made me proud. You’ve all made me proud.”

  Clavellus grabbed Machlann’s shoulder and shook the trainer, who glared but otherwise didn’t seem to mind.

  “And you seem strangely quiet,” Muluk put to the trainer.

  “Pah,” Clavellus scoffed. “Don’t mind him. He’s all knobs and fire on the training grounds but get him in around pretty alehouse wenches? Simmers down like he’s been doused with ice water. Even on a day as grand as this. Think of it. Today the Ten defeated a pair of house gladiators,” the taskmaster continued. “A pair of absolute brutes, and we defeated them. Two of ours defeated two of theirs! You understand the significance of that?”

  Muluk let it be known that he did not.

  “Let me tell you, then,” Clavellus explained. “To them, we’re shite. Cow kisses in the road, waiting to be split by a wagon’s wheel. That’s us. We’re unfit for these games. Unfit to grace the sands of the Pit. And for our lads to put down house-trained men, well, that’s”—the old man’s eyes lit up, and the cords in his neck protruded to the breaking point—“that’s right and proper inspiring. It’s grand to be alive, Muluk. Very grand.”

  Very much so, Clades had to agree, still eyeing the crowd.

  “What we did today demands this,” Clavellus declared with two sweeping hands. “A little celebration. A right and proper celebration. Not even the great dark one will stop me from enjoying the night. Seddon above. Two house gladiators and we’re still in the games. We should be all dead. All dead. The houses have aligned against us, and we threw fistfuls of gurry back in their faces. In their faces!”

  “In their faces!” an eager Muluk repeated, becoming infected with the old man’s energy.

  “And even better?” Clavellus asked. “That hellion Perician is a right and proper hellpup.” He held his face to contain the laughter.

  Clades thought the old taskmaster looked a touch unfit.

  A serving maid arrived, carrying a platter full of pitchers and mugs. Clavellus leaned back and watched her unload the drinks upon the table. When she finished, the taskmaster paid her and kept her hand, placing an extra gold coin there.