House of Pain
131 Days (Book 2)
By
Keith C. Blackmore
131 Days (Book 2)
House of Pain
By Keith C. Blackmore
Copyright 2013 Keith C. Blackmore
Edited by Kelly Reed (Red Adept Publishing)
Cover by Karri Klawiter www.artbykarri.com
Formatted by Polgarus Studio (polgarusstudio.com)
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons—living or dead—actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
A special thanks to Mark E. Crouse, Sean Meadows, and Miguel Tonnies.
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
Afterword
About the Author
CHARACTERS
1
Blackness faced them, warm and moist as the halls of Sunja’s public bathhouses.
Fire pits burned thirty paces behind a knot of Sujin sentries, but the three didn’t dare turn around to look. To do so would ruin their night vision and perhaps invite the Jackals to creep up on them in the tall grass and cut their throats, right under the nose of the slumbering beast that was the Third Klaw.
If the Jackals were out there.
That thought made Marrok smirk as he stared off into the black pitch, where he could just make out the grass, rippling in the barest of night breezes, like sea weeds caught in a lazy current. The Jackals were always out there, watching, waiting, hoping for the men of the Third Klaw to relax their guard. Marrok smirked again, baring a half-rack of bad teeth and scrunching a scar on his left cheek. After the destruction of the First and Fourth Klaws, the Koors vowed bloody punishment on any Sujin dropping his guard while on the front. The lessons taught by the loss of those army groups were hard learned. A Klaw numbered around five thousand fighting men, not considering the hundreds of support staff required to keep such a force functioning. No one wanted another Field of Skulls on his watch, and Marrok and his fellow soldiers had to stand watch only until midnight, when they would be rotated in and three others would take their place.
He felt distinctly vulnerable despite the iron helm, the chainmail vest, and the shield he held across his chest like a great, black, rectangular bull’s-eye. The heat of the night was only a few degrees less than the day, and the cloth padding underneath his armor clung to him like saturated rags, reminding him again of the bathhouses in Sunja.
Heavy clouds rendered the night darker than pitch, and distant thunder rumbled at times to the south, like frightening behemoths wrestling under the hills. Making war in early summer had been hot, and Marrok hated to think of the long marches they would yet endure. Hellish, miserable days—sweating, stinking, cooling off in the evening but rarely having the opportunity to bathe, insects that forewent a painless suckle and all but ripped blood from the veins—all foul additions to having to fight at any given instant. Men guarding Sunja’s walls two weeks away could probably pick up the raw stench of the entire Klaw when the wind blew southeast. And the real summer hadn’t even started yet.
The dull chirping of crickets sawed through the night air, filling the dark. Marrok sighed and stared straight ahead, focusing on one point as were the men flanking him almost shoulder to shoulder. Forward sentries ran the highest risk of being killed but were essential to the protection of the Klaw behind them. Another three men stood around the fire thirty paces back, no doubt thanking Seddon above for the time being. They would get their chance to stand guard at the tip of the tongue, daring the bastard Jackals to take a swipe at them. Marrok’s group wasn’t the only knot, for the protective formations surrounded the Klaw every night and, upon a Koor’s command, would be rotated from the farthest point inward on a regular schedule, to the relative safety of the army.
The Koor measured time in rounds, meaning the time it took for two officers walking in opposite directions to circle the encampment once, from the onset of the first torches until dawn. In one sense, luck was with Marrok that night. He’d gotten the earliest watch and would have an uninterrupted sleep once relieved of duty. Simply glorious.
“See anything?” Vine asked quietly on his right. Quietly had they been within the breast of the Klaw, but since they were on point in the deep, ravenous dark, practically daring the enemy to leap upon them, the whisper sounded like a horn blast. Marrok didn’t answer.
Silence ensued for long moments, then, “I said, ‘You see anything?’”
Marrok closed his eyes in irritation.
“Did you––”
“He heard you, idiot,” hissed Kreon on the left. “Now shut. Up.”
Stillness, but Marrok felt the shrug and heated sigh from the mouthy Vine. The man prattled incessantly, and both Marrok and Kreon had balked at having to stand watch with his long tongue. He’d managed to stay quiet for almost half their shift, but Marrok knew—just knew—Vine was bursting at the seams to say something. Anything. Marrok blamed the Koor for pooling the talkative ass licker with Kreon and himself. Kreon wasn’t a problem. He had ice filling his veins and snow lacing his balls.
“Them crickets grow as long as a thumb.”
Marrok winced and closed his eyes. It was bad enough to speak, but he couldn’t dare move lest a Jackal detect the movement in the dark.
“They’ll eat anything too. Wager y’didn’t know that.”
Neither man rose to the bait. That didn’t deter Vine.
“Heard that there are crickets in the Harudin that fancy warm flesh, and once every generation, a swarm blows in from the desert and will eat whole villages down to the bone. Livestock and all. Heard even once that a farmer, seeing one of these swarms rise up, opened his mouth to give warning, and before the sound passed his lips, the crickets had already devoured his tongue.”
“Vine,” Kreon warned. “Shut up afore I shut you up.”
A pause. “Bored is all.”
That was enough for Marrok. “How can you be bored while on point? Are you unfit?”
“I’m bored is all I’m saying.”
“My blade up your hole will make things interesting enough,” Kreon muttered.
“No need for that,” Vine said. “I’m not screaming here. Only whispering. No harm in that.”
“Saimon’s shite trough,” Kreon remarked softly. “I’ll take latrine duty for the rest of the campaign before I get assigned with you again.”
“Games start next month,” Vine said, changing the subject.
“Eh?”
Marrok groaned mentally. Vine knew Kreon was a gambler. Say one thing for Vine: if you weren’t interested in what he was talking about, he’
d change subjects until one interested you. The man should have been a merchant instead of a Sujin.
“Nowhere near the start of the games,” Kreon hissed back.
“Oho, I’d say they’re at least four weeks out. Maybe even three. Would you say so, Mar?”
Marrok sighed. “Aye that. At least.”
“Truly?” Kreon asked without any worry of noise now.
“Aye, I imagine so.”
“Seddon above,” Kreon swore. “What I wouldn’t pay to see the opening day. Make a few coins on the side. I can pick the victors; tell you that for nothing.”
“Only the Free Trained fight early on, don’t they?” Vine asked.
“No, not at all, you’ll see the scattered house fighter as well. Them brutes eat the Free babes though. Punish them. Butchery, really. But good for a show. Most early fights are the Free Trained, just to whet the appetites, but a handful of house fighters make the appearance as well.”
“You wager on fights between Free Trained and house fighters?”
“No, no. No one wagers––well, some wager on those fights, but it’s almost always a done thing. I’m talking about the house gladiators fighting other houses. Those are the ones you have to watch and put coin on. I had a system.”
“A system?” Marrok asked, joining the conversation. “What system? The games were nothing more than arranged meetings and nothing more. Until the end, anyway.”
“Arranged meetings? You saying the matches are fixed?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Them games aren’t fixed.” Kreon scoffed. “I’ve seen my share before I became a Sujin. My father and I would watch the games every season. He was an old hand at picking winning fighters.”
“It’s all theatre.”
“It’s an art, I give you that,” Kreon granted. “But nothing’s decided beforehand.”
“I’m telling you, I’ve heard stories about coin changing hands before a fight,” Vine said. “And whispers of talks between houses.”
“Oh, they talk,” Kreon allowed. “Course they talk. Seeking information on individuals. Sometimes men will pay for valuable information, especially in the later rounds. If a gladiator’s broken a finger or a rib, or perhaps is still suffering from the last fight, well, that’s gold to some if they know about it. Anything that an opponent can use to their advantage. There’s coin to be made knowing things, and nothing wrong with that.”
Marrok shook his head, still staring into the early summer night. “That’s only half of it. The real coin comes from bribes.”
“There’s no bribery in the games,” Kreon said in a low voice, surprising Marrok with his naiveté.
“Certainly there is,” he persisted. “Might not happen all the time, but the Chamber allows it. Probably has a hand in it themselves. The games are nothing more than blood, sand, and gold—especially gold. You don’t believe they actually stay in that hell because of whatever code of honor they spout? It’s a business, like any other.”
“Ahhh,” Kreon dismissed him with a throaty growl. “Believe what you want, and I’ll believe what I want.”
Marrok smirked in the dark. “They say there’s the games on the sands… and then there are the real games beyond the sands. How do you think the House of Curge has remained so dominant over the years?”
“Skill at arms,” Kreon answered at once. “Curge is a right vengeful bastard, he is.”
“I’ve heard it so,” Vine threw in.
“Well, he is,” Marrok whispered agreement, his head turning just a fraction in the direction of where Kreon stood.
“If you think Curge could be bribed, you’re unfit in the head,” Kreon put forth.
“Well, maybe not,” Marrok said. “But you don’t think he’d bribe someone else to lose? Or some other ploy? Threaten them, even? He has the clout. And the personality, I daresay.”
“Daresay,” Vine added with a hint of wary awe, perhaps recalling stories about Dark Curge from conversations past.
“I’ve heard it said that there’s more coin collected off the wagers than…” Kreon trailed off, struggling for a suitable simile.
“What?” Marrok asked.
Then the cries went up.
The three outer sentries turned around, looking toward the encampment. Torch bearers and fire pits illuminated walls of canvas tents. Armed Sujins hurried between, through fluttering corridors. More shouts of warning and pain cut the night air, each one spiking Marrok’s attention as he strove to find the source.
Then he looked up.
Comets blazed across the inky blackness, thick and bright enough to momentarily blot out the stars. Their angry hiss sizzled across the heavens, burning Marrok’s ears and leaving him very, very vulnerable standing where he was. His mouth dropped open as he realized what was happening.
Fire arrows.
The sizzling missiles rained down, sinking deep into the heart of the waking Klaw. More shouts shattered the night’s stillness. Some men screamed in pain.
“Stand firm,” Kreon said, no longer whispering, and Marrok gripped the hilt of his shortsword behind his shield. On his right, Vine closed the gap and bumped his shoulder.
“Stand firm,” Kreon repeated.
“Stand firm!” a Koor roared, pointing his sword at the clump of Sujins gathered at the nearest fire pit.
“Eyes sharp out there!” The same officer barked at Marrok and his companions. All around the camp, the defensive points crouched low and scanned the night for archers.
Some of the tents caught fire at once, and men soon teemed amongst the burning material, striking at the flames with blankets while other frantically shovelled turf at the fiery ribbons, momentarily dousing them. One Sujin fell hard, a smoking arrow protruding from his face. Another soldier, confused at being so roused from sleep, stood only to have a descending missile nail him through his unprotected head with a distinct clop and drive him to his knees. The shining figure of a Cavalier strode through the burning tents, heedless of the danger, directing Sujins as he went.
Marrok scanned the darkness ahead, the grass colored a fiery hue. The shadows of the three Sujins stretched over the sward in long, forbidding peaks while the sounds of crackling flames, working bodies, and shouting behind made Marrok’s back stiffen. He gripped his sword and felt the energy building in his limbs, urging him to do something. Anything. But he didn’t. His orders were to stand firm, to not budge from his position. And he didn’t have to look to know the minds of Kreon and Vine. On his flanks he felt them, solid as bedrock.
Then another cry pierced the night, hooking his attention and making him glance up again. To his horror and ire, another bright wave of fire arrows trailed smoke across the night sky before crashing downward into the meat of the Klaw. More cries of pain rose over a murderous patter.
The first gauzy tendrils of smoke slipped around Marrok and his companions, but they didn’t turn. Their attention focused on scanning the dark for the enemy.
Commanding voices cut through the clamor behind, giving directions. Water splashed. Men swore. Horses neighed somewhere deep within the folds of the Klaw. The acrid smell of smoke thickened. Marrok resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and grimly stared into the night.
A roar of voices burst from the distant right, growing, rising above the crackles of the burning encampment, climaxing with a raucous clatter of swords against swords.
Marrok looked, taking his attention off the dark, toward the deepening, fiery glow consuming the encampment.
And at the exact moment he turned, a wall of black specters rose up from the tall grass, detaching themselves from the night’s embankment, startlingly closer than suspected. Their booted feet crushed the blades of vegetation. Their arms thrust forward, elongating into ungodly spears of pointed darkness. Steel blades flashed. Kreon shouted a warning just as those terrible shafts struck shields and flesh. One took Marrok over the lip of his shield and through his face. As he collapsed, a fourth spear streaked by and shredded into the m
eat of Kreon’s sword arm, bypassing chainmail links with a pop and piercing his heart. A stunned Vine died an instant later, a spear stabbing his lower leg while a sword hacked a grisly V between his neck and shoulder.
Black-armored Jackals, their features masked and grim, flowed over the dead men and swept toward the next flimsy line of shouting sentries, adding yet another chorus to the death knell of the burning Klaw.
2
The outer doors, great slabs of oak fitting together so well their seams appeared almost invisible, closed behind the founding members of the House of Ten. A row of Skarrs remained as motionless and impassive as the etched scenes carved into the walls of the Gladiatorial Chamber. Goll limped as he turned halfway around, favouring his healing toes smashed by the now dead once-champion known as Baylus the Butcher. The Balgothan gladiator had left Goll with a number of gruesome memories of their battle in the pit, all of which were slowly healing. The swelling in his face was receding, returning his ordinary looks under a head of short sandy hair. Bandages, however, still covered the mending cuts along his arms, ribs, and the stab wound in his right shoulder. Halm once commented that the wounds were really trophies, and that they gave the Kree character.
Goll wanted to bestow a little character upon the Zhiberian at times.
The Kree ignored his companions and glanced back at the guards. He imagined if he drew a blade they would come to life quickly enough. Giving them no more thought, he swung himself ahead on his crutches, already accustomed to the burn in his armpits where the meager padding pained him. Bald-headed, black-bearded Tumber walked with him on one side. The muscular Sapo trudged along on the other. Both men carried weapons, wore leather vests, and carried themselves with a pensive air of alertness. If forces had attacked Muluk for their collected gold once, the march to the Chamber would have been the final opportunity to strike. To the Kree’s relief, no one had interrupted their procession to the Chamber’s doors.
131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain Page 1
