131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  If time could be reversed, if moments could be relived, Gastillo would have never taken the proud bastard into the fold.

  The pit fighter stopped and looked about, sensing him. He turned around and soon straightened.

  “Ah, I saw the torchlight reflect off your mask, there.” Prajus held his hips and regarded Gastillo high above. “You’re a quiet one, I’ll give you that.”

  “My thanks,” Gastillo returned, bristling at the insult in the lout’s failure to address him as master. “Now, get back to your quarters. Unless you’re thinking about stealing away to some tavern the moment I’m out of sight. And getting into another worthless fight with the locals.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind, Gastillo.”

  “Master Gastillo, you discourteous dog blossom.”

  “Ah yes, Master Gastillo.” But the owner could sense the curl of a smirk on the man’s features. “Deepest apologies, as always.”

  “If you kept it in mind the first time, you wouldn’t have to be so apologetic.”

  “Ah, yes, I’ll do that. Keep it in mind, that is,” Prajus said in a frivolous tone that suggested he would do no such thing.

  The man kept getting under Gastillo’s skin.

  “Really, Prajus. Are you truly willing to chance coming back battered and bruised like last time? Just for a night of carousing in the alehouses and taverns and back alleys? Perhaps even risking the whole season?”

  Standing on the training sands, Prajus shrugged. “I was, actually.”

  Gastillo felt the heat rise to his voice, but he clamped down on it. He’d already reprimanded Prajus and his youthful gang the morning they’d lined up for drills. His trainer Pius had first discovered the dull, angry blooms on their face from the night’s battle. Just the memory of that heated exchange set the owner on edge. Prajus had set himself apart from his pack as he was the only one that actually had the plums to face Gastillo with the barest smile. Neither he nor any of his three followers had given any apology for their actions, electing to take their punishment in hard training and sweat.

  Insolent bastards.

  Gastillo knew he was to blame. If he had properly disciplined the four right there and then, perhaps he might have restored some measure of respect. The problem was he didn’t want to risk harming his best investment. Worse still, instead of making amends, Prajus continued testing Gastillo’s authority, edging so very close to a very deadly line.

  “Go back to your quarters lest you tempt me to double the guard.”

  “That might keep me in.”

  Gastillo took a steadying breath. Though his mask held the same fixed expression, underneath that golden face, his mangled lips twisted with anger.

  “Don’t challenge me,” he warned. “Else I’ll inform Pius to make your exercise hellish in the morning.”

  “Well, I’d better get out of sight then. I wouldn’t want to trouble the taskmaster with that. Or any of the trainers for that matter. Not after the first bout of hellish exercise. The effort might kill them, and where would we be then?”

  Another jab, and though drool slid over his chin, Gastillo had to admit the threat wasn’t very threatening in the least. Prajus simply knew his worth, and any punishment ran a risk to the owner. Even imprisonment struck Gastillo as useless, as he needed the pit fighter sharp. A day or two confined in a cell struck him as a joke, and anything longer would dull the pit fighter’s skills. The realization made the owner’s blood boil.

  “Get back to your barracks,” Gastillo ordered dismissively.

  Yet Prajus didn’t move.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?” the pit fighter asked.

  “Get out of my sight!” Gastillo barked.

  A knowing grin crept into Prajus’s face, brightening the shadows. “Calm yourself, Gastillo. Calm yourself. Any louder and you’ll rouse everyone to the training area. Not that I mind. Or care.”

  “You’ll care if I cast you out,” Gastillo said and hated himself the instant the words became sound.

  Below, a smiling Prajus regarded him, unconcerned, not worried in the least. Gastillo realized then that the man was actually baiting him to say something more. Anything.

  “Oh, you might,” Prajus finally said. “And I wouldn’t blame you in the least, Master Gastillo. But you might wait until the season is over before doing anything of the sort. Or at least until I’m eliminated from competition. I… don’t think you’ll do anything, truth be known. I’m worth too much for you to lose.”

  There it was. Gastillo fumed. “You value yourself too highly.”

  “Do I?”

  “Get moving, he-bitch.”

  But the young pit fighter didn’t.

  “Prajus, by Dying Seddon above, get moving, else in the morning you find yourself in chains.”

  “Chains?”

  “Yes, chains.”

  “Chains.” Prajus reflected on the words, his smile fading, though not in fear but rather feigned contemplation. “Well, then. That is a threat.”

  The pit fighter made a show of realizing what he’d done, chastised himself with a slap to the forehead, and marched back to the general quarters where the other twenty-nine fighters slept. Poisoned with anger, Gastillo watched him go. He was far too reluctant to follow through on any of his threats. Only when Prajus was finally gone from sight did Gastillo feel for a hand cloth to dab at his skin.

  Insolent prick, the owner cursed and rued the day he had admitted the man into his house. Curge would have handled it differently, beating Prajus within a finger of his life and throwing him out anyway as an example to all others. It wasn’t Gastillo’s way to do such a thing, and in that admission, he realized another reason to leave the games behind.

  He no longer had the stomach to instill fear where needed. He no longer wished to instill fear.

  Prajus needed to be fearful. He’d have to be brought into line. But even as Gastillo thought it, he felt powerless to impart any severe punishment.

  Weak—he’d become weak.

  Having had enough of the night air, Gastillo turned about and went inside his private house, pulling off his mask and allowing the air to cool his disfigured face. The need for strong drink drove him to seek out a bottle of wine from the kitchen’s cellar. All the while, he replayed the night’s confrontation with the younger gladiator and burned for a different outcome.

  He retrieved two bottles from the cellar and didn’t bother with a cup. On his walk back to his private chambers, a figure stood waiting in the main foyer. A pair of flickering torches revealed the visitor to be of medium height, a few years older, and dressed reasonably well in expensive robes made of fine, flowing material that swished off the fitted stones when he walked. Gastillo knew the man enjoyed that sound very much.

  “Master Gastillo.”

  “Varno,” Gastillo returned, appreciating the use of his title. He didn’t worry if the older agent saw him without his mask. Varno had been a pit fighter alongside Gastillo in their respective careers on the sands and remained one of the few people he considered friends. Despite having fought in the Pit for an amount of time rivaling Gastillo’s, Varno had managed to keep an almost perfect set of teeth in his head, a feat which he was quite proud of.

  “How are you this evening?” Varno inquired.

  “Well, thank you.” Gastillo released a heavy sigh and raised one bottle. “Care to have a bit?”

  Varno considered it. “I would, thank you.”

  “I’ll fetch another cup.”

  Gastillo went back into the kitchen and did just that. When he came back, his old friend hadn’t moved. Handing over one of the bottles, Gastillo took a torch from its bracket and gestured for the agent to follow him though a darkened doorway. Inside, the unmasked owner lit two fat candles on his desk. Varno took the torch from him and returned it to the foyer. He reappeared a moment later and sat in a wicker chair opposite his employer. The agent gratefully accepted the offered drink.

  “Your health,” Varn
o toasted and drank. Gastillo drained his own and refilled his cup.

  “I have some news this night,” Varno said, smacking his lips.

  “Really? What?”

  “There’s a new house formed.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Of Free Trained fighters.”

  That made Gastillo scowl with disbelief.

  “The one called Halm of Zhiberia is a part of it,” Varno continued. “Seems that while he wasn’t so enthused with our offer, he was more than willing to throw in with the new house.”

  Gastillo shook his head. “He can do whatever he likes, for all I care. If it was Curge he’d refused, he’d have been sliced up and left in a shite trough.”

  “You are far too lenient at times.”

  “Don’t start on that, Varno. I do what I do to sleep at night. If that Zhiberian thinks he has a better chance at success in the Pit by siding with more of his own kind, so be it. I’ve not lost sight of the fact it’s still only sport.”

  “Not all share those sentiments.”

  Exasperated, Gastillo fluttered a hand to move the conversation to another topic.

  “The head of the house is Goll of Kree. He was the one who slew Baylus the Butcher on the first day of the season.”

  That information arched Gastillo’s brow. “Ambitious, isn’t he? What’s the name of the house?”

  “They call themselves the House of Ten.”

  Gastillo poured more wine into himself and dabbed a cloth at his lips before any spilled. “Why’s that now? Only ten of them?”

  “You are correct.”

  “Well.” The chair’s fibers creaked as Gastillo leaned back. “A new house. I imagine that’s the talk of the city this evening.”

  “It is.” Varno took another sip and savored it. “Your instructions?”

  “You have the names of their fighters?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “Then do that. Keep me informed of their doings. You can use that information to barter with others. Otherwise…” Prajus’s smirk suddenly appeared in his mind. Gastillo sighed at the memory.

  “My thanks.”

  5

  Nordish Front

  Wrinkled columns of trees thus far untouched by an axe held up a latticed roof of leaves, issuing rays of dawning light across panes of shadow. Dead forest debris littered the path, the air redolent with its subtle spice. Bare rock poked through the rotting vegetation like the hard noses of subterranean beasts. The terrain was a series of rolling hills, though the path in that part of the forest was flat and easy to run upon. Thin streams grooved the land in places, made dark from the slow shoving match of sun and shade.

  These features made it an ideal escape route.

  “Run, you bastards, run,” hissed First Basten Kra in the Nordish tongue, urging his Jackals to move faster as they pounded over the earth. They had struck the Sunjan Third Klaw just before dawn, ripped its nose from its face, and quickly retreated in the ensuing chaos of burning tents, screaming horses, and dying men. This particular party had only lost six of the original fifty they started out with, acceptable losses given the destruction they’d wrought. Their mission was only to terrorize the Klaw, unhinge it, and if the enemy took the bait, lead them back to the waiting Grinders.

  It was just their unfortunate luck that last night’s work had taken them far beyond their accompanying Nordish heavy soldiers.

  Once the Sunjans had recovered from the attack, they sent their lancers to hunt down the enemy.

  And the horsemen had discovered the Jackals’ trail faster than expected.

  “Skolla!” Kra cursed as his soft-soled boots thumped over the terrain, rattling his knees and lower back. Like the men he commanded, he wore a light cuirass cut from leather and stitched to an undershirt of padded cloth. Bracers and greaves of more hardened leather protected their limbs, and metal rings scaled every piece of armor. Nordish armorers prided themselves on their work, producing a hide both tough and quiet. Kra wore no helm, but a black cloth mask covered his entire head, with only a narrow cut for the eyes. Sweat ran down his face, soaking the material and making it stick to his flesh. His scabbarded shortsword slapped against his thigh while he swung his rounded buckler. He’d left his spear in the chest of a Sujin ball licker. Those under his command wielded various weapons––swords, maces, axes––all chosen by the individual rather than standard issue. The Jackals, the true Jackals, weren’t frontline warriors.

  They were terrorizers.

  And in their eyes, they were the sharpest and most feared blade in the night-borne army of the Ivus, their Nordish ruler.

  This time, however, the hunters had their scent.

  First Basten Kra held up his hand just before exhaustion claimed him, bringing the whole pack to a halt. He stopped and gripped his knees for breath. Around him, his men stopped running and dropped to drink at a brook running nearby. Their retreat had been a steady run through Sunjan timberland with the heat steaming the energy from their lean forms. Kra rolled up his black mask, knelt, and drank as well, careful not to overfill his stomach. He’d do that behind friendly lines. Once finished, the officer stood up with water dripping from his chin and surveyed his remaining Jackals—dull leather backs crossed with scabbards and weapons colored to disappear in the dark. Menace emanated from the lot.

  Some of the masked men looked at him, but he paid them no heed, concentrating on listening.

  Nothing.

  Not a single note of pursuit.

  The lancers hunted them still, however; of that he was certain. He’d seen their line from a hilltop, snaking their way through the ageless halls of the forest and appearing like a lengthy dragon unleashed. He wasn’t afraid of the lancers. Kra wasn’t afraid of anything in the Sunjan’s armies. But he had to admit being captured after a hard strike at night would not be healthy.

  All around, his men rose from the banks of the stream, listening, waiting, regaining their strength like a sinister cadre of ghosts. No one uttered a word. He recognized the wet beard of Arrus, his mask partially rolled up so he could drink. Next to him was Dogslaw, already pulling his mask down. Kestmir tucked away his thick beard soaked with water and sweat, paying heed to the silence and rising to his feet.

  Then Kra heard it, like catching the barest scent on a breeze, distant but distinct.

  A horn.

  “We go,” he commanded and broke into a jog, not needing to tell his men to pace themselves. Like a gathering of wolves, they bolted.

  The haunting wail of a hunting horn lacerated the early-morning sleepiness of the forest. Nordish shadows bounded past thick trunks of wood and leapt over mossy rocks, their movements made less magical by the growing strength of the sun. The higher it rose, the greater was the Nordish Jackals’ unease about being seen. Though they feared little, they felt most powerful in the deepest night. Kra glanced over his shoulder at times, scanning the country for pursuers. Every bellowing blast of the horn made him cringe, and he struggled to pace himself. Trees sped by. Sunlight flickered and flashed. The subtle rattling of weapons and rush of men on the run filled his ears. A hill rose ahead, and they clambered up its forested slope. At its highest point, Kra paused amongst boughs and gazed back while urging his men to scramble by without him.

  There. Sunlight bounced off metal, nearly concealed by the brush. A serpentine line of lancers pushed into view, winding its way over the terrain, sniffing through the forest growth and sensing their quarry close. Kra clenched his jaw. They were far more numerous than his company. The hunting horn yowled yet again, this time sounding frighteningly clear.

  Before that carrying note died, Kra turned and disappeared into the trees. Another telling blast of the horn stabbed the air, followed immediately by more, raising Kra’s hackles and urging him to move faster. The Sunjans had found their scent and, worse, actually spotted them. The Nordish officer caught up to the rear of his pack and passed them, slipping in and around trees with a ghost’s grace. No one had pulled steel
yet, which gave Kra a grim sense of pride. Panic hadn’t touched his lads yet.

  Shouts in the Sunjan tongue rolled up the slopes behind them, the undisguised eagerness in their voices easily understood. One bawled out over the others; Kra believed it was the lancer commander. The man probably thought victory was his just by spotting the retreating Jackals. Kra didn’t know where the Sunjans purchased their arrogance, but the Nordish knew their enemies spent heavy coin on a cheap commodity.

  But where were the Grinders? The question flashed in the officer’s mind, and he anxiously scanned the woods ahead for the grim, heavier-armored soldiers of the Nordish Ikull. They would deal with the lancers eagerly.

  The Jackals peaked the hill, raced across a flat stretch of woodland, and splashed through another stream until… there! Kra’s spirits leaped as the ominous line of Grinders came into view, their conical helms peeking above door-sized, rectangular shields. They had positioned themselves on an uneven slope, between barrel-thick tree trunks, but caught sight of the approaching Jackals. Shouts cut the air, and the Grinders shifted, opening slots in their defensive formation, allowing the retreating Jackals to slip through. More shouts and a slight trembling in the earth as the lancers behind them struggled up the last incline. Kra followed his men up the short slope and into the porous line. Once the Jackals were through, a single command closed the gaps as stoutly as heavy doors being slammed shut.