131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “That’s true.”

  “So you’re now a house.”

  Goll deposited himself on a nearby cot. “I am. We are. The House of Ten. After the attack on the alehouse, it was time for Pig Knot to fight. You and I both know his mettle, so I ordered him to lose, and I wagered on his opponent winning. To ensure I’d get the funds needed to establish the house and any other necessary coin needed. For the short term, anyway. That part was successful, if at a cost of having Pig Knot mauled almost to death.”

  Clavellus’s face did not brighten as Goll had expected. “What did you say? About Pig Knot? You… ordered him to lose?”

  “I did. It was the surest way of getting the coin I needed.”

  The taskmaster regarded Goll with a suspicious air, rendering the Kree uneasy though he kept it concealed. Goll glanced from Machlann’s drawn features to the taskmaster’s. “What?”

  Clavellus took a breath. “You didn’t know this, as there was no need to know, really, but I’ll tell you it now. You remember me warning you about my reputation amongst the houses here? Well, that goes back many, many years, when I was a taskmaster for the House of Curge. It was old Curge that cast me out, made a pariah of me to the games, as I spoke out against him for what he practiced.”

  He let the words hang in the air until Goll asked. “And?”

  “Curge would command his fighters to lose and collect a huge sum in wagers. Wagers, lad, are the lifeblood of the games. You don’t hear of it, but fortunes have been made and lost at these games. Make no mistake, coin rules all, and Curge made it a point to ensure he got his share of it. He was careful about it, not always setting his own men up to fall, and even going as far as paying off his lads’ opponents as well. I didn’t know how long he was manipulating the matches behind the curtains, but he let it slip one day while we were on his practice sands, and Machlann and I were training his lads. Neither one of us were pleased with the knowledge that what we were doing was being tossed aside in favor of methods that not only cheapens the sport, but demeans the blood and sweat paid in training sessions. We prepare our men to fight and win. We enhance their strengths and improve their weaknesses to that end… not to fall on an owner’s whim so that he might profit.”

  Clavellus locked gazes with Goll. “I made the mistake of becoming angry and confronting Curge right there on his own sands. Thinking back, it’s a wonder the old topper allowed me to live at all. But instead, he cast me out and warned all others not to risk employing my services. Back then, most of the houses feared Curge’s wrath and rightly so, I suppose. Machlann left with me. Koba, well, I didn’t know him then. Regardless, I’ll tell you this now so there is no misunderstanding in the future, and since you’ll be training upon my grounds, I do have a say in what happens on it. And my say is this––don’t ever do that again. Your lads, our lads, train to win. Not to be told to lose a fight at the last possible instant, for the jingling of a few coins. The very thought turns my guts rancid. What would your masters back in Kree say about you for this? You have the bells to ask for respect? I’ll give you a warning instead. If I learn of you doing anything like this again, I’ll heave you and your lot out and clean my hands of you all. I’ll not sully my name any further for a lot of untested but gold-empowered Free Trained. That’s my promise. Understood?”

  The heated lecture ended in a constant but soft drone of street activity from the open window. Only when Clavellus put the question to a chagrined Goll did the Kree realize the man had been close to yelling. Momentarily speechless, Goll cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts. First Halm and now Clavellus, but then he had known his decision at the time would not be popular even though it was the right one. Still, to be reprimanded in such a way… thoughts and feelings churned within him, leaving a sour taint of chagrin, but he knew, given the time of the season, he had nowhere else to go. Nor did he possess the experience Clavellus and his trainers possessed.

  “Understood,” Goll relented quietly, lowering his gaze in defeat.

  The taskmaster huffed as if about to charge. “Where is Pig Knot?”

  “In the arena’s infirmary.”

  “Who’s with him?”

  “Halm is, as well as most of the new recruits.”

  “Seddon above, you have recruits with him?”

  “There was no one else. But Halm is there.”

  “I’m off for the Pit then,” Clavellus said to Machlann, who nodded sagely. The old trainer had been stoically inspecting Muluk’s bandages. Koba lurched from the window and joined the taskmaster at the stairs. There, a pensive Clavellus paused. Goll thought he was about to give another stern warning. After a nervous heartbeat, the subsequent storm brewing upon the old taskmaster’s face didn’t lash into the new master. Instead, he thumped down the stairs with both trainers behind him.

  Goll wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and squeezed gently, massaging the tension collected there. He noticed that Machlann lingered. The stern trainer inspected the still form of Muluk. Without a word, he studied the gravity of the man’s wounds while Clavellus reached the ground floor with a clatter.

  And then, ever so quietly and paying no heed to what Goll might think, the trainer placed a warm hand on the sleeping man’s forehead, patting it softly.

  A moment later, he left and lumbered down the stairs.

  Six personal guards fell into line behind Clavellus and Koba as they left the healer’s house. The taskmaster’s blood burned with angered dismay. Free Trained, his mind chided him. What did you expect? Goll certainly displayed initiative and push, but the taskmaster feared the man lacked common sense. Clavellus didn’t invest time, sweat, and blood in preparing a gladiator to fight to his fullest only to have him commanded to fall in a match. He wondered if Goll would try such a thing again, despite his warning. He hoped the Kree would not.

  The taskmaster stopped in the middle of the street when he realized Machlann wasn’t with him. Then the old trainer appeared, leaving the healer’s house, looking as grim as ever. Clavellus waited for him before continuing on without a word. Neither Machlann nor Koba spoke during the walk to the arena. Clavellus knew what they were thinking, who they were looking for. The heat was terrible, and the press of bodies quickly tested the taskmaster’s nerves, making him long for a drink. Sunjans crowded the street from one side to the other in all their colors, shapes, sizes, and smells. Some haggled with merchants over stringed baubles of Zuthenian copper and gold while others held up shimmering lengths of fine silk rippling in the sun. They quibbled and swore at times, which brought out Clavellus’s scorn. There was a damn war going on, and people seemed everything but concerned. Some of his countrymen glanced curiously in his direction, enough to unleash tendrils of unease about his mind. Curge’s warning echoed on reeking air currents, reminding Clavellus of the risk he had taken in coming to the city.

  But the Pit beckoned with an ache so nagging the taskmaster couldn’t stay away. Not with events involving his lads happening in the city.

  His lads. Already he considered them his own, Seddon damn him.

  The small group pressed on through the masses, closing in on the stony magnificence of the arena. Bare wires and ribbons crossed the street heights, straining to contain the Pit as it reared up, like netting failing to contain a beast. The arena revealed itself in ominous fashion, looming over the rooftops of nearby houses, casting an imposing ambience that weakened the knees. Fear and joy surged through Clavellus upon sighting the towering outer shell of the ancient battleground, fondly recalling better times so very long ago. The thought occurred to him that, although he’d married Nala, the woman who’d stolen his heart, he’d secretly married another.

  The Pit drew them into its shadowy archways and tunnels. They descended steps and traversed torchlit passages until they approached the infirmary. A giant of a man detached himself from the entrance with silent grace. The tunnel guardian prompted Koba to draw his sword and step in front of Clavellus.

  Then the large brazen belly
of the Zhiberian pushed through the door.

  “Koba! A surprise to find you here. And is that Master Clavellus behind you? And the other one?”

  Though Clavellus sensed a joke, he felt heat rising off Machlann.

  “Where’s the lad?” the taskmaster demanded.

  Halm’s joviality dropped. “In here. This is Brozz, one of the new men with us. Scary bastard, isn’t he? Lad, this is our––and soon to be your––taskmaster and both trainers.”

  The swarthy man with the necklace of crow heads dipped his head in greeting. Stepping out of Koba’s considerable shadow, Clavellus briefly studied the disturbing ornaments dangling from the warrior’s neck. He then faced Halm.

  “Lead on, then. You men stay here,” he ordered his guards.

  Halm guided the taskmaster and the trainers into the infirmary, past cots of fighters suffering from frightening cuts and stab wounds. “Didn’t expect to find you here this morning.”

  “A good amount has happened since I saw you last,” Clavellus said as the smell of strong onions accosted his nose. He recognized saywort, having been around it much longer than he cared to remember. “I heard you’ve become a house now.”

  “We have,” Halm said with a smile, “and I’m one of the founding masters of it.”

  “You must be overjoyed.”

  But Halm said nothing to that. More cots lined the infirmary’s walls, and men lay quietly or twisted in pain. Clavellus shook his head and scowled, hoping the poor bastards’ wounds weren’t too life crippling. He’d heard far too many unhappy stories in his time.

  “Where’s the healer?” he asked.

  “Gone just now,” Halm answered. “The new lads and I were about most of the night, watching in shifts.”

  “I can’t believe Goll put them here in the first…” But his words faltered.

  Halm stopped at one dark cot and swept a hand, introducing a mess of a man lying on his back. While Pig Knot’s face and upper body were wrapped in clean bandages, his legs drew most of Clavellus’s attention––rather, his lack of legs.

  “Dying Seddon,” the taskmaster cursed.

  The following trainers gathered around. Koba’s dismayed hiss spoke volumes while Machlann kept his tongue.

  “The bandages look clean,” Clavellus said finally, feeling the awkwardness of the words but at a loss to say anything more.

  “The healer changed them this morning. And applied more of that salve shite. Not the first time Pig Knot’s been buttered, I wager, but probably by more attractive, ah, professionals.”

  “Muluk’s wounds were done in the same fashion… but the healer’s house had open windows for at least a breath of fresh air. Seddon above. Who did this?”

  “A pit fighter. One I know the name of.”

  “You can’t let this go, you know.”

  “I won’t,” Halm said with quiet lethality. “I know who did this. A dog called Skulljigger. I’ll put him down. He’s the reason why Goll placed the recruits on guard here and half the reason why I’m here.”

  “What’s the other half?” Clavellus asked, his eyes still on the stumps.

  Halm paused before his eyes fell on the unconscious Pig Knot. “He’s my friend.”

  Clavellus faced the Zhiberian with a reflective silence filled with the moans of the suffering. Machlann broke the moment by moving in on the other side of the cot, a frown rendering his features truly unsettling in the low light.

  “We should move him,” the trainer said. “Get him back to the villa.”

  “I agree,” Clavellus grunted, “but the move might be too much for him.”

  “At least get him back to the healer’s house. Alongside Muluk. Then we’d have them together. Easy to watch.”

  A wise thought, Clavellus conceded. “Where’s this healer?”

  “Gone, but he should be back shortly,” Halm said.

  “You have some gold on you?”

  “A few coins.”

  “Good. Perhaps buy a stretcher from him if you can and do as Machlann’s suggested. Bring Pig Knot back to the house. Have your recruits come along. They’ll be returning to the house anyway, sooner or later.”

  “You’ve spoken to Goll, have you?”

  “I have,” Clavellus said with a frustrated expulsion of breath, enough to quell any further questions on the matter.

  “I’ll meet you back at the healer’s house then.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To look for this Skulljigger,” Halm said. “And to lay down the challenge for a blood match. Why so glum, good Machlann?”

  Machlann glanced up from the prone shape of Pig Knot. “You just find this Skull bastard.”

  “I will. Ah. Meet the new lads, then.” Halm directed the men’s attention to four men coming into the infirmary.

  “Who are these toppers?” Torello quipped, eyeing the pair of older men with disdain and stopping at Koba. “And this ugly bastard. What in Saimon’s name took a lick of you?”

  A scowling Koba squinted at Clavellus, who quickly shook his head.

  “These are your trainers… and taskmaster.” Halm cleared his throat. “And if you still wish to be a part of the house, I’d suggest you’d apologize right now.”

  This didn’t seem to initially impress Torello, but his insolent posturing wilted just a little under Koba’s menacing glare.

  “My apologies, then,” Torello mumbled. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “You keep that in mind then, boy,” Machlann warned, “when, in a day or two’s time, you feel my boot up your dog blossom.”

  The tightening of Torello’s jaw and the brazen glare was all Clavellus needed to know. Torello’s attitude didn’t surprise him. There was always one troublesome he-bitch in every pack.

  Halm formally introduced Torello, Junger, and Kolo and sent the one called Brozz off to find the healer. In short time, the man was located and a wooden stretcher purchased. The healer didn’t care for the idea of carrying Pig Knot away but brightened somewhat when Halm gave him a pair of gold coins for his trouble. After that, the healer changed his mind, waved them off, and wished them well. Traversing the stony bowels of the Pit’s underbelly, the group of them carefully transferred Pig Knot to the sunny surface.

  Once in the blaze of the sun, Halm turned to Clavellus. “You know the way to the healer’s house?”

  “I do.”

  “Then we part ways here.”

  Machlann stopped him. “Perhaps Koba should accompany you?”

  But Halm’s gruesome smile made his thoughts clear on that matter. “No. I’ll find him on my own. And I’ll make the blood match known. I’ll meet you all back at the healer’s house. Later this day.”

  “We’ll be leaving the city later this day.”

  “I’ll meet you back at your residence then, Master Clavellus. One place or the other.”

  “One piece or the other,” Machlann said with a hard expression.

  The Zhiberian flashed an appreciative smile at the jab.

  “Be careful, Zhiberian,” Clavellus warned.

  If Halm wasn’t mistaken, he believed the taskmaster wanted to go with him. With a departing nod, Halm left and wound his way back into the tunnels, turning at junctions lit by flickering torches and following the smell of sour sweat and urine. At times, the darkness enveloped him, and burly shadows passed without word. As he drew closer to the general quarters, Halm felt anxious to get the next bit of business out of the way. Up ahead, a familiar dull chatter could be heard, hundreds of ghostly voices growing in strength as he marched through the corridors. Light and dark coalesced, blurring the lines of the passageways’ fitted stone and rendering it seamless. Energy filled him, rising up through the floor, permeating his boots and lower legs, quickening the beat of his heart. He knew the feeling, the building rush of power and excitement before any confrontation. Ahead, shadows of men prepared themselves for battle, voicing their anxiousness to pull steel as clearly as dogs barking to be fed. The underguts of t
he Pit channeled the sounds, amplified them, and urged Halm to hurry.

  He knew Skulljigger would be there.

  And he meant to find the fighter who’d almost killed his friend—find Skulljigger, challenge him, and when the time was right, punch his Mademian steel through the man’s black heart.

  8

  The teeming mess of general quarters seemed to stink more with each visit. Halm wrinkled his face at the unholy fragrance wafting about. He wondered if the games happened only once a year because the event took the remaining three seasons to clean the place. Breathing in the foul air, he studied the shadows and torch-lit forms as they shuffled past his eyes. Men regarded him in turn, some with a careful glance, others with undisguised annoyance. One bumped him and apologized while twice more he was nearly knocked off his feet. Those rough encounters left him sputtering oaths at armored backs as they melted into the mass of fighters. He felt the hilt of his sword and swore blood if he were hit one more time. The Madea shouted the names of the first combatants of the day, and Halm decided it best to ask questions of the arena official.

  Along the way stood a man studying an open helm with fear on his face. Ill-kept leather armor covered the lad, no doubt taken from the dead and stitched together in poor fashion. A round shield decorated his arm while a shortsword hung off his waist, sheathed in a scabbard. Halm wouldn’t have paid much attention to the youngster except for two things: the distress infecting his features and the war braid at the back of his black-haired head.

  For a haunting moment, one that made him falter in his tracks, Halm believed he was looking at a youthful version of Pig Knot.

  Feeling eyes upon him, the lad met his gaze and frowned.

  “I’m not a daisy,” the youth said.

  The words slapped Halm out of his stare. “What?”

  “You heard me, you fat ass licker. I’m not a daisy, so get that loving look out of your eye else I poke it out with this.” He gripped the hilt of his sword, no longer fearful.