131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Ho there, Grisholt!” called an unfazed Vorish, leaning around the warrior.

  “Vorish,” Grisholt acknowledged, wondering if the man had his ass on fire for arriving at his door so soon after the match. “Brakuss, pay the man. Ten gold.”

  The guard did as he was told, reaching for the purse hanging from his waist.

  “A pleasure, good Grisholt,” Vorish said with his hand stretched out as a beggar might. “Are any of your lads fighting again this day?”

  “One is,” Grisholt said, speaking before his instinct could forbid him.

  “Then I’ll be watching. And wagering.” Vorish smirked. “On the competition, of course.”

  “Brazen of you.” Grisholt stood and faced the man. “My men fight with courage and skill in the Pit. I have nothing but praise for them.”

  Vorish chuckled and regarded him as if seeing through a lie. “Oh, I can see you have… nothing. I suppose there’s some other reason for your floundering from season to season? Have no fear, good Grisholt. All the managers know how important it is to fight one of your lads. There’s never been a surer wager in the whole city. Or a better joke.”

  “I think it’s time for you to leave, Vorish. Your lack of respect is trying my patience.”

  “You have bigger problems than my lack of respect, Grisholt,” Vorish remarked snidely. “And none of them are because of me. And respect? Respect? Really, Grisholt? That’s almost a bigger laugh than what I just witnessed on the sands. Of all the houses in the games, I don’t think there’s a man, an owner, who commands so little respect as yourself. There are Free Trained who are looked upon as more of a challenge than you or any of the men in your stable. You consider that.”

  “I’m considering having Brakuss roll your fat dog blossom up the corridor.” Grisholt near barked, taking two steps toward the threshold. “Close that door.”

  Brakuss slammed it in Vorish’s face. Scalding laughter sank through the wood, wounding Grisholt’s pride.

  “My thanks,” the owner huffed to his bodyguard. “Wait a moment, until he’s gone.”

  A chagrined Grisholt wandered to the window and placed an elbow on its sandy ledge, leaning toward the outside and taking a steadying breath of hot air. He held that pose for a moment before turning upon his men. “What Vorish says… is it true? About there never being a surer wager in the games?”

  Seel looked at Brakuss, who cleared his throat and said, “There’s always talk.”

  “And?”

  “And we aren’t the most respected in circles.”

  Grisholt shook his head in disbelief. His ego had been shattered this day, and by one of his own kind. “Are we not feared?”

  “Feared is not the word I would use.”

  “Stop prancing with words, Brakuss. What do you hear?”

  “We’ve ranked last in previous years. There are many who don’t place much stock in our worth. There are some who believe it’s only a matter of time, perhaps even this season, when the Stable of Grisholt will cease to exist.”

  Those words made the old owner straighten up and face his men. Anger flared within him as he glanced from one face to the next. “Then perhaps it’s time for us to start placing some fear into our adversaries.”

  11

  “You still here?”

  The question broke Halm’s concentration and startled him a little. The voice belonged to Targus, who stopped before him, almost devoured by shadows.

  “I suppose I am. Was I that easy to see?”

  “No, not at all. I was walking this way and only just noticed you. Not many, ah, shaped like yourself.”

  Halm supposed that was true. “Did you win your fight?”

  “Aye that.” Targus broke into a smile. Halm noted the man’s bottom teeth jutted just a bit over his top ones. “Killed him as well. Not that I’m worried. He’s only a Free Trained.”

  “So you’re off to spend some coin?”

  “More or less. You haven’t found the one who butchered your friend?”

  Halm shifted uneasily. “Bit harsh. He’s still alive.”

  “Hm. Well, his fighting days are finished. So you didn’t find the lad who cut him up?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The day’s fights are half over. He might not show up this day.”

  “That’s a chance.”

  Targus shook his head and glanced about the torchlit general quarters. “Well, as you say, I’ve coin to spend.”

  “Be good to yourself, then.”

  Targus fixed Halm with a strange look. “Of course I will.” He left, shaking his head.

  The fighter’s form melded with numerous other bodies walking about the chamber, and Halm couldn’t quell that feeling he’d just had a conversation with a younger—if not coarser—version of Pig Knot. He adjusted his back against the wall, feeling the stone warmed by his body heat, and took a fresh interest in the men interacting with the Madea. Time stretched on. Fighters came and went. Attendants wheeled the meat cart bearing dead bodies to their final fiery fate. Victorious warriors bursting with excitement emerged from the white tunnel, catching his attention, but still no Skulljigger. At one point, he walked around in search of the nearest latrine, passing through the flickering hues of a fire pit. The latrine consisted of a disgusting trench made of overlapping tin, laid into the floor at one end of the quarters and separated by a low brick wall only strides from where some men sat and talked. The smell alone almost made Halm hurry to the surface and piss in the street. With a huff, he assumed the stance and relieved himself, taking note of how the flow disappeared into an ominous hole cut in the metal. Once finished, Halm tucked himself away, slapped his roll of belly fat covered in bandages and stepped back just as two men crowded around him to get to the latrine.

  “Enough of this,” he muttered, thinking he’d return to the healer’s house. Skulljigger had failed to appear so far that day, and he realized he could stand the bowels of the Pit only for so long before the high ceilings stopped seeming so high.

  A short time later, he stood on the surface and squinted against daylight’s glare. Though the air was hot and moist, it was nectar compared to the lower chambers. The time it took for him to navigate the streets back to Shan’s house helped him adapt once more to the surface.

  Guards lined the front of the healer’s home, and as he drew closer, he recognized them as the new recruits along with the three new guardsmen, though he couldn’t recall their names.

  “Lads,” Halm greeted. “Having a talk out here?”

  “They’re having a talk in there,” Torello muttered. “We’ll be leaving shortly, they said. Back to Clavellus’s estate.”

  “You got here just in time,” the man called Junger said.

  “Pig Knot is in there?”

  “Aye, he is,” Torello said. “But they’re talking about taking him out of the city.”

  A frown etched the Zhiberian’s face, and he parted the wall of men to reach the front door.

  “Well, Master Halm,” Goll hailed from behind a table as Halm entered. “Pleases me to see you’ve returned. And thank you for bringing us back something to eat.”

  Halm winced. “Apologies. I was taken up with other matters. Didn’t even buy anything for myself, really. And now that you mention it…” His hand rested on his gut.

  “I can see you’re starving,” Borchus observed drily as he handed a small leather purse to Clavellus, sitting next to Goll. Koba and Machlann leaned against walls, while Shan was nowhere to be seen.

  “You’re right on time.” Goll stepped in before Halm could fling a jab at the agent. “We’re returning to Clavellus’s estate to begin training. Get out of the city and more importantly, out of Shan’s house.”

  “I thought we were fine here,” Halm said.

  “We are, but there are more of us now. And I’d feel better out of Sunja before any more bad luck finds us. I’ve hired Shan to travel and stay with us at the villa until such a time as the lads are completely out of harm�
��s way.”

  “No one fights right away,” Borchus put forth, “and I’ve started recruiting eyes and ears for you. It isn’t much right now, but I’ll have people in place soon enough. That includes a rider who’ll be sent out to you with any new information as it happens. Or is discovered.”

  “Not too many,” Goll warned him. “Not until I have a greater understanding of our finances.”

  Borchus nodded solemnly and made no comment.

  “Any luck with finding this Skulljigger?” Clavellus asked Halm.

  “Not yet.”

  “Shame.”

  “I’ve called for a blood match, however,” Halm reported. “So word will reach him. I’ll remain in the city. Here even, if Shan won’t mind. The fight might happen soon.”

  Goll didn’t appear too pleased with the idea, and he stewed in his seat.

  “What?” Halm asked.

  “You should return with us. It would be safer, I think.”

  “I’ll stay here, Master Goll,” Halm replied. “As I’ve said, the challenge has been made.”

  “I’ll be nearby,” Borchus said out of the corner of his mouth. “I can watch him.”

  Now it was Halm’s turn to be none too pleased with the idea.

  Just then, the door opened, and the warrior called Clades leaned in. “Your pardon, but the wagons are here.”

  “Well then,” Clavellus exclaimed, getting to his feet. “Time to get out of here. With luck, we’ll reach the villa just after nightfall.”

  “Are the lads awake?” Halm asked.

  “They are, actually,” Goll answered.

  Halm went to the stairs and hurried to the second level. There, the bandaged forms of his remaining companions greeted him, still lying in their cots. Shan hovered over the shape of Muluk while Pig Knot grunted as the Zhiberian came into view.

  “Pig Knot?”

  “Aye.” The legless man winced.

  “I’m here as well,” Muluk grated.

  “Apologies, lad,” Halm said. “No offence. It’s just that you were already looked after by the healer here. While this one… we weren’t so sure of.”

  “Still alive,” Pig Knot grunted.

  Halm walked over to him and felt suddenly awkward about what to say. “I’ve issued a blood challenge to this Skulljigger. He won’t get away with doing this to one of ours.”

  Pig Knot took his time answering, clearly feeling the effects of some unknown curative concoction. “Don’t die over it.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “I can… can still feel my legs.”

  That admission robbed Halm of any reply.

  “I’ve given them both herbal mixtures, to sedate them while they travel,” Shan informed the Zhiberian.

  “So you’re going with them as well?” Halm asked.

  Shan shrugged, rolling tanned shoulders and dusting sandy hair from his eyes. “My wife will stay here for now. It’s not that busy for us. And a bit of the country air will do me well, I believe. I’m not so worried about this one.” He pointed at Muluk then gestured toward Pig Knot. “But him, I’d feel better watching for a few days.”

  “Good man,” Pig Knot grumbled.

  “Very good man,” Muluk slurred, the medicine hitting both men hard now.

  “Would it be acceptable if I slept here?” Halm asked. “While I’m in the city?”

  Shan didn’t hesitate. “Indeed it is acceptable. I’ll let my wife know.”

  Koba and four of the new gladiators climbed the stairs, bearing stretchers. Shortly, they gathered up the serene Muluk and Pig Knot and carried them down the steps to the waiting horse-drawn wagons.

  Outside, Goll watched how Muluk blinked in the open light, his eyes unaccustomed to it. The stricken man held out a fist as he passed by, and Goll dutifully pressed it with his own, but only at a fraction of his strength.

  “Where’s your push?” Muluk scolded in a medicated haze. “You’re a master now. Need more push than that.”

  Goll waved the towering Brozz and Sapo past, and they bore the wounded man to a nearby wagon. Canvas covered the wooden vehicles, providing protection from the sun as well as privacy. A handful of guardsmen, most of them in Clavellus’s employ, watched the streets like wary hounds. Clavellus sat atop one wagon’s seat, next to a driver fiddling with the reins of the team of horses, while Machlann stood nearby, frowning at the procession. Koba rejoined them and spoke to them in low tones.

  Kolo and Torello bore Pig Knot to the rear of a wagon, and Goll held out his fist as they passed.

  The Sunjan glanced away with a drunken scowl.

  The Kree stood there with his fist outstretched for a heartbeat before dropping it, chagrin creeping into his neck and face. He looked over his shoulder and met Halm’s knowing smirk. Not needing that in the least, Goll turned his attention back to the wagons and spied Borchus whispering to Clavellus, who hefted a leather purse the agent had handed over, something that didn’t go unnoticed by the Kree. The short, stocky agent then gave a curt nod to the taskmaster and trotted off down the street without a word to Goll.

  And Goll didn’t like it. “Borchus!”

  The agent turned about, a mild question on his features.

  “Where are you going?” Goll called out. Clavellus even turned his head for the response.

  “Work calls, Master Goll,” Borchus replied with a flourish of a hand. “Work calls. I’ll be in contact.”

  With that, he disappeared down an alleyway, leaving a note of irritation in Goll’s mind. He met Clavellus’s gaze before the old taskmaster turned about in his seat. Goll didn’t like that either and limped at best speed back to his own waiting wagon. The Kree swished open the canvas sheet covering the rear and hauled himself in with the others.

  The wagon itself was a long-distance variety, a full seventeen feet long, with a stout wooden suspension underneath a worn body. Long benches ran along the sides, and the men travelling back to the villa squeezed in around Muluk’s stretcher, mindful of their feet and leaning back against the bowed metal ribs that rose up on either side and supported the canvas shell. A faint smell of tar, used to seal the seams in the wagon’s body, hit Goll’s nose, and he cursed when his foot caught on a toolbox in the rear. Righting himself, he squeezed in beside the bottom part of Muluk’s stretcher and yanked the white canvas sheet across, sealing the interior.

  Halm pulled the canvas back open and regarded him with a darkly amused expression. “Something bothering you, Goll?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Your face says otherwise.”

  Goll glared at him from the wagon’s cool shade.

  “Now it says something else,” Halm noted.

  The Kree’s face soured even more, and he reached out and hauled the canvas closed once again.

  Machlann hauled himself up into the rear of Clavellus’s lead wagon and barked that all was ready for departure. He waved grimly at those behind. Another voice answered, reins snapped, and the wagons pulled away from the healer’s house, rattling toward the crowded main street.

  Halm was left standing alone in front of Shan’s house.

  “Wasn’t being saucy that time,” the big man muttered as he watched his companions roll away.

  12

  Nordish Front

  Rain crashed through a canopy of tattered foliage and drizzled through outstretched tree limbs. Some droplets smashed their way through the leaves and plunked earthward, disappearing in the saturated gloom of the wet forest undergrowth. Down there, in the soggy shadows, the Jackals pressed forward in ruthless silence, their soft-booted feet soaked from the ground and clinging vegetation. The sound of pattering rain concealed the noise of every careful step. Growling thunderheads had brought miserable weather with the morning and unpacked it right over their heads. Most soldiers cursed the rain and the misery it bestowed. First Basten Vilak swore at it in the dismal predawn light, and a man would have to have both ears stabbed to miss the rumblings of his armor-bristling Grinders.


  Since Kra and his Jackals reveled in inflicting misery upon their enemy, the rain meant little to them. If anything, it meant a lowering of a sentry’s alertness, and that, Kra informed his men, was a good thing. The commander secretly enjoyed the smell of a wet forest; the fresh air after a good dousing was a wonderful thing to inhale and savor.

  Kra carefully stalked through the drenched wilderness, his mask soaked against his skull, the sound of his passing drowned out by the wet weather. A huge tree with a gnarly hide rose before him, and he placed his back against its solid mass. He waved his Jackals past, and they slunk through the dribbles and shadows on either side of him, a grim tide of leather and steel and murderous intent. Somehow—even Kra failed to fathom exactly why—the dreary showers seemed to energize his dogs while sapping the strength from the others. Far behind their advancing line, the Grinders followed yet were nowhere to be seen. It was standard practice. If the forward Jackals encountered any danger, they would quickly fall back to the heavy soldiers’ line and make a stand if necessary. All told, Kra commanded nearly a hundred soldiers while Vilak still retained his full one hundred fifty Grinders––enough to give anyone second thoughts about engaging them.

  One figure stopped beside Kra, and brown eyes just barely seen through the cloth slits of a drenched mask regarded the commander with a question. Kra rolled up his own mask, uncovering his lower jaw, and bared his teeth at the soldier in a snarl. He held it for only a moment before it melted into a sorry smile.

  “Of the whole pack, you have to be the only one to not enjoy this weather,” Kra said.

  The Jackal leaned in closer and whispered, “I’m the only one sensible.”

  Arrus. Kra recognized his brother from his walk even before he heard his voice. “Embrace it. You’ll feel better.”

  Arrus cocked his head as water ran from the edges of his mask and into his eyes, causing him to blink. “Oh, I’m embracing it. Truly. I’m convinced it’s really warm sunshine soaking my feet. That it’s massage oil running down my back into the crack of my ass. That any moment, I’ll wake up, and the bare-tit wench rubbing me down will––”