131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Garl’s whisper cracked, and he held his tongue, lowering his eyes while he composed himself. Borchus allowed him that and glanced in the direction of the cellar door. A length of timber leaned against a wall, used to throw across iron hooks and bar the cellar door from the inside. Though he didn’t say anything, Borchus knew he’d be using it this night.

  “And now that you’re with me?”

  Garl’s face became a contortion of fright, real enough to worry Borchus, and he wasn’t one to unease easily.

  “Why didn’t anyone try and leave the city?”

  “Some have, but they’re never heard from again.”

  “Because they’ve left the city,” Borchus pointed out, darkly amused.

  “No, no, no, I’ve heard that Strach will send out lads. Men who’ll track you down and butcher you. Do things that’ll make children shiver at night. We’ve been warned. Leaving the city means a slow death.”

  “And staying is Saimon’s hell,” Borchus said, disliking Strach already.

  “Worse,” Garl breathed. “I knew of a boy, not yet nine if that—born on the streets and lived off them. Had fingers as light and sticky as a spider’s. Strach got a hold of him, made the youngster work for him. I don’t know exactly what happened or how the boy crossed Strach, but I know the lad disappeared. Stories have it that Strach and his killers mauled that child—spiked his little body to a wall and let him hang there, Borchus, like curing meat. A boy. They killed a boy. Over maybe a few coins, just as a lesson to the rest of us.”

  “You didn’t mention this before.” Borchus glanced once more in the direction of the cellar door and felt the need to secure it.

  “I tried!” Garl whispered. “You said you’d protect me. I tried to tell you, but you offered me… you said you’d––”

  “That was when I thought it was a few punces! Not a pack of street lice.”

  Garl struggled with his obvious fear. “You haven’t changed. You’re still you. I lost these”—he thrust his hand and its uneven stumps into the light—“because of you.”

  Borchus had an urge to shout at the man, but fear gripped Garl. The beggar eventually sighed and slumped, clicking his teeth together while straightening out his thoughts.

  “Look,” Garl said, more softly. “You need spies. A lot of spies, yes?”

  Against the churning of his guts, Borchus nodded that he did.

  “If you can get rid of Strach, I can convince some of the others to work for you—provided you do this and treat them as you’ve treated me.”

  “You’re asking a lot.”

  “If you throw me out…”

  “Might we pay him off?”

  “Strach? How much do you have?”

  “Not much.” Borchus could give Strach a few coins, but that might not mean anything to a dangerous street snake. He rubbed his face. He’d fled the city and his people once before; he didn’t think he could again. Not after coming back. He sighed. He should never have returned. Should’ve just kept on running errands for Clavellus to the other towns and cities and stayed clear of Sunja.

  “You know what he looks like?”

  “Strach? Of course.”

  Borchus took a breath. “All right.”

  “All right what?”

  “I’ll… help you.”

  But in the candlelight, Borchus could see the distrust on Garl’s face.

  “Why exactly did you leave, Borchus?” he whispered. “I never really knew. No one did.”

  Borchus didn’t want to remember that time, didn’t want to talk about any of it, but surprisingly, the words came out easily enough. “Someone knew I was an agent working with the House of Tilo. Someone knew and used that information. Framed me. I overheard that a fighter from the Stable of Vorish had broken his ribs, but he was going to fight his match anyway. Such a morsel would have meant a quick victory on the sands, eh? So I told Tilo about it, whose man was going to face Vorish’s lad. Tilo trained his fighter––I forget the name––to play upon that weakness. Trouble was… there was never any such injury. It was bait. And Vorish’s man gutted Tilo’s. Worse, I was living out of a rented room in an alehouse at the time. Tilo knew this and sent over a few of his pit fighters to talk to me, which they did. They caught me and also found a purse of gold under the bed. Under the bed…” Borchus smiled coldly at the memory. “As if I would place coin under a bed. Lords above. But try explaining that to Tilo. Or one of Tilo’s cutthroats. I had to kill one to get away. I realized then the wisdom of getting out of Sunja for a while. So I did. At some point, they found you.”

  “They did that.”

  “So. There you have it. Told no one else, really. Travelled Marrn, Balgotha, and Pericia over the years. Even Vathia. Then I came back to Sunja. Never did find out who placed the gold under the bed or who let slip that a man’s ribs had been broken. Not even sure it was Vorish, though I imagine him being capable. Someone, though. Someone looking for revenge. Perhaps for gathering information on one of their fighters that tipped the balance in a match. It could have been anyone or anything, really.”

  Garl remained silent.

  “Well… tomorrow you go into the streets on behalf of the House of Ten,” the agent informed his spy. “Stay to the shadows during the day; the night will be easier. Be alert. You’ve cleaned up considerably, and I suspect anyone would have a time recognizing the Garl of old. Do what you do, hang around the alehouses and such—anywhere people are talking about the fights. Anywhere gladiators might frequent. Come back here each night. I’ll meet you, and we’ll talk. That’s a start.”

  “And what are you going to do?” Garl wanted to know.

  Borchus looked him in the eye. “What has to be done.”

  14

  Just after noon the following day, Halm returned to the crowded squalor of the Pit’s general quarters. With Shan away from his house, he hadn’t felt comfortable troubling his wife by staying there the night before, so he searched for an affordable alternative. And after sleeping in a clean bed in a rented room of an alehouse, the bloated stench of the underground chamber threatened to turn his stomach. However, he endured it, intent on confronting Skulljigger to see the man’s face when he learned of the impending blood match. The wall Halm leaned against felt hot and sticky against his bare back, making him hope the pig bastard appeared soon. Wallowing in the sour air of hundreds of pit fighters did nothing for his patience, nor did watching the clamor of activity before the day’s fights. Men stayed within the radius of overhead torchlight as the sounds of the Pit enveloped him––boisterous conversations ebbed and flowed, armor slapped and buckled onto muscle. His ears picked up the unsettling whisper and grind of blades being sharpened. Any other day, Halm would have had his own preparations, but not that day. Shadows hid his face while his guts insisted upon returning to the surface for fresh breath.

  In the end, he gave in.

  Torches cast their flickering light down from iron brackets, and he walked through arcs of orange hues and wells of darkness until a stairwell came into sight. He rose from the Pit’s blackness two steps at a time and exited the Gate of the Sun in short order. The lines to the Domis caught his attention. The solid stone and timber booths peeked over the citizens waiting to place their wagers. A patrol of Skarrs walked by, drawing his attention, as did another intimidating group stationed with their backs against the outer shell of the Domis, their steely visors vigilant.

  The hot sun punished people as they milled about the open area encompassing the arena, the heat stamping their faces, while a good many Sunjans crowded the shade offered by the arena’s towering walls. Halm wasn’t sure how many fights remained that day, but the number of people placing wagers seemed thicker than flies on dead meat. Perhaps they knew something he didn’t. That etched an ugly smirk on his rough features.

  The smell of grilled meat caught Halm’s attention, and he spotted several wooden stalls selling both food and drink to spectators. Feeling the heat even in the shade, he backed up until he bu
mped against the stone wall of the arena. He spied a few women amongst the crowds, all of various sizes and attractiveness, all gleaming with sweat and some with perfume strong enough that he caught a whiff. Women. Halm ogled some of the fairer ones, envisioning their shapes without their robes, britches, or tunics. Some felt his lecherous gaze and glared back, and that only emboldened the Zhiberian even more. Eventually, he tired of the game and looked elsewhere.

  Cheers reached a crescendo within the Pit, loud enough to make him look up for falling timbers or stones. Children raced by, and while he wasn’t averse to them, he was secretly glad they didn’t take notice of him. He found young children to be shameless. They had stopped and stared at him before, marveling at his hard looks and the size of his bare belly. He secretly cared little for such attention. He then realized he was doing the same with the women in the area, and that tiny pinch of understanding made him scold himself. He thumped his head against the Pit’s hide in a slow, poisonous self-loathing.

  And there he stood for the rest of the day, even when the arena fights finished and the crowds noisily leaked out from the Gate of the Sun. A few people stopped at the windows of the Domis and collected their winnings, while others lingered in the streets. The sounds of excitement diminished into murmurs, and the shadows lengthened across fitted stone. The sky ripened orange, and the heat abated just a little. For that alone, Halm’s spirits improved, but he didn’t see the man whom he wanted very badly to punish.

  Only a few people walked along the Pit’s constructed fairway, seemingly following their shadows while the city’s evening sounds emerged. Huddling in food stalls, merchants roasted sticks of meat for one or two customers remaining here and there. Halm felt his need for revenge softened by the urges of his belly, yet he didn’t want to stand and eat. Alehouses and nearby taverns called to him, so the decision to seek one out wasn’t difficult. Another day had passed, and Skulljigger hadn’t shown. Frowning more from tiredness than disappointment, he detached himself from the darkening wall and made his way down across the open area and down a street.

  People drifted in and out of his way as he eyed open doors, signs, and the unnecessary ribbons and festive streamers the Sunjans seemed to favor. While Halm found the Sunjans friendly enough at times, he thought the year-round decorations off-putting and more than a little garish at times, especially while a war was being waged beyond their plains and forests—a war hungering for their young men.

  Still, it wasn’t his war, so he let them do what they liked. Halm pushed it from his mind.

  An alehouse lured him toward its quiet open doors. He stuck his head inside, and the smell of some good cooking over an unseen fire pit pulled him toward a long counter. Oil lamps glowed from their perches high on rustic wooden pillars. Serving women in frumpy white dresses moved through a large interior sparsely filled with diners and drinkers. Some of the patrons sitting about their tables spared the Zhiberian only a glance before turning back to their business. Halm stopped and rapped his knuckles on the bar, inspecting the many barrels turned on their sides, containing all sorts of fermented goodness. A fence of clean-looking mugs and brass pitchers gleamed on a shelf just underneath them all, capturing the enticing flicker of the light just right.

  “Yes?” asked a fair young woman dressed in a green shirt.

  Halm nodded with approval. “What’s good here?”

  “We’re roasting rabbits this day. Seasoned with garlic and onions.”

  “I’ll have one of those. Right here. And two slices of bread if you have any baked. What’s there to drink?”

  “Beer, Sunjan Gold, Sunjan Black, wine…”

  “A pitcher of beer. And do you have rooms above?”

  “We do. A gold coin for the night.”

  Cheap. “Then I’ll have one of those as well,” Halm ordered and rested his elbows on the counter while he studied the interior of the alehouse. The second floor wasn’t visible from the first and had to be reached by stairs cut from heavy wood, unlike the place he and the lads had frequented before. The image of Muluk and Pig Knot cut to pieces darkened his mood, and he hoped he’d have more luck with his hunt for Skulljigger the next day. That night, he’d drink to his friend’s health and spend some of the coin he’d taken from Goll’s sack.

  The beer arrived first, and Halm quaffed it. He ordered a pitcher afterward and took it to a table near a wall. This alehouse didn’t have alcoves like the other one. That was probably for the best—no memories.

  Then a recollection slunk into his head, like a dead thing brushing against skin. Pig Knot didn’t have any legs. Lords above. The man was crippled in the worst way possible. How would he cope? What could he do? Halm had his doubts and took a long pull at the pitcher, drinking his beer straight from the clay lip. A gasp punctuated the air when he finished. Pig Knot. Lords above. He wondered what he would’ve done if it had been his own legs chopped off. The notion made him screw up his face. Death. He’d hope for death. For the life of him, he couldn’t see what the Sunjan’s future held.

  “Drinking alone?”

  Halm’s mouth hung open when the cleaned-up pit fighter that reminded him of Pig Knot sat down at his table, opposite him. Targus—that was his name. He carried his own pitcher and filled a brass mug with wine that shone berry red.

  “Targus,” Halm greeted, forcing cheer into his voice. “You’re actually easy to look upon when you aren’t readying to gut someone.”

  The man had cleaned up quite respectfully. His dark hair hung in a braid and draped over his shoulder. A clean white tunic, sleeveless, showed off the thick musculature of his arms. Once again, Halm felt as if he were gazing upon a youthful version of Pig Knot, right down to the crazy-eyed look—and a lot fewer scars.

  “You make me worried when you do that.” Targus frowned as he sipped his wine and hissed at the tart taste.

  “I’ve only done it twice.” Halm looked into his own drink.

  “Well, stop it.”

  “You really do look like him, though.”

  “Who?”

  “My friend.”

  “Ah.” Targus said. “Well, anyway, my thanks again for the words earlier this day. Before I fought. I won.”

  “I figured you did.” Halm smirked. “No cuts on you.”

  “I killed him.”

  “Your opponent?”

  “Aye that.”

  Halm shrugged and slowly turned his pitcher around with a finger. “It happens.”

  “I didn’t mind.”

  “No?” Halm regarded the man across from him with a sly eye. “Get a taste for it, did you?”

  Targus thought about it. “Maybe.”

  “I tell you what that is.” Halm leaned forward. “That’s pride whispering in your ear, telling you, ‘You’re a warrior.’ A name to dread, and rightly so, but listen—pride’s no friend, and when a lad sticks you with his blade and reddens it––and that day will come––pride will throw you to fear. You remember that.”

  Targus reflected on the words, features twisting as if he’d eaten something rancid. Then he remembered his wine and raised his mug. “Well, I drink to success at this season’s games.”

  That was something Halm could agree with, and he joined the younger man in his toast. He drained the rest of his drink, and when he lowered the vessel with a gasp, he snarled at the lovely burn. Beer. Right then, it was exactly what he needed.

  They drank, ordering pitchers at whim. For every one Halm downed, Targus matched him. The Zhiberian bought his new companion a round, and Targus reciprocated.

  They talked about their fights, others’ fights, and the history of the games. Targus was new to the arena––his first season as a pit fighter. And even with the war on, he had elected to avoid the ranks of the Skarrs and Sujins and had learned what he could with a blade on his own time.

  The night became soupy, smeared with laughing faces and slurred speech, and their command of their limbs slackened until they had to concentrate to even lift mugs to their lips,
which wasn’t guaranteed to work, even then.

  “The day’ll come,” Targus said with a vengeful finger pointed at the Zhiberian. “The day’ll come when… when none of us will, will be fighting in the Pit. It’ll be—” He paused and stifled a belch. “It’ll be on the walls.”

  “Sunja’s walls?” Halm asked, not quite as pickled as Targus, but gaining.

  “Sunja’s walls.” Targus nodded like an appreciative horse, his lips a tight line under wide eyes. “You just wait. Juuuusst wait. The Nords will be at our throats in a year.”

  “I have faith in Sunja’s Klaws,” Halm said honestly. “They’ll keep shem––them, I mean, apologies—they’ll keep them at bay.”

  “Sunja’s Klaws are being smashed,” a dire Targus countered. But then a shapely woman arrived bearing two full pitchers and placed them down at their table.

  “Marry me,” Targus gushed, at which she frowned, then smiled, and shook her lovely head. “Then how about just holding onto my topper for a bit?”

  The server’s scowl deepened as she gathered up the empty vessels and walked away with a very drunk Targus clawing for her dress hem. Giggles erupted from Halm, hard enough that he had to drop his drink on the table and hold onto his bare belly. The lad was similar to Pig Knot in many ways but nowhere as successful with the ladies.