131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Watch me, watch me,” Koba instructed the six, brandishing his club at the practice target. “Basic cut. Chop down on the left arm.” This he demonstrated, his club clacking off the wood. “Then follow through. Bring the sword up and cut across the gut. Twist your hips for power. Watch me!”

  The courtyard soon erupted with the irregular beats of wood on wood and the anguished shrieks of Machlann.

  Mug in one hand, Clavellus placed his folded arms on the balcony’s railing and rested his chin on top. “Music,” he whispered, the word almost escaping Goll’s ears.

  The Kree watched the six men lay their wooden swords into the upright targets, belting out harsh notes that carried. Machlann strode up and down, barking instructions while Koba stepped in for a more personal touch.

  “How long will they do that?” Goll asked.

  “Until they drop,” Clavellus answered and let it hang in the air for a moment before smiling. “Pardon me. Until they drop or the count reaches two hundred swings. Those swords aren’t weighted. The lads will keep them at it for a bit, until their muscles remember it in their sleep. In time, those two strokes will happen without thinking. In an instant.”

  Goll knew about repetition until one’s own limbs seemingly possessed a mind of their own. He’d done enough of it in his own training regime when he studied under the Weapon Masters of Kree. It was work, repeating itself every dawn, and sometimes the count would reach a thousand strikes in a day. On those evenings, he all but dragged his body back to his cot. In the beginning, anyway. Then it became more interesting, when his masters added different cuts to the existing ones, then fight tactics, finally combining it all in sparring matches.

  As the men of the House of Ten journeyed on their paths, Goll recalled his own.

  Machlann interrupted his memory when, standing behind the line of fighters, he lifted a hand and pointed to one in particular.

  Junger.

  The Perician laid his wooden sword into his unfeeling foe with an energy that seemed oddly out of place amongst the other five. His movements were short and conservative of energy while using the natural strength of his hips to power home his strikes. Machlann then pointed to the sweating back of the tall Brozz. The Sarlander attacked his target with economical but powerful blows that rang off in a steady, punishing rhythm—much like Junger’s but not quite as smooth flowing. The others did as told but lacked the finesse demonstrated by the pair. Both men had done such drills before, had done them well, and Clavellus nodded at the trainer for bringing them to his attention.

  “They’ve done this before,” Goll muttered. It was as glaring as the sun in the sky.

  “They have.”

  As the drill went on, the energy of four of the fighters wilted. Junger and Brozz rattled on. Even Goll caught the knowing looks exchanged by Machlann and Koba, and he felt his spirits lift. Two. The house had potentially leashed a pair of hellions. The thought of where they’d learned to fight popped into his head.

  Glancing at Clavellus, who combed his fingers through his beard, Goll saw the taskmaster wondered the very same thing.

  *

  At the end of the day, four of the six men staggered back to the bathhouses at the edge of the training grounds. The physical challenges given them and the constant mental barrage from the trainers, especially the incessant bawling from Machlann, had exhausted them.

  Brozz and Junger, however, walked to the baths––wearily but by no means exhausted.

  They removed their sandals and loincloths before entering, clouds of steam enveloping their nakedness as they went into the chamber. Flagstones warmed their feet. Ahead, barely seen through the mists, lay a low wall holding back the waters of a large bath, the still surface smoking in nearby lamplight. Round beach rocks ringed the bath while before it was a depression in the floor, dotted by long, low tables.

  “Not as nice as the bathhouses in Sunja,” Torello griped as he stepped on one of several drain grates set into the floor.

  “No, they’re not,” Kolo agreed, but they followed the other four to the low wall of the bath.

  “Wait,” said one of three manservants.

  “For what?” grated Torello with a dismissive scowl at Brozz. “I’m not waiting.”

  “First we wash; then you soak,” instructed the man and gestured to the tables.

  Without a word, Sapo lumbered toward a table.

  Torello looked at him, then at the water. “Well, I’m not waiting.”

  “You go into that water stinking as you are, and I’ll split your back over my knee,” rumbled an equally filthy Sapo as he lay down.

  “I meant the tables.” Torello thrust his chin out as he climbed onto one. Without asking, Kolo lay down on the table next to his friend.

  “Well.” Tumber sat down on a long bench jutting from a wall of black wood. “I can wait a bit longer,” he muttered.

  Junger and Brozz sat down as well.

  “I hurt,” Tumber groaned and hung his head. “After today, I hurt everywhere.”

  “It’ll get easier,” Junger said.

  “Will it? Not sure I believe you. You seemed to be doing well enough out there.”

  Junger’s brow shrugged. “Just concentrate on what they tell you to do. And do it.”

  On his table, beneath a coating of soap and water and being scrubbed by a servant, Torello actually snored.

  *

  During their fighters’ training, Clavellus and Goll left the balcony and made best speed through the taskmaster’s bedroom (which he informed Goll to pay no mind to) to the training grounds. There, they meandered along the walkways of brick surrounding the sands. Clavellus, silver mug in hand, showed the facilities of his villa in greater detail. Goll hobbled along at the older man’s side, and at times, they paused to watch sweat fly off the practicing pit fighters.

  When the time came, the pair ate their meals with the trainers. They later concluded the day with a meeting before the open-air smithy while the exhausted gladiators filed off the training sands.

  “Well?” Clavellus asked Machlann and Koba. His voice possessed the barest of slurs from a day of steady drinking. The amount of beer and—later—wine he had consumed was offset by brief interludes of water a servant brought him. Goll didn’t care for the taskmaster armoring himself with constant alcohol, but so far, he couldn’t discern any impaired judgement. The Kree didn’t know if he should be impressed or worried. Clavellus enjoyed his spirits.

  “Two of them show promise,” Machlann reported. “The others are shite.”

  Goll’s innards shriveled at the news.

  Clavellus apparently wasn’t bothered at all. “Koba?”

  The hulking trainer frowned and nodded agreement.

  “That one called Junger. And Brozz? That’s his name?” Clavellus said.

  “Aye that,” Machlann said. “A Perician and a Sarlander. They’ve put in the time elsewhere. Might move them along. They’ll outpace the others.”

  “What about the big one?” Goll asked.

  “Shite,” Machlann quietly declared. “As I’ve said. The man uses an axe in the Pit. An axe.”

  “I take it you don’t care for axes,” Goll commented.

  “No, I don’t. For one, they put all their power into one swing, looking to take off the head or limb or whatever’s offered in one cut. All that muscle burns up energy. There are some axe men who are formidable, but he’s nowhere near, say, the slayers protecting the King. He’s a, what’s the word? A novelty. That boy is too large for this. Too slow on his feet. Feeding him alone is going to be a cost to you.”

  “The Sarlander’s a large one,” Goll pointed out.

  “He’s trained.”

  “The others?”

  “The Vathian…”

  “Tumber,” Goll supplied.

  “The Vathian,” Machlann repeated dourly. “Might be something there. Certainly kept at it. A couple of instances, I thought he was going to drop. Didn’t, though. None of them did, truth be known, so tha
t’s something. But that Torello bastard and his daisy are near hopeless.”

  “Kolo is a daisy?” Clavellus chuckled.

  Machlann soured and shrugged. “Truth be known, no, I don’t think so, but the punce keeps close to Torello, the mouthy topper. That one’s going to be a nuisance, I tell you. The type I see myself punishing every day until he runs for the hills.”

  Goll didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Well, then,” Clavellus started. “Thank you for the effort, lads. Clean up, have something to eat in the kitchen, and we talk some more.”

  He then fixed Goll with a bright expression. “The first day has finished, Master Goll. And I’m feeling better about it than I did this morning. Seems we might have some potential here, after all. Let’s tip a round of Sunjan black to mark the occasion.”

  More drinking? Goll hesitated before limping after the taskmaster in the hot evening sun.

  18

  Open fields of tall grass rustled and shimmered in a breeze. The sun dipped into banks of deep, purpling clouds, and the mix somehow colored the sky pink. Pig Knot had never felt better—never more relaxed. Nestled at his arm and on her back lay a fair, red-headed woman, her green-and-white dress pulled down to her waist. Freckles dappled the flesh between her breasts. He couldn’t remember her name, but he felt he’d known her all his life.

  She looked into his face, alarmed. “They’re calling you,” she whispered, her warm breath tickling his arm.

  “They can wait.”

  “They’re calling you.”

  Pig Knot gazed into her eyes, seeing sadness there.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her.

  She lifted herself up on an elbow. Her hand splayed over his flat belly. It pressed down as if he might blow away.

  “Pig Knot.”

  Strange. That time she sounded a lot like Muluk.

  “Pig Knot.”

  He groaned and clapped a hand over his eyes.

  “You awake?” Muluk croaked.

  Pig Knot’s flesh sweated in the shade of the living quarters. In reality, they were only sleeping quarters with a shuttered hole in the wall and a simple straw bed covered with a rough-spun blanket. Sunlight traced the lines of the shutter. A cloth hung across the doorless opening, granting him some privacy. Muluk really was calling his name. That left him with a raw feeling of disappointment. Pig Knot lifted his head and gazed down toward the foot of his bed, for he no longer trusted what his brain reported.

  His face slackened with regret. His legs. His damn, damn legs.

  Gone.

  Even though his mind insisted they were still there.

  Pig Knot screamed. Thrashed. He pressed himself against the nearby wall as if attempting to escape his crippled existence. Then he realized he couldn’t open his mouth, feeling bandages looping under his chin and up over his head, and was screaming through clenched teeth.

  “Pig Knot,” rasped Muluk from beyond the drawn curtain.

  The Sunjan calmed, huffed, and grimaced, and scanned the timbers of the murky ceiling.

  “What?” he grumped.

  “You’re awake.”

  “Aye that,” Pig Knot said, biting back a much more scalding reply. He remembered the beauty of his dream.

  “You all right?”

  What could he say? Pig Knot grinned like a skull behind his curtain and lifted one bandaged stump and then the other, each looking like a trussed-up chunk of meat. No, he wasn’t all right. He doubted he’d be all right for the rest of his days.

  “Where are we?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “Where?” Confusion filled Muluk’s voice. “Can’t you hear them?”

  Pig Knot frowned and listened. He could, indeed. “They’re training.”

  “Aye. How are you feeling?” Muluk tried once more, weakly.

  Pig Knot remembered seeing him the night before. Though he had his legs, they had still carried him upon a stretcher. A hazy memory.

  “I feel like a sore shite trough,” he answered truthfully, sitting up and eyeing the curtain to the hall.

  Muluk chuckled and muttered something in Kree. “It must be the healer. That medicine he forced into us.”

  Pig Knot remembered. That was good stuff.

  “The heat is too much,” Muluk muttered. “I need fresh air.”

  “Open your window.”

  “I have. There’s no breeze. At all. Aaagh.”

  The groan caught Pig Knot’s attention. “Hot?”

  “No, I’m… I’m seeing how I’m cut up. Look like a whipped haunch of beef.”

  That made Pig Knot smile just a little. But then he remembered his legs.

  Someone walked toward them.

  “Good morning,” greeted Shan the healer, the joviality in his tone making Pig Knot cringe. A moment later, the sandy-haired man pulled back the curtain and beamed at the Sunjan. “And good morning. You’re both awake, I see. Now, who screamed?”

  From the other side of the corridor, Muluk pointed at Pig Knot.

  “You frightened me,” the healer said softly to the legless Sunjan.

  “We slept fitfully through the night,” Muluk croaked.

  Shan paused. “Oh, you slept longer than that. You slept through the first night and all day yesterday, right up until now.”

  The news made Pig Knot’s eye widen. He twisted about to face the healer. “Two nights?”

  “Two nights,” Shan affirmed with a little smile. “I’m afraid it was that last drink I gave you, for the pain while travelling. It was a bit too powerful. I won’t do it again. Unless necessary. Now then, let’s have a look at your bandages.”

  “Where are the others?” Muluk asked.

  “Outside, training. You’ve no doubt heard them.”

  “How are they doing?” Even Pig Knot lifted his chin at the question.

  “It’s not for me to say, really,” Shan answered, inspecting Muluk’s wrecked body. “You can hear the older one yelling. The one with the beard.”

  “Machlann.”

  “Yes, that’s him. He’s frightful.”

  Both wounded men muttered agreement.

  “The other one––Koba? He’s not as loud but, well, they’re none too gentle with the lads.”

  “It’s a none-too-gentle sport,” Pig Knot grated, spittle spraying between his teeth.

  “Yes, well, since you’re awake.” Shan paused as he peeled back a lengthy strip of bandage from Muluk’s shoulder. Maroon blotted the white. “Since you’re awake, I’ll get someone to move you out onto the grounds. Somewhere in the shade. You can’t stay in here all day.”

  “That’s a fine idea.” Muluk brightened. “Any chance of getting something to drink?”

  “Water?”

  “No, beer, ale, wine…”

  Shan tsked. “That won’t help the healing.”

  “Can’t hurt the healing,” Muluk pointed out.

  “It’ll sure as Saimon’s hell help my healing,” Pig Knot grumped. “And what’s this?”

  He pointed at his chin.

  “You had moments when you almost surfaced to consciousness. You complained of your chin. I believed it was broken, so I made sure the bone was where it should be and lashed your jaw to your head just as a precaution.”

  Pig Knot’s eyes widened like dirty puddles.

  The healer considered the pit fighter’s missing legs. “I suppose a little won’t hurt. The spirits, I mean. Keep your morale up.”

  “Well said,” Pig Knot hissed.

  “Very well said.” Muluk’s bearded face split into a yellow grin. “Can’t hurt.”

  Then they heard an angry stream of curses from outside.

  *

  The morning had gone well enough.

  Four of the six complained about stiffness from the day before, but that was expected. So Clavellus instructed his trainers to go easy with them as the morning aged. Under Machlann’s critical eye, the men practiced the cuts learned the day before, and the sounds of wooden
blades whacking their targets rang out over the sands.

  “Those are weighted sticks,” Machlann growled as he walked behind the line of men. “Don’t fear breaking them. We’ll get more. In fact, break them if you can, and we’ll get you proper ones—dulled but serviceable. Master these strokes, and we’ll show you a few more.”

  He stopped behind Sapo’s heaving, sweating mass. The big man’s pale skin had burned underneath yesterday’s sun, and every move seemed to bother him. Machlann watched the large man work. Sapo grunted dramatically with every cut and as he struggled back to a starting stance.

  The scowl on Machlann’s face deepened with each swing Sapo made.

  “Eeeee, that’s not some stupid cow you’re butchering,” the trainer snarled. “Flow with your strikes and get your ass back into position faster than that, in case your foe actually gets out of the way.”

  Sapo slowed and glared at the trainer.

  “Don’t be looking at me with love in your eyes,” Machlann near shrieked. “Focus on the cut and follow through. Think, you blistered ass licker.”

  Sweating as if the sun itself hated him, Sapo took a deep breath and applied himself again.

  “Twist them hips,” Machlann shouted above the racket. “Twist and take out the gut with the follow-through cut. You’re cutting for the backbone. The thing isn’t moving on you right now. If you can’t master this, what in Seddon’s bounty will you do once you’re in the Pit? Lords above. Sick cows move better. Sick. Straighten up and do it again… now… What was that? What was that? Dying Seddon, you’re not shovelling shite at that target. Look at that Perician there. Look. Go on. He’s got it. See how he makes the cuts and readies himself for more. He even dances back, which isn’t something I taught him, but it works all the same. Do it again and don’t so much take the arm off––what was that gurry? Saimon’s black pisspot! Have you even listened to me?”

  Sapo stopped swinging and drew himself up to his full height. His shoulders heaved with each cavernous breath as sweat ran down his frame in rivulets. “Put me in the Pit, and you’ll see,” he warned.

  Machlann’s eyes widened. “Oh yes, I’d damn say I’d see. I’d see you be butchered by any pit dog who knew what to do. Oh, what’s that now? You look angry, my missus. Are you angry? P’rhaps the sun’s cooked you one shade too many?”