131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “I haven’t been in the shade, old man.”

  “Is that’s what boiling you?” Machlann asked. “The sun’s too hot?”

  “You’re good for shouting, but you haven’t taught me anything yet.”

  “Then we’ll have to straighten that out. Stop!”

  The clattering of wood on wood ceased.

  Machlann turned away from the practice dummies and strode onto the open sands. “We have a disbeliever here. One who’s failing to see the worth of what’s being done.”

  The trainer walked to a rack of weapons and picked up a pair of wooden clubs. With these, he faced the men and strode to the center of the open sand, scowling and gesturing for the larger Sapo to follow.

  From the balcony above, Goll felt a twinge of fear for the old trainer. The size difference between the two men was considerable. Clavellus didn’t appear too concerned, or perhaps he’d already downed too much beer too early in the morning.

  “I’ll smash you, old man,” Sapo warned, brandishing his sword while swaggering toward the trainer. The other gladiators stopped their drills and watched with interest. Torello’s dark face in particular was unmistakably eager.

  “Lad,” Machlann said. “You’ll not smash me. You’ll not smash anyone. That’s my point. You’re unable to even touch anyone who’s had proper training. Look at me. I’m an old tit, and yet I’m calling you onto the sands to teach you a right and proper lesson. You’re eager enough to inflict pain, but you aren’t so eager to listen on how to do it right.”

  “I’ll beat your head open and piss in it,” Sapo vowed, lifting his weapon to his shoulder.

  “See, you’re still not thinking,” Machlann hissed through what teeth he had remaining. “When I smash you, you’ll have to endure the ridicule from the others here. Then you’ll have to listen to me all over again and, truth be known, if you aren’t listening now, I doubt you’ll listen with half your skull bashed in.”

  “I don’t think you can reach that high.”

  Machlann shook his head. “Come at me, my son. I can see you’re a rare kind of stupid.”

  Sapo trembled with fury.

  “Come on, then!” Machlann screeched.

  And the big man charged, swinging his sword as if he were about to sweep aside a mountain.

  Except Machlann was no longer there.

  The old trainer ducked under a meaty arm and hooked a foot with his own, tripping the larger fighter. Sapo flew into the sand, sending up sheets of it. Roaring, he stood and wiped at his face, clearing eyes that blazed. But he didn’t charge Machlann that time. That time, Sapo walked in, hunched over and furious.

  Sapo swung for Machlann’s head and missed. The trainer bobbed in and cracked his larger foe’s bare elbow while spinning out of reach. But instead of countering, Sapo dropped his sword and wailed in dramatic fashion while his face underwent deathly contortions. Machlann retreated a few paces, giving up ground. Sapo bellowed again as if he’d been skewered through the middle. He cradled his arm in great discomfort.

  “Nerve strike,” Clavellus confided to Goll. “If that was a real blade, that arm would be half shorn away right now.”

  But Sapo wasn’t finished yet. Fuming that his arm refused to work, he snatched up the fallen sword with his left hand and charged.

  Machlann sidestepped the rush, clubs flashing, smashing red flesh in a combination of strikes Goll had witnessed firsthand before. Sapo flailed a backhand, but the trainer was no longer in range. The big warrior slowed and swayed on his feet, grabbing his jaw this time and sluggishly bending over at the hips. Another miserable roar left the brute, but he straightened, fury twisting his bearded features.

  If there was one thing Goll could say about his biggest recruit, it was that he didn’t give up easily.

  Another bull-like roar erupted from the stricken pit fighter. He faced the trainer, red-rimmed eyes narrowing into hateful slits.

  Machlann didn’t flinch. Instead, he strode ahead with his clubs at guard.

  With a grunt, Sapo punched. It was a huge, arcing right cross, the previously frozen arm no longer hurting quite as much. The trainer ducked, but that mallet of flesh and bone grazed the older man’s skull, knocking him off balance. Sapo thundered victory at the connection and the results.

  Both Koba and Goll flashed looks at Clavellus… who sipped at his drink.

  “Feel that?” Sapo grated, the side of his head and ribs red and tender from Machlann’s strikes. He grabbed the stunned trainer by the neck, his huge hand almost completely enclosing it, and wrangled the older man’s face up to see the poised fist orbiting Sapo’s head. The “Hill” held the stance for a fleeting instant, savoring the moment, and smiled.

  Machlann jabbed a club into Sapo’s linen-covered balls.

  The contact bleached the brute’s face. His beast-like puffing became a whimper. All strength left him as he crashed to his knees, cupping his screaming testicles. Like a tree, he toppled over in sickened agony and drew his legs close to his chest.

  Machlann staggered a step back, straightened, and smoothed out his tufts of gray hair. “Your pardon. I almost nodded off there, my missus.”

  Machlann turned and tossed one club after another to a smiling Koba.

  Goll was speechless.

  Clavellus smirked. “You think I’d have just anyone training my lads?”

  Below, Machlann dabbed at his head and drew away blood. “You broke skin, you mountainous bastard. I’ll give you that.”

  Sapo hid his face in the sand, paralyzed with agony.

  Machlann straightened and regarded the recruits. “Why did this man fail to defeat me? Eeee? Because I’m faster? No. Stronger? No. So then why?”

  No one answered.

  “He lost because he looked upon this”—he swept a hand up and down his person—“as old meat. Done. Spent. Weak. He allowed himself to get angry when he should’ve been alert. He was overconfident in his attack, underestimated his opponent, and worst of all, he had me and did nothing. You all saw it. Eeeee, he had me by the damn gullet and took a pissing heartbeat to relish my impending death… when he should have been killing me. That was fatal. When you have your foe at your mercy, especially an opponent much more capable than yourself, finish him. Save the posturing for after the match. And by Seddon’s hairy crack, do not do as he’s done. You might not be as fortunate to get away with only your bells rung.”

  Respectful silence.

  “That was your rest.” Machlann glowered at his students. “Get back at it.”

  Torello and Kolo resumed practicing while Brozz took a moment longer. Junger lingered, however.

  “Impressed, are you?” Machlann demanded, pressing a hand to his bleeding head. To his surprise, the Perician pleasantly nodded back. And for a moment, just the barest flash of time, Machlann sensed the man truly was impressed.

  Then Junger returned to his preparation.

  Machlann winced and gazed down at Sapo’s paralyzed mass, still powerless on the ground. The trainer’s stern expression softened just a fraction.

  The dark-bearded Clades stood at the edge of the sand. The retired Sujins Pratos and Valka stood behind him, lowering a legless Pig Knot onto a straw mat situated underneath the shade of the bathhouse’s eaves. The healer hovered nearby, but the crippled Pig Knot didn’t seem to notice. His eyes locked on Machlann.

  The venerable trainer sighed.

  Sapo groaned then, distracting Machlann, and he nudged the fallen giant with a sandaled foot. “Get up, you sorry hellpup,” he said without heat. “Get up and grind it out. They’ll grow back.”

  Slowly, Sapo struggled to a sitting position, his hands cupping his tender bits, half his face crusted with sand.

  “You’ll do what I tell you from now on,” Machlann warned over the resumed clatter of swords on wood. Sapo winced and nodded.

  “Get on, then. Join the line when you’re ready,” Machlann grumped and strode toward Pig Knot.

  When the trainer got close enough, Shan ob
served, “You’re bleeding,” and rustled through a leather satchel hanging off his hip.

  “Men do that. From time to time.” Machlann stopped and stared at Pig Knot and his missing legs. “Back from the grave, I see.”

  “And in Saimon’s hell,” Pig Knot answered.

  Machlann kept his tongue as the new guards helped Muluk outside. They sat him down in the shade, next to Pig Knot.

  “The biggest set of unshaven dog balls I’ve ever seen.” The trainer smirked with just a touch of fondness.

  “We’re back from the dead, and that’s the best you can say to us?” Pig Knot said, heat in his voice.

  A frowning Machlann snatched a cloth bandage from Shan’s hand before the healer could apply it to the trainer’s head wound. Machlann gave the healer a withering look before directing his attention back to Pig Knot.

  “I just said it. You’re back from the grave. What more do you want?” The trainer pressed the bundled wad to his wound.

  “Should’ve expected this.” Pig Knot spat.

  “What? Pity? From me?” Machlann asked in a voice of iron. “Eeee, that spring dried up long ago, my missus. Just be glad you’ve a roof over your bed at night.”

  The bandage tight against his skull, the trainer walked away, back to his new recruits.

  Goll watched and heard the exchange and didn’t like it.

  “You’ll have a handful with that one,” Clavellus said. “He’s done for.”

  “Without him, there would be no house,” Goll stated quietly, picking at the balcony’s railing. “I’ll find something for him. Even it’s just sitting and cursing.”

  “Perhaps it won’t come to that.”

  The Kree glanced at his taskmaster. “What do you mean?”

  But Clavellus changed the subject. “You’ll need armor and weapons soon. What was your plan again?”

  “We’ll get what armor they need. They have their own weapons.”

  “That smithy down there has a good forge. When your man is ready––Muluk, is it?––He can fire that pit up. But it’ll be too much work for one man alone. Especially if he has to put together armor. If he can do that.”

  “He can do a little.”

  “Then you’d best find another armorer and weaponsmith. Just to help. Armor takes time to fashion to exact measurements.”

  “Then we’ll buy it.”

  “More coin,” Clavellus pointed out, smiling into his silver mug.

  Goll stood.

  “Where are you going?” Clavellus leaned back.

  “To speak with Pig Knot.”

  “Ah, well then, I’ll have one of the servants look after both of them lads.” He lifted his beer for another sip.

  “Are you going to drink all the time?” Goll had to ask.

  Clavellus stopped. “Weren’t you here yesterday?”

  “I was.”

  “Then, there’s your answer.”

  “I won’t stand for a drunk taskmaster.”

  The air thrummed with unseen tension until Clavellus broke it by deliberately taking a larger than usual gulp of his drink. He made a scene savoring it. Goll lingered for a moment, absorbing the defiant act, before turning to leave.

  But Clavellus wouldn’t let him go just like that.

  “My property. My trainers,” the taskmaster stated quietly, freezing the Kree in his tracks. “Mine. You’ve convinced me to take the chance on you, but what I do here is my business. All mine.”

  Goll didn’t bother turning around. He left, sensing another confrontation in their future. Goll passed through the house, where sunlight dappled the cool floor stones, and entered day. He limped on the dusty brick path bordering the sands. The men paid him no attention, and with the likes of Machlann and Koba stalking about, they probably realized it was best not to pay the house master any heed.

  Shan had just gone back into the barracks, but Muluk and Pig Knot sat and stewed under the shade of the bathhouse eaves. The pair resembled warriors fresh back from the Sunjan-Nordish front. The Kree countryman brightened, and his wild mop of hair and beard bounced in Goll’s direction. Pig Knot glanced over, scowled, and looked toward the sands.

  “Lads,” Goll greeted.

  “Goll,” Muluk returned. “See you’re not using the crutches anymore.”

  “Day by day. There’s a limp, however, but I’m getting by.”

  “That’s what you do isn’t it, Kree?” Pig Knot seethed, his face swaddled in cloth and simmering into a harsh shade of red. “Get by. You’ll always get by. No matter what, eh?”

  The scathing tone silenced both Muluk and Goll.

  “Not you,” Pig Knot muttered apologetically to Muluk. “Him.”

  Goll took a steadying breath. “Thank you, Pig Knot. For losing the fight. Because of you, we’re bound for bluer seas. Because of you, we have a house. A formally accepted house. We’re established solely due to your sacrifice… and for that, I thank you.”

  “I thank you, too,” Muluk muttered, somewhat in awe of Goll’s short speech.

  Pig Knot’s lips became a bloodless line. “Sacrifice. You’re right about that. Look at these.” He thumped his stumps on the mat. “Seems to me the only one not sacrificing around here is you, good Goll. Or perhaps, with my little mind, I’m missing something.”

  “I’ve sacrificed,” a stoic Goll stated, keeping his eyes on Pig Knot. “If you think about it, you’ll discover what.”

  “I’ll do that. I have plenty of time to do just that, thanks to you.”

  Goll could’ve pointed out many things to the surly Sunjan, things he thought obvious. But that would be petty and, in the end, time-consuming.

  “Well, I’m sorry about your legs.”

  “Aye, you look sorry.”

  “But I am grateful for what you’ve done for the house. You’ll both be taken care of. I promise you that.”

  That brightened Muluk. “Well, that sounds good.”

  But Pig Knot didn’t seem too convinced. “Taken care of. That is a good idea. Why not take care of us this instant, eh? You don’t seem terribly busy. Why don’t you get something for us to suck down while we’re here. Might as well drink and watch, eh? Something to pass the time.”

  The dislike for that idea showed on Goll’s face.

  “Thought so,” Pig Knot said with a leer. “If it’s not for you, it’s not for the rest of us, right? Not even the pair of us.”

  “I’ll send you something.”

  “I’ll believe it when it happens.”

  “I said I’ll send you something,” Goll said with heat. With a dark, departing nod at Muluk, the house master walked away.

  “I’ll believe it when I have it in my hands,” Pig Knot fumed, not bothering to watch the Kree go.

  19

  Just before noon, Halm stood outside the Gate of the Sun, scouring the crowds entering Sunja’s Pit for Skulljigger. The best place to catch the man would be below, in general quarters, but truth be known, the Zhiberian didn’t want to wait for a lengthy period down in that foul-smelling darkness. Fresh air was more to his liking.

  He was only a little hungover as he drained what water was available at the alehouse. And he managed to keep down a light breakfast of cold pork and cheese, which settled his stomach enough to walk. Though not at his best, Halm didn’t think he needed his best to face Skulljigger. He would need to restrain himself from killing the man outright, however. He would save that until they met on the arena sands.

  As on any day while the games were in progress, people filled the fairway surrounding the Pit. Long lines waited at the windows of the Domis. Halm sized them all up, lingering on the more attractive women, regardless of whether they were with a man or not. Looking wasn’t an offense in the Zhiberian’s mind.

  The men placing their wagers and a dark-haired wench were dividing his attention when his guts froze. One lout stood tall amongst the other, shorter men.

  Skulljigger.

  Though the brazen bastard didn’t wear a helmet, Halm still r
ecognized his smiling face as he nodded and talked to someone unseen. That he was in plain sight, enjoying himself while Pig Knot suffered, made the Zhiberian’s blood boil. A scowl darkened his face as he pushed off from the wall, making a tight fist over the hilt of the Mademian steel at his bulging waist. The people in his way shrank back, nervously taking stock of the bulky warrior.

  A smiling Skulljigger stood unawares, talking and looking toward the distant window of the Domis. Halm meant to grab the killer by the shoulder and rattle a fright into the pit fighter, a taste of things to come. Halm wanted to tell him eye to eye that he intended to gut him on the sands, before screaming thousands, for what Skulljigger’d done to Halm’s friend. All manner of grisly visions played out in his mind’s eye as he closed the gap between his unwary foe, pushing aside a few protesting souls.

  Fading bruises marked Skulljigger’s face, but he wouldn’t have to worry about those soon, not after Halm exacted his revenge.

  Three arm lengths away, Skulljigger tipped his head back and chuckled at the sun, perhaps hearing a grand joke. He staggered a step as if pushed, and in the resulting gap, Halm saw his hated foe holding the hand of a small boy, his round face beaming at the larger man. The lad’s hair and eyes were as dark as those of the bruised gladiator next to him.

  As quick as that, all fight left the Zhiberian, and it showed on his face.

  Sensing danger, Skulljigger glanced over his shoulder. The unmistakable smile of a father frosted over, quickly replaced by the promise of a proper beating.

  “What’s this, then?” Skulljigger hissed, yanking the boy’s hand and pulling him close to his thigh.

  Halm released his sword and held up both hands. For the life of him, he couldn’t summon words.

  Skulljigger’s face twisted in anger. “What’re you about? Can’t wait for the arena? Fearful enough to stab at me while I’m with my boy?”

  That simple, chilling word repelled the Zhiberian’s bulk, and he hastily retreated a step, backing away from the line and the many faces. “No… not at all.”