131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “His finger bitten,” the healer repeated stoically.

  On cue, Halm held up the afflicted digit in a one-fisted salute, twisting it this way and that. The gesture put a frown on the healer’s aged face, who didn’t take kindly to the display.

  “Come in, then,” the healer grumbled.

  The old man worked his art. He sterilized the wound with a dollop of firewater, stitched it up while Halm made bad jokes, and rubbed a gob of onion-smelling saywort over the area, which screwed up Garl’s face. The finishing touch came with a linen bandage wrapped three times around the area and knotted. Once done, the healer stood back and admired his work.

  “No more fighting for you,” he declared.

  “No more,” Halm promised earnestly. “I swear. Pay the man.”

  Borchus scowled jagged daggers at the Zhiberian.

  Halm shrugged and dug out a gold coin. “It was a joke. You’d think you’d have a better sense of humor with them long forks of wool on your face.”

  “When I hear a better joke, you’ll see my sense of humor.”

  They thanked the healer and were off, following Garl through a maze of stone and wood.

  Somewhere in the western section of the mighty city, off a side street and down the throat of another, a single lamp flickered. No honest lamplighter with a family tended to that solitary beacon, which sometimes creaked a nonsense tune in the night’s wind. It hung off a wooden arm attached to a dilapidated storehouse front, and no one ever saw exactly who or what refilled the glass fixture when it burned out. Few hardworking Sunjans ever dared to venture down that particular forbidding road for fear of being knifed and robbed… or just knifed. Whispered stories said some citizen had complained to the Street Watch about the area, prompting the authorities to investigate the narrow strip, but nothing was ever found during the day. The same whispers said those who had summoned the Skarrs were later found dead, their loved ones also murdered.

  No one summoned the Street Watch ever again.

  The businesses there that had once thrived––weavers, clay shapers, wagon carpenters, barrel makers––shriveled up and relocated. Honest families moved, abandoning that short belt of crumpling stone to time and the elements and the vermin.

  Sometimes shrieks stabbed the night air from beyond the eerie radius of that one lamp––frighteningly muffled sounds that emanated from the tomb-like interiors and reverberated off the foreboding heights of the nearby buildings. Those close enough to hear such cries quickly got on their way.

  At a glance, a two-story warehouse seemed tethered to the street by impenetrable shadows. Roof slats and crumbling clay tiling lay in the narrow alleys about the building’s sides. Ribbons decorated its heights, hanging like dead strands of hair about a weathered face. Straining planks partially blinded the windows, giving the feel of a prison about to burst at its seams. Two doors marked the entrance, placed in the middle of the ground floor. One was closed and nailed shut with wood pried from neighbouring structures while the other door had a man-sized oval hole in its lower half, as if rats had chewed through it. Through this ragged mouth, the breath of something rancid drifted.

  Night had fully descended by the time the three men stopped in front of the entryway.

  “Place is a pisspot,” Halm commented.

  Borchus ignored him and looked at Garl. “Can you find your way back?”

  The beggar nodded.

  “Pay him,” Borchus whispered to Halm.

  “What’s that?”

  Borchus glared at the Zhiberian.

  Frowning, Halm dug into his purse once again, withdrew two coins, and placed them into the hand of Garl, who made the gold disappear.

  “Now, get on your way,” Borchus instructed his companion. “I’ll return when I can, and when I do, you’ll hear four slow knocks, so…” He trailed off, indicating the crutches.

  His expression smothered in the unsettling gloom, Garl bobbed his head and got moving without protest.

  “You think that’s wise? Him by himself?” Halm asked quietly, watching the crippled man shamble off.

  “No,” Borchus admitted, “and neither is this.”

  “Aye that. You’re right there.”

  “You can still kill this Skulljigger in the arena.”

  Halm faced him as if catching a whiff of something foul. “Already told you. I’m not about to orphan four whelps. Leave if you like. I’ll carry on from here.”

  With that, he went to the door. Borchus followed after the barest hesitation, knowing full well what Goll would say to him if he allowed the House of Ten’s prize gladiator to carry on without supervision. He sized up the building. It sagged in on itself, as if its wooden bones were about to splinter and break.

  Halm stopped the door, tugging on a handle that would not give. He hunkered down, placing a hand to his bandaged gut and peered inside. “This looks to be the way in. There’s a line of light inside.”

  “In you go, then,” Borchus said.

  Wiping his face, Halm got down on all fours, grimacing as he went, and wormed his bulk through the hole. Borchus waited until the man’s large posterior disappeared inside before following… into a wooden tunnel.

  Something slammed into the floor behind Borchus once his feet cleared the threshold. A toe tap informed him the way had been closed off.

  “What was that?” Halm whispered from ahead just before hands yanked away the tunnel’s ceiling. Torchlight flashed. Hard-looking men stood above them, their features in shadows. Their swords gleamed, poised over the exposed trough filled with the frozen forms of Halm and Borchus.

  “Yes?” someone asked.

  A startled Borchus hunched over like a cat and glanced up, well aware of his perilous position. He figured if he made one wrong move, about a half dozen blades––including one or two spears––would skewer him. “We’re here to fight.”

  “Are you, now?”

  “Well, truth be known, he is,” Borchus said, nodding at Halm while eyeing the blades. “I’m here to watch. And wager.”

  “Well…” the voice spoke. “Let them up, lads.”

  The swords fell away. Halm rose from the wooden channel, studying the dark faces and being careful with every movement. His Mademian blade was at his waist, but he made no move for it. Borchus didn’t blame him for being careful. He got to his own feet and dusted himself off, wary of the individuals surrounding them both.

  “Your man’s cut up already,” one of the shadows remarked.

  “I’ll do fine,” Halm stated with a grim smirk.

  “That one.” Borchus took a breath and gestured at the Zhiberian in grand fashion. “Has the House of Curge after him. And he’s put down three men already in this season’s games. He might look like a fat slice of ham, but I assure you, damn near every pit fighter he’s met thought the same thing. And perished because of it.”

  “Well, except one,” Halm corrected.

  “Except one,” Borchus cut him off with a glare. “Who even now is crippled for life.”

  Halm’s expression furrowed but then lightened upon realizing what Borchus was attempting.

  “The Zhiberian?” one of the shadows muttered, recognizing him now. “Seddon’s crack, he’s the Zhiberian.”

  “You know him?” another asked.

  “Oh, aye that. Man’s a killer. A right unfit beast.”

  “You’re right,” spoke another shadow. “Should’ve recognized that gut first off. Oh, let him in! They’ll enjoy this butcher!”

  “He can fight?”

  “Saimon’s hell, he can.”

  “He’s cut up.” One pointed at the cloth bandages looped around Halm’s midsection.

  “Don’t mind that.” Halm dismissed him with a vicious smile, playing up to his audience.

  A man with a wild bush atop a pasty, round face cleared his throat and got Borchus’s attention. “Well, since the lads know you, I suppose I can allow it. It’s not every day we do this, you understand—make, er, exceptions.”

>   “Understood.”

  “First time at the games?”

  “Ah, yes,” Borchus admitted.

  “Well, then, you’re in luck. It just so happens we are holding fights this very night. Walk with me,” Wild One invited, holding out an arm as the wall of swords split and faded away.

  Halm and Borchus swung themselves over the sides of the opened tunnel. Once it was clear, two men covered the top with slabs of wood. Borchus liked the arrangement. Anyone crawling into the place would be caught unawares when these louts cracked open the top. Scattered torches revealed little of the interior, arranged to conceal guards in pockets of shadow. Their boots scuffed over planks, and Borchus detected cheering underfoot.

  “Well,” Wild One declared, halting near a set of doors framed into the floor. A pair of thugs stood on either side, holding the ends of thick ropes.

  “These are the rules. To enter the Iron, you must pay two gold coins apiece. Once you are here, we expect you to wager. If you aren’t wagering, you’re fighting. If you aren’t doing either, then you shouldn’t be here, unless we know you––which is another matter entirely. Fights on the Iron are somewhat different from the Pit––our battles are usually to the death but not always. Fights continue until one man cannot continue.”

  “Pay the man,” Borchus muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Halm frowned in annoyance before fishing out the last of his gold and handing the fee over.

  Wild One nodded his thanks. “Excellent. I suppose you’re fighting?”

  “I am,” Halm muttered.

  “And you are?” he directed at Borchus.

  “His keeper. For the night anyway.”

  “Very well. Now then, unlike the Pit, we aren’t financed by the king himself, hence the gold to enter and required wagering. There’s no armor to be worn. No helmets. Fighters use only the weapons they are given, and we choose them. Because of this, we obviously are not, uh, wholly supported by any Chamber official, and thus, we appreciate you taking care when speaking about the Iron at the end of the night. Our battles are not the highlighted ones of the season, yet they are no less spectacular than those supported by the king. The Chamber dislikes us for other reasons, mostly concerning coin, but also because of our preference for a more… fulfilling touch to our combats. Understood?”

  Wild One finished with the chilling timbre of an unspoken threat. He locked gazes with both newcomers. A violent burst of cheering erupted from underfoot, drawing attention to the floor. The sound peaked and then ebbed away to a dull roar.

  Halm’s face darkened pensively, and he flexed his fist with the bitten finger. Borchus didn’t bother asking if he’d had a change of heart. They were well past that.

  “Everyone gets the same speech?” the agent asked, his attention divided.

  “The new ones, yes,” Wild One answered.

  “How do people learn of these matches if you caution them about speaking?”

  “Oh, there’s an… undercurrent in Sunja, where if you listen long and hard enough, you’ll know. Or we’ll tell you. And then there are those, the dedicated ones, like you, who simply find out.”

  The cheering seeped through the floorboards, splitting Borchus’s attention. “Let’s see it, then,” he said grimly.

  Wild One smirked evilly and waved a finger.

  The very ground split apart with a gash of light and the sound of a thousand throats.

  22

  A smoky, acrid puff of air escaped like a rupturing bubble of sewer gas, stopping them cold upon the threshold. Wild One gestured toward stone steps descending at a sharp incline, down into the earth, well below the floorboards, where spidery veins of dirt crumbled from cracks between ancient brick. A torch beckoned, flickering above the first landing some twenty steps away. People clustered there, sitting on the stone and pressing against wooden railings, their legs dangling. A dozen pallid faces lifted to see who was about to descend into their domain. Halm could barely make out the dark knobs of heads farther down. Another roar erupted from the thrown-back doors in the floor, unmuzzled and frightening, the heckling and chanting of hellions.

  “Seddon above,” Halm whispered in horrified awe. He wanted to ask if they were really going to go down there, but Borchus immediately followed Wild One below the floor. Taking a steadying breath, Halm went down after them.

  They descended, hunkering down to clear the lip of the entrance, careful with every step. Borchus leaned against the wall as another round of cheers exploded from the spectators. Not knowing what he’d see, Halm peered over the railing. Six points of lamplight burned three levels below, an uneven ring of light holding back an undulating blackness. Figures pumped fists and shouted in a rippling tide of excitement while the very walls pulsed with people.

  People. The edges of the darkness teemed with limbs and screaming faces devoid of bodies. Reluctantly, Halm followed Borchus to the first landing and weaved a path through the thickening clutter of men and women perched on the stairs. The agent wasn’t happy in the least, being so far beneath the ground. The short man reached out and grasped the railing for balance at one time, making a few heads turn questioningly in his direction. Borchus withdrew his hand from the wooden rail and pointed below.

  Halm looked. And swallowed.

  Two half-naked men fought on a checkered floor, but as Halm descended, he could see it was a huge grate of iron. They punched at each other with fists that gleamed in the hot light, the meaty connections creating curt echoes an instant before the crowds shrieked bloody approval. Grunts of pain and effort reached Halm’s ears as the pit fighters struggled against each other, their muscular torsos dripping black.

  One warrior slipped, the flesh of his back cut several times over. Halm realized why they fought over a grate––it was a massive drain, perhaps situated over the city’s sewer system, and the combatants bled into it, which probably made cleaning easier when the time arrived.

  The standing fighter smashed three short jabs into his off-balance opponent. Each brazen smack of fist on flesh ripped cheers from the crowd. The first punch buckled the fighter, the second one lifted him off his feet, and the third dropped him to the iron floor. Then the punisher dropped on the fallen man’s chest and rained down blow after devastating blow.

  The onlookers damned near blew out their throats roaring.

  Halm, Borchus, and Wild One were perhaps five steps from the floor when the victor lifted himself off his twitching opponent; the dying man’s face was a broken bowl of red pulp.

  The winner raised his fists, accepting the crashing approval from the spectators. Two ratty fellows grasped the pit fighter’s sides and led him away off the Iron, through the parting crowd, and out of sight. Three others moved in and dragged the carcass of the fallen to one edge of the grate, where more brutes struggled with opening a broad lid. Hinges squealed. Once it was opened wide enough, they stuffed the body into the hole and dropped the cover.

  “Dying Seddon,” Halm whispered as he watched, catching a whiff of something other than spirits on the air.

  “Over here.” Wild One led the way through a gulf of faces, several of which brazenly sized up the newcomers.

  “Who you have there, Calagu?”

  “More meat for the butcher?”

  “Seddon’s balls, man—that one’s already been in a fight!”

  “Who’re the babes, Calagu?”

  But Wild One––Calagu––ignored the questions and the leers and led Halm and Borchus to an open door. They entered a solid brick room, and Halm could smell fear, a rank bodily stink, ripe of sweat, that almost stole his very breath. Four men, stripped to their waists, stalked a large inner chamber, passing through torchlight like snowy ghouls rethinking past lives.

  “You sit here,” Calagu said. “I’ll call you when it’s time.”

  “Wait,” Borchus held out a hand. “What are the conditions?”

  “Conditions?”

  “Armor? Weapons? That sort of thing.”

  Halm became pensiv
e, knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer, and Calagu’s pale smile, half concealed by shadow, made him curse coming here.

  “Forgotten so soon? I’ve already said there’s no armor. And ultimately, we choose the weapons. Tonight, our warriors use these.” Calagu snarled over his raised fists. “You can find a pair there, along the wall. Find ones that fit. Or don’t wear any at all. But give that sword at your waist to your keeper as you won’t be using anything else.”

  He turned to depart and stopped in the door. “Good luck, Zhiberian. I look forward to seeing you fight.”

  Halm regarded Borchus, feeling none too happy about any of it anymore. “What in Saimon’s black bag have you gotten us into?” he asked, undoing the belt just below his belly and handing his sword and scabbard to Borchus.

  “Me?” the agent exclaimed, eyeing the other unchained brutes in the room. “You came to me! Oh, I’m not about to orphan four whelps, you said. And what did I say? Hm?”

  “All right, all right.”

  “No, what did I say? I want to hear it.”

  An uneasy Halm turned away, scratching his brow and not meeting the faces of any of the pit fighters moving about the chamber’s charnel gloom. The weapons Calagu had mentioned caught his attention, next to the doorway. Three rows of metal gauntlets lined the brick wall like an executioner’s trophy rack. For a halting moment, Halm thought he was staring at hands before he realized the grim reality. Fists. They wore studded gauntlets that night. He stopped before the rack and sighed. A wooden bin full of linen bandages sat next to it, with a spool of catgut for stitching. Needles sprouted from a ball of string.

  Outside, a voice barked and stirred the crowds into a vicious heat, introducing the next match.

  “Dying Seddon,” Halm breathed, examining his choices.

  Three racks. Ten sets of gauntlets of varying sizes, all extending perhaps halfway up the forearm. Three different styles of weapon. The first rack had gauntlets studded with brutal spikes. Meat clung between the fixtures. Halm’s face screwed up in horror at the sight. The second rack’s had blades attached, like an animal’s claws. The third rack…