131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Halm blinked.

  The third rack’s gauntlets made him shiver. Briefly. He hoped Borchus hadn’t seen.

  Broad sickles of flat-edged steel grinned at him. Cheesecutters, he knew them to be called in jest, but he didn’t know the real name. Cumbersome because of their length and weight, frightening to behold, and above all, brutal. The cutting edges longed for flesh like the blood fish of distant Harudin.

  The notion of wearing anything from such a butcher’s selection twisted his guts… but he knew his foe most certainly would.

  “Who are you here for?” a voice asked. Halm turned and faced a near-naked brawler of a man, wide eyed and quivering with suppressed energy. His clamped jaw showed too-white teeth, as if he’d just finished biting through leather.

  “What’s that?” Halm asked, having difficulty in understanding the Sunjan’s speech.

  “Who are you here for?”

  A sudden gush of cheering made the speaker shift his eyes to the door. Halm took the opportunity to glance at Borchus, who shrugged.

  “I don’t understand,” Halm finally answered, noting the spikes sprouting from the fighter hands.

  “Heeeee,” the lout wheezed an evil giggle. “I fought in areas of Pericia. Bled men amongst the snowcapped peaks of the Chains. I brought the Paws to their knees at Three Rivers and slaughtered Dezer throughout the halls of the Vathian wild.” The pit fighter sucked in a deep steadying breath and then took a step closer.

  Halm saw madness in his eyes.

  “I executed barbarians in the Ice Kingdoms and whored in the pleasure palaces of Zuthenia and Kalikos. So who are you here for?”

  Halm stood at an utter loss.

  “I’m here because I want this,” the warrior hissed, evil emanating from the man as rank as foul breath. “I. Want. This.” His spiked fist thumped his muscular chest and left a bloody print. The warrior paid it no heed, trembling as if ready to burst.

  A voice outside shouted a name, “Amessar!” and the warrior’s bravado faltered.

  But only for a moment.

  Amessar shook his limbs and barked at Halm, making him flinch, before tearing through the doorway and out onto the iron grate. The wall of bodies sealed up after his passing, and cheering harsh enough to split stone flooded the chamber.

  “Unfit,” Borchus muttered.

  Halm regarded him with a sour look. “Try not to piss yourself, Sunjan.”

  “Nowhere near pissing myself, fat man.”

  “Where were you when that unfit topper was threatening me?”

  Borchus squinted. “Well out of reach of that insane shagger, that’s where I was. Besides, the great Halm needs support? That lad was pickled. I could see it in his eyes.”

  “Pickled?”

  “Aye that,” Borchus said. “Pickled. Unfit. Warped. Can’t you smell it? Some of them out there are chewing the Tar. White Tar. Although damned if I understand why.”

  “What’s Tar?”

  “A weed you chew. Takes one away to places without leaving your bed. Wide awake dreaming, they say. I’m not sure why they’re chewing it here, not that I’d understand the appeal of Tar in the first place, but that one spewing at you was pickled on something else.”

  “What?”

  Borchus rolled his eyes. “I don’t know. I’m not an authority on such.”

  “Sounded like one to me.”

  “Yes, well.” The agent glanced over his shoulder at the other occupants. “You’re a fat tit three heartbeats from being a slab of gurry. You should be thinking about other things. You there!”

  One of the pacing men stopped and regarded them, his frame shivering with barely suppressed fury.

  “What was wrong with that one?”

  The vibrating figure ignored the question and resumed pacing, stomping hard enough to splinter shinbones.

  Borchus could only stare before dismissing the warrior with a hand. The agent stepped toward Halm. “Seddon above. These poor pissers aren’t in their right minds at all. Look at them. Pacing like that. I’d wager they’re all fermenting on something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Outside, the cheering spiked in a crescendo before ebbing away like beach rocks pulled by the surf.

  “Fight’s done,” Borchus stated, his eyes on the masses beyond.

  “You’ll have to put coin on my head,” Halm told him. “I’ve none left.”

  “I’m not placing any coin on your considerable ass! This was your choice. Win the fight, and you’ll have plenty to play with. Or at least more than you do now.”

  “When do I fight?” Halm asked.

  In reply, Borchus pointed to the racks of gauntlets.

  Halm chose a pair bristling with spikes and pulled one of the gruesome things on over his hands. It actually fit quite well, so he quickly donned its twin and made fists.

  “I can feel it against the cut,” he said, adjusting the fit.

  “Your finger?” Borchus asked. “You’re going to feel it. You’ve got that roll of bandage around it.”

  “Perhaps I should take it off?”

  “Perhaps you should just chop it off and have done with it.”

  Halm frowned. “Only saying. Saucy bastard.”

  “Only answering, spraying pisshole.”

  Before either of them could really get started, the doorway filled with a tall stick of a man. A leather vest, opened down the middle, draped his cagey chest. “Bohem!”

  One of the remaining warriors straightened and charged the door, bladed fists swinging. Bohem bellowed as if about to leap to his death. The onlookers cried with wicked glee when he burst forth from the door.

  Borchus rubbed his eyes and put his back to a wall, alternating between looking outside and squinting at those who remained in the chamber.

  “I think I prefer the Pit,” Halm said quietly.

  Borchus nodded. “Amessar didn’t come back.”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  Halm breathed in air flavored with a hint of some exotic spice and studied his spiked hands. He punched shadows, loosening out the knots in his arms and frame. Borchus watched him and spoke not a word.

  The third fighter hadn’t mentally prepared himself when the Stick with the open leather vest reappeared, shouting his name. The Stick yelled for “Stuhun” twice, but the fighter pressed into a back corner as if it were sucking him into the cracks, not as eager as the others before him.

  “I’ll go,” Halm said.

  The Stick’s united brow arched at him.

  “I’m ready,” the Zhiberian stated.

  “This way, then.”

  Halm followed the Stick into the mob.

  Borchus trailed at their heels.

  The walk to the iron grate was a startling experience, as never before had Halm been within arms’ reach of the audience. They slapped his shoulders in an outpouring of support, reddening his flesh. Some cursed, but that was expected. Stick guided him to the edge of the iron floor, and Halm spied a wide smear of blood staining a path to the lidded sewers. No barrier existed between the eager spectators and the combatants, and that made Halm nervous. Armed men stood facing the crowds, containing them with fierce looks. Halm had no confidence in their ability to stop anyone should a drunkard become violent. The fighting ground itself was a smaller, more intimate, and infinitely more brutal arena hemmed in by flesh, woefully inferior when compared to the grandeur of Sunja’s Pit.

  As far as Halm was concerned, the Pit was superior in every way.

  They introduced him, but he listened only remotely, focusing on the parting of bodies directly across from him, not ten paces away.

  Then Halm’s opponent appeared to the crowd’s rising cries of evil exultation.

  The pit fighter’s shoulders rose above the crowds. Frightening gray eyes fixed upon the Zhiberian with all the menace of an angry butcher rising with the dawn. The brute’s features contorted with hate and something more, a feral intensity, an eagerness Halm hadn’t w
itnessed anywhere before.

  Then he realized that wasn’t true.

  The same vicious guise had contorted Amessar’s face.

  The crowd chortled and leered with wicked delight, seeing Halm’s hesitation and smelling fear.

  A smiling Stick allowed a few short moments for wagers; then he took the center of the Iron and waved a hand at the beast on the other side.

  “For the second time this night, Drajen! Are you ready?”

  Drajen shook like a dog drying off from a swim. “Aye!”

  And the crowds shouted with him.

  “Are you ready?” Stick asked Halm. The Zhiberian gestured he was.

  His job done, Stick quickly got out of the way.

  And Drajen charged, his spiked hands flashing in the torchlight, mesmerizing. He swung for Halm’s head. Halm ducked and crushed his own weaponized hand into an exposed set of right ribs. The entire side of the fighter body shivered under that mighty punch, and Drajen staggered sideways a few steps, almost touching the wall of people. The man hissed like a full pot, bent over his ribs. Halm stood at guard while Drajen composed himself, awash in the goading from the crowd. They cursed him to move, to fight, to do something.

  Drajen grimaced and kept his right arm close to his side, protecting the dribbling red holes speckling his ribs.

  Halm waited with his fists held high. He didn’t wait long.

  Drajen collected himself, yelled gibberish meant to intimidate his foe, and attacked.

  Halm stepped inside his opponent’s guard and destroyed Drajen’s jaw with the first punch, stretching skin, the bone twisting grotesquely to the side, before uppercutting a second blow to Drajen’s reeling head.

  The fighter crashed to the grate and did not get up.

  “Kill him!” the onlookers demanded. “Kill him!”

  One fellow dressed in a stained white shirt slipped past the guards and rushed Halm. The Zhiberian parried the knife meant for his kidneys and fired a punch from over his shoulder, breaking another chin and dropping the attacker in a heap.

  Angry and on the defensive, Halm made a wary circle, waiting for the next one. None came. The people roared an unsettling mix of happiness and hatred—the winners and the losers. At least that was the same as the Pit.

  Stick appeared then, none too happy with the fool cradling his face and crawling toward the sidelines. The guards gripped the wounded knifeman by the shoulders and hauled him out of sight while Stick inspected the still-unconscious Drajen. Stick rubbed his chin, straightened and chopped a hand in Halm’s direction.

  “Victor!” he shouted.

  Hundreds of throats opened up, charging the air with unruly sound. Halm gazed around, seeing coin being exchanged. He located an impassive Borchus being jostled by those around him. Then Stick caught the Zhiberian’s attention and tossed him a small cloth sack. Halm caught his winnings with spiked hands dripping red.

  “Again?” Stick asked.

  Halm hefted the bag. There wasn’t near enough in it for his needs. “Aye that.”

  “Stay right there, then.” Stick turned away and waded through the crowd.

  That surprised Halm, and he looked at Borchus, who appeared equally startled. Guards grabbed the limbs of the unconscious Drajen and dragged him off the Iron. As they worked, Halm strode over to the agent, standing amongst a clutter of limbs and faces.

  “Take this and wager it on my head.”

  Borchus took it. “You’re fighting again?”

  “Aye that, the only way I’ll come away with enough gold this night.”

  “You’re a glutton, Zhiberian.”

  “It’s what I do.”

  “Try not to piss yourself, then.”

  Halm would keep that in mind. He went to the center of the underground arena and lifted his arms, burning off excess energy with a guttural bellow and letting the onlookers know he wasn’t done. He strutted around the iron grate, ignoring how his boots stuck briefly with each step. Some watchers cursed him for his arrogance. Others reveled. Borchus stood to one side, talking with a couple of dogs eager to take a wager. Halm inhaled and tasted something strange over his tongue. He wished Pig Knot were present. The Sunjan would have been able to identify every smell in that hole.

  Screams of approval cut the tepid air, yanking him back to the present.

  Halm swung around, facing the other end of the grate, to see Stick leading a new fighter into the fray.

  It was a warrior from earlier, the one who’d mashed a man’s face into the floor and left him for dead. Dark eyes gleamed in the torchlight, and the baleful grin splitting the bruised face resembled a hellion’s. Stick got out of the way of the pit fighter, who gazed upward for a moment as if checking for rain, before leveling his attention at the newest challenger and shaking out muscular arms ending in frightening cheesecutter blades.

  Steeling himself for the fight to come, Halm backed up unconsciously. His adversary had exchanged his gauntlets for those curved nightmares. The notion of fighting someone wielding such weapons—and using them well—nearly unnerved him. He got the sensation under control right and proper. The Iron was no place to show fear.

  Stick stepped between them, and Halm didn’t appreciate the eerie calmness of his opponent.

  “What’s your name?” Stick asked.

  “Halm of Zhiberia.”

  “The Zhiberian will face…” Stick’s hand flashed in the direction of the hellion. “Surugar!”

  The underworld audience approved as all sides of the iron floor erupted in wagering. Halm didn’t take his eyes off Surugar. He didn’t like the sly light in the killer’s eye.

  “Now…” Stick lifted his hand and backed off the Iron. “Begin!”

  Halm shifted, staying light and moving, while Surugar circled to his right almost casually, sizing up the Zhiberian like a cut of meat. The people chided Halm for his little dance and jeered even more when he retreated from Surugar. The man stood at the same height as the Zhiberian, but Halm knew unfit in the head when he saw it. He supposed any gladiator was a touch insane to fight in such a hell.

  Surugar brought his arms up to guard, the sickles near his head like twin moons. Then he feinted, stomping the iron and making it echo like a thick gong. Halm darted backward, but when Surugar didn’t pursue, he reclaimed a step.

  A cheesecutter lashed out, scything the air and making Halm jerk himself backward several steps. Surugar didn’t press the attack, but a malefic smile widened upon his face. A beat later, Halm felt warm water cover his face, leaking into his eyes.

  Blood.

  Lords above, the bastard actually connected!

  Surugar leapt at him, and Halm ducked under a blurred streak of steel. Both men whirled about, but the Zhiberian was faster. He charged forward, got under the twin blades, and wrapped his arms around Surugar’s bulk. With a growl, he heaved Surugar up off his feet, to the immediate awe of the crowd. Surugar’s smile wilted as his feet left the floor. He swept one of the cheesecutters down, slicing Halm’s bare back in a straight red line, and the Zhiberian went rigid with pain.

  Baring his teeth, Halm tightened his mighty grip around the small of his opponent’s back. A surprised grimace flashed across Surugar’s face, and his head thrashed backward. He drew back an elbow to smash into Halm’s head.

  But the Zhiberian slammed the man into the unyielding Iron, braining him like a slippery fish.

  Surugar’s arms splayed wide, and he arched his back as if impaled on nails, his face livid and twisted with pain.

  Halm stood back, ignoring the deafening hollering of the people, and wiped his bleeding brow with a forearm. Rivulets streaked down his back.

  In a defiant display of strength, Surugar sat up, to building cries of surprise and approval.

  Halm took two steps and kicked the man squarely in his face, straightening out his neck and flattening him on the grate. The crowd drew back as if feeling the violent connection and groaned as one. But to Halm’s dismay, Surugar rolled onto his belly only an in
stant later. The warrior unsteadily hefted himself to his knees and elbows, broad back trembling with the effort. Then he flashed a look at Halm.

  Surugar was smiling once more.

  “Unfit,” Halm muttered in horror. He launched himself at the rising warrior, placing every drop of strength into one final punch flying from the shoulder. Halm’s spiked fist exploded into Surugar’s jaw, snapping the pit fighter’s head to one side. The unbalanced fighter collapsed on the Iron, flattened out as if stepped on. A bloody fury took Halm then. He jumped on top of Surugar, grasped his skull in a punishing grip, and twisted.

  The crack of bone whipped the audience into silence.

  Halm stood, torso heaving, blood spattering his face and chest, waiting to see if Surugar would somehow defy death and rise again. He didn’t, however, so Halm took the center of the floor, dabbing his forearm against his scalp, shaking and blinking away blood while the crowd raged with glee and disbelief.

  Halm didn’t care. “Give me another!” he shouted, dark specks flying from his lips.

  People drew back from the Zhiberian. They’d heard stories…

  Stick stepped onto the grate as if it were a thin sheet of ice, mindful of the frightening foreigner making hateful faces at the spectators. He knelt at Surugar’s side, grasped a fistful of hair, and pulled the head off the floor. An instant later, he released it with a thump.

  “Victor!” the Stick announced, and the masses truly went wild.

  Without waiting, Halm turned about and stalked off toward the entry of waiting chamber, every breath a mist of blood. Not surprisingly, the people melted away from his path.

  Once inside, Halm leaned against the nearest wall for support. He took massive breaths, and with each lungful, his fury dissipated. He wrenched the gauntlets from his hands and let them fall. Shoulders trembling, he felt his face and discovered the cut from Surugar’s initial slash. Halm hissed. The slash went to the bone and ran at least the length of a finger. Even as he dabbed at it, fresh blood dribbled down, causing one eye to shut. He didn’t have to check his back to know it was bad as well, but he reached around anyway. The blade had sliced through skin and a loop of cloth bandage. Another sliced dressing hung off him, dark as if dipped in vibrant dye. Halm sighed and drew back red fingers.