131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “You’re doing well,” a voice remarked.

  Borchus.

  “I’m bleeding… like a…” Halm couldn’t finish the thought.

  “Yes, well, I think we both knew what fighting here meant,” Borchus remarked. He stepped in front of the gladiator and held out a handful of cloth. Halm regarded it through a gory squint and snatched it away, applying it to his forehead.

  “Wasn’t fast enough in that last one.”

  Borchus shrugged. “Oh, you were fast enough. From what I saw, you merely misjudged the reach afforded by those blades. You got it right the second time. I have your gold, by the way.”

  “How much?”

  “Not quite there. About a third, by my count. But…”

  “But not quite there,” Halm growled. His wounds quickly saturated the cloth, and he studied it somberly. “You have any more of these?”

  “Oh, yes,” Borchus muttered with a little jolt. He went to the bin next to the door and fished out a handful of bandages. When he returned, Calagu and the Stick entered the dim chamber. Both men stood well away from the Zhiberian.

  “You truly are a butcher, Zhiberian,” Calagu said with admiration. “A true monster to behold. Such speed. Such strength! Can no one match you in ferocity? In power? In skill?”

  “In bleeding,” Borchus quietly added.

  “Well,” Calagu amended with a considering expression. “Men aren’t tickling one another out there.”

  “Ready for another go?” the Stick asked.

  “Another?” Halm’s brow knotted together as he peeked past his bandage.

  “He’s barely finished bleeding,” Borchus pointed out.

  “How many times can I fight?” Halm asked, speaking over the agent.

  “As many as you like,” Calagu informed him. “Provided you’re able, of course. It’s plain to see you need a little time to clean yourself up, but truth be known, you should leave a bit on you. For color. The people enjoy the blood, the theatrics. They’ll wait for you if you decide to fight again.”

  “The floor is ruled by one fighter until he can’t rule it any further,” Stick added.

  “What?”

  “He means,” Calagu explained, “you fight until there are no more challengers or until you decide to stop. Or you’re dead. Whichever way, it’s gold for you. A spectacle for us.”

  “I’ll wager it is,” Borchus commented, unimpressed.

  “Well,” Calagu said, “we’ll arrange a few more matches. When you’re ready, send your manservant out.”

  Borchus scowled at the jab.

  “Wonderful work, Zhiberian, wonderful,” Calagu exclaimed as he and the Stick backed toward the door. “Worth every coin. Marvelous!”

  They left Borchus and Halm to themselves in the poorly lit room. The agent rolled up some clean cloth, pushed Halm’s hands down, and pressed the bandage against the flowing cut.

  “Now then,” the shorter man said. “Hold it here, firmly.”

  “I know how to stop bleeding.”

  “Well, then you can stitch yourself. You can also have fun applying the saywort that’s over there as well. And know full well I’ll laugh when you get around to sewing up your back, or have you forgotten about that?”

  That silenced the other man. “Apologies.”

  The cries from the people distracted the pair as Stick herded two more fighters onto the iron floor.

  “Not needed,” Borchus eventually said in a quieter tone, the shadows playing across his features. The agent met the dull stare of Halm’s red eyes as his mouth hitched into an approving smirk. “I’ll say this, however… you certainly paddled some balls out there.”

  A weak smile spread over Halm’s face.

  Outside, the cheering intensified.

  23

  Upon the agent’s instructions, Halm sat closer to the torchlight and kept wads of cloth against his scalp and back. Borchus went to work, thumbing a gob of saywort into the cut. Having done that, he threaded the needle he’d use to stitch the wound shut. The blade had taken Halm right at the hairline, opening it like a messy mouth. When Borchus threaded the needle through the parted skin, he quietly gave thanks the man’s hair was short.

  While Borchus sewed, Halm remained still and kept the cloths in place, hissing at the prick and passing of the needle. He caught himself thumbing the bandage covering his sewn finger and cursed himself for doing so.

  “Goll won’t be too pleased with me,” he finally muttered.

  Borchus stopped stitching. “Oh, now you remember the Kree? After you’ve been bled like a sick sow? Well, given what little I know about the man, and all of that isn’t flattering in the least, no, I don’t think he’ll be too happy with you or any of this at all. I only hope I’m around when you try to explain yourself.”

  “I’d like to see me explain myself.”

  “He’ll…” Borchus let it hang. “Well. He won’t be pleased.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Nothing. I just remembered you intend to go out there once more.”

  “At least.”

  “One more fight will be enough, I think. If you haven’t already convinced the punces into wagering on you. On that thought, if the odds are equal… well, it’ll be dangerous.”

  “Think so?”

  Borchus paused and stared hard into Halm’s skull. “It’s what I do. Think. You might try it sometime. Especially before going out, making promises you shouldn’t be making, and pursuing nights like these.”

  The agent got back to work, leaving Halm to simmer. Borchus finished the scalp cut and reached for a jar of saywort. Meanwhile, two other men from their chamber had been invited to the iron floor and did not return.

  “You’re fortunate,” Borchus said as he rubbed the pungent ointment into the wound on Halm’s back.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Your blubber saved you.”

  Halm smiled at that. “Better than armor.”

  Borchus snorted. “Gurry is what that is.”

  “I can still feel my ribs at times.”

  “Your ribs?”

  “Thought I might have broken some a while back. Now, I’m not sure.”

  “Does it pain you to breathe?”

  Halm shook his head.

  “Then either you didn’t or they’re healed.”

  “Don’t think bones heal that quick.”

  “You just get your breath back and concentrate on the next fight,” Borchus ordered. “You get this next one, and we can leave these games of blood.”

  “They’re all games of blood.”

  “But three fights or more in one night?” Borchus questioned. “Against animals like these? A Free Trained might do it, but not a house gladiator. They’d stay away from such savagery and with good reason. And if one actually did, I wager he’d smash whoever they have pickled enough to fight him.”

  Halm smiled darkly. “I’m a house gladiator.”

  The grim sincerity in his tone made the agent pause. “So you are. Apologies.”

  That word became a memory as Halm felt the sting of the needle in his back. He inhaled at the pinch, wondering if the little man was torturing him in some fashion. He didn’t bother asking. Borchus would only laugh in his face or jab with a cutting remark. Or give a deeper thrust of the needle.

  “You best watch yourself now,” Borchus cautioned. “These stitches will hold, but any harsh moves will rip them all free. And if that happens, I won’t be the one putting you back together. Whoever you face next, whatever you do, finish it quickly, as if your very ass was on fire.”

  Halm regarded the agent with a cocked brow, then stood and placed a hand against the wall. He stretched lightly, feeling weary and sensing how the thread pulled his skin. Madness. All madness. He shouldn’t have done these secret games. Outside, the crowd’s chanting swelled, bloated with a lust for more blood. Halm closed his eyes and focused for one more fight. The face of Skulljigger’s son, angry yet pitiful, formed in his persona
l darkness, accompanied by the floating words, Don’t… hurt him. Please. Don’t… hurt him.

  Halm mentally pushed the boy away.

  Then Miji’s face appeared, dark hair tied back, tending to her tiny tavern in Karashipa, and that lifted his spirits greatly. Not even the din from outside could break the spell she cast over him. A smile touched her hazel eyes, but no words came. It seemed as if she were waiting.

  “Zhiberian?”

  Halm was pulled back by Stick’s voice to the present, where the air stank and his wounds throbbed.

  “Ready for another?” the man of the iron floor inquired.

  Halm nodded. “One more and I’m done.”

  Stick’s face remained unchanged. Perhaps he’d heard it many times before.

  “Come on, then.” The iron official beckoned.

  The crowds screamed at the Zhiberian—no surprise there—but a few simply shrieked, riled to a fever pitch of insanity Halm hadn’t thought possible. Some threw beer over his shoulders, which only annoyed him since they missed his mouth. Borchus slapped him on the back and shouted, but he couldn’t hear. Halm stood at the edge of the iron floor, feeling the stickiness underfoot and not enjoying the sensation in the least. One more. He fought to distance himself from aches and pains all over his person. The bandaged knot on his finger felt wet. Perhaps it was bleeding. The whole digit felt bloated and uncomfortably stuffed into the spiked gauntlets. Seddon above, the prayer flashed in his skull. Halm wasn’t at his limit yet—not yet—but he would’ve slapped down gold for a pitcher of beer or mead or wine or anything with bite.

  Movement in the torch-born shadows made him glance to his left, into a dark wall of faces and torsos, and he caught a man leaving for the stairs. The sight pawed at a memory, but it wouldn’t surface. Halm shrugged just as the crowd opposite him split apart, allowing his opponent to walk onto the Iron.

  The pit fighter stood half a head shorter than Halm, but he was lean, with ropy cords of muscle whipped onto his powerful frame and lashed with flesh. Bandages covered his arms and lower body as well, and the torchlight gleamed off stitched cuts glazed with saywort salve, making it clear the man had had a busy night himself. His hair was slicked back, a fork of a greased beard hanging off his chin, and as Halm judged him, the Zhiberian was judged in turn. The chilling warrior’s eyes raked over Halm from feet to forehead, studying his mass and the bandages keeping him together. Halm put his best face on, presenting an indifferent scowl.

  The short hellion grinned in return.

  Sweet Seddon. Halm blinked in shock.

  The brazen bastard opposing him had filed his teeth down to points. Shivers coursed down the Zhiberian’s spine. The shark-toothed prick smiled all the wider, sensing fear.

  Shark Tooth held up his fists: spiked. A bit of Halm’s apprehension slipped away. At least the savage wasn’t wearing a pair of cheesecutters.

  Stick stepped between them while the very air hummed with wagering.

  “The night grows old and saves the best for now.” The gaunt ring official threw his long arms wide, dampening the crowds. “Once more, the Zhiberian comes to fight, eager to take down another foe. While here”—he gestured to the still-leering cannibal––“Sibo has also returned, looking for his third victory this night, in these grim games. Only one of these men shall walk away victorious this night. Only one shall take away a purse of coin. Who among you wishes to see these beasts clash?”

  The very walls trembled with the thunderous response.

  Halm rolled his eyes and set his jaw. He hadn’t counted on being rendered deaf amongst his other hurts.

  “Then, Halm of Zhiberia… Sibo of Sunja… begin!”

  The Stick all but leapt out of the way of the two fighters. The audience simmered and heckled in anticipation of these two killers swinging.

  And to Halm’s surprise, Sibo held out a spiked fist. The formidable Sunjan nodded at his hand, indicating he wanted it pressed. Halm blinked, uncertain whether to accept the warrior’s display of respect, as the very act momentarily disarmed and shocked him. Confused, he searched faces until he located Borchus. The agent cringed, his eyes becoming slits, his expression all but shouting his feelings––he wouldn’t press fists with the filed-toothed hellion. To further his point, Borchus shook his head.

  Not feeling any better in the least, Halm faced Sibo, who waited with an outstretched knot of a hand.

  Saimon’s black hanging fruit. Halm groaned, knowing it would be the end of him, but there wasn’t a Sunjan alive who was going to make him out to be the villain. Not this night and not ever. Inhaling deeply, he reached out and tapped the offered fist with his own, knuckle to spiked knuckle, and pressed firmly.

  Sibo responded with an equal but not overpowering amount of pressure, nor did he violate the gesture with a dishonorable blow. Relief coursed through Halm for that, and even the crowd appreciated the show of respect with ooohs of awe.

  Apparently satisfied, the Sunjan nodded and stepped back. Halm did the same, shooting one final glance at Borchus.

  The agent shook his head, this time in contempt.

  Halm raised his fists to guard, feeling suddenly good about the exchange and showing the little bastard agent he could think for himself.

  Without warning, Sibo rushed in and swung, so fast the Zhiberian was caught off guard. Halm lurched away, the mighty wind from that sudden flash of steel batting his eyes. Sibo swung again, seeking to batter Halm’s meaty head from his shoulders. The Sunjan got in close and immediately unleashed three punches, as quick as a bowshot. Halm retreated from each swing, feeling his stitches pull with every movement.

  Then Sibo swung and overextended himself. Halm counterpunched at that washboard gut.

  Missed.

  The smaller man danced away.

  Sibo retreated all the way back to his side of the iron floor, nodding with approval at the Zhiberian. Halm wasn’t sure what the greased kog was so pleased about, but he’d give the Sunjan something to consider soon enough. Measuring up the little man from between his fists, Halm cautiously waded in.

  Sibo blurred forward, roaring and swinging from the shoulder, and Halm only just got his hand up in time to partially absorb the impact. Metal clanged, the force powerful enough to bash the larger man off his stride, staggering him, to the delighted howls of the onlookers. Halm regained his balance and kept his hands up, but the left side of his face burned as if branded by hot iron. He realized his own spikes had been deflected and driven into his jaw and ear.

  Halm straightened, and Sibo lunged straight-armed, his fist blasting through the Zhiberian’s upraised hands and crunching Halm’s nose which burst like a grape. Blood sputtered over his lips as he stumbled backward. Sibo got in close and pistoned two fists into Halm’s gut, crumpling his side and causing him to bark in pain. An overhand punch barely missed crushing the Zhiberian’s right eye socket, but the following uppercut snapped Halm’s head back on his shoulders, the spikes tearing gory arcs out of his chin. Sibo swung twice more, agonising power punches hurled from his shoulders, both absorbed on the mail sleeves of Halm’s raised gauntlets, but the blows doubled the Zhiberian over like a terrified boy.

  Sibo whirled and kicked him square in the gut.

  The force buckled the Zhiberian, despite his padded fat and set muscle underneath. He dropped to a knee, his whole belly quivering as if it had just stopped a battering ram. Somehow, Halm threw his arm up in pure reflex and stopped the spikes aimed at his right ear. The impact rocked Halm into the crowd. A rush of voices cried out and heaved him back toward Sibo. The Sunjan feinted, closed quarters, and wrapped his heavy arms around Halm’s skull. Sibo bared his frightening maw, hissing like a hellion, only to have an armored forearm shoved into it. Sibo chomped into metal, released, and bit down into Halm’s unprotected flesh closer to the elbow. The Sunjan reared back, blackness misting the air, and spat out a white chunk ripped from the Zhiberian’s arm.

  Howling, Halm stood and shoved the savage away three steps, not
wanting any part of him. Sibo regained his balance, glaring at his foe from under a darkened brow, and bared hellish teeth.

  The crowds loved every moment.

  Halm withdrew to the edge of cheering and swearing faces, cringing over his newest wound and suddenly fearful for his life.

  A bloody Sibo stalked the center of the floor, inspecting his handiwork and appraising his opponent with a grim eye, like a butcher determining the next best cut. Halm’s guard trembled, blood pattering the iron floor in fat drops, spilling through holes and plunking into the dank sewer below. He took quick, shallow breaths, feeling his strength leaving even as he struggled to summon it.

  That he looked every bit a squashed cow kiss, he had no doubt. The punces watching him knew it, and half of them shouted and swore upon Sibo to finish the fat man.

  The Sunjan responded. He walked left and right with predatory grace, grin widening as he eyed his victim top to bottom.

  Despite feeling otherwise, Halm smiled back… and even winked.

  Sibo’s eyes widened at the slight and immediately rushed in, right fist flying from his shoulder like a red meteorite, the torchlight blurring the flash of the spikes. Sibo charged like a Dezer on a maddened stallion, and the whole watching mass nearly choked on its collective breath as Halm put his head down and barreled into the oncoming man, embracing the smaller Sibo and lifting him up with a determined roar of his own. Sibo shrieked as he left the floor. He kicked, raked Halm’s back with his spiked fists, clubbed him, and even struggled to bite.

  Halm whirled him around––once, twice, three times––making a spectacle of the shrieking hellion held high in his arms. Sibo’s glittering limbs shredded air before Halm reared up and slammed the Sunjan flat onto the iron. Sibo landed in a devastating clap of bare flesh and bone on unyielding metal, stunning the crowd to an incredulous whimper. The pit fighter’s arms flew wide as his spine arched, a bloody snarl on his lips, before his whole body softly collapsed. Scarlet oozed from the Sunjan’s skull.

  Sibo did not attempt to rise.

  But his wide, terrified eyes flicked to the looming Zhiberian. Then Sibo blinked, meaty cords straining about his neck, and an agonized pleading replaced his fright.