131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  An unconcerned executioner hacked into the captive’s neck, splitting collarbone and two ribs underneath. A dying gasp escaped the Nordish, weakening into a whisper of a hiss, and he crumpled into the wet ground.

  The faceless executioner worked the axe free and, with a loud grunt, chopped into the grisly V once again. Bones snapped. Meat sucked at the metal, then bone scratched steel with an awful sound. He struck the dead man twice more, each wet impact making Arrus’s cringe.

  The executioner eventually sniffed, muttered something unintelligible, and returned to his starting position. The Cavalier wanted the remaining prisoners to see the warrior walking toward them, to see their deaths approaching. That much was clear to Arrus.

  “Vudosdizz!” Kestimir breathed.

  Blackbeard understood the Nordish curse and didn’t like it. His blade flashed as he pulled it free of his scabbard. With all the nonchalance of taking a walk in the forest, Blackbeard strode forward and snapped the pommel into Kestimir’s bearded face, smashing his nose.

  Kestimir cried out and toppled. The Cavalier stabbed the Jackal through a thigh, the blood running almost instantly. The wounded man screamed again, twisting upon the blade, kicking bare feet. Blackbeard yanked the steel free and slashed at Kestimir’s feet.

  Kestimir’s howling reached new heights.

  The Nordish thrashed on his back, hands still bound behind him, and tried to worm away while fearfully eyeing the Cavalier. Cruel amusement seeped into the faces of the guarding Sujins.

  Kestimir’s frenzied slinking slowed, weakened by blood loss, and the Cavalier walked toward him. Blackbeard’s shadow engulfed the stricken man, and he planted both feet at the sides of Kestimir’s torso. The Sunjan officer studied the Jackal for fleeting moments before punching the sword’s tip through the prisoner’s guts.

  Kestimir died squirming in the mud.

  Yanking the sword free, Blackbeard rumbled gibberish in that harsh Sunjan tongue. Green Eye nodded immediately and chewed on the inside of his cheek.

  “Officer? Who is officer?”

  Arrus shook his head, suddenly wanting to save the other Nordish from the Cavalier and his dogs. “There is no officer, you curnos. There’s only us.”

  “You?” Green Eye asked, dividing his attention between Arrus and a suddenly rapt Blackbeard.

  “Only us, you maggot.”

  “Ah. Uhh, good.”

  Green Eye reported to the Cavalier, who had already forgotten the body at his feet. The black eyes of the officer narrowed and simmered, making Arrus swallow uneasily.

  “No officer,” Green Eye said sadly and shook his head. “Many question. Uh, I have. You answer question, or I––we kill. Sword. Axe. Hand. We kill.”

  Arrus had no doubts.

  His hand resting on the pommel of his sword, Green Eye marched over and stopped before Arrus. “How many? You?”

  “What?”

  “You? How many?”

  “How many are there of us?”

  Green Eye blinked, absorbing the words, and nodded. “Yes, yes. How many?”

  “Tell him nothing,” someone hissed from down the line.

  That brought on a flurry of movement, and Blackbeard kicked the speaking prisoner’s head back, the crack of bone echoing horribly in the clearing. The Jackal had only just hit the ground when the officer’s sword stabbed him through an eye. The scrape of bone and chuffing of dirt terrified Arrus and set him into a fit of shaking. He struggled to control his nerves, hating that awful sound of breaking bone. He sensed the remaining Jackals suddenly tuning in to the exchange.

  “About three hundred,” he sighed.

  “Three…?”

  “Three hundred.”

  “Hundred?”

  Arrus looked up in dismay, shocked to see the interpreter unable to recognize the Nordish word for “hundred.” “Hundred. You don’t understand, do you?”

  “I understand. Hundred.”

  “No, you don’t. You can barely speak the language.”

  “What?” The Sujin’s hand tightened on his sword’s pommel. Arrus grimaced and licked his lips. The man wasn’t that stupid after all, and Arrus had to admit, the Sujin spoke better Nordish than he spoke Sunjan.

  “Thirty tens,” Arrus tried again, flashing his teeth.

  “Uh? Thirty tens? Ahhh… thirty tens! Yes, yes.” Evil delight flooded Green Eye’s features and reported to the dour Cavalier. Blackbeard replied with something unfathomable, setting Green Eye nodding.

  “Yes, we kill all.”

  “You what?” Arrus asked, feeling his stomach plummet and the ground warp.

  “Yes, yes, we kill. Uh… every dog.”

  Killed every dog? Arrus’s heart shriveled as if doused with acid.

  “Where, uh, Ikull?” Green Eye grabbed Arrus’s chin and roughly lifted his face.

  “Ikull?”

  “Ikull. Where?”

  “Two months. Behind us.”

  Green Eye shook his face, again not understanding.

  Arrus gasped in frustration. “Days?”

  “Uhhh, days? Ah, days! Yes, yes.”

  “Sixty days,” Arrus grated and jerked his head what he believed was the northwest. “Behind.”

  “Sixty days?”

  “Yes, sixty days, you miserable, piss-lapping curnos, sixty days!”

  Green Eye searched Arrus’s face, watching for a hint of a lie. Unable to detect one, the Sujin translator straightened and once again reported. Arrus felt only half a traitor. The main army was actually less than two months behind. With luck, the Sunjans would smack into them unawares, and the Ikull would crush them all on its way to Sunja’s heart.

  “Well done,” a voice whispered nearby. Arrus moved his head only a fraction to meet the shifting eyes of an unmasked Jackal. Arrus couldn’t place the name.

  Then Blackbeard spoke, and the Sujins closed in, yanking the prisoners to their feet. They lined them up in short order and marched them from the clearing with slaps and sword prodding. Heads down, the line of men shuffled along, dejected yet defiant, knowing their doom was nigh upon them.

  *

  “Well, that was something,” the translator said, switching back to his native tongue.

  But the Cavalier, a callous man called Vogul, scowled dismissively as he returned his blade to its scabbard.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Two months back,” Vogul spat and scowled, the lines in his face deepening. “A lie if I ever heard one. I’ll be surprised if I don’t find their damned army two weeks from here.”

  “You think they’re lying?”

  Vogul leveled his emotionless gaze at the Sujin. “Believe me. I speak from experience when I say I could have gutted the whole pack of them right now without any of them breaking. I only do this because there’s always a chance, a slim chance, I might find one willing to talk, but I haven’t yet—not in four years of hunting, killing, and capturing these bastards. Say what you will about the Nords, but they don’t betray their own.”

  The translator absorbed this. “So they’ll be executed?”

  “Them?” Vogul asked and wearily shook his head. “No. This is too much of a prize. The Lords smiled upon us. Any other day, the Jackals would’ve fought to a very bloody death before being captured. I swear, they must fight the very hands pulling them from the womb. Especially these bastards––maggot shite that only strikes at night. That we managed to capture any is a wonder. Why do you think I ordered our archers to use blunted arrows? These Jackals don’t wear helmets. Some still died in that first volley, but no matter. I’ve orders to send the survivors back to the city.”

  It was the translator’s turn to scowl.

  “At least we won’t be feeding them,” Vogul pointed out, briefly gnawing on one corner of his mouth, his square beard slanting askew because of it. “And at best, a man can only hope to live two or three weeks on water. Lord Winter wants starved Jackals for public torment and execution—to raise the morale of the people, according to
Lord Winter’s thoughts. To see these… terrors wasted away to nothing before having their heads lopped off.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I believe,” the cavalier muttered, inspecting his hands before looking to the surrounding camp and forest. “I follow orders. Lord Winter wanted a handful of beaten Jackals. He’ll get them. Thus, those orders have been filled. Now I go back to doing what I do best.”

  With that, Vogul walked away from the translator with the green eyes.

  The Sujin knew what the Cavalier spoke of.

  26

  Rumbles of far-off thunder rolled across darkened plains and slanted rooftops, waking the battered Zhiberian with a jolt, long enough for him to realize what the noise was. He lay in bed, uncovered, staring at the dark timbers and off-color wooden slabs of the ceiling. The air smelled of approaching rain. Halm made a pained face and suppressed a groan. Everything hurt that morning, and he wasn’t surprised to see dark blotches staining the white linen of his feather pillow. From his chin or scalp. Or back. Or everything all at once. He rolled onto his shoulder and feebly moved his legs over the cot’s edge, pausing there to take careful breaths and gather strength for his next feat. He studied his bandaged gut and swore at it, knowing the ladies adored such stylish and colorful designs. That thought made him rattle off a chuckle, and he immediately winced.

  Seddon wanted him alive; that much was clear. For what sinister purpose, however, he had no idea.

  Grunting, Halm puffed out his cheeks and pulled on his stained breeches, knowing he’d have to purchase a new pair. Eventually, he stood, straightened, and strapped on his sword. Moving slowly to avoid dizziness, he found the hiding place for the night’s winnings and smiled upon checking the contents with a peek.

  That was all fine, then, despite the boulders clattering in his brain. His hand found his head and held it as he willed the pounding to stop. Even the squeaking of the floor planks made him cringe and hurt. The bare metal hinges of the door whined upon closing, straining his nerves. He left the rented room, feeling quite dead. The alehouse’s weathered hall reeked of spilled beer and a suspect undercurrent of piss, which wasn’t what he needed to smell so early in the morning. Halm regarded the nearby stairs but shuffled along to the far end of the hall, where a square window, its shutters thrown wide, lit the rustic interior. He passed the open door of Borchus’s room and didn’t bother looking in. Halm knew the agent had left earlier, wanting to meet his man Garl. Garl sounded like a right fidgety one.

  Patting his leather scabbard, Halm gazed down at the people filling the narrow street two flights below. People… writhing and pushing and stinking. He forced himself to stop thinking about all of those bodies right there.

  Taking a deep morning breath and thanking Seddon for its coolness, he got moving.

  He broke fast at a small food stall––a meal of fresh bread lathered in wild-berry jam with cold pork from the night before. Water washed it all down, and willpower kept it there. Halm learned from the old man feeding him that the time was, in fact, late morning and nearing afternoon. That revelation made the Zhiberian chew on both sides of his mouth before he took off for the Pit.

  After last night’s hell, he dared not miss meeting Skulljigger.

  Rain, he overheard in the streets. Rain would fall that day. And one look at Seddon’s normally blue sky informed him a storm was brewing. Halm suspected the games of the Pit would be cancelled for the day, which suited him just fine. A day of wet weather meant the whole fight schedule would be pushed back, which meant a day of rest. A day of rest sounded right and proper to him.

  Somehow, he made it to the Pit without dropping any limbs or losing any blood. A light but steady rain began to drizzle in the air, breaking the heat and prompting most people to walk just a little faster. Halm walked around the wet hide of the Pit, hearing its red brick and majestic timbers hissing under the wet weather. The open fairway surrounding the arena was nearly deserted and looked slick, and he almost slipped on the fitted stones. Food and drink merchants bent on enduring the weather busied themselves with securing canvases over their heads.

  Halm reached the Gate of the Sun and placed his back against the lip of the entrance, grimacing at the contact. To his right was oddly empty space––where the day’s schedule of matches would be posted. Knowing he shouldn’t, he probed his face anyway while waiting, cursing his fortune. Thoughts of what Goll would say entered his mind, but he shoved them back out. There would be a time and a place for that confrontation.

  “Zhiberian.”

  The voice made Halm look up, rain pattering his features. Skulljigger.

  And three friends. Three vengeful-looking friends.

  Dying Seddon. Halm groaned and straightened, his hand touching his own sword.

  “Looking to pick up where we left off?” Halm asked.

  Skulljigger’s broken finger was bound up with splints and cloth, and his face was nearly unrecognizable from a thick wrapping of wet bandages. The wounded pit fighter glanced at his companions and shrugged.

  “Just making certain we stay friendly is all.”

  Skulljigger seemed to inspect him for a moment. “You had a rough night.”

  Halm chuckled coldly, squinting against the rain. “Aye that.”

  “You have the coin?”

  “You just keep your lads back a bit,” Halm warned, half good-natured, half serious. He’d already counted out the hundred he’d promised Skulljigger and was keeping the sum in the same cloth sack received from the Iron Games. The rest he’d transferred to his much heavier purse.

  “Pay him,” one of Skulljigger’s lads ordered, a right proper animal itching to club something. Halm kept an eye on him.

  “Here,” the Zhiberian said and held out the sack. “I can toss it on the ground, or you can take it from my hand like an honorable man. It’s up to you.”

  Rain beat against the stones underfoot. Skulljigger stepped away from his friends and reached with his good hand. Nodding in approval, Halm released the sack while keeping an eye on the pit fighter’s companions. Skulljigger fumbled with the string before finally opening it and peering at the contents. His bandaged face brightened about the mouth, the only part truly visible.

  “Blessed Seddon. Looks all here.”

  “It is,” Halm assured him, tasting water on his lips. The skies grumbled somewhere to the south, and the rain began to truly crash down.

  “Count it,” one of his friends sputtered.

  “Aye, count it.”

  Skulljigger met Halm’s eyes then, the gaze unreadable.

  “You watch him,” he said to the two-legged animal who’d demanded Halm to pay. The beast smiled brazenly at the Zhiberian, who sniffed and immediately regretted it––snarling at the painful buzz in his nose. He kept his hand on his blade, ready to pull steel if the lout tried anything. Skulljigger ushered the other two in close and counted coins into their cupped hands.

  The sky cleared its throat once again, closer this time. The rain held steady, matting Halm’s short hair against his hurting head.

  “All here,” Skulljigger announced and started shoveling coin back into the sack. Halm saw that he left a few coins with his friends, for their trouble on such a gurry day.

  “Must admit,” Skulljigger said, “didn’t think you were going to do it.”

  In too much discomfort to care anymore, Halm sighed and left his thoughts unsaid. “So we’re done?”

  “We are.”

  “Your games are finished?”

  Skulljigger wasn’t quick to answer, and Halm became unsure about the man––was he simply drawing things out or actually thinking dire thoughts? His hand twitched on the Mademian pommel.

  “For this season,” Skulljigger finally declared. “But as Seddon’s my witness, I’ll be searching for you when the next one happens. You can count on that.”

  Halm sighed again. Some people never learned. “So be it, then.”

  “Aye that,” Skulljigger
said, and Halm sensed a fight was but one word away. He drew back a leg as if to kick, wondering who would first taste his boot.

  But instead, Skulljigger smirked and backed away, his lads beside him.

  “Next season, Zhiberian,” he barked and shook a galling fist. “Next season, I’ll be watching for you.”

  “Watch my soaking ass,” Halm muttered low enough that the departing men couldn’t hear. Skulljigger’s group distanced themselves a good twenty paces before turning and making speed down a street.

  Halm hoped the man would put the money to good use and keep his children fed.

  Only when they disappeared from sight did Halm relax and lean against the arena wall. Skulljigger would be watching for him the next season. That put a smirk on his hurting face. He wasn’t sure he’d live to see the end of the day, let alone next season. Grimacing, Halm rested against the cool hide of the Pit and placed a hand against his side, where the stitches had burst. Then he inspected the bandages covering the chunk of flesh Sibo had ripped out with his teeth. A pang of nausea rose in the Zhiberian’s gullet. His tongue curled.

  “All done?”

  Halm glanced up, sputtering water.

  Borchus.

  “Unfit punce,” the Zhiberian casually greeted.

  “Unsightly pisser,” the Sunjan countered smoothly.

  They exchanged unkind looks in the falling rain.

  “Yes,” Halm said. “All done.”

  “I was watching from over there,” Borchus remarked, indicating a length of wall. “Rest assured, I wouldn’t have come to your aid if they pulled steel on you.”

  Halm squinted away water. “Well, good thing it didn’t. Very good thing.”

  Borchus came closer, his hair and clothes soaked. “What’s your plan now?”

  “Plan?”

  “Yes, you thick-headed prick, plan. What is it?”

  Halm chuckled darkly. “Try and survive the trip back to Clavellus’s training grounds. Maybe that young healer might be able to do something for me.”

  “If not, I’m sure someone will dig a hole for you.”