“You’re too kind.”
“Imagine you hear that a lot,” Borchus muttered and frowned at the skies. “No fights today. Perhaps tomorrow. I’ll walk you back to the koch bay.”
“The what?”
“The koch bay. You aren’t going to walk out of the city in this weather. You might possibly roll down the south slope and gain enough speed to carry you all the way to Clavellus’s front gate, but somehow I doubt it.”
“Don’t you have that little man to take care of?”
Borchus became uncharacteristically quiet. “He’s no concern of yours.”
“Well, I don’t need you to lead me anywhere.”
“In your condition? You might stumble into one of the city wells. Or an open sewer. Then again, falling into a sewer might bestow certain regenerative properties upon you.”
Halm didn’t understand a few of those Sunjan words, but he didn’t let on, and he’d certainly remember how they sounded.
“I’ll get a wagon,” he said.
“What?” Borchus exclaimed. “With that full bladder of a purse just waiting to be pissed away? Nonsense. A wagon will bounce you around like a slab of bad meat. A koch’s better. Get moving. I’ve already sent word back to Goll this morning. You’ll fight in five days. Everyone fights in five days. Including you, which is one match I’ll make certain of seeing, just to see if anything important drops off. Your fight’s the one where your opponent’s yet undecided, but the others are facing Free Trained gladiators. And at this point of the games, they’re ones who have raised themselves above the pack through strength and skill of arms. Unblemished records. Undefeated.”
Borchus let that sink in.
“We’ll have ourselves a little war, then,” Halm remarked, palming water off his face.
“We’ll have something, I guarantee it. And I’m not sure all the rain in Seddon’s heavens this day or next will wash the blood away. Regardless, I’ll remain here. See if I can find anything on these men we’re to face.”
With that, Borchus studied the sky, snarled as the rain crashed on his face, and without a word of goodbye, left for drier places. Halm watched him disappear into the thickening sheets of weather. A moment later, he smirked to himself.
Had to admit, the little bastard had a way about him.
Halm’s face and bite wound throbbed, demanding attention. He got moving, knowing it was a far walk in the rain, and his hurts were many.
*
As the pair of men departed, hidden eyes from two different sections of the streets watched them go. Then they noted a single fighter emerging from the tunnel entrance, detaching himself from the shadows.
The eyes did not linger on him.
*
Targus stepped out of the tunnel, felt the rain, and withdrew just inside, watching the Zhiberian and his companion through the thickening sheets. He shook his head, replaying bits of the conversation he’d overhead.
I can toss it on the ground, or you can take it from my hand like an honorable man.
Must admit, didn’t think you were going to do it.
So we’re done?
We are.
Your games are finished?
For this season…
Targus couldn’t believe it. Why was the Zhiberian paying another fighter to not fight him this season? What was the man afraid of? No answer came, but Targus was no longer inclined to be so respectful of the large, ugly foreigner. Word had gone around that the Zhiberian was hunting for the Sunjan, but now? Targus didn’t like what he’d overheard. The fat pisser was actually bribing his opponents? Why?
Not one for deep thoughts, Targus believed he had an answer. The Zhiberian feared losing his blood match to the Sunjan, thus the only way out of it without losing face was paying his opponent to not compete. Given Halm looked like a walking corpse, it made complete sense.
Unfit. Targus fumed.
But the Zhiberian was no friend of his, and Targus didn’t even want to be in the lout’s presence. A deep-rooted anger took hold of him, simmering to the surface, and joined with another notion.
The Zhiberian was battered, obviously afraid… and entirely ripe for the taking.
27
When Clavellus awoke that morning and ate breakfast with Nala, the storm clouds churning overhead told him no fights would be occurring that day. Later on, as he sat on the balcony looking out over the morning warm-ups, listening to Machlann’s bawling while Koba led the pit fighters through their exercises, the first drop of rain announced itself by slapping against his silver mug. Clavellus watched the bead of water run down the metal, feeling two more drops splatter against his bald head. He frowned at the pecks and stroked his beard with his shaking hand.
“Rain,” Goll muttered from his seat next to him.
Clavellus let that go. Though he’d only been in the company of the Kree for a short time, he was noticing little things about the man: quiet, determined, and at times, almost amusing in stating the obvious.
“Rain,” Clavellus agreed and sipped his morning beer. “Must fall, eventually.”
“What does it mean for the games?”
“Postponed for the day. We’re lucky. Or rather, those at the Pit are. It started before the days’ matches, before anyone actually took to the sand. Terrible fighting conditions. Miserable. And the audience doesn’t take kindly to it either.”
“So a day of rest?” Goll asked. Clavellus noticed that most of the bruising on the man’s face had disappeared.
“From the games,” Clavellus informed him. “Not for us. Unless your Weapon Masters had you doing things differently?”
Goll shook his head.
“Then,” Clavellus offered, “I’d suggest we head downstairs and watch the training under the balcony. It’ll keep the worst of the rain off us.”
None of the men noticed the owner and the taskmaster placing their chairs below the balcony. If they did, if they broke concentration, Machlann would punish them with his club. They stretched and did their morning exercises. Koba had them punching air, lightly at first, then with more power. Even that simple exercise wore them out before a hundred strikes.
Except for Brozz and Junger.
As with most of the exercises and drills, the trainers quietly observed the pair of men performed exceedingly well. Brozz proved himself more than capable at the tasks put to him, while Junger was a simply a wonder. The Perician flowed through every movement with a natural grace a man could only be born with, refined to perfection. Twice Machlann stopped behind the line of fighters and simply gazed upon the loincloth-clad fighter’s flawless execution, studying his every movement and finding nothing lacking. He even glanced at Koba, who was standing in front of the line and met his gaze and faintly smiled his own thoughts.
The rain strengthened from drops to a steady beat. Machlann caught the questioning looks Sapo and Torello threw him, obviously wondering when the exercises would be called off. Lazy wretches. Machlann studied the soaking heavens and bared what few teeth remained in his head. He had no intention of canceling anything. Nor did Koba.
Days like those served to see who had the spirit and who merely talked.
“To the edge of the sands,” Machlann shouted.
The six men stopped swinging and started running. Koba followed behind them and formed the fighters into a line at the far end of the training area, just in front of the barracks.
“You aren’t going to get in from the rain, are you?” Pig Knot shouted.
Machlann knew the legless lout’s voice and didn’t bother acknowledging him. The crippled fighter sat on the ground behind the men, his back against a stone wall, just below the overhead eaves. Muluk was next to him, eyeing the bearded trainer with a flicker of fear, even though the trainer hadn’t said much to him since returning from Sunja.
Machlann dabbed at the seven stitches Shan had put in his head—a little memento of Sapo’s unmistakable power. “Ready them, Master Koba!”
The old trainer relished the express
ions of dismay on a couple of the faces.
“It’s raining, in case you haven’t noticed, you ancient topper.” Pig Knot.
Machlann brushed at his ears as if swatting an unseen bug.
“You hear me?”
The trainer regarded the pair of healing men, seeing how Pig Knot’s eyes smoldered. Hateful. The lad was poisoned with it.
“Glad you didn’t lose your arms, my missus, since you make this much noise with only your legs gone.”
“In your hole, you bastard. Whose teeth are you going to smash in this day, eh? Who is it you’re going to beat into submission while that other hairless ape there watches? Move away. Get on. I can smell you from here.”
Machlann ignored any further exchanges with Pig Knot. The man could quite possibly scream shite at him all day if inclined. And Machlann didn’t relish trading barbs with sour cripples, though he wasn’t above it.
“Race from this end to the smithy, touch the brick pathway, then run back again. Run like your lives depended on it. In bare feet,” Koba commanded the waiting pit fighter trainees.
Four of the men quickly kicked off their sandals while Torello and Sapo took their time.
“Eeeeee, Master Koba! If those two shite shaggers do not jump to, feel free to bury your foot in their asses.”
“It’s raining!” Torello bawled back.
Machlann swiped at his ears again, unhappy with missing the annoying gnat the first time.
Koba strode over to Torello and snapped his club across the man’s shoulder, eliciting a cry of pain and prompting a brooding Sapo to get ready more quickly. A sulking Torello took his place as well, rubbing his shoulder.
Once they appeared ready, Koba got out of the way, lifted his arm, and dropped it.
The men bolted, kicking up damp lumps of sand. They pounded down the length of the training grounds as the rain fell. Junger immediately took the lead, blasting ahead of the others. He burned a line to the end of the grounds, quickly stopped, tapped the brick walkway, and fired back, passing the remainder of the field as they were three strides from completing the first half.
Junger slowed before crossing the starting line. Koba watched him with slit eyes. Machlann’s mouth hung open, exposing his partial rack of teeth. Clavellus could only shake his head at the burst of speed he’d just witnessed while a stoic Goll kept his thoughts to himself.
Brozz led the other four back to the starting line. As he crossed, he glanced over at Junger and shook his head. The Perician stood with his hands on his hips, already breathing easily.
Sapo lumbered over the line, dead last, and his scarlet features appeared ready to burst.
Clavellus signaled for the men to repeat.
“Have them run it again, Master Koba!” Machlann bellowed and was answered by an epic rattle of thunder.
Once again Koba’s arm dropped and set the men loose, leaping from their starting positions. Junger completed the lap faster than before and left the remainder lagging in the wet sand. Brozz came in second, chest heaving, while the others chugged across in slow time, glaring at the Perician.
“Again!” Machlann roared.
And as the rain came down and puddled the sands, the six men repeatedly raced the length of the field. Each time, Junger excelled while the others faltered. Sapo in particular was reduced to a wheezing tower of swinging arms quite ready to die any moment. Near the end, while the others staggered over the wet sands, Sapo could only walk with hands on hips.
When Koba finally gave the command to rest easy, five of the six fighters were forever grateful.
“Never thought,” Clavellus observed from under the balcony, “that the Pericians would be so swift of foot.”
“He runs quite well,” Goll remarked pensively, looking at the ground and how the rain marked the sands.
“Quite well? The man’s a hellion on two legs. I’ve seen gaps before, but entire field lengths? Never! We have something very… special here, Master Goll. Very special indeed.”
Goll remained silent, glaring at the drenched fighters.
“You want to see speed?” Pig Knot hollered raggedly across the field, capturing the attention of everyone. The fallen pit fighter appeared a bloody bandage with stitches. His broken chin couldn’t be seen under the swaddling of cloth, the ends tied in a knot at the top. Pig Knot leaned to one side, lifting one cheek off the mat beneath him, grimaced with effort, and loudly passed gas. If the weather had been dry, the blast would have manifested itself as a dust cloud.
“Chase that, you wet bastards!” The Sunjan broke into an evil chortle.
A few pit fighters smiled, but in truth, they were too tired to do much more. Machlann’s and Koba’s hard looks lingered a bit longer on Pig Knot while Clavellus ignored him completely. Goll bit his lower lip in spite, checking his annoyance.
“Rest up! Then in pairs!” Machlann shouted and walked the length of the sands to converse with Koba.
All the while, Pig Knot grunted and roared through clenched teeth. “Aye that, rest up, you hellpups! Rest up!”
“How much has he had to drink this morning?” Clavellus asked Goll.
Goll’s brow flexed, and he continued to chew on his lip. “He hasn’t had any.”
“Oh. Well then. So much for that thought.”
Though the weather was piss poor, Pig Knot found ridiculing much to his liking. It took his minds off things, like the facts that he had nothing below his knees and that the knobby ends itched and stank of saywort, cutwort, and every other foul-smelling medicinal ointment Shan the healer could slap and rub into them. Though he had been limbless for only three days and was still recovering, Pig Knot was sick of it already.
“I’m off,” Muluk said, standing next to him, the rain flattening his unruly bush of hair and matching beard. “Not sitting out here in this.”
“Where are you going?” Pig Knot asked.
“Back inside,” he said and limped away on his bandaged leg. Pig Knot watched him go, envious of the man’s legs, of all things, and thinking black, rancid thoughts. He didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve any of this. Pig Knot had always been his own man and watched his own hide. The moment he’d joined this place was his downfall. His hateful mood bubbled to his face.
Then the Sunjan beheld a vision who brightened his mood considerably.
She carried a pitcher with the grace only a young biscuit like her might possess––small frame, tanned skin, blond hair—as pretty and glowing as wild berries. He’d seen her around before, before his world went to Saimon’s hell. She kept to the eaves of the main house until the eaves ended, whereupon the rain soaked her robes, making them clingy. Pig Knot liked what he saw––she was a damn sight better than the punce who’d brought wine to him and Muluk yesterday.
With two wooden mugs in one hand and the pitcher in the other, she stopped before him, cringing in the rain, and stooped to one knee.
“And what’s your name?” Pig Knot asked, dark eyes twinkling. Some men could cast spells over women using their bodily injuries. He knew he looked a mess, but he couldn’t pass up the opportunity to attempt a bit of magic.
“Ananda, Master Pig Knot,” she said in a miserable voice. Pig Knot didn’t blame her. He took pitcher and cups from her, catching a withering look from Koba, who spied them half a field away. That tugged at a memory from before, a talk between the large trainer and him, and Pig Knot smiled, feeling evil.
“Well, thank you for bringing this to me,” he said to her, ignoring the trainer.
“Where is Master Muluk?”
“I’ll see that he gets this. Don’t worry.”
She nodded thanks and practically ran back to the house. Pig Knot sighed and blamed her quick departure on the weather and not his wrecked features and crippled body.
“I’d chase you…” he muttered through clenched teeth and trailed off, watching her escape the rain, the wet robes revealing enticing curves. He sighed wistfully and regarded his missing legs. The good feeling dissipated. Sniffing
, Pig Knot peered into the pitcher, saw it held wine, and took a deep drink, hoping to drown his rising misery.
“I’d chase you…” he whispered, wine spilling down his front.
He studied the stumps of his legs.
*
A messenger from Borchus arrived at the villa late in the afternoon. The man was drenched and wretched-looking from his horseback ride through the rain. He handed the guards minding the gate a tubular, wax-sealed case. Clades delivered it to Clavellus, still sitting underneath his balcony with Goll and observing the men practice two-strike drills in the steady rain.
The taskmaster glanced at the case, frowned at the dripping, and handed it over to Goll. “It’s for you.”
Goll took it without thanks and broke open the seal. He spilled the scroll out of the case, unraveled the parchment, and read the contents quickly.
“What is it?” Clavellus asked.
“We fight in five days.”
“Who?”
“All.”
Clavellus brow arched at the news. “Well, not entirely uncommon. It happens. Who do we face?”
Goll rubbed his jawline. “Free Trained. All of them.”
“Our good fortune.”
“Apparently, they’re undefeated thus far.”
Clavellus sat back and sniffed. “So are ours. They all are at this point in the games. Relax, Master Goll,” he soothed. “We have only a little time, but the dates are set. We’ll have the lads prepared with a trick or two.”
*
Halm arrived later in the evening.
The dripping, muddy husk of a koch pulled up in front of the closed gates of Clavellus’s home and deposited the Zhiberian right on the doorstep, hunched over and looking as if he’d just escaped a butcher. He smiled his gruesome snarl at the guards, who didn’t recognize him at first, but the Zhiberian’s short, scathing outburst jogged their memories. The gates opened, and Halm walked through the short tunnel leading to the training grounds.
Swelling puddles dotted the soggy sands, and not a person could be seen. The rain had intensified into gray sheets, and the droning hiss smothered most sound. He stood within the relative dryness of the tunnel before eyeing the open door of the living quarters, feeling the distinct chill of the air. Taking a breath and holding his wounds, he started walking.
131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain Page 26
