131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Ho there,” a voice called out.

  Halm looked up to see the ghostly figure of Clavellus on his balcony. His upraised silver mug glowed in the downpour.

  “Welcome back,” the taskmaster called out. He guzzled his drink, straightened in a pickled sort of way, and bumped the door frame as he went inside.

  Halm chuckled. Wet was obviously fine for the taskmaster.

  Feeling better with the greeting, Halm went to the living quarters and stomped his feet weakly on the threshold before entering. The tables of the common area had already been emptied and cleared, and Halm cursed the weather for his slow journey as he’d hoped to join in at supper. He’d ask the first servant he placed eyes on if anything might be brought to him. With a huff, he dragged himself past the tables, wincing in discomfort, toward the doorway in the rear.

  The man called Kolo emerged and blocked his path.

  “Master Halm,” he blurted. “Didn’t expect you here.”

  “Just ‘Halm’ is good. And here I am. Wetter than a sick dog. Who’s about?”

  Kolo smiled briefly. “We’re all about, just that most are in agony and have retired early. They beat us down right and proper this day. I’m just looking for the water barrel for a drink. All this rain, and I’m still parched.”

  Halm liked that one, and he returned Kolo’s good humor as he shuffled past. A gray light shone from an open window at the end of the hall, enough to reveal all the drawn curtains. Most men were already asleep.

  “Halm?” a voice whispered.

  “Muluk?”

  The hairy Kree yanked back his hanging cloth. “Lords above. What happened to you?”

  “Been busy hunting.”

  “I hope the other man’s in harder condition.” Muluk stuck out his fist.

  “Oh, he is. He is.” Halm pressed his knuckles firmly against his friend’s. “Where’s Goll?”

  “In the baths.”

  “Pig Knot?”

  “Here, you Zhiberian shite.”

  Though Muluk’s thick curls trembled as he frowned, Halm snorted as if the insult were nothing. “I’ll talk with you later.”

  The Kree’s face lit up.

  Halm turned to his right and pulled back the curtain.

  There, Pig Knot lay on his back, looking back down the length of his nose, the swelling around his eyes not so bad. Shirtless, he was trussed up with linens and smelled of onions.

  “Hope you don’t use that same bait for the women,” Halm groaned and leaned against the frame. Having taken note of snores cutting the air, he kept his voice down.

  “Daresay I’ll have to pay for them from now on,” Pig Knot grumped. Rain pelted the closed shutters above his head.

  “You had to pay for them before,” Halm pointed out.

  “You’re right.” Pig Knot smiled feebly. “I did.”

  “Then nothing’s changed, has it?”

  In answer, the Sunjan snarled as he pushed himself up on his cot, drawing attention to his stumps.

  Halm quietly regarded them then Pig Knot’s face. “It’ll take some getting used to.”

  “Suppose it will.”

  Halm exhaled. “I found Skulljigger.”

  Pig Knot stared. “The blood challenge? You punished the bastard?”

  “I did. And didn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  A confused Pig Knot wiggled a finger underneath the bandages keeping his chin in place and waited. Halm told him everything. The legless man listened, and every now and then, the rain crashed against the wooden shutters. Halm didn’t really know what to expect from the Sunjan warrior, whether he’d be upset with the report or even more bloodthirsty, but when he informed him about the fight in the alley, and how Skulljigger’s son came to the man’s aid, the Sunjan’s face slumped in defeat.

  Not even Pig Knot wanted to make orphans of the man’s children.

  Halm then revealed the matter of the gold Skulljigger wanted, which Pig Knot wasn’t impressed with; nor was he impressed with Halm fighting in the unsanctioned Iron Games to secure the coin.

  But in the end, Pig Knot held out a fist, and Halm pressed his own into it.

  “No one else… would have done that for me,” Pig Knot said softly. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The apologetic crease of a smile spread over the man’s shadowed features. “You’ll have to explain all of this to Goll… and I daresay he won’t be as understanding as I.”

  Halm’s jaw clenched. Pig Knot was right.

  “I hear he’s in the baths?”

  “He is.”

  “Then he can come to me later,” Halm muttered. “I’m done staggering about. Haven’t even had anything to eat or drink, either. I’m for one of these beds. You don’t have anything to eat around, do you?”

  Pig Knot’s smile widened. “No.”

  “As always.” Halm had turned to leave when his companion’s voice made him pause.

  “It’s good to see you, Halm of Zhiberia, even though it looks as if something stepped on you.”

  For some reason, the words lifted the hurting man’s mood.

  “And you, Pig Knot of Sunja. And you.”

  Then to the opposing curtain. “And you as well, Muluk of Kree.”

  A grateful voice meekly drifted back. “Thank you kindly.”

  Halm wandered down the hall and found an open cubicle, the curtain drawn back. An empty cot beckoned. The grinding snores made him feel very weary. The healer was about somewhere, but Halm would seek him in the morning.

  Lowering his bulk onto the cot and feather pillow, he smiled faintly at the clean sweetness of the straw, kicked off his footwear, and closed his eyes.

  28

  “Wake up, I said.”

  Roused from a deep sleep, Halm blinked at the command. Looming above and poised to strike was a none-too-impressed Goll. The Kree appeared damn well ready to pick at stitches and rip them out with his teeth, just for spite.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d returned last night?”

  Unable to control a yawn, Halm righted himself and, with some effort, swung his legs over the cot’s edge. That movement alone caused him discomfort. He smacked his lips and wished for something to drink, sensing warm daylight seeping in through the shutters behind him.

  “Good morning, friend Goll,” he rasped eventually.

  “You keep your greetings,” Goll snapped, like a dog reaching the length of his chain. “I’m waiting for the explanation about why you look like something nailed to a tree and clubbed with spiked mauls. That’s what I’m waiting for. You were hard to look at before, but now…!”

  “I was going to ask for the healer.”

  Goll’s face reddened before he said, “You need ten healers.”

  “One will probably do.” Shan’s voice piped up from just beyond Halm’s line of sight. One venomous glare from the Kree silenced the healer, and Goll held that withering look for several punishing seconds before directing his attention back at Halm.

  “Let’s hear it, then.”

  “Ease off the man,” Pig Knot’s voice called.

  “You stay out of this,” Goll barked. “You stay out of this.” Then to Halm, “You should’ve come back with us instead of going on about vengeance. I should have insisted. Look at you. I mean, look. How is it you’re still alive? Ordinarily, wounds in this place become commonplace and easy on the eyes, but you… You’re something special.”

  “Not as special as me, I wager,” Pig Knot challenged.

  “Saimon’s black hanging fruit, Pig Knot, will you shut up! This isn’t just a business we’ve started here. This isn’t just a gurry whim. We fight for the name of the house now. We fight to show those who wouldn’t take you or me or any of the others. To show them we’re worth more than they measured or could ever expect!”

  “Really? I fought only for the coin,” Pig Knot said.

  “So did I,” Hal
m agreed.

  This infuriated the Kree, and his face boiled to a dangerous redness. He brandished one fist, ready to throttle them both, and tensed up with the threatening power of a loaded ballista. Heat emanated from the man in such intensity that even Halm became uncomfortable. Normally, he’d enjoy seeing how angry a person became before something snapped. It wasn’t nearly as enjoyable with Goll. And when the Kree finally spoke, the quietness he forced into his voice was absolutely frightening.

  “Pig Knot. This would not have existed because of you. You have no legs because of the house, thus the house will shelter you for the rest of your days… if we can make it through each and every season. Especially this one. The only way we can survive is if we win. Every gladiator under this roof has to bring us their share of victories, and one vital element contributing to their—to your victory on the sands is to be as close to perfect health as possible upon the day of battle. I’ll be forever grateful for what you did and forever guilty because of your legs. But if you open your maw once more before I’m finished with this sliced rump of ham here, I’ll damn well forget who you are, who I am, and what we’ve gone through thus far.”

  “And do what?” Pig Knot. Fearless.

  Goll’s mouth puckered into a furious pout, and he turned around.

  “I didn’t get this fighting in a blood match,” Halm blurted, pausing Goll’s wrath. “I got this at the Iron Games.”

  Goll impatiently rattled his head, not understanding.

  Halm held up a hand. “They’re unsupported fights that take place outside of the arena. Skulljigger had children, and he was going to accept the bloodmatch. I was certain I’d kill him, so I convinced him to… not fight… to leave the rest of the season, on condition I pay him. A hundred gold pieces.”

  Goll straightened as if speared in the back. Almost impossibly, his face darkened even more.

  Halm blurted the rest. “I fought in the games with Borchus at my side and won. Won coin. Which I then paid to Skulljigger earlier this day. He won’t pursue the blood challenge. And I don’t have the worry of fatherless children on my conscience. I got cut up, plain to see and feel—I’ll tell no lies—but I can still fight.”

  Halm lowered his eyes and peeked at the Kree. The silence swelled to a dangerous tension where a fight might start if someone inhaled too loudly. Goll controlled his base urges and finally exhaled steam.

  “No mother?” Goll said through white lips.

  “No mother.” Halm didn’t go into whether or not Skulljigger was lying. He didn’t feel the man was, and Goll didn’t bring it up.

  The Kree stood in the doorway, contemplating, shaking his head in black dismay. Then he leveled a warning finger.

  “No more of this foolishness.” Goll’s voice seethed. “No more. From here on in, you fight when the Madea tells you it’s time. You avoid confrontation outside of the Pit. And as Seddon as my witness, if any of you disobey me, I’ll sling your carved asses outside these walls with a smile on my face. And I won’t care a lick if you’re missing arms, legs, eyes, ears, heads, kogs, bells, or whatever shite gurry’s left. If you have no common sense, then I don’t want you. You’re of no worth to the house.”

  He paused and drew in breath, a sound like surf clawing back from some distant shore.

  “Do you understand?” Goll finally asked.

  “Aye that,” Halm replied quietly, feeling both shamed yet oddly in the right. He scratched at his brow and didn’t meet the Kree’s gaze.

  “Pig Knot?” Goll still seethed. “You answer me, or by Seddon’s dying gasp, I’ll skip you across the surface of the nearest lake.”

  “Aye that,” he grumbled.

  Goll waited for any other smart remarks, and when none came, he deflated only a little. The house master was well and truly pissed, but the most dangerous part had passed.

  “Shan,” the Kree said curtly.

  “Yes?” the healer replied, sounding terrified.

  “See to this man’s wounds. Do what you can for him.”

  “I will.”

  Goll’s eyes burned into Halm’s battered face. The Zhiberian thought the man was about to say something more, but Goll shook his head in loathing and marched out of the living quarters.

  Shan stood in the hall, watching the Kree stalk away with passion enough to startle hellions from the blackest depths. His worn face gradually shed the bleached glow of fear.

  “Is he gone?” Muluk asked quietly.

  Shan nodded. “Aye that.”

  All heard the hairy Kree exhale with relief.

  For a long while, no one said anything, just allowing the angry energy in Goll’s wake to slowly dissipate. Other heads hesitantly poked out from behind their curtains, like worried animals, checking for casualties.

  “Well,” Pig Knot muttered in the aftermath. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  29

  Rain crashed down on the roof of Borl Grisholt’s study, traversing not-so-secret passages inside and dripping into buckets lining his floor. The pitched plunks might have threatened to drive the old manager slightly mad if only one drop at a time had been falling, but luckily for Grisholt, water cascaded so heavily in places that the sound almost blended into one steady note. The roof needed repairs so badly that veritable streams poured into the waiting buckets, as if a collection of old men had stopped right above his head to loose stuttering rivulets of piss. The fact that his study usually got the worst of any rainstorm, despite what meager repairs his fighters attempted—Grisholt acridly noted gladiators weren’t fit to do carpentry—left him no choice but to nominate a lad to empty the buckets when full.

  In the old days, Grisholt would’ve had servants to do such for him.

  Then again, in the old days, he would’ve had coin to spend on proper carpenters.

  That night, Grisholt sat, mulled, and drank wine before a single flickering candle. Black thoughts coursed through his head, as fluid and cold as rainwater sluicing through corroded and crumbling drains. The wine was a little gift to himself from the pot of gold he’d won on his last successful wager. Standing just inside the doorway, a burly pit fighter eyed the filling buckets, stooping to sop up any drops reaching the floor. Grisholt knew the punce didn’t like the task, but neither did Grisholt, which was why he wasn’t doing it. Thick-chested Brakuss stood in one dry corner, as still and brooding as a one-eyed ogre. With Brakuss about, the water boy would stay in line.

  At least until Grisholt retired for the evening. And if the rain continued falling at that time, he’d order Marrok, his last true servant, to mind the buckets––which he would do unerringly. Not because he was Grisholt’s sole remaining servant, his cook in fact, but because of Brakuss… and the beating the half-blind skull cracker would bestow upon Marrok’s tender person if he strayed from his duty.

  Wine—the one secret the Lords had bestowed unto man that made Grisholt believe in prayers. Wine helped him think. It enabled him to make crucial decisions. It also eased the aches of his tiring frame of fifty-six winters. He sat behind his large desk, sunken deep into his padded chair coated in fraying green. Ignoring the two buckets stationed to his right, he cupped a goblet of tarnished tin in his hands and gently swished its murky contents three times before every sip. He’d already downed two bottles of the grape and intended to down two more before the night was done.

  If he was going to drown, he’d do so on his own terms.

  A long, sonorous note of thunder rattled the sky, and Grisholt suddenly felt very small, for all he might do in life—all he might experience—was nothing compared to the power of the heavens, the oceans, and the earth. The thought of what it might be like to fly above the known world and simply observe it from afar freed Grisholt’s mind from his skull, and he slipped into a vision of blue and green crusted with craggy lines of earth brown. The image became too great for him to maintain and dissolved into darkness… which wasn’t entirely terrible to behold, either.

  A soft rapping disturbed his dreaming, and a dark figure
appeared in the doorway, motioning for Brakuss.

  “You can tell me, you know,” Grisholt grumbled. “Seeing as I do own the stable.”

  “Apologies, Master Grisholt,” the figure spoke. “You have a messenger from the city.”

  “I do?” Grisholt’s voice rose in pitch. “Send the lad in, then. Send him in. Must be something… grand, indeed. Eh, Brakuss?”

  “Must be, Master Grisholt,” the guard replied.

  The shadow in the doorway retreated, and another, taller man stepped forth, gleaming in the meager light. Traveling canvas, draped over his head and shoulders, dripped water onto Grisholt’s floors, nowhere near a bucket. The sight and sound of this unwelcome spattering plucked at the owner’s nerves.

  “Master Grisholt,” the dripping traveller said, keeping his hood over his features.

  Grisholt stroked his beard into presentable fashion and straightened in his chair. “Well met, though I must say anyone weathering tonight’s storm has my respect. And my curiosity. Who are you?”

  “My name isn’t important.”

  Grisholt screwed up his lips at that. Names were very important in his mind, and he drew breath to order Brakuss to rattle this soaked stranger just enough to realize that.

  “But the Sons have sent me to you,” the stranger went on.

  That brought the Grisholt back to the brink of sobriety. The Sons of Cholla. The old owner nodded with dawning realization, studying the visitor watering his study’s threshold.

  “There were no fights this day,” Grisholt said guardedly.

  “We’re aware of that, but a bargain had been struck, and the Sons take their bargains quite seriously. Though you weren’t in the city today, we took it upon ourselves to visit you tonight.”

  “Well…” Grisholt cleared his throat and checked on Brakuss and the pit fighter turned water boy, assuring himself he had the greater numbers. “I appreciate the gesture. I must admit, you picked poor weather to come here. The roads must be rivers by now.”