131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “We needed the rain,” Gastillo muttered, his own words sounding forced and empty.

  “Yes, we did,” Nexus remarked. “We did, indeed. Crops are scalding underneath this sun. Not good for farmers and harvesters who work the vines, but little I care about that. I worry about the grapes, however. Though I’m reassured that this year’s crop continues to grow fat, which is all that concerns me. Other than this, of course.”

  “Your lads have been performing well,” Gastillo stated, hoping the flattery wasn’t overly sweet. He was very much aware of the wine merchants’ gladiators. They had fought well this season—a combined sixty victories on the sands and only six losses. Nexus’s record outshone that of his own men, which rankled Gastillo’s pride just a little.

  “They have, they have. I’m most pleased. I like this sport, good Gastillo. I believe this could have been my true passion, my true purpose, if I’d only learned of it earlier. Ah, if I were a younger man, I would’ve been down there myself, splitting skulls and flesh with the worst of them. I know I could have. How I envy you and your early beginnings. Ahhh,” the merchant growled while brandishing a fist.

  Once again, Gastillo had cause to be thankful for his mask. Listening to the merchant made his tongue curl in disdain and brought back memories of long days of training, endless drills, and frightening combats in which unspeakable things were done. Watching the games from a distance was all very exciting, but when it was you being swung at and having your face smashed from its skull, that was entirely different. Just hearing Nexus ramble about the life of a pit fighter as if it were fun offended Gastillo. He wondered what Curge might say if he were present.

  “Still,” Nexus continued, heedless of the other’s rising temper, “it’s a young man’s game, and safer to watch from up here, eh?”

  “It is,” Gastillo replied. You ignorant, shite-greased bastard.

  Then Curge entered the viewing box and plopped down beside the golden-faced owner. “Seddon damn this moist heat. I feel as if I’m being smothered in the sweat between Saimon’s crack and balls this day. Already in need of a bath, and the day isn’t even over. Gastillo. Nexus. See you both are up and eager to get at it, eh?”

  “We were just wondering if you weren’t going to show,” Nexus said, not bothering to turn his head in the other’s direction. “Weren’t we, good Gastillo?”

  Gastillo didn’t bother replying. He disliked being included in such lies.

  Even Curge ignored the question. “You lads gather anything new about the House of Free Trained?”

  Gastillo smirked. Curge knew the real name, but he wouldn’t acknowledge it—at least not yet.

  “No afternoon pleasantries, Dark Curge?” Nexus asked.

  “I already did that. Listen next time. You and your merchant friends might enjoy lathering each other’s asses with such gurry, but here we cut to business as soon as our asses touch wood.”

  Nexus’s normally pallid face reddened, and his black eyes flickered annoyance. “Ah yes, I constantly forget who I’m sharing this box with. You reminded me, Dark Curge.”

  “I never forgot.” Curge huffed and glanced over his shoulder. He wiggled his fingers, and a servant brought a silver platter bearing a pitcher and goblets. Curge sighed impatiently and took the drink, draining half with one mighty gulp.

  “This doesn’t taste like piss. Good.” He signaled for more.

  “It probably came from one of my orchards,” Nexus said.

  “I just said it doesn’t taste like piss.” Curge scowled. “Why would I drink a second if the first tasted off? Really, Nexus.”

  “Brazen bastard,” the wine merchant fired back, slowly shaking his nearly non-existent chin.

  “What of the Free Trained? Have you learned anything?” Gastillo asked, seeking to divert the exchange of words.

  “Oh, I found out where they’re training,” Curge seethed. “I found out.”

  “Clavellus, I believe he’s called,” Nexus said.

  Curge regarded a smug Nexus, and Gastillo could feel the tension swell. But the brutish owner averted his gaze to the sands and the stands filling up with eager spectators. “That’s him,” he stated quietly. “The old bastard has push, I’ll give him that. A bad mistake all ‘round.”

  He paused and squeezed the goblet. “I tell you this for nothing. I’m not happy with Clavellus training these bastards. And I’m going to take measures that no one else will join that rabble.”

  “Measures?” Gastillo asked, not entirely certain he liked the sound of it.

  “Measures,” Curge repeated… and then informed them exactly what they were.

  *

  Below the stony floors and within the torch-lit hollows of general quarters, men teemed and shifted like swarming white-and-black beetles. The smell accosted Demasta’s senses like flies on a cow kiss, but he forced himself to ignore it. Dark Curge had given him a task, and with four handpicked warriors from his master’s household guard, Demasta would do as commanded. He and his men stood on the steps descending into the gloomy hell of the Free Trained. Hundreds crowded beneath the flickering of torches, preparing themselves for the day’s butchering and probably wondering what condition they’d be in by the evening. Demasta’s harsh blue eyes mirrored the unsightly mob, and he set his jaw, its shorn black beard making his face frightening.

  The head guard of Curge’s household thumbed the pommel of a broadsword at his waist and shook his head. He looked back and motioned one of his men to take a nearby torch from its sconce. The man did as told and handed it over.

  Demasta waved it over his head, bellowing for attention. He got it as several faces lifted to see his muscular torso strapped with an X of leather.

  “Free Trained!” he roared, his deep voice rebounding through the underworld. “You motherless hounds are fortunate this day. My master, Dark Curge of the House of Curge, is displeased that a handful of you have forgotten their place in the hierarchy of the Pit. Soon, fighters from the House of Ten will stain the sands above us. Let it be known that Dark Curge has taken offence with the maggots who fight under the banner of the House of Ten. He offers three times the amount of gold if you fight and execute one of these curs on the hallowed earth of the arena, before the world, as example to all to remember their place in the greater order.”

  The populace of pit fighters stood still, dirty faces solemn, ears and eyes open. It pleased Demasta.

  “Kill any from the House of Ten,” he droned on. “Make a bloody spectacle of them, and Curge will reward you with gold… and perhaps even a favor.”

  Demasta smiled inwardly at that. Curge himself had instructed him to sweeten the hook with that very morsel. Free Trained who believed there might be “more” would venture into Saimon’s hell and back.

  Having said his piece, the burly guardsman handed the torch back to one of his henchmen and turned to exit.

  The rumbling excitement he left behind informed him Curge’s offer was being taken very seriously.

  *

  “You placed a bounty on their heads?” an astonished Nexus blurted. “You’ll be thrown from the competition!”

  Curge’s bald head furrowed with annoyance. “No such thing will happen. The offer stands only if it happens in the arena. And there’s no ruling against offering coin to motivate lads.”

  “Why are you telling us this?” Gastillo asked, but he suspected the answer.

  “Because sooner or later, one of yours will fight these ripe bastards. And I’d rather you hear it from me than the streets.”

  That wasn’t it at all, which Gastillo knew as well as he knew Curge’s reputation.

  The bald ogre enjoyed displaying the ruthless power he commanded as top house in the games, and the bounty on the House of Ten was a warning example—anger the House of Curge at your peril, for there will be consequences. Gastillo didn’t care for such backhanded threats. Nexus, however, was nodding.

  “I approve, you thick-necked punce,” the wine merchant commented with a sly
curl on his lips. “Never thought you were capable of such ruthlessness. Truth be known, I’m impressed.”

  Curge didn’t even turn his head. “You should be worried,” he stated and took another gulp of wine.

  The fights occupied their attention then.

  Two embarrassing matches featured Free Trained warriors, neither offering up a death or any dramatic excitement the crowds were hoping to witness. Onlookers cheered when each fight finished. The third fight featured a gladiator from the Stable of Slavol meeting a lone Free Trained warrior. The stable’s pit fighter, called Punder, decimated his opponent in short time and left him alive but bleeding on the sands.

  Then came the match Gastillo dreaded. He recalled the chilling smile hitched upon Prajus’s youthful face, the emotionless shine of his blue eyes. “Don’t kill him,” Gastillo had ordered. “Don’t risk reprisal from the School of Nexus. It would drain us.”

  But Prajus had only nodded.

  Fear, pure and icy, slipped in around Gastillo’s innards and clenched. Prajus was insolent enough to do exactly what Prajus felt needed doing. Especially if it defied Gastillo’s wishes.

  A feeling of uncertainty hung about every match, no matter how well trained a warrior might be, but in this instance, Gastillo felt only dread.

  To his left, Nexus glanced over and winked at him.

  It did very little to improve Gastillo’s mood.

  *

  The portcullis lifted with a greased rumbling, and Prajus stepped into the sun, already feeling the heat underneath his gleaming vest of scale mail. Twisting, mewling throngs raved and shook fists at him over the arena walls. Like maggots they were, ready to drop and feast on the guts of whoever was handy. Seddon above, Prajus still loved them—loved their cheers, infusing him with power. Loved the women who would brazenly flaunt their bare breasts in his direction. Relished the rush of vitality just before the battle itself. He knew of no truer test, to face a fighter of equal worth and to best him in single combat. Prajus held a high opinion of himself, but the fact of the matter was… no one could best him in the Pit.

  And he would prove it with yet another victory. Already, he had amassed four wins in the early part of the season, and he wasn’t about to stop. Across the way, the portcullis opened, and the gladiator called Malo walked into daylight.

  Poor bastard.

  Malo protected himself with a vest of leather and its regular black adornments of spikes, greaves, and bracers. A black iron helm, similar to Prajus’s own in fact, covered the man’s head, complete with face cage. Malo carried an uninspired combination of a sword and a faceless shield into the arena—not at all like the iron dragon’s head decorating Prajus’s shield or the knee and elbow spikes Prajus had strapped to himself. Right now, he knew Malo was sizing him up in turn and loathing what he saw. For good reason.

  Prajus projected the look of a beast, a killer unleashed upon a very small world, where only two men existed. A Seddon-damned monster of epic telling, and right at that very moment, he glared across the heat-shimmering sands, heedless of the introductions, and focused on Malo’s person as if he were a bloody steak about to be devoured.

  Don’t kill him, Gastillo had ordered, smelling of fear as ripe and as fragrant as foul sweat. Don’t risk reprisal from the School of Nexus. It would drain us.

  Prajus knew Gastillo had had a career on the sands once, long ago. The fact that the owner had survived the season and become a champion of the games was the original reason why Prajus sought training from him. But as time under Gastillo’s roof dragged on, Prajus and a few others sensed something many had not, something that became clearer with each passing day.

  Gastillo had lost his hunger for the games.

  That realization had amazed the young pit fighter, for who in his right mind could become jaded with all of this?

  Malo lifted one arm when he heard his name.

  Prajus took a step toward his opponent and hefted his own sword when he heard his.

  And when the Orator’s arm dropped, both men charged.

  They clashed in the middle in a drizzle of sand and dust. Steel crashed off steel, the notes sparkling.

  Then the fighters parted, and Malo jabbed at his opponent at arm’s length, testing Prajus’s defense. They circled, concentrating on each other, before Malo closed, slashed, and locked blades in a test of strength.

  Then things went very wrong.

  Prajus pressed his sword against his foe’s blade but then whirled away, spinning and slamming his elbow spike into the side of Malo’s helmet. Iron pierced iron, and Malo’s head rattled within its metal shell. His knees buckled, and the fighter dropped, momentarily dazed.

  Prajus kicked him square in the chest, splaying Malo flat on his back.

  Without hesitation, Prajus stepped in and stabbed the man through the guts, the tip of his sword puncturing Malo’s leather vest with a dull pop. For a brief moment, Malo didn’t do a thing, but then he curled up around the killing blade like a worm cut in half.

  Prajus placed a boot against his fallen foe’s hip and yanked the steel free. One of Malo’s legs kicked out weakly, as if he dreamed of running, before he coiled around his killing wound and lay still.

  The victorious gladiator held his arms up in a V to the adoring crowds.

  *

  The Nexus both Gastillo and Curge knew appeared.

  “That useless punce! Useless topper! I’ll leave his worthless carcass in the sun and let the dirt ticks lap up his blood. The cow kiss! The coin I’d invested in him to see that! That! What was that! It barely lasted the time it would take me to piss, by Seddon’s rosy ass!”

  “Your man showed good form,” Curge said from the far side, clearly enjoying the rant.

  “In your hole, you balding ass packer.”

  Curge quieted, the corners of his mouth hinting at evil amusement.

  Gastillo silently cursed Prajus strutting around the dying pit fighter. The gladiator faced their viewing box and made a pompous show of bowing. The gesture infuriated Gastillo. Prajus made another spectacle of swaggering around the arena, soaking in the praise, before slipping inside the raised portcullis.

  Prajus. The man would have to be disciplined, and the thought made Gastillo’s head ache dearly.

  “Your man’s a hellion,” Nexus fumed nearby, breaking his worrisome thoughts.

  “What’s that?”

  “Your man there.” Nexus waved a hand. “Despite my losing, he accounted himself fairly. Why did the he-bitch have to kill my man is something I’d like answered.”

  “I have no idea,” Gastillo admitted, the drool leaking from his mangled lips. He quickly dabbed at the troublesome fluid with a hand cloth. “You can be sure I’ll be looking into the matter. It wasn’t my intention for your fighter to be killed.”

  Nexus studied him for a moment before tossing his head back in derision. “Oddly enough, I believe you, you gold-plated kog.”

  “Should I expect a blood challenge?”

  But Nexus wouldn’t answer him.

  31

  Prajus.

  It was a name Grisholt would remember. The gladiator had just hacked up one of Nexus’s brood and exited the arena with a smile on his face. Roughly three weeks into the games, the more adept would start to rise above the pack, drawing attention to themselves with each quality victory, as Prajus had just done. Grisholt shook his head. The House of Gastillo had surely made a pleasant sum in wagers on the fight.

  Someone knocked on the door of his private viewing chamber, making Grisholt turn around. Brakuss and another lad stood back from the armored form of Barros. Age, the stress of the arena, and constant training had branded crow’s feet around his black eyes, and his brown hair gleamed with sweat. The gladiator was perhaps only twenty-eight.

  “Are you ready?” Grisholt asked him.

  “Ready, Master Grisholt,” Barros replied, gripping his pot helm under his arm all the tighter.

  “You understand what this will do to you?”
/>   Barros nodded and held out a hand sheathed in metal.

  Grisholt produced the iron flask and studied its hard lines. He still hadn’t opened the container, superstitious of some twisted, smoking hellion popping out of its thick neck and plucking out his eyes. The metal warmed his hands as he hefted it and marveled at its promise. He could still turn back, return the potion to the Sons and accept any penalty they might impose, but the thought put a ghost of a smile on his weathered features. The penalty would be his life, for there was no escaping those criminals, not after bargaining with them.

  Grisholt glanced at Brakuss, then to Barros, and broke the seal on the flask. He plucked out the brass crown of a stopper and handed it to his chosen pit fighter.

  “Just a sip, now. Just a sip.”

  Barros raised it to his lips with no fear at all, totally trusting of his owner. He tasted, shuddered at the taste, and swallowed with a growl.

  “Well?” Grisholt asked.

  “Tastes like bloody piss.”

  “Like piss?” a sour Brakuss asked out of turn.

  “Like piss, with… with pulpy chunks in it.”

  “Never mind that.” Grisholt flourished a hand. “How do you feel?”

  “Sick.”

  Sick. Then it all became clear. Grisholt rolled his eyes and cursed the Sons for his unbelieving fortunes. For all he knew, the damn lot of them might have wagered against his man––a few days ago Grisholt would have done the very thing himself. And what better way to ensure victory than by poisoning his lad? With a word whispered amongst the lineups to the Domis, the Sons could potentially gain a sizeable sum of gold with Barros’s loss. The more Grisholt mulled it over, the more the plot made sense, and the sicker he felt for being taken so.

  “Well… do what you can, then,” the owner blurted, suddenly feeling exhausted, bitter, and just a pinch of crestfallen.