131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Cries and grunts of exertion rose from the men training below. A pensive Goll barely nodded, deep in concentration. “I agree.”

  “Good.”

  “You can tell the men exactly that.”

  Clavellus nodded.

  “But tell them nothing about the bounty.”

  That drew a look from the taskmaster. “What?”

  “They don’t need to know. Preparing to the best of their ability is all that’s important to them now.”

  “They need to know.”

  “Why?” Goll challenged. “Tell our fighters they’ll face Free Trained dogs that will likely attempt to kill them, so kill them in return. Our message that the House of Ten will fight all challengers is still conveyed to whoever is watching. Telling our lads that their foes are aiming to cut their hearts out is one thing, but if you say the entire might of the arena is out to kill them, that there’s coin offered for our heads, well… that fear would cripple them. And… I’m not sure all would remain with us.”

  “You think they would desert?” Clavellus asked, sensing the answer even as he spoke it.

  Goll nodded. “They joined because of a hurried speech and a promise. Training. Food and a bed. To just get out of the hell of general quarters. I’m not certain of who is serious, who is committed, and who is only biding his time until the season is over. But we need someone to send out on the sands, to attract more fighters for the seasons to follow. To make our presence felt and to show we care nothing about what comes forth from other houses. We have our name; now we must establish our will and our skill at arms—our reputation. If we tell our men about the price on their skulls, I’m not sure who will stay or flee. Perhaps none. Perhaps all. If it’s even half, the embarrassment will become history. The House of Ten will crumble. Would you rather be known as the house that defied the Pit on their first day of competition or the one that didn’t even peek around the corner? I know my choice. And I’d rather risk their lives first.”

  Clavellus carefully absorbed this. “So you wish to say nothing?”

  “To our men? About this bounty?” Goll let it hang in the air before answering. “Aye that. Not a word.”

  “They’ll find out. If not us, from others. On the first day.”

  Goll considered that. “By then, hopefully, we’ll have built up their courage enough not to care.”

  That thought silenced Clavellus.

  “Make the announcement,” Goll instructed them. “Tell the lads they take to the sands in four days. Then let us talk of weapons, armor, and these men we’ll be facing. And any other preparations to be made.”

  *

  Torello and Sapo got paired up with each other, crossed wooden swords, and put their strength into it. With Koba watching in the background, the huge Sunjan slapped Torello’s fist with his free hand and sent the man sputtering into the dirt.

  He quickly sprang up. “What was that? What gurry was that? Are you trying to break my damn wrist?”

  “That’s the drill,” Tumber hissed between taking turns with Brozz.

  But Torello ignored that. “The practice isn’t breaking bones, maggot shite. If you want to play hard, then by Seddon’s crack, I’ll play hard!”

  Torello stepped into Sapo’s personal space, red faced and fuming.

  The larger Sunjan didn’t appreciate the closeness, and with a contemptuous snarl, he shoved the smaller man back.

  A suddenly stern Kolo disengaged Junger and strode toward the towering Sapo, intent on lending a hand if need be.

  Sapo backed up a step, ready to take them both on.

  And Machlann started screaming.

  The rusty yelling of the old trainer caught Ananda by surprise, and she started at the sound, making Pig Knot think she was about to drop the pitcher of wine she carried.

  “Best let me have that.” He smiled as best he could manage under his bandages, his hands darting forward and grabbing her own. The soft skin of her tiny hands and wrists under his large, calloused paws made him hold on all the longer.

  Ananda turned back to him and smiled with embarrassment. “Apologies, Master Pig Knot––the yelling startled me.”

  On the training grounds, Machlann had all the involved men waddling like ducks from one end to the other.

  “Lads,” Pig Knot said soothingly, still holding onto her wrists. “That’s what they do. One gets a little ripe at the other, and fists start flying. What can one do?”

  Ananda smiled, and Pig Knot returned it. He gave her hands a quick rub and a pat and took the pitcher from her.

  “Still, I’m grateful for it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Any opportunity to hold the hands of a pretty flower like yourself is one to take.”

  Ananda stared at him for a moment, unable to reply, and then she broke into an adorable smile and giggle before walking away.

  Pig Knot watched her go, his eyes on her flimsy white robes, which just barely concealed her womanly figure underneath.

  “Slick as greased pig shite,” Muluk muttered next to him. “I’ll warn her about you next time.”

  “You hardly know me,” Pig Knot replied, nodding at Ananda when she abruptly looked back at him and smiled once more.

  “I know you,” Halm said on the other side of Muluk, “so I’ll warn her.”

  “You’re jealous you didn’t act before I did. A cripple like myself has to do something for amusement.”

  “I can see you’re amused,” Halm remarked drily.

  “I’m right and proper worried,” Pig Knot countered. “The only honey pot worth looking at in this entire place is serving us, and you two’d rather watch a bunch of near-naked kogs, sweating and grunting over each other. You tell me what’s right and what’s wrong here.”

  “Slick as greased pig shite,” Muluk muttered, looking onward.

  Pig Knot returned to watching the training, catching the warning eye of a menacing Koba. He was in the middle of overseeing a drill, and the momentary distraction of what was happening with Ananda brought puzzled looks from the pit fighters waiting for instruction.

  This time, a sly Pig Knot nodded and winked in the trainer’s direction.

  And Clavellus called for the attention of all of them.

  35

  The days leading up to the House of Ten’s opening fights became punishing.

  After Clavellus announced when they would be fighting, Machlann called the day’s training finished and allowed them to collapse where they stood. The fighters wandered off toward the waiting baths and food, but as they left the grounds, Machlann warned them to rest well, for the next few days would be hell.

  And he did not lie.

  In the following days, Halm, Pig Knot, and Muluk sat on their mats and watched and mulled and commented. They witnessed—under the oftentimes painful tutelage of Machlann and the just-as-punishing eye of Koba— the men evolving. It came slowly and at times with a verbal lashing from the old trainer, but it was there, both fascinating and rousing to see.

  They wore the armor they’d be wearing in battle on fight day. Brozz was the only one with armor that fit his huge size while Sapo had leather pieces stitched together for his large frame—only leather, as Goll informed them they hadn’t the coin to afford better. The same went for their weapons, and Sapo was still denied an axe, much to his chagrin.

  Slowly, the recruits gradually corrected their mistakes, learning new techniques and evolving into more effective warriors. Halm, Pig Knot, and Muluk observed the lads’ shortness of breath ebbing, clumsy strokes becoming sharp, wasted movements being erased and becoming measured and fluid. Combinations went from single and two strokes to three and often four. Machlann’s barking even seemed to lessen at times.

  Junger was a wonder to behold, clearly much more than anyone might have suspected or could even believe. Brozz was no slouch himself, but where he and the others could only learn and improve, Junger shone. Excelled.

  He even inspired.

  “What do you thi
nk?” Muluk had asked his sitting companions one blistering afternoon, while the six recruits practiced.

  “I think,” Halm answered honestly, “that our Free Trained brothers will regret taking up steel against us.”

  The morning of the day before their first round of matches, the men of the House of Ten gathered themselves and their equipment almost solemnly and loaded everything into three wagons. Pig Knot and Muluk remained behind on Shan’s orders, though they both plainly wished to accompany their sword brothers and take the sands. Halm waddled to the wagons and hefted himself into the rear with forced humor, only paying partial heed to the healer Shan.

  They arrived at the great city near noon, and Goll directed the wagon drivers to deposit them at the house of Shan. The quarters for the large group of men lodging overnight were tight but bearable, despite the complaining looks from Shan’s wife.

  While the fighters rested from their journey at the house, Clavellus elected to stay indoors with the imposing Koba nearby, as well as the three once-Sujins Goll had hired. Goll and Machlann wandered to the Pit and descended to the lower levels. As they enjoyed recognized house status, Machlann showed him the way bypassing the hell known as general quarters and led him to their private viewing chamber, which looked out upon the arena from chest level.

  Goll immediately went to the window, walking with a noticeable limp, and peered outside. The stands were filled, the day’s fights half finished. Arena attendants set about raking the sands, covering up the bloody remnants of the previous fight. The day brightened considerably and threw a fearsome glare into the chamber.

  “Master Machlann,” a squinting Goll began quietly, watching the men go about their grooming. “Thank you for these last few days. I imagine it’s trying on one’s patience to work with such raw material.”

  Machlann cocked a questioning eyebrow at the house master. “At times.”

  “In all honesty, what do you think of their chances?”

  “Our lads against Free Trained? Fair to average. With better odds for Brozz and Junger.”

  Goll accepted the trainer’s opinion stoically, betraying nothing.

  Sensing the short exchange finished, Machlann went back into the corridor, leaving Goll to his thinking, but the trainer returned in short time.

  “Any sign of Borchus?” Goll asked.

  Machlann shook his head. “Here,” he said, presenting a scroll.

  “What’s this?”

  “The schedule for tomorrow’s fights.”

  Goll’s expression brightened a little as he took the scroll. It darkened upon reading.

  “What?” Machlann asked.

  “This has us fighting all on one day. Tomorrow.”

  Machlann’s brow furrowed as he read what Goll showed him.

  “The schedule’s been altered.”

  “Can they do that?”

  Just then, the door opened, and Borchus stepped through. The short man nodded and smiled at the scroll in their possession. “I gather you know the news already,” the agent said.

  “What’s all this about?” Goll demanded.

  Borchus shook his head. “I only noticed it yesterday. I inquired with the Madea, but he assures me there was nothing strange about it. Some fighters pulled out of their matches entirely, and he had to reschedule. Thought it grand that a new house fights all its opening matches in one day. Rather than exhaust a rider to bring you the news, I figured I’d save a few coins and inform you today upon your arrival.”

  “This smells of tampering,” Machlann muttered.

  “Certainly does,” Borchus agreed. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. The Madea’s word is final. You’re all here, and you have a day to rest before taking up arms. Nothing really changes.”

  Goll glanced over the schedule in his hand. “Halm’s opponent is listed.”

  The Kree glanced toward the glare of archway.

  “Someone called Targus.”

  *

  “Targus?” Halm repeated, spitting out the name. “That can’t be.”

  This perplexed Goll. “Why can’t it be?”

  Goll, Machlann, and Borchus had returned to Shan’s crowded house to share the news of their matches happening the next day. The men, gathered on the ground floor and making the interior quite crowded, now quieted and watched the exchange between the pair of house masters.

  “I know that man,” Halm said, clearly confused.

  “You know him?”

  “Aye.” The Zhiberian didn’t sound so confident.

  “Well, he’s fighting you tomorrow. Perhaps you can talk to him then?”

  That placed Halm on guard. “I’m not sure I care for your tone.”

  Goll’s face darkened. His voice rose. “I’m not sure I care for where your mind is these days. Who is this Targus?”

  “A Free Trained lad I drank with.”

  “You think of him as a friend?”

  Halm shrugged awkwardly.

  Goll nearly exploded. “Seddon above, I’ve just realized why it is you’ve never made a run of it in these games. You’re too damn quick to befriend people. What gurry is that? This is pit fighting, you ugly bastard. Pit fighting! Drink away whatever coin you have to your name if you want to sit and talk with other pit fighters. Have you ever thought perhaps one of them might have been thinking about fighting you all along? Perhaps attempting to shock you into making a mistake once the portcullis came up? This is blood sport, you stupid he-bitch. Blood sport. There are no friends in this, only competitors.”

  Goll regarded the listening house fighters. “What do you think will happen if only two of you get matched up in the champion’s match? What will happen when the world is expecting to see blood spilled? I’ll tell you what will happen. You’ll fight. You’ll fight to the last breath. There are no friends in this. There’s only the next topper being put into the ground.”

  An uneasy silence filled the room then, and not one looked at another. All eyes remained on the house master.

  “I befriended you,” Halm said in a quiet voice.

  “I’m not your friend,” an angry Goll shot back. “When have I ever called you that? Never.”

  Halm shifted uncomfortably. “I won’t fight the lad, then,” he stated, changing the subject.

  “Oh, you’ll fight him,” Goll warned. “You’ll fight. And all of you will watch. You’ll see the consequences of making friends during the games, and you’ll learn from this one’s mistake. You’ll fight, Halm of Zhiberia, and you’ll do so as if he were one of Curge’s minions coming after your throat. For all you know, he is.”

  “He isn’t.” But Halm didn’t look or sound confident.

  Shaking his head with contempt, Goll waved a hand at them all. “Get upstairs. Eat. Rest. If you venture outside, stay close to the door. Tomorrow, you all fight. And I pray there are no other surprises between now and then.”

  With that, Goll glared at Halm one last time and headed out the door to the side street beyond.

  Halm said nothing, and eyes were on his back as he turned and climbed the steps to the cots on the second floor.

  Machlann exchanged knowing looks with Clavellus, and the taskmaster cleared his throat.

  “Off with you, lads. Clear the space for Shan’s poor wife and be mindful of the property. Think on what Master Goll has said, for it’s the truth. There’s no room for the notion of friendship on the arena floor. There’s every possibility of crossing blades within the confines of the Pit. Especially if you associate with those of other houses. These are the games. This is the profession, and that’s the risk you all take. And you––you and your adversaries tomorrow are all merchants…”

  He paused, considering his next words carefully.

  “Of pain.”

  36

  The dawn came too soon for Goll. He was anxious for the morning and barely slept a wink. With the amount of snoring amongst them all packed into the second floor, sleep was a commodity hard to obtain. When the sun came up, he lay on his cot
filled with fresh hay and a single rough blanket and stared at the ceiling’s dark timbers—lines crossing lines, all nailed together.

  Thoughts ran through the Kree’s head. Halm had avoided him for the rest of the previous night, which was fine in Goll’s mind. The Zhiberian’s casual attitude was getting on his nerves and would only be the death of him. And as he was a founder of the House of Ten, Goll could not allow it. The man was a walking wound even now and, by all rights, should have dropped out of competition long before.

  But he was going to fight. And he was going to win.

  He had to win.

  Lines crossing lines, he reflected, noting how dark the ceiling’s shadows were in the quiet mornings, with the sun peeking up over the featureless morass of irregular angles and crooks of rooftops.

  Some lines would be crossed that day.

  As a house, they ate, though not as heartily as Goll would have liked. Conversation was nonexistent, and even the normally jovial Halm became withdrawn. He answered questions with grunts and nods, and the men left him alone to think.

  That pleased Goll. Finally, the Zhiberian was taking things seriously.

  He only hoped it would be enough.

  When the time came, Goll and Halm and Clavellus led the procession through the streets of Sunja to the waiting arena. Clavellus had instructed them all to hold their heads high and to project danger, for they were exactly that.

  Dangerous.

  People bustled alongside, shouts sprinkled the air, and work carried on. The sun leached sweat from bare skin and clothed backs. Not many paid the pit fighters any heed, not with their worn-looking armor and weapons. These days, the public didn’t find it uncommon to see large gropus of armed men walking the streets. The House of Ten marched through them all, focused on their final destination and the work to be done.