131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  They arrived at the Pit in due time and bypassed the general quarters to find their private chambers.

  The interior felt cramped in accommodating them all. Goll mused that it would be tight only for a short time anyway as wounds from each conflict sent men to the infirmary. The Ten’s fighters prepared themselves in silence, helping each other check their armor when needed. Koba edged his bulk through them to lend a hand where needed while Clavellus and Machlann leaned against the open archway, the stone lip pressing against their chests, and looked out onto the battlefield to be. Above, people slowly filled the stands. The heat of the day pressed down and steamed the lot.

  Goll stopped beside the taskmaster and trainer and gazed pensively out at the ancient walls and freshly combed sands.

  “Nervous?” Clavellus asked.

  Goll’s sun-browned face darkened. “Course I am.”

  “You should say something to the lads.”

  Machlann nodded once, supporting Clavellus’s suggestion.

  “Not certain what to say.”

  “If you like, I can,” Clavellus offered.

  Goll considered it and finally nodded, keeping his eyes on the arena beyond the archway.

  With the house master’s leave, the taskmaster gathered himself and faced the men preparing for their individual wars. He cleared his throat, gaining their attention. Torello was speaking to Kolo when Tumber slapped his shoulder, earning a black glare––which dissipated upon seeing Clavellus.

  “Something to say, have you?” the Sunjan asked brazenly.

  “I do,” Clavellus said, taking a moment to compose his thoughts. “I won’t bore you with my history, but some time ago, I thought I’d never come back to this place. Thought my career was finished. Some time ago, I never would’ve considered ever selling my services or my trainers to hammering the cow kisses of the Free Trained into pit fighters of quality. I hated the Free Trained—looked upon them as a joke, a brazen insult to the real games, meat to be slaughtered by tried gladiators. But this one,” he swung a hand at Goll, “convinced me otherwise.”

  “How much convincing did it cost?” Torello asked. “That’s my question.”

  “Shaddup,” Tumber fired with a dangerous glare.

  “We all want to know,” Torello defended himself.

  “The man’s talking.”

  When Torello simmered down, an amused Clavellus met his glare. “How much? More than you’ll ever know, you noisy, complaining bastard. And every pot of gold passed through my hands and on to my wife.”

  That tickled the lot of them. Even Sapo smirked.

  “In the short time we’ve had together, I’ve been watching you all, studying your strengths, your weaknesses—watched how Machlann and Koba hammered at you, shaking the rust free and revealing the iron underneath. The trainers have imparted unto you all they could in this short time together. Goll and I have discussed you at length, and during those conversations, during those long days, I recognized something that I haven’t felt in a very long time. Pride. And an eagerness to see what you can do once unleashed. For whatever reasons you came to us, I’m glad you did. I’m glad you’re here. And before you think I’m greasing you up, think on this––I didn’t recommend any of you to be cast aside. Why not? Because I saw something on the training grounds. Free Trained you once were, but Free Trained you are no longer. Though we’ve only just begun with your schooling, and though the beginning of this house is ripe for our adversaries’ scorn, right now, before my old eyes, you are gladiators. You are shaped the same as any other claiming to belong to a house of note. You are destroyers of anyone with the bells to face you upon those sands. Those sands are yours. Defend them from all, and woe unto the poor bastard standing across from you, for this day, the House of Ten unchains her sons upon unsuspecting opponents, upon an unknowing, unsuspecting audience. When it’s your time, you show them it was no mistake you came here this day. You show them your spirit.”

  Clavellus paused and met each set of eyes, captivating them all, inspiring, and even earning a nod of approval from Junger near the back.

  “You show them you belong.”

  Silence, as each man absorbed the taskmaster’s words.

  “Today, you fight Free Trained,” Goll resumed, finding his voice while gazing out the archway. “They’ll try to drag you back to their level. Don’t allow them. They’ll try to kill you for leaving their folds, for thinking yourselves better. Kill them first. This day, there are no survivors—only deaths, only messages, only promises… to those who are watching you, judging you. You show them.”

  Goll turned on a heel and regarded his fighters. Halm looked at the floor.

  “The House of Ten is not to be taken lightly.”

  A fist rapped on the door, startling the spellbound men.

  Koba answered it and nodded at an arena attendant outside. Words were spoken. The big trainer regarded those within the room then.

  “Time,” he said.

  Tumber exhaled and walked to the door. His leather cuirass, studded with knobs of brass, creaked softly as he moved. A small, square buckler edged with spikes adorned his left arm and appeared more like a strange saw, while he favored a broadsword in his right hand. The weapon was huge, long, and heavy looking––a chunk of edged steel with the sole purpose of hewing flesh and bone. Bracers and greaves of plain design had been strapped onto his muscular limbs, and he paused at the door, the iron face of his helm studying it for one dire instant.

  “Tumber,” Goll called.

  The helm flicked toward the house master.

  “No matter who faces you this day,” the Kree declared grimly. “You kill him.”

  “Right and proper,” Torello said from where he stood.

  “Right and proper,” Goll echoed, noticing how increasingly uncomfortable Halm appeared.

  Tumber touched his encased forehead with the flat of his blade and exited the room.

  *

  Like three forgotten kings, Nexus, Gastillo, and Dark Curge sat and stewed in their viewing box and waited expectantly for the first fight of the day. Clouds moved in and blocked the sun and shrouded the entire spectacle of the Pit in a comforting shade—ideal weather for blood sport.

  Curge’s eyes lingered upon one end of the arena with enough intensity to melt its very foundation. His spies had revealed the archway where the House of Ten dwelt. House of Ten, he thought scornfully. Clavellus’s defiant presence galled him to the point of strangling someone. The old bastard didn’t heed Dark Curge’s warning. He didn’t stay away. Even had the bells to march through the city as if on parade, for everyone––including Curge’s spies––to see. Bright Seddon above, Curge vowed to make the aged taskmaster pay, win or lose on the sands that day. He hated relying on Free Trained to do his bidding, but the calmness in his guts suggested all would work itself out nicely. Even, if Seddon heard his prayers, the bastard Zhiberian whose very existence continued to rot his craw.

  “So tell me,” Gastillo spoke up. “How did you arrange for all of the House of Ten to fight on one day?”

  Nexus smirked with knowledge. “That, good Gastillo, is information I cannot reveal. But I’ll tell you this, there are not many beyond my range of influence.”

  Or your shite flinging, Curge thought but kept it to himself.

  “Old Clavellus is down there somewhere,” Nexus damn near purred. “That must tickle you the wrong way, Curge.”

  “You once told me Clavellus trained your men,” Curge replied without facing the wine merchant.

  “Bah. I’ll tell you anything to get your nose out of my affairs,” Nexus admitted, leaning back in his chair and holding out a goblet to be filled.

  “I only wish.” Curge ignored the owner sitting an arm’s length to his right. “I only hope the Free Trained embarrass the entire lot of them.”

  He had wanted the chair at the far side of the box, away from the punce Nexus, but to his horror, the wine shagger plopped down next to him. Though there was a sizeable gap
between the chairs, Curge didn’t want Nexus anywhere near him, for fear of tossing the merchant’s pampered ass over the wall.

  “I’m sure that sizeable bounty you offered will bring out the teeth in the dogs. What do you say, Gastillo?”

  The manager on the far end took his time answering. “I believe… we’ll be witness to a statement this day. From one end or the other.”

  Curge rolled his eyes. Trust Gastillo to speak his mind yet say nothing at all.

  The Orator took to his stage and began his introductions.

  “Ah,” Nexus said with interest. “Let the hammer fall, eh Curge?”

  That time, the ogre-like owner unleashed a glare of such magnitude upon the silver-haired wine merchant that concern clouded Nexus’s face. He quickly hid his ill ease behind a lengthy sip from his goblet.

  The roar of the crowds brought Curge’s attention back to the Pit.

  *

  Tumber gazed across the arena at his opponent. The pit fighter was a Sunjan called Bubruk, and Borchus didn’t know much about him beyond his record of two victories and the weapons he used. Tumber could tell the man was confident just by his lack of armor. Only leather bracers, brass greaves, and a helmet with a face cage protected him while his upper legs and powerful-looking chest, already shiny with sweat, lay bare for all to see. A foul-looking blade with a distinct downward curve in its length filled his right hand while his left hand flexed a club with a single war spike. Tumber sighed. The lad seemed right eager to get started.

  Right on the Orator’s shout of begin! Bubruk strode toward him.

  Raising his own chosen tools, Tumber ventured forth to meet his opponent.

  They met in the center while applause showered over both. No words were spoken, for Tumber knew what he had to do.

  He slashed with his sword, seizing the initiative and driving Bubruk to his right, where Tumber spun and lashed out with his fanged buckler.

  Except Bubruk ducked.

  And lunged forward, chopping with the curved sword and connecting with Tumber’s knee. The Ten warrior buckled and dropped to the sands, throwing up his buckler to protect his head.

  Exactly as Bubruk wanted.

  The war club whistled down with frightful force and punctured the thin buckler and the limb attached to it. The tip of a bloody spike exploded from Tumber’s forearm, setting it afire, gripping the warrior in a paralyzing vice of pain and astonishment.

  Bubruk yanked back, digging in his heels, and dragged his foe off balance.

  Tumber held onto his sword and flailed, splitting only a breeze, before he landed hard on his side and looked up…

  *

  From the arched window of the Ten’s chamber, Goll felt his stomach knot up in dread right from the first exchange, and then it only became worse when Bubruk’s wicked blade fell and half chopped Tumber’s head from his neck in a juicy burst of scarlet. Like a wicked spider playing with a meal struggling in its web, Bubruk yanked Tumber’s impaled arm again, stretching him out before hacking into his body. The crowds rose, cheering the victor on, and Bubruk responded by striking twice more before Goll lowered his eyes. He did not turn his head. Not with the remainder of his men in the room. Nor did Clavellus or Machlann speak. They stood beside him and watched the gory finish on the arena floor.

  “What’s happening?” Torello muttered anxiously somewhere behind. “What’s the cheering about?”

  “Did he win?” Halm asked.

  “Sounds like someone did.”

  “Tumber killed him that fast?”

  Goll exhaled and failed to shed the thousands of chains he suddenly felt heaped upon his shoulders. The days of practice had been short but intense, and to lose that time and effort poured into one man was disappointing. Gone. All gone. Never to be recovered. But even worse than the loss of life was the damage done to the house’s name.

  To have a gladiator killed by a Free Trained.

  The hateful irony wasn’t lost upon Goll.

  The cheers from outside rose up like a blanketing curtain, and the Kree felt his aches and pains anew.

  “No,” he stated with a heavy voice, “Tumber’s dead.”

  Those three quiet words stilled the questioning voices at his back while the crowds outside continued to lavish praise on the victor. Clavellus gripped the brick sill and shook his head in disbelief while a stoic Machlann stared on, his huge moustache as unmoving as the rest of him.

  “Koba,” Clavellus spoke discreetly, without falter, “see to it that they hold onto Tumber’s body before… they burn him. With your approval,” he aimed at Goll.

  The Kree nodded, and the hulking trainer departed.

  “Nothing’s ever certain on the sands,” the taskmaster stated, disappointment dragging down the whole of his face. He rubbed at his bearded chin.

  Goll didn’t need to be told what he already knew. He turned around and found the brooding face of Sapo. That one look projected everything Goll needed. Sapo nodded in understanding of what was before him.

  The message delivered, Goll faced the arch once more and eventually heard the rap upon the chamber door.

  *

  When Bubruk smashed Tumber through the arm and hooked him off his feet, a slick smile stretched across Curge’s face like juice tracing the folds of fat jowls. When the Free Trained viciously executed the house warrior on the sands, the smile became wider. The victory pleased him immensely, but by no means were the day’s fights over. Six more of the House of Ten’s he-bitches were scheduled to bleed on the arena floor. One of which was the Zhiberian. His death would be the pinnacle of the house’s gutting.

  “One,” Curge growled.

  “In better spirits now, I see?” Nexus asked slyly, gently swishing his goblet about.

  “Much better, good Nexus.”

  37

  Piecemeal leather armor covered Sapo, and he felt as light as a feather on a breeze. It wasn’t a good feeling. He didn’t like being near naked on the sands. It made him feel vulnerable. He’d taken plate armor from the Pit’s quartermaster before, for his earlier matches, but since he represented the House of Ten, he was told not to do such. Gurry, he fumed. The armor was there and waiting, but because the house couldn’t afford its own, he had to make do with what they did have. He certainly didn’t like the sword and shield Machlann insisted upon him using, preferring the weight and devastation he could inflict with his axe. Still, his new masters felt they knew best, and even though it went against the Hill’s instinct, he was willing to try to take out his frustrations on his opponent.

  When Sapo’s foe stepped into the light, his jaw dropped.

  They called him Tevos, and Borchus had been able to discover a few items of note about him. The Free Trained warrior was Sunjan, agile on his feet, and quick to jump to the attack. Like Sapo, the man had donned an open-face helmet and a leather vest and had strapped on greaves and bracers. Tevos had amassed three victories in the Pit, and while most would have been impressed with the record, Sapo was not. He didn’t know whom the punce had fought. None of those men had been him. In fact, none of the information Borchus had revealed had impressed Sapo.

  But Tevos stole Sapo’s attention the instant he appeared in the arena, leaving the big man shaking his head in stunned, indignant disbelief.

  There, across the sands, Tevos brandished a battle axe.

  A battle axe.

  A double-bladed weapon that gleamed in the daylight, instilling fear.

  That this whelp had the strength to even lift such a ferocious tool of war blackened Sapo’s thoughts.

  Sapo gazed down at the smaller man with the most frightening face he could summon. The sword he held in his right hand felt far too light; the few practice swings he took made him think he was whipping a branch instead of a real weapon. Like that axe. Compared to all others, he was the only man in the Pit while all others only pretended, and Seddon above, he wanted that axe!

  The Orator bellowed introductions, and something in his voice reminded Sapo of Ma
chlann’s frayed drone, which had grated on his nerves for the last week. That furry little white mouse shite of a man needled him incessantly ever since besting him on the training grounds. That defeat smoldered in Sapo’s mind like fire gone underground. The House of Ten wasn’t a real house in his mind. It was more a means to getting out of the hole of general quarters until the conclusion of the games. One day, when everything was over, regardless of whether he was eliminated from the competition or not, he would find Machlann’s sleeping quarters and wring the old bastard’s scrawny neck until flesh and bone broke beneath his fingers. And the whole while, Sapo would stare into the man’s eyes as the light faded from them, as his rattle of a voice died with a wheeze.

  That was the gift Sapo intended to give himself. Perhaps even after this season.

  But first, he’d kill this little cow kiss with the axe. Tevos was a brazen sort. As Sapo made a show of loosening up his limbs, Tevos actually had the nerve to mirror him. The Hill wasn’t the only one to have noticed. Some of the people in the crowds laughed and shouted out.

  “Gut that big bastard, Tevos, lad!”

  “He’s trying to outshine you!”

  “What’s this gurry, then?”

  What was this gurry? Sapo wondered. Anger swelled within and fueled his arms. He roared, an unchecked bestial blast, interrupting the Orator, who shot a warning glare. Sapo stomped his sandaled feet into the sands, shook out his arms with even greater flourish, and became infuriated even more when Tevos again imitated him like some ridiculing monkey.

  Begin! came the command, and Sapo charged across the Pit’s expanse at his smaller foe. Tevos let him cross the floor, tensing up in anticipation of the clash to come.