131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Sapo closed in and brought his sword down in a heavy-handed cut, but Tevos darted out of harm’s way while the crowd ooohed. Tevos twisted around, and Sapo deflected his foe’s answering cut with a well-timed swing of his shield. Tevos chopped twice more as if prodding for attention, catching only wood and iron and earning a rotten look from Sapo.

  “Good!” Tevos shouted, nodding earnestly. “Good! Come on! Come on! Curge’ll pay more for your head with this showing.”

  Sapo drew up for a moment, his fury momentarily abated. “What are you on about?”

  “Your head, you mountainous pile of shite! The price on it! On all of you unfit bastards!”

  Sapo’s face contorted into angry confusion.

  A bounty?

  A bounty on his head?

  And this mouse had the nerve to try to take it? With an axe no less?

  Sapo’s temper soared. He screamed and threw down his sword, wasting no further time with the hated thing. His hand shot out in raw fury, faster than Tevos or anyone watching expected, and clamped around the smaller man’s neck. Fingers dug into flesh like spikes, crushing vertebrae, bringing blood. Tevos gurgled in shock and fear. His face purpled, nearly exploding, while his eyes bulged. He attempted to hack at Sapo’s legs, but the big man grabbed the shaft of the battle axe and yanked it from his clutches with no more effort than stripping well-cooked meat off a bone.

  Sapo shoved Tevos backward. The Free Trained warrior landed on his rump in a cloud of dust, a hand over his ruined neck. Blood seeped through his fingers.

  Sapos hefted his true weapon of choice. The axe felt heavenly in his grasp, and he took a moment to twirl its killing doubled-bladed length before himself, gauging the weight, admiring the edges, the design. He wondered how he could have ever thrown aside such a godlike weapon for something so mundane as a sword. Holding it, relishing how natural it swung, Sapo knew he’d made a grave mistake.

  But one that was correctable.

  The crowds urged Sapo to fight, and taking a heartbeat to acknowledge them, Sapo turned upon Tevos’s twitching form and sank the axe square into the fallen man’s chest. Leather split. Blood spouted. Sapo wrenched the axe free of ribs and rained destruction down upon the smaller man.

  He chopped Tevos apart.

  Each impact of the axe summoned a collective gasp from the crowds. They recognized power when they saw it.

  Sapo blasted the air with another fearsome cry and went insane.

  Until his arms became slick with blood.

  Victorious, Sapo scuffed a wave of sand over the carcass at his feet. He shook his new axe at the crowds and at the elite viewing box where the king would’ve been seated.

  The crowds answered with a chorus of applause and derisive groans.

  Sapo didn’t hear any of it, for he scanned the baseline of the arena, where the sands met stone, searching the archways.

  Until he located the faces he recognized.

  Raw, undiluted anger still pumping through his veins, Sapo marched over to where a stunned Goll, Clavellus, and Machlann watched. He stopped five paces away and roared hatred at the three men, making himself heard above the tidal force of the crowds.

  “You pack of dog blossoms! You know what that shite licker said to me before I smashed his head in? There’s a price on my head! Curge put a price on it. On all of our heads! The House of Curge, no less! Bloody rotting gurry!”

  A disturbed Machlann glanced at Goll and Clavellus, but the pair showed no surprise at all.

  And that infuriated Sapo all the more.

  “I’m leaving the House of Ten!” he yelled at them, froth spraying the air. “Done! I’m done with you and you and especially you!”

  He finished by jabbing a meaty finger at Machlann. Koba loomed over the heads of the three masters, his brow cocked in an angry question, his snake-like scar rippling up along the left side of his face.

  “I’m done!” Sapo raged and waved his bloody axe as if dispelling bad magic.

  Then he backed up, glared at the shouting crowds, and marched toward the raised portcullis.

  Still volcanic, Sapo stomped down the steps and stormed past an old gatekeeper shying away from Sunjan’s heat. Skarrs, normally as impassive as statues, felt for the hilts of their weapons as the beast of a man raged past them. Sapo paused at the tunnel intersection, and instead of returning to the House of Ten’s private room, he considered the other direction, toward general quarters, and stomped off toward it, where lamp and torchlight illuminated brick.

  Sapo’s form filled the tunnel mouth, and as he beheld the shadowy inhabitants of the cavernous underworld beneath the Pit, their heads lifted like snakes and rats.

  “You know who I am?” he shouted, captivating hundreds of faces. “You!”

  Sapo nearly lunged at a nearby gladiator preparing for his own match. The armored man backed away, raising his bared sword.

  “What do you know about a price on my head?” Sapo demanded, ignoring the weapon while cheers from the above world warped and echoed through the tunnel. Even the Madea and his protective wall of Skarrs directed their attention to the Sunjan.

  “You’re House of Ten?”

  “I am.” Sapo nearly blew the man’s head off with the force of his reply.

  “Then there’s a bounty on your head,” the pit fighter said, his face shaded behind a face cage. “Put there by the House of Curge. Three times the coin for anyone cutting you down in the arena. Maybe more.”

  “What’s more?”

  The pit fighter hesitated. “I don’t know. He never said.”

  “Who?”

  “Brute of a man. All I know.”

  “What he says is true,” spoke a man pausing in his donning of a vest of chainmail.

  “Aye that,” said another. “House of Ten. Kill them on the sands, only the sands, mind you, but Dark Curge would show you favors.”

  That leeched the fight out of Sapo. His shoulders sagged, and his frame suddenly felt very tired. Curge had placed a bounty on his head? His dead head! Lords and Seddon above, did that battered punce Goll know? Did any of them know? Then he thought of Tumber and how he died. Three times the gold…

  Three times that could have been his.

  Sapo shook his head, simmering over the ugly revelation. He had sworn no allegiance to the house and certainly felt none. Three times the coin for a House of Ten scalp—and the favor of Dark Curge, whatever that might entail, but it felt substantial and certainly much more than the dismal package offered by Goll and his drunkard taskmaster and gurry trainers and ill-fitting rags of leather. Again he cursed his impulse to join when Goll stood there calling for recruits, but at the time, anything had seemed better than the bowels of the Pit.

  Sapo felt his back when he straightened and faced the pit fighters slinking about the shadows.

  “I renounce the House of Ten,” he shouted at them. “I’m done with them and, from this time on, fight as my own man!”

  That sank into the masses, rendering them uncertain.

  Sapo strode over to the Madea’s station, confronting the worried attention of the arena official. The Skarrs bunched around him and made ready to pull steel.

  “I killed a man out there this day,” Sapo declared. “Pay me my winnings.”

  The Madea met the giant’s eyes and, unblinking, drew a deep steadying breath.

  “Your name’s Sapo?”

  “It is.”

  “You say you’re with the House of Ten?”

  “No longer.”

  “So you say you’re no longer with the House of Ten.”

  “I said that, yes.”

  The corners of the Madea’s mouth curled into a smug smile. “Unfortunate. I can’t give you the winnings belonging to a house. That wouldn’t be right.”

  Sapo’s expression darkened impossibly. “What?” he asked in a frighteningly reserved tone of voice.

  The thin figure of the Madea did not buckle under that murderous scowl. “House owners collect their winnings from a
nother official. I only pay out funds owing Free Trained. The reason for the Skarr presence about this area. Just in case.”

  The Madea left the rest unsaid.

  Sapo looked ready to kill.

  “If you wish to be paid, I’d suggest talking with the owner of your once house,” the arena official stated simply and stood there, mildly curious as to the reaction of this monster of a man. The Skarrs to the left and right of the Madea gripped weapon hilts, their helms cold and indifferent. Sapo caught the movement, and even though he was ready to fight anyone, he wasn’t ready to take on a pack of Sunja’s city guard.

  Fuming, Sapo stalked back into the white tunnel and stopped, unsure of where to go from there. The urge to barge into the chamber of the House of Ten and demand his gold made his chest ache. There were too many, and Koba would certainly be a challenge, but the temptation of cursing the old trainer Machlann into the dirt also appealed to Sapo’s sense of reprisal for all the days under his gnarled thumb.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said from behind. “Undecided, are you?”

  Sapo spun around to face a small boy of a man with worn but smooth skin.

  “What did you say to me?”

  The little man smiled, and it shone in the white tunnel. “Follow me out of this place, and I just might be able to help you. You might even be able to collect your coin. In the end.”

  Sapo’s brow crunched up in puzzlement at the speaker, who backed into the crowd of fighters. Sapo considered the lonely length of whitewashed, fitted brick before flicking his eyes back toward the little man disappearing amongst torsos and limbs.

  Huffing impatience and poisoned with frustration, Sapo took one last withering look in the direction of the House of Ten and made his decision. With a face ready to spit lightning and bark thunder, the Sunjan walked into the parting mass of pit fighters, axe swinging, following the little man.

  Bezange paused at the steps leading out of the Pit’s gloom, just to check to see if he was being followed.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  38

  If the death of Tumber had left the remaining House of Ten fighters in a sober state, then Sapo’s savagery had rattled their nerves entirely. As Goll watched him storm through the raised portcullis and leave the arena, he knew he’d have to turn around eventually and face the others.

  “What did he say?” Kolo asked in wonder.

  “He said there’s a price on our heads,” Torello answered.

  “Dark Curge placed a bounty on us?” Halm asked aloud.

  Goll caught the resigned eye of Clavellus and saw Machlann’s moustache quiver as he turned around to face the men.

  “He said,” Goll stated clearly, “Dark Curge has placed a bounty on your heads. I can only believe that it’s only in the Pit, in each of your matches. I don’t think it applies outside of the arena.”

  The slack expressions of bewildered dismay on the faces of Torello and Kolo troubled Goll. Brozz appeared as emotionless as stone, as did Junger, who looked at his feet with a cool detachment. Halm, however, eyed him with suspicion, and Goll knew there would be another confrontation in his future.

  “I had no idea this would happen.” Goll chose his words very carefully, looking from face to face. “None. I never would have thought there would be such… hostility toward the House of Ten. But, despite Sapo’s outburst, I have no reason to doubt what he said is true. Thus, if you wish, if you feel this has gotten out of hand, I’ll harbor no ill will toward you if you decide to leave the House of Ten.”

  “And what will you do?” Torello asked.

  “Oh, I’ll fight on,” Goll said right away. “I made my choice long ago.”

  The cheering of the crowds intensified. Outside, another fight clanged and grunted to its visceral conclusion.

  “Where’s Sapo?” Halm asked, his question causing the others to ponder that very thing. The man should have returned by that time.

  “He won’t be coming back,” Clavellus stated dourly. “Not after what he said out there. He’s gone.”

  Goll could see Torello weighing the same decision while Kolo waited.

  “This is the House of Curge,” Clavellus reminded them. “If he’s behind this bounty, you can be sure he’ll rouse the entire Free Trained roster and any gladiator willing to lift a blade to his cause. If I were you, I’d head back the way we came in and leave this season’s games. Leave Sunja, even, and never look back.”

  Another wave of cheers flooded the chamber. Once it settled, Brozz, standing in his battle attire and wearing his intimidating necklace of crow heads, caught Goll’s attention.

  “I’m staying,” he said in a quiet, weary tone, drawing the attention of the men.

  “You’re staying?” Torello blurted. “After this? Are you unfit?”

  But Brozz didn’t waver, nor did he repeat himself.

  “I’m staying as well,” Junger announced. “No reason to leave.”

  Torello shook his head in dismay and settled on the swordsman. “You heard what they said? There’s a price on your head, placed there by none other than the ruling house of the games?”

  “Means nothing to me.” Junger shrugged. “Not the first time someone’s wanted me dead.”

  The Perician met Goll’s unflinching gaze and held it. The impassive Kree found it unsettling and, despite his usual stubborn streak, broke away first and looked at the others. “Make your choices.”

  Torello rolled his eyes and shrugged with exasperation. “I’ll stay.”

  That surprised them all.

  “I’ll stay as well, then,” Kolo added, not really surprising anyone––where Torello walked, Kolo followed. “Nowhere else to go, really.”

  Torello regarded the Zhiberian. “What about you, then?”

  For the whole time, Halm had claimed a section of the wall and leaned against it, listening and ruminating on serious thoughts. The question brought him back to the world, and he straightened while warily eyeing Goll. “There’s no question to ask. I’m staying. I have my own questions to ask… of a man called Targus.”

  The statement fell upon the whole room, a room filled with men realizing with just a twinge of pride that no one had decided to leave.

  “Then that’s settled,” Goll declared without a trace of emotion. “I’m glad to see you all still with us.”

  Torello smirked. “Was with you this morning. Now I’m just mad.”

  Perhaps because of the relief at no one having renounced the house upon learning about the bounty, Clavellus chuckled at the pit fighter. Even Machlann allowed one part of his thick moustache to hook upward just a little to the right, showing grim amusement.

  “Stay that way, then,” Goll said and returned to gazing out the archway.

  A knock caught the house’s attention. “Junger!” cried a voice.

  The Perician nodded, utterly unconcerned that he was fighting next, and gripped the hilt of his blade, the weapon in its scabbard belted to his waist. A cheap leather vest covered his torso, and an open helm protected his head, but he wore no other protective adornment. No shield hung off his arm. Junger appeared as naked as a newborn and just as oblivious.

  “Masters Goll, Clavellus, Machlann, Koba,” he said coolly, dipping his head at each in turn. “And Master Halm.”

  “Junger,” Goll said, bringing the warrior to attention, “kill the man. Make an example of him. Show them all the House of Ten isn’t to be trifled with.”

  Junger’s eyes almost appeared troubled at the command, and he looked at the floor. “I understand,” he finally said and walked to the door. There to open it stood the towering menace of Brozz, the necklace of dead crow heads prominent on his chest. The Sarlander held out a fist to the Perician. The gesture seemed to raise Junger’s spirits, and he pressed his own against it.

  Then he left.

  The masters looked out the archway,

  “I don’t know about you,” Machlann muttered, his moustache barely moving, “but I’m looking forward to this…” />
  *

  Junger walked through the white tunnel as if strolling through a garden rampant with full blooms. The lines of the fitted stone passed beneath his feet, yet he was keenly aware of each Skarr as he passed, feeling their inspection and discerning their curious thoughts. Junger detected no threat, but he didn’t relax entirely. He’d learned long ago never to do such a thing, not even while sleeping.

  The steps leading up to the grim portcullis lay at his sandaled toes, and he waited for the gatekeeper’s signal.

  “You look familiar to me,” a gravelly old voice said.

  Junger didn’t look up, but he nodded and smiled nonetheless.

  Above, at the end of the stairs, the gate cranked open.

  “Well, off with you, then,” the gatekeeper said.

  Squinting at the cloudy sky, Junger climbed up the steps, toward the light. The temperature remained high but not as hot as his previous fights.

  Regardless, when he stood on the sands, he again pulled off his vest of leather, revealing the brown shading of his skin. The act captivated the audience and triggered the memories of more than just a few. Even the Orator paused to witness the act. Junger smiled to himself. The armor fell from his fingers, and he stretched his arms and shoulders as if he were anywhere but in the Pit. He didn’t bother looking, but he sensed the undisguised shock emanating from Goll and others. If he were close enough, he could probably have heard them cursing.

  Have no fear, he thought to them, and a faint yet wholly confident smile flickered across his tanned features.

  Across the sands, a bear of a man stood watching with sword and dagger in his hands. A coat of fine ringmail protected his torso and upper limbs. His horned helmet leaned to one side in puzzlement, but in the end, the warrior remembered himself and assumed his fighting stance. The smiling grillwork of the visor appeared eager to get to business.

  Junger undid the scabbard from his belt but made no move to unsheathe the blade.

  The Orator finished his introductions, and the Perician brought his padded weapon before him, gripping it two-handed. Some first-time onlookers leered and mocked, but most held their tongues, wondering if they would see a spectacle of arms from this one. They’d heard the whispers from those nearby, who’d seen this strange man fight before, and like a whining child being covered by a blanket, the arena hushed.