131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “Ho there, good Targus,” he yelled out, forcing cheerfulness into his voice.

  Targus started walking toward him, briskly, to the rumbling approval of the spectators.

  Halm drew forth his Mademian sword, just in case. The temptation to call out again struck him, but he squashed it. Targus had heard him the first time.

  As the young warrior came closer, Halm could see the expression only partially protected by an open helm.

  “Targus.” Halm nodded, speaking the word over his raised shield. “Surprised to see you here.”

  Targus face pinched as if insulted. “Afraid, are you?”

  “Why would I be afraid?”

  “You haven’t bought me with gold to stay away from this fight.”

  Despite the oppressive heat beating down upon his frame, Halm’s innards crystallized as if sunk in a winter sea.

  “What?” he got out, practically breathless, circling to his left.

  “You heard me. I saw you a few days ago. In the rain.” Targus shook his head with disdain and leaned closer so the crowds would not pick up on the conversation. “You paid a Free Trained fighter to stay away from the games, and he took the coin but vowed to see you dead next season. I’ve heard stories about your nature, Zhiberian, but Saimon paddle my ass for believing otherwise.”

  Halm’s ears burned with the poisonous revelation.

  “You heard what?”

  Targus shook his head. “Not so brave now, are you? Now that I know how you do things. No one would dare fight you, and the Madea actually made a public announcement asking for fighters. This was after Curge announced his bounty for any of your house fighters. ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘I wager I can do better than any.’”

  All color drained from the Zhiberian’s face, and Targus smiled evilly when he saw it.

  “I’ll make it easy for you, Zhiberian,” Pit Knot’s haunting twin said. “You pay me double Curge’s price. He was tripling a winning purse for killing any of the Ten. You give me your word, and we’ll settle up outside the arena. Just you and I. And you’ll never see or hear of me again. Until next season, of course.”

  Targus’s smile turned into a gloating grin, as if he knew Halm had no choice.

  Far from it.

  “No,” Halm of Zhiberia said. “I won’t do that.”

  Targus’s expression shifted to one of sly surprise. “Think you can fight your way out of this? Think you can defeat me? Take the easy way out. Your kind usually does.”

  “Who else knows of this?”

  “Is that what’s bothering you?”

  The crowds began booing now, as what promised to be a good match was quickly slipping into gurry.

  “Who else?” Halm demanded.

  “No one else knows,” Targus said, shaking his head. “Just you and me. And whoever else you’ve bribed, of course. Which makes me wonder. Why did you kill the other men? They wouldn’t go along with your plans?”

  “This—” Halm began, his voice buried in a slide of jeers from the stands. He kept circling, “This doesn’t have to be to the death, Targus. Listen to––”

  “Agree to pay, or it will be.”

  To make his point, Targus feinted a quick jab that made Halm flinch in retreat. His reaction caused a sneer to split Targus’s face.

  Halm regarded this youthful version of Pig Knot and realized, with a sinking heart, it wasn’t Pig Knot at all. Not even close.

  “Well?”

  Halm attacked, Mademian blade coming over the shoulder and down, but Targus was already moving. He slashed as he evaded, slicing the protective leather sleeve of Halm’s swordarm and the flesh underneath. A ribbon of scarlet snaked through the air. The crowds erupted in cheers at the sudden flurry of blows. Halm spun until he faced the younger foe.

  Targus charged forward. He stabbed for fingers, slashed for knees, and made an unexpected swing at Halm’s chin with the edge of his shield. Halm parried, parried again, and jerked his head back from the iron saucer flashing across his face.

  Before something burned across his ribs.

  Crafty Targus had used the shield to cover the real threat, the one splitting the hairy flesh above Halm’s existing bandages, right along the lower ribs—one more long, pink mouth spitting blood into the sand.

  “Pay!” Targus shouted.

  Some in the audience even took up the cry. “Pay! Pay!”

  Halm grimaced, his right side lighting up as if something had bitten into it and was refusing to let go. Then Targus made to jab again, jerking his arm back but simultaneously punching out with the shield edge once again. The quick movements befuddled Halm, and he averted his head to the side at the last instant. The shield rocked the side of his head instead of his unprotected jaw, making him stagger backward.

  “You unfit pisser,” Halm hissed and squared his feet.

  That wiped all pleasantries from Targus’s face.

  The Sunjan came forward with a yell, throwing himself against the larger man. Steel flashed and became streaks of light, metal crinkled against metal. Targus loosed a surprisingly swift combination of thrusts and stabs while closing, meant to back the Zhiberian up on his feet. But Halm refused to be moved and stuck one leg behind him, propping himself in place, and absorbed everything with his shield. A livid Targus fixed on that barrier and hacked into it with uncompromising power. The first strike landed, and the iron band across the top rim bent, forcing Halm’s arm down. The second one shattered the strip, dropping the arm further. Targus’s face morphed into wicked glee.

  The third blow came down as fast and as frightening as an aimed thunderbolt, splitting the wood to the second iron band reinforcing the middle, no more than a finger above Halm’s forearm.

  Targus yanked the weapon back, and Halm went with it, punching his Mademian sword though the leather vest of his opponent, through his chest, and four fingers out the other side, pitching a slow-rising tent in doing so. Halm stood practically chest to chest with the Sunjan and glared into his face. Blood spurted rhythmically onto Halm’s chest. Targus shivered, blood flecking his paling lips, eyes already bleached with shock. His arms dropped, and his mouth worked at forming words that had no sound. He convulsed twice and became too heavy for the Zhiberian to bear.

  He let his sword go, and Targus tumbled over onto his side, gasping like a fish. It didn’t move for long.

  Halm inspected his ruined shield and shrugged it off his arm, letting it fall to the ground. He reached for the blade in the dead man’s chest after all movement had ceased, and the sand drank deep of blood. Halm struggled with freeing his weapon from the man’s ribs but yanked it free eventually, pulling the corpse up from the gruesome mud forming about its torso. The Zhiberian felt his wounds and discovered he wasn’t feeling so bad about killing the young man.

  But the fight had also changed him.

  Goll might have a point after all.

  Perhaps it was best to be on one’s own.

  Only then did the cheers of the crowd and the rattling of chains of the rising portcullis reach his senses.

  Not sparing another look at the body at his feet, Halm grimaced at the burn of his newest cuts and made a weary march off the field.

  He slumped against the wall as he descended, dripping blood and sweat with every step.

  “You’re bleeding on my stairs,” the gatekeeper shrieked.

  “Apologies,” Halm grunted as he walked by, ignoring the opportunity to engage the old man. He bled every step to the house viewing chamber as well, but the last few paces, shadows detached themselves from the doorway and surrounded him. Voices spoke soothing words of comfort and congratulations while hands took away his sword and clapped him on the back.

  Halm smiled weakly and looked upon the faces of his friends––no, his companions, he corrected himself, feeling a writhing knot of feelings within his breast. Goll came into view and allowed a stoic nod before turning back to the archway. Halm ignored him.

  He didn’t care about the approval of the Kree any
more.

  He wondered if he ever had.

  41

  With his hands on his hips, Sapo stood in the middle of a dark room with a wall covered in a display of weapons drizzled with dust. Shortswords, daggers, and maces hung from nails, their intimidating edges and points still sharp, still deadly. Face cages and dented helms of fearsome design stared back at him. Sapo didn’t like the helmets, for the empty eye sockets seemed to follow him wherever he stood in the room. Armaments adorned the wall, enough to outfit a dozen or more gladiators. Part of him wondered if there was a room full of body armor as well, but he didn’t chance looking for it. The walled compound the little man had led him to reeked of wealth and power, and Sapo was mindful enough of where he was in the city to know that the owner was of considerable import. He just didn’t know who it was.

  Curtains parted at one end, and the little man with the youthful face walked through, meeting his eyes.

  Then came Dark Curge.

  Sapo froze and stared at the legendary once-gladiator.

  Dark Curge sized him up from head to toe with intense scrutiny. Not many men could look Sapo in the eye, but Curge could. And despite his age and missing left hand, a vibration of pure dread ripped through Sapo’s back.

  “Master Curge,” the little man announced and then dipped his fair features toward the pit fighter. “Sapo of Sunja.”

  “Sapo of Sunja,” Curge rumbled and scratched at a bare belly not quite as grand or scarred as the Zhiberian’s. “I believe you won your fight this day.”

  “I did, Master Curge.” Unlike Clavellus or Machlann, Sapo did not hesitate showing due respect. The very air crackled around this arena legend, demanding he be addressed by title.

  Curge grunted and glanced at the smaller man. “Bezange here is very much aware of the undercurrents of the arena. He’s a quick thinker. A very quick thinker. Faster than me, in fact, and he’s smart enough not to boast about it, else I break open his head. He saw potential in you today, as I did, but for different reasons and acted accordingly. Quickly, even.”

  Sapo held his breath.

  “I’m not one for extended pleasantries, you understand, so I’ll get to the point,” Curge growled from underneath a cocked brow. The shadows of the room transformed his expression into an unpleasant grimace.

  “You were one of the first pit fighters to go with the House of Ten, yes?”

  “I was, Master Curge.”

  “And you trained with them for over a week?”

  “Aye that.”

  “And given the display on the sands today, I suspect you aren’t particularly fond of your former house?”

  “No, Master Curge.”

  “Well, then. I think we can strike a bargain—if you’re agreeable, of course. I’m looking for information on that very house, the warriors they have remaining, and anything of note you might think is helpful to me. In return, I have need of a gladiator or two on my roster this day.” Curge fixed an eye on the big man. “Would you care to fill one of those positions?”

  Sapo’s jaw dropped.

  And without hesitation, he blurted his answer.

  *

  They approached the towering white shell of the Gladiatorial Chamber with the grim cadence of invaders about to offer terms to the besieged. Heavy plate armor rattled as the procession walked through the streets. Six Axemen, King Juhn’s personal guards selected for their enormous size, surrounded a polished koch pulled by a team of four horses.

  The driver kept the animals at a slow trot, not wanting to hear any warning from the six warriors protecting the vehicle. The sun hung halfway down its evening slope, knotting the left side of the driver’s face into a squint. He regarded the Axemen and figured a man in that heat, wearing that heavy armor, would be quick to lash out at anything if the feeling took hold.

  Inside sat Lord Schull, appointed messenger for King Juhn. His metal-gray hair had only just started to thin, his skin and eyes pallid with age. He peered out at the streets and the indifferent Sunjans going about their business, wishing he could go about his own life with such ignorant bliss of the world beyond the city walls. Schull disliked having to lower himself to such duties, even though it was his king’s wish for him to visit the Chamber for the betterment of the throne and the country. His fingers fluttered at each citizen as if weaving wicked spellcraft.

  A metallic-gray giant of a man clattered just outside his opened window, weighed down with enough steel and iron to appear inhuman. The Axeman’s conical helm studied the streets ahead for threats, though Schull wondered who exactly might threaten him. The warrior held one of the legendary poleaxes to his shoulder. No weapon was as feared as that monstrous man-chopper, and the strength it took to wield the thing––to simply carry it––was enough to cure any dissenter of seditious thoughts.

  Only six Axemen had been afforded him. Schull had requested a dozen—not for fear of his life but reflective of his status, his importance, the palpable aura of prominence heralded by an escort of Axemen. And frankly, his person demanded pageantry. Schull held himself in the highest of regards, and being allotted only half the force befitting his station soured his mood considerably. The koch, while impressive in the eyes of peasants, had only one driver and no other servants attending to his needs. The interior felt cramped and the cushions uncomfortable. The small decorative cabinet contained only a single bottle of wine and a pair of silver goblets. A single bottle. Schull simmered with black thoughts and shook his head over such a slight. He deserved more than this—much more. Such hardships, he told himself, would have to be endured this trip. Schull intended not to touch a drop, to refrain from even cracking the lining of the bottle, just for spite.

  The koch eased to a gentle stop. An Axeman stepped up and opened the door for Schull, who grimaced in the furious heat of the sun. Then he looked at the five-story building that was the Chamber’s home. A row of six white marble columns, their bases too wide to embrace, rose up from street level to a brooding overhang, granting protection from the weather when needed. Scenes depicting small battling figures and ferocious animals decorated their marble bases. A pair of great oak doors, fashioned to fit an archway, lay just beyond. Six Skarrs stood on either side of the entryway, their backs against a wall cut with a scattering of windows fixed with wooden shutters. The dozen warriors guarding the entrance carried sword, shield, and spear. Their visors remained fixed ahead, watching Schull and his escort of Axemen as he stepped down from the koch and approached.

  The Skarrs nearest the doors hauled them open for Schull, and with a scowl on his lined face, he entered the Chamber hall with four of the king’s guardians at his heels. Attendants flitted about inside, and their gasps upon recognizing his person pleased him. Some froze in place, the shock of seeing Schull setting their minds a-fluttering. More doors opened for him as he marched ahead, ignoring the inspiring ambiance of the entry foyer, and entered the Chamber itself. Schull frowned at the cream-colored marble floor. The workmanship seemed shoddy, the shade unquestionably off. Vathian, he suspected. Never liked the country or the people. He regarded the raised semicircular bench of red wood, which passed as “grand” here, where the nine Chamber members presided. Schull scowled. Squalor. He was literally bathing in squalor. One of his own latrines had more polish than this hole.

  The Chamber members, usually weary and bored looking to most visitors, stood and appeared noticeably on edge with Schull’s appearance, as expected. The king’s man stepped out from his armored escort and regarded each of them in turn, conveying his disdain with eyes as frosty as shaved ice. He didn’t care in the least for how these glorified merchants of pain dressed themselves with white and gold, a cheap attempt at elevating themselves above their station. They squirmed under his inspection, clearing their throats, very much aware of how they appeared to one above them. Schull sneered at the waist-high table where commoners stopped and addressed the Chamber and instead positioned himself in front of the furniture, in full contempt for their self-inflated sens
e of courtly decorum.

  The place wasn’t a royal court. It wasn’t even a court.

  In Schull’s eyes, the Chamber was nothing more than a cheap room filled with old men and lost dreams and missing more than a few body parts.

  Schull kept his hands at his sides, a pose he felt was just as intimidating as if he placed his fists on his hips. Not one of the Chamber men made a peep, still standing, too startled to lay eyes on one imbued with the King’s power. At least, Schull mulled, these dogs recognized importance. He allowed the silence to stretch on, enjoying their growing unease.

  When his own patience started to thin, he lifted a finger.

  “King Juhn addresses you with his appointed voice, his noble emissary and noted son of Sunja, the honorable Lord Schull,” one of the Axemen declared in a voice that boomed in the stillness.

  The nine members bowed unevenly, noticeably unaccustomed to having to do so. Dog blossoms, Schull fumed. After the sloppy display of reverence, they sat.

  “Lord Schull did not allow you to sit,” the same Axeman informed them, and all nine jumped to their feet—or at least, they jumped as well as old men might.

  Shaking his head, Schull let them sweat for a few moments longer, hoping a few of them had to clench their bowels. Only when he nodded did they finally sit.

  “Who is… Odant?” Schull finally asked, curling his lips as if sampling sour wine.

  An elderly brute missing an ear and feigning importance got to his feet. He cleared his throat. “I am Odant, Lord Schull.”

  “I’m not one to mince words in any company short of our majestic ruler himself, so I’ll be brief. To the point. King Juhn wants the season lengthened.”

  Odant blinked at this as if digesting something ill-fitting. The others appeared no better, some even incredulous.

  “With the greatest respect––” Odant began.

  Schull cut him off with a dismissive wave. “I’ve been granted permission to be privy to the king’s mind and to those of his commanding officers, and through this frail frame, he addresses you. You are hereby commanded under penalty of death that the information I’m about to disclose not leave these walls. If it does, you can be sure his Majesty’s executioner will harvest exactly nine heads. Are we understood?”