They landed on bloody floorboards with Kurlin on top. Muluk punched upwards, missed, and grabbed for a wrist, frantic not to give his adversary a chance to stab downwards. Kurlin roared, his face blazing red, and forced the sword down, using his body weight to push the tip of the blade towards the other’s contorted face.
Muluk abruptly gave up resisting and whipped his head to the right. The blade sliced down and grazed his hairy head, embedding itself in the wooden floor. Kurlin’s eyes widened as Muluk heaved with his hips, throwing the other off balance and into a table.
Muluk struggled to his feet and noted the blood spattering his left arm. A moment later, he heard ringing in his ear.
That hesitation was all Kurlin needed. His face contorted in hatred as he extracted a dagger from a boot and charged. He stabbed for Muluk’s gut, and the Kree caught the arm as it thrust forward. The tip of the blade pierced Muluk’s gut, and Kurlin dragged it to one side, drawing a dollop of blood across the floor. Muluk rammed his shoulder into the man’s nose, bursting it like a water bag and making him cringe in pain.
The killer still had enough strength to shove Muluk back. The Kree stumbled three steps and collided with a table. He threw his arms out to right himself, his left hand slapping the wooden surface when an unsteady Lantus rose up behind him, wrecked jaw hanging hideously, and hacked downwards with the battle-axe he had picked up from the floor—lopping off three fingers of Muluk’s left hand and burying the blade in the table, the underside splintering.
Muluk screamed in pain.
A livid Lantus screamed back.
Muluk twisted about and grabbed him by his wrecked mouth, dug his feet in, and pulled the man forward. Howling in pain, Lantus could not resist and collided with the table’s edge a split-second before a raving Muluk crashed an elbow into the back of his head, driving him down onto the wood facefirst with a crunch. Knotting up a fistful of hair, Muluk yanked the man’s neck to the battle-axe edge not fully buried into wood and sawed with every ounce of energy remaining. The steel licked bare flesh in rapid jerks. Blood spurted. Lantus sagged.
That left only three.
Kurlin razored a new line down Muluk’s back with his sword, taking him from his left shoulder down into the meat of his left buttock.
Muluk roared and released the head in his grasp. He whirled about in pain, backed up, and crashed into the bar where Plakus, still impaled in the wood, grabbed him about the neck and squeezed.
Kurlin’s eyes lit up as he charged, intent on plunging his shortsword through Muluk’s chest.
Muluk kicked, his bare foot snapping into the face of the man and crumpling him with a whimper. Plakus growled in agony and rage in Muluk’s ear, struggling to get a better grip on his neck. Muluk drove an elbow into his captor’s gut and twisted around, his own blood slicking his neck and preventing Plakus from establishing a firm hold. He pushed away from the wounded man, breaking the hold.
Plakus roared.
Muluk gathered up a fallen shortsword, his chest heaving, his back scalding, and his limbs aching. He eyed Golki flopping off the bar and staggering towards the alehouse entrance, the first man to attempt escape.
Plakus roared again, writhing savagely as he righted himself, attracting attention.
Muluk slashed open the trapped man’s throat and left him gurgling. Plakus’s face paled almost immediately. The dying killer clawed at the gruesome cut with red fingers before finally collapsing, slumping over the front of the bar.
Chest heaving, Muluk turned around and saw Kurlin struggle to his knees, an arm on a nearby table. A dagger in his right hand.
“You,” the killer breathed.
With an overhand chop, Muluk split Kurlin’s head open to a cheek, where he left the weapon. He didn’t have the energy to pry it out, his own blood loss weakening him almost to the point of collapse.
A door clattered open as Golki stumbled through, allowing a wide beam of sunlight into the alehouse.
The man disappeared outside, and Muluk groaned. Filling his lungs, he hurried through the bodies and blood, pushing himself well past his limits. He snatched up a dagger dark with gore and staggered out the door in pursuit.
A fist smashed him across the face, breaking his cheek and driving him to the flagstones. Muluk hit hard and rolled, still possessing enough sense to instinctively keep moving. Golki growled something beastlike from above, and then Muluk felt the man’s weight crash down on him. He squirmed, disoriented, and got a hold of an arm. Golki stabbed with his dagger, cutting Muluk under his arm, across his ribs. The Kree grimaced, twisted, rolled the bigger man to the road, and got on top. Golki squealed and cut the outside of Muluk’s thigh, the burn of the steel bright enough to make him dizzy. Golki kept on cutting, sawing, each frenzied slash going a little deeper into the muscle.
With a final, furious scream, the Kree rammed a knee into the weapon arm of his foe, pinning it to the road, just before jamming his near fingerless slab of a hand into the killer’s face. Muluk fended off desperate fingers clawing for his eyes and heard the garbled screech beneath him before angling the dagger in his right fist towards the man’s face…
And stabbed.
There was a sick crunch and a sudden spasm where Muluk was almost bucked from his would-be-killer. Then the body slumped beneath him.
Muluk gazed down and was too tired to do anything but gape.
He eventually rolled off the dead man, who had been stabbed through the centre of his face hard enough that the cross guard of the dagger pinched into an eye and the corner of his mouth.
Muluk tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t work. He looked down at his naked, bleeding self, and saw the mess of his frame. Cuts laced his body and were only just beginning to send out one mighty crescendo of pain. He tried scratching at his nose only to flutter the bloody stumps of his fingers before his eyes.
Then his world tilted.
Along the street, the world awakened with hard claps of wood banging off wood. Blurry figures, ghosts shimmering in the daylight, streamed into the road to the left and right of him. They surrounded him, seeping inwards at the edges of his darkening vision. He sat and waited, legs splayed out before him, the pain rushing in with tidal force. A little wheeze left him then, signaling the last of his strength.
Someone grabbed his shoulder, turning him to the right. The sun flashed off metal skin and two eyes that blazed.
“Who are you?” a voice demanded.
Muluk blinked, took the barest of breaths.
“I’m the…” he paused, “arm… errrr.”
Blackness foamed over him then, full of black motes sparkling like evil suns, and he tumbled below its surface.
39
The crowds choked the street in front of the alehouse, making it nearly impossible for Goll and Halm to get any closer to the place. The pair exchanged puzzled looks before Halm took the lead in parting the people, sliding towards the drinking establishment. Halm stopped before a line of Skarrs in full battle dress, cordoning off an area where their Koor officers stood studying a dead man lying in the street. Blood stained the street stones, and the pit fighters’ confusion turned to concern.
“What happened here?” Goll asked of a man nearby.
“Big fight this morning.”
“What? Who?”
“Don’t know. There was one barely alive. They carried him off to a healer.”
Goll looked at Halm. “Get inside. Look for Muluk.”
The Zhiberian nodded, his own concern spiking, and made for the alehouse entrance.
Four Skarrs stood watch outside of the doorway, and one of them focused on the huge man appearing before them.
“I need to enter,” Halm said.
“Who are you?”
“Just a man who stayed here last night. Some valuables were inside.”
The iron helm’s visor hid the Skarr’s face. “It’s unfit in there.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
The Skarr considered him for a moment. “Wai
t here.” He went inside. Halm glanced back at the dead man in the street. The Street Watch was a full complement of about two dozen Skarrs, and it seemed to take all of them to hold back the masses of people. A moment later, the Skarr returned and waved Halm across the threshold.
What the Zhiberian saw made his jaw hang open in shock.
Blood covered the floor of the interior, and the smell smacked him full in the face. More Skarrs filled the room, hauling pallid bodies to the center and lining them up. Halm recognized the faces of two serving maids and the barkeep but not any others. There were five warrior types, each displaying the frightening wounds that killed them. Three Skarrs chopped away at the ruined bar where a brute of a man lay impaled and bent over. A section of the wood was peeled away, revealing how narrow braces beneath the thin wood had speared the dead man through his knees and thighs.
“Who’re you?” a Skarr Koor asked him pointedly, standing in the middle of the floor sticky with drying gore.
“I…” Halm blinked. “My friend and I stayed here last night. We have our things in the upstairs rooms.”
“You know any of these people?” the officer asked.
Halm pointed at the dead serving maids and the barkeep, identifying them by profession only. “I don’t know the others.”
“Where were you this morning?”
“All of these people were sleeping when my friend and I left the tavern. We went for something to eat.”
The Koor dismissed Halm and waved him on up the stairs. The Zhiberian walked over the bloody floor, feeling and hearing every gummy step he took. He ascended the stairs to the walkway and saw that a section of the railway had been smashed as well. Shaking his head, he peered below once more, and the scene looked even more horrific from above. He hurried to his room and saw that the door was open but that nothing appeared disturbed. His sack of armour remained on the floor.
Then he proceeded to Goll and Muluk’s room, eyeing the broken railing directly across from the open doorway.
The bed was a disheveled tangle, and the room’s meagre furnishings had been brushed aside as if in a skirmish. There, under the edge of the bed, rested the cloth sack containing whatever wealth Goll had managed to gather.
Scratching at his nose in relief, Halm crossed the floor and picked up the sack, feeling the weight. He checked the contents, frowned grimly at the coin, and tossed the bag over his shoulder. He returned to his own room, gathered his equipment, and with both sacks slung over his shoulders, made his way back down the stairs.
The Skarrs allowed him to pass, and Halm stepped out into sunshine that was already uncomfortably hot.
Goll waited, looking anxiously at him.
“I have it.”
The tension left Goll’s face in a gush but then tightened once more. “Where’s Muluk?”
“Not inside. Not one of the dead.”
“No?”
“No. Whoever it was murdered everyone in there. There were five armoured men in there by the looks of it, plus the one in the street.”
Mulling over the information, Goll abruptly swung his way to the nearest Skarr.
“Where’s the survivor?”
The soldier pointed as he gave directions, and Halm and Goll cut a path through the crowd eagerly straining to see the dead. The traffic beyond thinned out for a short period before the waking city, with its raucous dealings, overwhelmed them. Neither companion had time to be accosted by braying merchants or slow-moving people, and their worry had risen considerably by the time they located the healer’s house.
Halm rapped his knuckles on the wooden door of a two-story house with open windows. He couldn’t wait and entered, startling a middle-aged man working over a patient on a table. The Zhiberian’s throat constricted. White bandages bright with blood covered the body while another ringed his head in thick loops, leaving the face with one purpled cheek, exposed.
Muluk’s eyes flickered in his direction, and the Kree tried to smile.
“Who are you?” the healer demanded, rising from his work with a roll of cloth bandages in his hands, challenging the pair.
“We’re…” Halm checked behind him to ensure Goll was there. “We’re his friends.”
“Late… friends,” Muluk rasped with a weak smirk.
The healer considered the newcomers for a short time before backing away. Halm and Goll crowded Muluk’s bedside, mortified at the damage done to him.
“He’s not going to die,” the healer informed them.
“He thinks…” Muluk corrected.
Goll leaned in. “Who did this?”
Muluk met his stare, the eye above his bruised cheek bloodshot and sickly yellow. “Don’t know.”
“They didn’t take anything,” Goll told him. “Thanks to you.”
“He killed six men with nary a stitch of clothing on him, the Skarrs tell me,” the healer stated in quiet awe. “Nary a stitch. That’s a Kree for you, as bare-assed and brazen as they come. They brought him to me about mid-morning.”
“You did all of this?” Goll asked.
“Most—as I don’t have an assistant these days. The Skarrs helped for a short while before going off. By that time, I had most of the deepest cuts stitched. Need to bandage them now, which was what I was doing when you two came in. He’s not so chipper. The blood loss almost did him in.”
“Killed… them all.” Muluk’s voice was strained, his eyes eerily dull.
“You did that.” Halm placed a warm hand on top of the Kree’s head. “Aye that. Right and proper. Where was that ferocity when we fought in the pit?”
“Not… to the death, then.”
“Lucky me, eh?”
“Do what you have to do,” Goll instructed the healer. “You’ll be paid for your efforts. Halm here will aid you for a short time, but later we’ll be off for the Pit.”
“Fighters, are you?” the healer asked.
“We are. This man as well.”
“Plain to see. A proper beast, he is,” the healer said.
Goll’s concerned face broke into a smile. “He is. He is, indeed. And he’s one of ours.”
The effort it had taken to speak drained whatever strength Muluk had remaining, and he closed his eyes. Halm crowded in to assist the healer as Goll collapsed on a nearby seat and sighed in relief. He was glad Muluk had survived the attack, but he was even happier that the gold had been untouched. He wiped his brow with a palm and mulled as the men worked on his countryman. One thought came to the forefront.
Who were the six men?
Worse still, could there be others?
*
The final fight in the streets with the one called Golki was shocking, and one that Caro knew would be with him for a while. When the man on top finally killed the once-gladiator, Caro hesitated, wishing Ballan back with a few lads with steel. He thought of going into the building himself, but then people arrived, seeping from their dwellings like rats to crumbs. Then the Street Watch hurried into the area, establishing order. Caro couldn’t risk entering the tavern with them around and stayed in the alleyway until his henchman arrived behind him with five others, all carrying blades. Caro motioned for them to stand behind him and hold their tongues. He stood and watched as a group of Skarrs carried the sole survivor away while a small number of them entered the alehouse. Caro could only guess at the grisly mess lurking inside, for none of Grisholt’s other dogs emerged freely or captured by the Skarrs.
That meant only one thing.
Caro instructed Ballan and his lads to stay in the alley before he slunk into the crowd. He overheard that everyone inside had been butchered, even the barkeep and his family. That set the agent’s jaw. The dead patrons and owners rendered him speechless with guilt for not fully appreciating the killers’ appetite for malice. As gruff as they were, he had never expected them to kill everyone in the tavern. He’d certainly never called for it. The memory of their stupid grinning faces scalded his memory, and it gladdened his conscience to know they were dead.
/> Except the one who had fought back. The one called Muluk.
One man had torn apart Grisholt’s pack of killers. He wasn’t certain he wanted to return to the man’s estate and report the news of their failure, so he deemed it best to send someone else.
The idea of entering the tavern took him, but by then, Halm of Zhiberia and the cripple had returned. The Zhiberian went inside and emerged later with two cloth sacks, the appearance of which made Caro’s heart flutter in exasperation. Reluctantly, he returned to where his men waited and gave instructions to Ballan to keep an eye on things here. Caro took two men, and together, they followed Halm and the cripple to the nearby healer’s house. An alley across from the building offered some refuge from the hot morning sun, and there, Caro stood with his two spies, attempting diligently to appear at ease while maintaining watch on the open windows of the house.
As the commoners of Sunja meandered through the street, blocking his sight at times, he couldn’t help but feel a touch of wonder.
One man had killed six trained gladiators singlehandedly.
Caro didn’t have any idea who he was.
But he knew a rock when he saw one.
40
Blood frothed from lipless slits as the healer pulled back cloth bandages and dabbed saywort on the worst wounds. In the beginning, Halm held down the breathing mess that was Muluk, but then the Kree slipped into unconsciousness.
“For the best, really,” the healer answered the unspoken questions from both Halm and Goll.
“Seddon’s ass, what is that shite you’re smearing on him?” Halm asked, screwing up his face.
“What?” the healer asked, clearly unaffected by the odour. “This?”
“Yes, that. Smells like overripe onions. Or an unwashed dog.”
“I don’t smell a thing. Regardless, it’s saywort. It’ll speed up the healing.”
Halm looked upon the jar the healer held with a face filled with disgust.
“What’s your name?” Goll asked, diverting his attention from the Zhiberian.
“Shan,” the man answered, continuing to apply the ointment.
131 Days [Book 1] Page 48
