131 Days [Book 3]_Spikes and Edges

by Keith C. Blackmore

  A large man materialized through the white streamers on the air, surprising Brejo only enough to make him squint and scratch at the thick ash-colored hair atop his head.

  Brother Jaro: Brejo’s younger sibling at forty-seven. The passing of years made the aged muscle on Jaro’s burly frame all the more menacing. A huge gray beard, pointed from years of stroking, concealed the cruel line of the enforcer’s mouth. Bare chested and sullen looking, Jaro had killed his first victim––a merchant of fresh vegetables––by very personal strangulation, squeezing until the man’s eyes and tongue had practically popped out of his head. Not even Brejo knew how many other necks his brother had wrung over the years.

  He’d never ask. For Jaro would tell him. In great detail.

  “Where’s Strach?” Brejo asked in a voice that always cracked. He scratched idly at his nose.

  Not knowing or caring, Jaro shook his head.

  “That black-balled punce,” Brejo muttered. “Whose crack is he tonguing now?”

  Jaro stood, clasped one corded arm over his belly, and kept his thoughts to himself.

  “Perhaps he’s breaking a few new street beggars?” a voice asked. Calagu lounged near a candlelit corner, making the most of the burning incense. His pasty-white face glowed as perfectly round as a moon frozen in a fog. A forest of hair sprouted from his head. The Iron Games existed and thrived solely under Calagu’s nurturing hand. The youngest brother excelled at the blood sport beneath the city’s streets. Brejo didn’t know how many lives he’d taken either.

  He dismissed Calagu’s suggestion with a sour frown.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Jaro shrugged, his mouth appearing to barely move beneath his bear hide of a beard. “Talked with him a fortnight ago. Business is the same.”

  “Always the same,” Calagu echoed. “Except for the puzzling withdrawal of the Sujins.”

  Sujins. Brejo’s stomach tightened. “What happened there? Has anyone discovered anything more?”

  He looked for Linfur and found him leaning against a wall.

  “They’ve withdrawn from the city, according to our eyes and ears,” a cultured voice said. Linfur enjoyed the crushed snow-orchid bulbs far more than any of them. “No one knows anything, except that the Sujins have seemingly abandoned everything they once held.”

  “Hm,” Brejo grunted, hating the most organized and most disturbing of all their rivals. For months, a new gang of unknown number had terrified the merchant sheep, one that confused the Sons to no end, as they believed they controlled all crime within the city. The Sujins would have been a mystery for longer still if it had not been for a pack of killers sent out hunting. The Sons’ henchmen cornered a handful of the mysterious men, and only one survived to report the encounter. Soon after, the Sons unravelled bits and pieces of information about the secretive band invading their territory.

  Sujins.

  The killers who had invaded the Sons’ territory were battle-hardened warriors from Sunja’s own Klaws, a stunning discovery that rendered the Sons hesitant and uncharacteristically nervous. Breaking bones and murdering street thugs was one thing. Battling Sujins was entirely another.

  The growing presence of these merciless Sujins had forced the Sons to abandon certain sections of the city or risk everything in a war of shadows. Brejo wasn’t about to grapple with hardened hellpups and risk the Sons’ existence, so he’d retreated, avoided selected areas, and observed from a distance—watched and waited for an opportunity to strike.

  An opportunity that never arose.

  “It is a time of war,” Linfur pointed out in his rich voice. “Perhaps something arose that forced them to retreat? If so, better for us. We’ll reclaim those holdings, squeeze a few more coins.”

  “Strach will find out what happened,” Brejo asserted.

  “Eventually,” Calagu agreed.

  “No doubt he’s attending to business,” Linfur said. “Busy, busy. Strach and his street rats clawing up something for the Sons’ coffers. Never a notable amount. Never notable. But steady. Consistent. Persistent. Like a sweet crust complementing a warm pastry freshly pulled from the oven. Filled with jam.”

  Not amused in the slightest, Brejo regarded the chosen voice for the Sons of Cholla. Linfur presented himself as a man destined for finer things––palaces, royal courts, grand halls, and women of noble blood. The man was a natural speaker and well educated, both formally and to the nefarious undercurrents of Sunja. Brejo never really knew Linfur’s exact background, like all the rats drawn to the Sons’ banner. Jaro had pulled the lad into their immoral embrace years ago when Linfur was still a teen. Jaro never recruited anyone unless he saw potential. Linfur oozed potential. Handsome. Gifted with a very physical frame and quick mind. A born talker. Over the years, he’d earned a reputation for being as vicious as he was well read.

  And Linfur was exceptionally well read.

  “You should have brought us a few of those pastries.” Brejo’s voice split from a lack of drink.

  “I shall do so tomorrow,” Linfur said with a dip of his slick head, flashing strong teeth.

  “Then don’t disappoint.” Brejo grumbled and eyed the man’s muscular arms and the impressive amount of ink fashioned into the likeness of serpents and chains from his wrists to his shoulders. In the day and in public, long sleeves would cover those skin badges.

  “What about the games today?” Brejo abruptly asked.

  “Very well,” Linfur answered. “The Stable of Grisholt isn’t being shy about using the potion we’ve supplied. He’s been an exceptionally… predictable sort, like a dog given permission to feast at the king’s table. I daresay it won’t be long before most or all of his men are partaking in that sweet, sweet wine.”

  Brejo fixed Linfur with eyes every bit as cold and serpentine as the ink drawn upon their flesh. “Your honeyed tongue truly sickens me at times.”

  “My sincere apologies, good Brejo.”

  Brejo didn’t drop his menacing gaze until he saw the bob of Linfur’s throat.

  That brought a chuckle from Calagu. “Perhaps it’s best you talk less, Linfur. Or curse more.”

  Linfur smiled briefly but not with comfort, as Brejo watched him.

  “And?” Brejo finally demanded. “I said your tongue truly sickens me. I didn’t say stop.”

  An uncomfortable Linfur cleared his pipes. “The coin we’ve won has already been added to the treasury, good Brejo. We know when Grisholt’s men will fight again, so with your permission, I’ll continue placing wagers.”

  “Of course, you buttery dog blossom.” Calagu wiped his forehead, not bothering to conceal his amusement at Linfur’s unease. Jaro watched the exchange without comment, his naked, muscular torso barely moving. Ink serpents and chains covered the Sons’ chief enforcer as well, but a flying dragon, wings spread wide, spanned his chest.

  “Grisholt.” Brejo mulled, kicking his hooked leg. “After so long, lads. After so long. Father would have been very pleased at these events.”

  “He would’ve,” Calagu agreed. “How long do you think it’ll take?”

  Brejo shrugged. “Only a matter of time. The owners will start sniffing around with their agents and spies. Then…”

  He shrugged again, answering Calagu’s eager smile.

  For years, the Sons had earned their coin from four questionable yet immensely profitable quarters. Calagu organized the Iron Games—the bloody yet always profitable alternative to the Gladiatorial Chamber’s official games. The Iron, as Calagu referred to it, accommodated the minority who simply lived to place wagers upon grown men who hacked one another to bloody bits.

  Strach organized and added to the herds of professional beggars infesting the streets and alleys of Sunja, a veritable army of lice besieging the city’s kind-hearted populace for spare coins. Jaro and his men killed people for hire—quietly or publicly; it didn’t matter. Brejo extorted coin from merchants.

  In these hard times, however, the family business had suffered. The only notable coin fi
lling the Sons’ coffers came from Calagu’s Iron Games, and even that wasn’t as lucrative as previous years. Brejo’s menacing of merchants failed to produce the gold of years gone by, and Jaro rarely had any requests to violently remove a person from life. Strach’s beggars brought in the smallest amount of them all, but the years had transformed that stream into the most reliable, even more so than the Iron Games.

  The Iron Games, Brejo thought. The Gladiatorial Chamber had successfully stopped the Sons from poisoning the fighting season with their influence. Thus, Cholla himself had devised a similar tournament with slightly different rules and an increasingly demanding crowd. It had been a success, but even Cholla knew Sunja’s Pit would be worth so much more, a gemstone set into a crown. The Sons had approached selected owners with promises of victory if they worked together, yet none of them ever struck a bargain.

  Honor still meant something in the games.

  Cholla had confided to Brejo that times would change again, and when they did, the Sons would not have to contact the houses. Cholla said the right kind of owner would approach the Sons. That owner had been Grisholt.

  Even years dead, Brejo knew his father smiled in whatever hell had taken him.

  “All we have to do is wait,” Brejo finished, “and keep abreast of Grisholt’s fighters. There’s no one else out there with the potion.”

  “What is the potion, exactly?” Linfur asked, regaining his confidence.

  Brejo eyed the Sons’ spokesman. “Victory, of course.”

  Calagu chuckled. Even Jaro smiled at the joke.

  “Don’t trouble yourself with the potion’s contents, Linfur,” Brejo calmly advised. “It does what we’ve promised, and that’s enough. You know, I even considered using it against the Sujins, choosing just a few of our lads to take it before battle, but the weakness afterward prevented me from ever attempting it. Far too dangerous. That stomach-juiced concoction is much more effective in an arena setting than on the streets. Jaro, what about that other work Grisholt’s man asked of us?”

  Jaro’s chest heaved with a deep breath, and the dragon’s wings lifted. His black eyes barely reflected any light. “Men hunt the city even as I breathe.”

  “Ah yes,” Linfur said. “I met with Grisholt’s man, Brakuss, when he brought word of who is fighting and drinking the potion. He made it known Grisholt wants a man killed.”

  “No one drinks the potion, Linfur.” Calagu scoffed and rolled his eyes. “They sip and endure it. I still think we should introduce it to the Iron Games.”

  Brejo frowned at the thought. They’d already talked about it. “The Iron isn’t the place for that spectacle. It isn’t grand enough, good Calagu. The Pit—the Pit is. Can you think of a better place to be corrupted?”

  Calagu could not.

  “Enough talk about that, Jaro. Thus far, Grisholt has done quite well, I believe. It’s only in our best interests to honor our bargain with him. This man he wants killed… an agent, is it?”

  Jaro nodded. “For the new House of Ten.”

  “The Free Trained one?”

  “Aye that.”

  “A Free Trained house,” Calagu said with disdain. “And the season half-finished. Gurry.”

  Brejo ignored his brother. “You have a description for this dead man?”

  “We’ve already talked about this, too,” Calagu pointed out.

  “I was drunk at the time,” Brejo snapped, growing impatient with his pale-faced brother. He settled back and studied Jaro. “This agent, you know what he looks like?”

  “Short. Strong. Broad of shoulder. Dark hair but graying. Long sideburns on his face. No beard.”

  “The name again?”

  Jaro gave it.

  “And you haven’t found him yet?” Calagu blurted with genuine surprise. It was rare for Jaro to have both a description and a name but no head to show.

  Jaro flashed him a warning scowl, but Calagu dismissed him with a hand. The brothers had no fear of each other.

  “It’s a city, brother. Many places for an agent to hide. But I’ve been told he’s been found. Even now, men follow him. I’ve given the word to kill him this very night.” Jaro paused with dramatic flair. “The man’s as good as dead.”

  “What was his name again?” Brejo almost pitied the poor bastard.

  Through smoky veils, dragon wings fluttered.

  12

  “Borchus?”

  His head bobbed up from his mug of beer to Sindra’s face. The men and women around him were much taller, but he’d placed his elbows on the bar, and his thick arms gave most second thoughts about crowding him too much.

  “Sindra.” He gripped his drink. “A busy night here. It’s good to see.”

  She glanced around the interior of what was once Hadree’s alehouse. A good-sized crowd had crammed into the place, making it feel packed. When she looked, Borchus couldn’t help being drawn to her pale throat. She’d tied her hair into a tail, which hung rather enticingly over her right shoulder, tickling at a low-cut dress.

  “Surprised?” Borchus took a drink.

  “I am,” Sindra answered. “Yet part of me isn’t at all. Do you know how damn stubborn you can be? Because I do.”

  Borchus swallowed, smiled weakly, and shrugged.

  “Well, not this time.” She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the counter, and fixed him with her huge brown eyes. “Look. It’s simple. I’ll explain it again in case you’ve forgotten. I don’t want anything to do with you. I don’t want to see you around here ever again. Whatever was then isn’t now. Understand that? Do you? I’ve managed this place for years. It’s my life, and I’m very much content. The roof over your head is mine. Everything you see under this roof is mine. Do you hear what I’m saying? Once you’re done with that drink, I’ll expect you to move on and never to come back. Not ever.”

  A scent of perfumed water hung about her, distracting Borchus enough to let his reply slip away. He kept his eyes fixed on hers, very much aware of the death trap set below her neckline. He knew Sindra and remembered her scolding any man whose eyes fell to her cleavage.

  “I’m only here to drink.”

  Sindra gawked at him in suppressed shock, her mouth open. “Who do you think you’re speaking to? Don’t insult my intelligence with such gurry. Seddon above, a cow kiss has more sense than to believe you’re only here to drink. If I had the patience or the time, I’d give you a history of how many times I’ve heard you say those very words.”

  She leaned in closer and whispered with irritated heat, “I know what you’re here for. You know what you’re here for. And I’ve already said my mind. Don’t bother with anything else.”

  With that, she stood and glanced around the tight confines of the alehouse. Two other barmaids bustled around, holding platters of empty pitchers and mugs. A pair of men served drinks to an array of waiting customers. Sindra settled upon Borchus once more, regarding him with unconcealed dislike. She moved off to the other end of the bar, the full-length, bright-green dress she wore stealing his attention. It was tight but not nearly as tight or revealing as the ones she’d worn years ago. Perhaps the garment hung a little thicker around her middle, but it only accentuated her figure all the more.

  Averting his eyes and taking a breath, Borchus sat and mulled and stared at the wall behind the bar, feigning interest in the kegs. The conversations buzzing around him seemed distant as he replayed Sindra’s warning once again.

  “Finished that drink yet?” An angry Sindra stepped back into his field of vision.

  “No.”

  “Didn’t I say to finish your drink and leave?”

  Borchus thought about it. “You did not.”

  “I thought that might need repeating, seeing as the years are affecting your hearing—and your memory. Well, finish your drink and leave. You remember Gurga?”

  Borchus had done his best to forget about Gurga. Luckily for him, the great ogre of a man positioned at the door had failed to see Borchus enter the alehouse. He�
��d timed it so he crossed the threshold on the heels of a group of men and women, thus evading detection.

  “I remember Gurga.”

  “He’s here every night.”

  “I’m glad he is.”

  “As am I. You finish that drink quickly, leave, and I won’t introduce you to him a second time.”

  Borchus didn’t recall being introduced to Gurga a first time, but he kept that to himself. He did remember the huge spiked club the enforcer carried, hanging from a belt that might’ve been fashioned from an entire cow. The image prompted the agent to hurry his beer. He inspected the remaining contents and made the effort to get more down.

  Sindra’s fingers rapped impatiently on the bar. “I mean it. When you finish that, leave this place, and do not come back.”

  Beer filled Borchus’s cheeks and bulged them to the size of apples. He stopped, met her eyes for a heartbeat, then swallowed.

  Sindra leaned in once again. “What’s in that head of yours, anyway? Why do you always have to press a point?”

  Borchus wondered that himself, answering Sindra’s question with half a shrug. He finished his beer and placed the mug down. Sindra held out her hand, and he paused before settling the empty vessel into her palm. She snatched it away and regarded him with an unspoken well?

  Sniffing and wiping his mouth, Borchus leaned back, lingering for a moment. Then he nodded at his old friend and gently pushed off from the bar like a ship leaving a dock. He slipped through the patrons and walked around tables, ignoring the laughter of people in much better spirits than himself.

  Ahead, Gurga saw him and stood up.

  Borchus sighed and corrected himself. The man straightened, his large graying skull only a head below the ceiling timbers. As Gurga partially blocked the door, it became plain how the enforcer would never clear the entrance without stooping.

  “You,” the oversize brute growled in a timbre that could rattle whole forests. “How’d you get in here?”

  “I walked.” Borchus gestured to the door. “Through that. Now I’m leaving.”

  Gurga’s face hitched up into a questioning scowl. He looked past Borchus, in the direction of the bar.