131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Still unimpressed, Goll considered them once more. “Shouldn’t they be on a front somewhere, then?”

  “They’ve been retired by their Klaws, Master Goll,” Clades reported. “As myself. Ah, war wounds and all. Though, if necessary, they will be called to return to duty if the city is ever threatened.”

  “So what good are you to me?”

  Clades blinked, not expecting the question. Then he cleared his throat. “They’re a bit older, sar, granted. And it’s plain to see I’ve been cut. But make no mistake, I know the work. I’m no slouch with a length of steel. I know these men, and if you take me, you should know I feel best having them at my back.”

  “There aren’t many reputable swords for hire in the city,” Shan spoke up. “There is a war on, after all. To find three once Sujins––”

  “You’ll do, then,” Goll declared, cutting the healer short. Relief flowed over the three faces before him. “Your first order of business will be providing night-and-day protection to the man upstairs. Which begs me to ask how he’s doing.”

  “Still alive,” Shan reported.

  “Still alive,” Goll repeated with a hiss and huffed with displeasure. The mental stress of the day flooded his skull all at once, and he felt the need for something strong to drink. Two men beaten within a finger of their lives, their winnings of gold, the establishment of the house, the confrontation with Halm in the street, and to make matters even more interesting, Goll figured it was probably just the beginning. He felt his armpits ache from walking and leaning on his crutches. The longing to lie down made his weariness all the more heavy.

  “May I retire for the night?”

  Shan nodded. “Muluk is upstairs. I gave him a sedative to help him sleep, so the only thing you’ll hear are snores, but otherwise, go ahead.”

  “Thank you, good Shan.”

  The healer dismissed the comment with a look and retreated toward the back of the house, ambling toward an inner door leading to his private chambers.

  “I’m for upstairs then,” Goll said and reached for the nearby railing. On impulse, he left his crutches by the wall and hobbled his way up the steps at best speed. Halm followed, leery of the Kree leaving the wooden supports so early. Shadows grew and clung to the exposed support beams of the upper level, and the smell of an unknown medicinal concoction grew heavy in the air. On the top floor, six neat cots filled with straw and covered with gray blankets waited. Muluk lay sprawled on one, heavily bandaged and snoring peacefully. Goll hop-walked to his side, mindful of a wooden piss bucket with a flat cover over the top to trap odor. Clean white dressings covered the man’s extensive wounds, reaffirming the belief that Shan was well worth the few gold coins tossed his way.

  Behind him, Halm laid the sack of gold on the floor with a soft crinkle. “Is he all right?”

  “He looks it,” Goll replied out of the corner of his mouth. He glanced about the darkening floor, spotting a cot before the only open window in the place. Orange evening light shone through, casting a calming shine across the blankets and floorboards.

  “This place is hot, though. Even with that window opened. Still…”

  Using the posts for support, Goll made his way to his choice and nearly collapsed on it. Once stationary, he rubbed at his eyes and exhaled mightily, noting the lack of dust in the air.

  “Dare I say it,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t think we’d do it.”

  “Hm,” Halm replied softly, his face darkened by shadows. “Nor did I. Truth be known.”

  “Return to Pig Knot if you must. Just watch yourself out there. That one called Skulljigger is about, and he might not wait for a chance at you in the Pit.”

  “I might not wait for him,” Halm returned, the coldness in his voice earning a warning look from the Kree. After a moment, he faced the open window, watching a red sun sinking beneath an irregular shadowed line of pointed rooftops and arched gables. Drooping lengths of Sunjan streamers hung off rafters, fluttering now and again in subtle evening breezes. Taller buildings loomed in the distance, their shapes slowly devoured in the creeping dusk.

  “On your way out,” Goll started, the weariness unmistakable in his voice, “count out six of the gold, divide equally, and pay the new guards below.”

  “They looked hard.”

  “As long as they’re capable.”

  “Hm. Aye that.”

  Halm’s lack of fight in the presence of Muluk’s slumbering form might’ve touched anyone else, but not Goll. They stopped talking for a moment then and listened only to the soft rush of noise made by passersby on the street below the window. Goll rubbed his stomach, not hungry in the least, but that would change come morning. Morning. He sighed mentally, replaying what he’d witnessed that morning.

  “You still here?” Goll asked quietly, well aware Halm hadn’t moved, let alone departed. When the big man didn’t answer, the Kree regarded his sole Zhiberian companion. Halm sat himself on a nearby cot and stared thoughtfully at the setting sun. Goll stared at the evening as well, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. The shock and wonder of the day’s events washed over them as gloriously as the dying light.

  “We’re a house,” Halm whispered, the awe just barely suppressed in his voice. “Saimon’s black hanging fruit, we’re a house.”

  “Surprised?”

  Halm’s bright, scary eyes regarded him. For a heartbeat, Goll thought he might swear at him. But then the overweight man sighed and smiled, exposing those rotten shards still passing for teeth.

  “I suppose, for all of my hope, I never truly thought… we could do it.”

  “Well, we did.”

  “That we did.”

  “And we’ll do more.”

  “We will?”

  “Guaranteed. Master Halm.”

  Halm’s brow arched at the title. His expression softened to pleasant surprise. He scratched at the stiff brush that was his hair and straightened.

  “Never thought…” he trailed off and left it hanging. Then, having said what needed saying, he got to his feet and stood, running a hand over the bandages around his waist. He counted out coins from the sack, even taking an extra handful and making a show of doing so.

  “Buy us something to eat with that,” Goll said, with a wary eye.

  “Hm,” Halm grunted without commitment and smiled again, leaving Goll wondering whether he would follow orders or not. The big fighter then walked over to stand beside Muluk’s snoring form. “He smells terrible.”

  “That’s a master you’re standing over.”

  That made Halm smirk. He placed a hand on his sleeping friend’s head and kept it there for a brief moment. Then, before descending to the lower floor, he turned back, a tall shadow at the head of the stairs.

  “Though part of me is still… angered at what you’ve done––what you commanded Pig Knot to do and the obvious, heavy cost—and even though the future is just as dangerous, I thank you, good Goll. If anything, you should be commended for doing what you set out to do. And for bringing me––us––along with you.”

  Halm paused and studied the floor for a moment, allowing the silence to thicken.

  “But don’t… command another one of our warriors to lose,” he warned, raising his head. Not even the shadows could conceal his threatening expression. “Don’t even consider it. Not ever again.”

  His dire message delivered, the Zhiberian turned and took his time descending the steps, failing to step lightly. The soft clatter, however, didn’t seem to disturb Muluk’s snoring carcass in the least. Goll watched Halm’s shape sink into the floor in chunks before disappearing entirely. He rubbed his forehead and sighed wearily, feeling unwanted heat from Halm’s quiet reprimand. He didn’t want to think about it anymore. Or what lay ahead. What had been done needed to be done. Pig Knot had to lose for the house to exist. It was the only sure road. Goll recognized the opportunity and what it was worth when it happened, even though his actions might reach the new recruits. If it did, it might p
ossibly become a source of dissension amongst the ranks.

  If so, he’d deal with it.

  He’d deal with it all.

  The House of Ten was a reality, but he understood the path ahead. Now the work truly began. And every soul living under the house’s banner would have to be watchful.

  His thoughts then turned to Halm. Did he suspect what he’d discover back at the infirmary? Could he know? Goll wasn’t certain. What the Kree knew was better left in the hands of the healers there—part of the reason he wanted to delay the Zhiberian as much as possible, to spare him, once again, from what needed to be done by the Pit’s healers.

  “You’ll understand soon enough,” Goll whispered and permitted himself to gaze upon the evening light beyond the window, hoping perhaps that he was mistaken.

  A touch of sadness soured his features.

  3

  Night descended upon the city streets, flooding the alleyways as Halm hurried to the arena’s infirmary. The thought of having Borchus work for him was not sitting well in his head or gut, and he dreaded to anticipate what manner of information the little weasel might pass on to him. To any of them, for that matter. Then there was Goll. Halm fumed over the Kree commanding Pig Knot to lose his fight, even though a part of him grudgingly wrestled with the reasoning behind the play. He struggled to convince himself the order was given for the birth of the house and not because of any ill feelings Goll might have toward the man. The result was still too costly, too dear. Pig Knot was perhaps the closest thing to a friend he’d had these past few seasons, and Halm had thought that Goll was becoming one as well. Presently, he wasn’t so certain. Though he didn’t want to admit it, as a founder of the House of Ten, he’d have to keep a close eye on the Kree.

  When he reached the outer square of the arena, he quickly bypassed the patrolling Street Watch and entered the Pit through an open set of gates. Flickering torches leaned from bronze sconces, coloring the fitted stone of the corridor. His shadow flittered as he ignored the curious looks of two attendants lighting wicks as he passed by. The closer he came to the infirmary, the greater his urge to be there that very instant. He knew the way, having been there enough that season and in games long past.

  In the subterranean air clung a curious, perplexing smell, one he couldn’t place. Breathing hard, Halm rounded a corner and hurried to an open archway with a set of bright lanterns hanging on either side. The nagging smell became stronger. A shadow moved within the darkness just on the other side of the far lantern. Light reflected off steel.

  A dagger.

  A second weapon––a sword––came into view, its hilt grasped in a meaty fist. A towering wraith faced Halm, stopping him in his tracks. He gawked at the menacing hellion lurking outside the infirmary, a shot of uncertainty forcing him to feel for his Mademian blade. Then the shadow leaned into the light, and relief surged through the beefy gladiator. He recognized the man as one of the newer recruits but failed to remember his name. The giant’s moustache drooped at the ends like thick spikes, well past his chin.

  “All well?” Halm asked the lanky pit fighter, having difficulty locating the man’s eyes.

  “As expected,” the other replied in a clear voice. “Been here for a while.”

  “Apologies for that.” Halm winced and entered the infirmary. That haunting smell originated from within the chamber, teasing him with its mystery. Miserable moans dragged through the air as he beheld a long hall illuminated by a few lamps and torches mounted in iron brackets on the walls. Men lay sprawled on cots as if dropped from great heights, their bandaged forms either motionless or writhing. Someone coughed. A voice called out for missing companions. Steadying himself, Halm pushed through the many beds of the wounded and dying.

  One unfortunate lad grabbed his wrist.

  “See the sea,” the patient hissed, wild eyes imploring before finally relaxing. Bandages covered his midsection, but a menacing blot of darkness seeped through at the center. Halm worked himself free of the delirious man’s grip.

  A half-naked specter draped in firelight and shade crept between the wounded, inspecting each one as if he were grim Death itself attending a grisly harvest. Detecting movement, the figure paused and straightened with the elegance of an old serpent, watching the newcomers with an unspoken question.

  “You there, Zhiberian,” a voice called and made Halm turn around. There, posted just inside the infirmary’s entrance, were the two other fighters Goll had assigned to protect Pig Knot. Halm had completely missed them in his urgency. One fellow sat on a stool, but the other pushed himself away from the wall and threaded his way amongst the many islands of pain.

  Halm warded him off with a hand and resumed searching amongst the wounded. As he went, pitiful whimpers rose up, distasteful as thick dust. Pungent ointments glazed the underlining reek of fresh and dried blood. One man lay on a cot, seized by delirium, his milky eyes glassy and haunting in the dim light. He waved a stained stump where a right hand should have been. Another unfortunate soul rested on his back, his foot heavily wrapped in cloth.

  Halm felt pity for them all but continued looking for Pig Knot.

  “Who are you looking for?” Death croaked with surprising clarity, his question silencing his crippled charges. The half-naked man had approached with nary a sound, a cot hiding his lower half. Halm thought he was staring at a skull, but then his nerves relaxed. It was the old healer.

  “Pig Knot,” he answered. “The man with the ruined legs.”

  For a moment, the healer didn’t reply, then he gestured to a corner without any light at all. Smoky tendrils drifted from the nearby remnants of a spent torch.

  “My thanks,” Halm muttered and walked toward it, noting the empty cots crowding the foreboding section of the infirmary. Another smell lingered here, and Halm recognized it grimly, the same odor he’d caught a subtle whiff of earlier. A tangle of a man rested upon a cot bathed in gloom. A knot of horror clenched Halm’s sternum, pushing against his ribs. He couldn’t say Pig Knot’s name.

  He doubted the man could hear him.

  Pig Knot’s face had been wrapped in bandages dulled with dried blood. Only the eyes and mouth remained uncovered. His chest rose and fell in a slow, torpid rhythm. More blood-soaked wraps covered his shoulders, as if the thick dressings were the only things keeping him together. A fresh reek of herbal salves hung over the entire scene, drawing attention to Pig Knot’s lower parts…

  Where once he had possessed legs.

  A stunned Halm stood in dreadful awe of the destruction crippling his friend. He knew the leg wounds had been bad, knew that even as attendants rushed Pig Knot to the infirmary, but he never imagined…

  That thought drifted off as his own legs betrayed him. Halm sat on a cot across from Pig Knot’s unmoving form. The Sunjan’s shape appeared altogether much too short. Thick cloth bandages covered the meaty stumps although gruesome stains blotted the ends. Seepage, Halm realized in horror. From the cutting and the fire being applied. And sweat. No doubt plenty of sweat.

  Halm sensed movement draw up beside him.

  “It was…” the healer spoke, “it was a very near thing. Too much had been done to him, I feared. Too much ruined.” Death hissed the word with hatred. “Bones were sliced. Both limbs were hanging off by strings of meat. There was no hope, ever, of that healing whole. So I did what had to be done to save the lad’s life. I cut off those wretched ends and cooked what remained. To stop the bleeding, you understand. Did it just after you and them others left. The pain was… terrible for him, but mercifully, he passed out quickly. In truth, I thought he’d perished, but he didn’t. Not much to look upon, but it’s better than being stiff in a grave.”

  Those last few words sounded as if pronounced through a smile. Halm turned and glared at the older man, whose expression slackened at the unspoken promise of violence.

  “No disrespect meant,” the healer said gently. “He’ll live, is what I meant. He was cut up badly, but he’s strong. He’ll live. I’d wage
r on it.”

  The intensity on Halm’s face did not lessen.

  “You’re welcome to stay right there as long as you like,” the healer whispered and dipped his head in sympathy. “If you can stand the smell.”

  “Where did you put them?”

  “The legs?”

  Halm nodded.

  “My apologies. I placed them just over there, where the stink hangs the strongest. You probably smelled the worst of it on your way in. No need to look. An attendant took the remains away. For disposal.”

  Disposal. The word horrified the Zhiberian. He didn’t want to dwell on how the legs would be disposed of.

  Sensing the pit fighter’s unease, the healer retreated to another area of the infirmary.

  Halm stared at the mess that was his friend until yet another presence intruded on his grieving.

  “You there,” a gravelly voice asked in a none-too-friendly tone. His words marked him as a born Sunjan. “I’ve been here for far too long. All of us have. We’ll be leaving now since you’re here.”

  Halm faced the speaker: another of Goll’s new recruits whose name escaped him. “Do what you want.”

  The other hesitated. “You can’t do anything for him.”

  “I said… do… what you want.”

  “Man’s lucky to be alive,” the other remarked callously. “I was the one who carried away his lower legs, you know. ’Twas no attendant. None too pleasant business. I hope to be compensated for that.”

  A look of dangerous disdain slipped over Halm’s face. “What’s your name?”

  The other straightened. “Torello.”

  “Here, then,” he muttered and tossed a gold coin at the man.

  Perhaps it was the tone of Halm’s voice or the strain on his face, but whatever the reason, it rendered Torello speechless. Then, apparently satisfied, he nodded, put the coin away, and left. Halm watched him walk back to the others waiting at the doorway. The one with the necklace of crow heads joined the whispered discussion there. When their talk finished, Torello left with another behind him while the towering fright remained with a bare-chested man. Halm couldn’t remember seeing him at all, but he nodded at the Zhiberian before stretching out on a nearby cot.