131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Then, the Grinders waited with deadly patience.

  Kra turned around and peered over the menacing armored plates and spiked shoulders of the heavy Nordish warriors, straining to see the pursuing enemy. The Grinders were selected not on skill but rather on size, and all were fingers taller than the Jackal first basten. Through the trees and at the far end of the wooded area, horses prepared for war trotted to an impatient stop. Their riders milled about and mulled, seeing their enemy’s prickly position. The slope rendered a charge ineffective, and the lancer commander seemed hesitant to engage a foe whose numbers commanded high ground.

  Even worse, the numbers had unexpectedly doubled.

  “That’s right, you stupid shite-swilling bastards.” A Grinder hissed, his voice made metallic by his helm’s grinning visor. “That’s right. The run stops here.”

  “Come on, then,” growled another and rolled the spiked pauldrons protecting his shoulders. “Show some balls and have them handed back.”

  “Them bastards have been chasing us for most of the morning,” Kra said to no one in particular.

  “And now they’ve caught us,” said one of the Grinders. “Bled the fight right out of them. Look at them prance. No idea what to do now. Typical. How haven’t we won this thing sooner?”

  “Been years, certainly,” muttered another.

  “Shaddup,” one Grinder lashed out, silencing the wall as he appeared around a tree and walked down the battle line. The basten warily glanced at Kra before dividing his attention between his own men and the lancers beyond. The Grinder officer carried no shield, but a huge mailed fist choked the grip of a bared broadsword gleaming in the forest light.

  “Where’s your first basten?” the Grinder officer demanded of the nearest Jackals. Kra stepped forward.

  “You were a bit late this time around.”

  “You moved your men back,” Kra countered.

  “Had to. Wasn’t comfortable on the lowlands, so I found a place where bastards like them wouldn’t dare charge. Found this ridge. Wasn’t hard to find us, was it?”

  “Not hard, but I’d be lying if I said my blossom didn’t pucker when I heard those hunting horns.”

  The Grinder basten directed his attention to the lancers, still mulling about in the distance. Then, perhaps coming to the conclusion it was better to face the wrath of their superiors, the enemy reined in and sullenly retreated, showing the Nordish their backs before disappearing into the murky woods.

  “Smart,” the Grinder basten commented. “It’s good fortune to kill smart officers. How went things?”

  “Good,” Kra replied. “Very good.”

  “Excellent.”

  “We should get moving.”

  The Grinder studied the Jackal for a moment. “Who says you Jackals are only good at stabbing things in the dark?”

  “The dead,” Kra answered.

  The Grinder did not argue.

  In two columns, the combined groups of almost a hundred men marched back through the forested lowlands, stretching the distance between themselves and the Sunjan encampment. They pressed on for a day until they reached a meeting point amongst wooded hills. There they connected with two more ambush parties composed of both Jackals and Grinders. The Jackals of those groups had rained down a firestorm of arrows on the Sunjan Klaw from another direction, distracting the Sujins long enough for Kra’s and another basten’s company to drive into their enemies’ flanks, leave steel in the Sunjans’ bones, and quickly withdraw and scatter before a counter could be organized.

  As a first basten and commanding officer, Kra consulted with his Grinder equivalent, and both men gathered their junior officers, peeling off helmets and masks that rendered one man indistinguishable from the next. Part of the malefic aura surrounding the Jackals was the covering of their faces, be it in black cloth or metal—a shedding of their humanity and a becoming of something more. Over the years, the Jackals had earned a fearsome, almost ghoulish reputation for their deeds done at night. Masks off, they were men like any other. Masks on, they became Jackals, exuding monstrous unease and capacity for violence.

  Kra had to admit, when he wore his own mask, he felt more like a hellion than a man.

  Listening to reports, the first basten learned that his company had been the fortunate ones as the other group of attacking Jackals, the ones targeting the right flank, had encountered a handful of Sunjan Cavaliers. Those highly skilled warriors possessed their own bloody reputation amongst the Nordish, and Cavaliers, experienced Cavaliers, were viewed as prized trophies. Kra couldn’t think of anyone who wouldn’t rise to challenge one of those formidable swordsmen, for their scalps were treasured as much as gold. He knew several Nordish who had sought them out on a battlefield. Most of those same men had perished in the encounter. The only reason Sunja hadn’t turned the tides in this aging war was because they didn’t have more of those reavers.

  The Cavaliers were Sunja’s best and were rarely found lacking. As good as they were, however, their numbers were dwindling. One by one.

  The first bastens stoically accepted that one pack of Jackals, the group of fifty attacking the Klaw’s right flank, had been decimated to seven. Their commanding officer wasn’t amongst the survivors.

  “Well,” grunted Vilak, a towering hulk of a man. He regarded Kra. “Looks like the right flank goes untouched next time.”

  “Next time, my men and I will do the stabbing,” said Jalmar, a lower basten whose Jackals had unleashed fire arrows upon the Sunjan Klaw. He focused on Kra as he put forth the request. “As you promised.”

  Vilak scowled at the officer’s impudence. Kra knew what bothered the Grinder. Vilak had previously made his thoughts known in confidence that he believed Kra was too accommodating with his underlings, something the Jackal commander never suspected until it was pointed out to him. Kra actually respected the menacing Vilak, whose brick of a skull contained not only a brain but a sharp wit as well, unlike some other officers. The Grinder had repeatedly proved his worth on the field.

  “No,” Kra said firmly, remembering the conversation with the Jackal basten. “You lads punished the enemy the other night. You’ll do so again.”

  Jalmar’s jawline clenched in disappointment.

  “We’ll rest tonight,” Kra announced, “but in the morning we’ll circle about and see if we can’t find this Klaw again. And we’ll stab its right flank once more. They’ll probably be thinking we won’t go at either flank, but we will. I’ll take those seven survivors with me. Jalmar and his dogs will light up the night sky with arrows as before, just before we strike. First Basten,” he directed at Vilak. “Would you be so good as to follow along, set up a line at a mutually-decided-upon point and then, perhaps, stay there? We’d all feel better about it.”

  Vilak smirked, his eyes flashing a warning. “You whine, Jackal. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Very much appreciated.”

  “If you don’t come back, we’ll come looking.”

  Kra knew the Grinder would do just that.

  “Anything else?” he asked the gathered officers. No one spoke, not even Vilak.

  “Good. Then rest. Tomorrow, we go back into hell.”

  With that, the men dispersed. Kra expected Jalmar to protest his role in the next engagement, but the man kept his tongue and moved off. That pleased the Jackal commander, and he meandered through the woods where they had established camp. Nordun’s Ikull––the main army––remained weeks away from the Klaws, but it was their task, as a smaller striking force, to inflict as much damage as possible on the enemy before rejoining the advancing Nords. Losses would be high. In fact, his commanders had informed him it could very well be a death march, but he accepted the mission regardless. In his mind, only the careless or unlucky got killed. He wasn’t careless, and as of this day, he wasn’t unlucky either.

  The majority of the Grinders had stripped off their heavy armor and laid aside their smiling helms. The Ikull’s heavy infantry stayed with their own, rum
bling at each other in low, guarded voices, like heavyset bears huddling around a corpse. The smaller, leaner Jackals kept their own company, though all remained in their leather vests and bracers. Kra nodded at those he recognized, and when a small circle beckoned, he joined them.

  “First Basten,” Kestimir greeted cordially. “Something to eat?”

  “Bit of rabbit?” Kra asked, inspecting the pot in the middle.

  “Grinders caught them,” Lokan smiled, sporting an ugly scar that ran uninterrupted across his face. His eyes glittered at his companions. “Nice to know they were minding the kitchen.”

  Kra declined with a shake of his head. “I’ll eat later.”

  “I hear we head out again at dawn? Is that right?” asked a man with a beard so thick it appeared as if his mouth barely moved.

  “At dawn. Back into the chop.”

  “Heard there were losses on the right,” another commented.

  “There were losses,” Kra admitted. “Met Cavaliers. Nothing’s certain with them.”

  “Nothing,” Kestimir agreed thoughtfully and considered the leg of rabbit he held.

  “We’ll take the survivors, make up for the few we lost.”

  “And tomorrow?” Lokan asked.

  “Tomorrow, we hunt the same Klaw. And this time, when we bite, we shake it until a chunk rips free, just to remind the Sunjan poltues who owns them in the night.”

  Grim faces nodded at Kra’s words, igniting a rush of deadly pride within his chest. The Nordish weren’t overly talkative when at war. They’d learned long ago the best talking was left behind in the smoke and ashes of the conquered. Kra wasn’t sure if the years had done that to them or if they were just naturally vicious as a people. He got confused at times. He’d been at war for so long, he sometimes had to sit and think about what he’d left behind in his homeland. On the front, conversations were curt and spiced with cruel humor. He’d perhaps said more in the last little while than he had in the past week, and he felt strangely unused to ordinary conversation. When Nordish spoke, points were made quickly, and people listened.

  “They took near fifty of ours… but we’ll take thrice of theirs,” Kra said, staring into the boiling pot, his Jackals leaning in and absorbing every word.

  “And leave the rest pissing ice.”

  6

  The dawn sky blazed a golden hue over the city’s dusty battlements. Peddlers and merchants roused themselves and prepared their wares for another day while early risers trickled from doorways into the larger streets. The sun burned away the shadows, scouring the side streets and back alleys, and touched the planks of a cellar door. Boot steps sounded from underneath, stopping just below. Fingers scrabbled upon the wood, and the slab lifted just a crack. The presence beneath considered the empty alley and approved. Borchus pushed the door up with his shoulders, freeing himself from the earthy-smelling cellar. It wasn’t the most comfortable of places to rest for the night, but it was safe, and in his business, one took precautions.

  The sun warming his bare, muscular arms, the agent closed the cellar door and inspected his clothing for a moment––brown vest over a sleeveless white tunic, freshly cleaned, and gray trousers. He eyed his leather boots, decided he might have to replace them soon, and bent over to give a quick brushing to the toes. The owners of the house, whose cellar he’d paid coin to sleep in, were cobblers and dealt in leather boots and sandals. The quality wasn’t the best, but then, Borchus didn’t need the best, didn’t want the attention that came with wearing finery of any sort. He felt his long sideburns and then the stubble of his chin. He wasn’t sure if he’d allow his beard to grow back. It had been a time since he’d had one, and the weather was particularly hot that year.

  The extra growth would be helpful in concealing his face, though not from the more astute watchers. And not the ones with long memories.

  Borchus sighed contentedly. Though there were elements in the city that harbored grudges against him, it still felt good doing what he did best––gathering information.

  The dull heat made him glance at the cloudless morning sky, and he caught the blinding edge of the rising sun. There was much to be done—spies to contact, networks to be arranged—and the very thought of it split his face with a wry smile. Some would be interested in seeing him alive while others would not, and others still would take every opportunity to even old scores in the most painful manner available. The thought of sidestepping and evading those particular efforts thrilled him. Borchus lived for his work, his true talent, and the dangers attached were only stony avenues to be mindful of and avoided where possible. The idea of arranging protection struck him, at least for the duration of the season. And a month beyond. Just in case.

  He walked near soundlessly over the cut stones of the alley before connecting with the larger street. A short stop at a cook’s open stall and fire pit provided him with a small breakfast of warm bread with honey butter and a fistful of hard-boiled eggs. He ate the bread and the eggs while standing in the street, facing the old cook while studying passersby in his side vision. Once finished, he bought more food and got on his way, merging with a thickening stream of people. A sense of secrecy filled him. Just the day before, he had been one of them, but as of that day, he was something more, and no one suspected a thing. He thought of the first man he had to see and altered his course toward the west end of Sunja, toward the arena and some of the lesser gladiator houses.

  It took him half the morning to find the man, but he eventually spotted him sitting in the shade of a thin alley, miserably squinting at the passersby and holding out his shaking hand—an old ghost who haunted an avoided corner. Silver laced his shabby beard and a frightening mess of hair, but it drew attention away from the stained rags that passed as clothing. His face appeared harsher than it had the last time Borchus spoke to him. Someone tossed the beggar a coin, and he bared a horrible grimace of teeth.

  Borchus rubbed his face, questioning himself if he should actually talk with his old acquaintance. The years hadn’t been kind to him at all. Then again, the years hadn’t been kind to Borchus either.

  Gathering himself, the blocky agent meandered over to the man begging on the street. Borchus came within three strides of him before the smell of dried sweat, urine, and another unspeakable fragrance stopped him cold in his tracks. He suspected stomach juice. Holding his nose briefly, Borchus edged closer to the unfortunate soul, who was reaching in another direction.

  “Greetings, Garl.”

  Garl’s filthy face jerked around and looked up, sunlight causing his face to snarl for a heartbeat before slackening with recognition.

  “Borchus?”

  “Aye.”

  “You… shaved.”

  “Just a bit,” Borchus smirked in good humor. “I’m in disguise.”

  Garl blinked and studied him from head to toe. Borchus kept his own eyes on the beggar’s face and not the place where half the man’s right leg should have been.

  “Borchus.” Garl exhaled, his features shaking ever so slightly in wonder. “I wouldn’t have recognized you except… for your voice. And that’s changed a bit as well. Haven’t seen or heard tell of you in years.”

  “Not since I gave the business up.”

  Garl cocked his head with horrific realization. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, doesn’t look to have hurt you any.”

  “May I?”

  Garl remembered his manners despite conversing in an alleyway and gestured for Borchus to sit, which he did, placing his back against the opposite building. The agent shifted for a bit until comfortable, mindful of the dust-caked rags masking the stump of the beggar’s hacked-off limb.

  Dark circles ringed the flesh underneath Garl’s ogling eyes, and he scratched at his nose with a hand missing the last two fingers.

  When Borchus settled down, a frown stole over his features. “You don’t look so well.”

  Garl inspected himself, shrugging as if realizi
ng for the first time how deplorable he appeared. “Been a hard few years. Seems like… only a couple of weeks. Really.”

  “But you managed to stay alive.”

  Another shrug. “Always managed to do that. Haven’t decided if it’s a blessing or a curse yet. The city keeps me alive, mostly. Her people. Their scraps.”

  Garl gestured to the thickening throngs passing before them at not quite an arm’s length. Borchus diverted his attention to the people before the smell emanating from the beggar finally overcame him. He covered his mouth and nose with a hand.

  “Apologies,” Garl muttered sincerely and scratched at himself. “Haven’t bathed just today.”

  “This year, I wager.”

  The bearded features drooped in embarrassment, and Borchus scolded himself for the jab. He remembered this man was far more sensitive than any other person he knew.

  “Garl, I’m going to gather a new network.”

  “What?” His eyes, haunting and gray, suddenly became attentive. Borchus wondered how unfit the man’s mind might have become after all the years living as a parasite.

  “I’m going to start another network. I need men I can trust. That’s why I came here this day.”

  “Why didn’t you see me any other day?”

  “I’ve been… busy,” Borchus lied. Truth be known, survival was singular, and he had been doing the same, in other parts of the country or its neighbors. Regardless, in the end, he still remembered his henchman, which should have counted for something.

  “Busy?”

  Borchus nodded, trying hard not to comment on how aggressively Garl clawed at his chest, his beard, or his armpits. The agent hoped Garl didn’t scratch at his kog and bells with such force.

  Garl’s eyes flickered to the street then back to Borchus, like a wild animal debating if it should flee or not.

  “You want me to watch and listen again?”

  “Aye.”

  “I don’t… understand, Borchus. Look here.” With that he slapped at the empty space where his leg would’ve been. “And this.” The hand with the missing fingers flashed up as if about to summon rain. “I didn’t do this to myself.”