Halm broke into a smile. “Ah, apologies, I didn’t mean any offence.”
“None taken. Just stating facts is all.”
“Yes, well, it’s good to know them.”
“You a fighter?”
“Me?” Halm put a pair of fingers to his chest. “Aye that.”
“Don’t look like one.”
“What?”
“Too fat around the middle. Looks like someone already cut you up as well. Like a hairy ham. Cut you up and then slapped some wrapping on you for later.”
Seddon above. The lad sounded like Pig Knot. Halm’s smile widened. An elbow jostled him from behind, and he shot a withering glare at the owner. Then he put the face away and regarded the lad again.
“What’s your name?”
“What?”
“What’s your name?”
“Why? I don’t want to know you.”
“Fair enough. I probably wouldn’t want to know me either.”
“Aye that,” he said with contempt.
The retort put a smirk on Halm’s face.
“Now what?” the lad grated. “Can’t you see I’m about to fight here? I don’t want to talk. Off with you.”
“How many fights you have?”
“What?”
“You say that a lot.”
“And you speak funny. Where’re you from?”
“Zhiberia. You?”
But the other man didn’t answer right away. “You’re the Zhiberian? The one that the House of Curge wants to cut up?”
Halm rolled his eyes. “Aye that. Well, probably so. I don’t think there are many of us at the games. Or in Sunja for that matter.”
“They even call you Ham.”
“Halm,” Halm grated.
“Apologies. But you know you’re a dead man?”
“I’m probably a lot of things, but dead isn’t one of them. Not yet.”
“Well, to answer your question, I’ve had two fights before this.”
“Ah. That’s the reason.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You look as if you’re about to let slip a cow kiss.”
The youth appeared bothered by that. “I’m not, then.”
“Well then, steady yourself. Relax for a moment. Take a breath. You’ve already fought twice before, so you know what to do. What to expect.”
The other man didn’t share Halm’s confidence. “I was like this before the others as well.”
“And you got through it and won.”
The youth looked at his feet.
“You didn’t win?” Halm asked in confusion.
“I won. But… the first one was so drunk he stumbled and fell, and I was on him. The second one wasn’t much better. Another bastard just as nervous as myself, really. We must’ve goaded each other for damn near half the day before the first swing, and even then it wasn’t anything to look at. I cut him down and got him to yield, but…”
“It wasn’t anything to look at,” Halm finished.
“Aye that. Not at all. Not really.”
“Hm. What’s your name?”
“Targus,” he said without any hesitation that time.
“Targus. The first thing you do is get that look off your face. You look ready to piss yourself right now, understand? And I saw it while just walking along. In this terrible light, I might add. What do you suppose your opponent is going to think if he sees you like that? And he will. It’s day out there.”
“He’ll kill me.” Targus’s face sagged with worry.
“Right and proper, too. So at least look as if you’re not about to let loose with the scutters. There’s no time for that now, anyway. Firm up and focus on pulling steel. Understand? Get rid of the lamb face. At least look the part of a pit fighter with two victories to his name.”
Targus took a breath, seemingly bolstered by the talk. Unease still mired his features, but at least he no longer seemed in dire need of a shite trough.
“Anything else?” Targus asked.
“That’s it.”
“Do you fight this day?”
“Me? Seddon above, no. I’m… looking for someone.”
“That one that killed your friend?”
Halm faced the younger man and didn’t say anything for a moment. “How did you know about that?”
“Most all are talking about it.”
“Well, aye then, I’m looking for him. He didn’t kill my friend, though.”
“From what I heard, he should have.”
Halm was at a loss for words a second time. Targus had a way of doing that.
“Targus!” a voice called.
“That’s it, then,” the younger warrior said. “Thank you for the words.”
With that, the younger version of Pig Knot hurried off toward his moment on the sands.
Halm watched him until the white tunnel swallowed him whole. He should have, still rang in his head like the ominous chimes of a temple. He should have. The stark reality of it all chilled his core. Pig Knot had no legs. What happened to gladiators who lost limbs in the pit? Halm didn’t know what, and he didn’t care to dwell on it, but he called Pig Knot a friend—one who would need plenty of support in the days to come.
He should have, came the grim echo once again.
Drawing a hand down over his face, Halm sniffed, cleared his head, and concentrated on the task at hand. A fence of armored Skarrs stood across the way, ever vigilant for the safety of the Madea. He spotted the arena official, mulling over his papers, set before him on an elevated wooden desk as big and scarred as a slab of cut granite. Lamplight made the large matchboard beyond the Madea glow with arcane luminescence, its surface marred by lines and unfathomable scribbles that made Halm’s head ache. He pushed through the fighters in his way and stopped before the solemn official, who had his head down and offered a fine view of how he parted his thinning white hair down the middle. Two of the Skarrs turned their iron visors toward Halm, their hostile scrutiny palpable.
The Madea looked up from his papers, his old face pinched and stern. “What is it?”
“I want a blood match.”
“Against who?”
“The one called Skulljigger.”
“Hm.” The Madea squinted at the papers on his desk and shook his head. “Will take some time to arrange. I’ll have to find and notify this Skulljigger. See if he accepts. The tournament takes greater precedence these days. Not like in the beginning. What’s your name?”
“Halm of Zhiberia.”
“Right. I remembered the gut. Forgot the name. But…” The Madea’s mouth puckered up as if about to deliver a sour kiss. “Aren’t you already in a blood match? With the House of Curge?”
“I am. If they wish continuing it.”
“I’m sure they will.”
Halm supposed he was right.
“And theirs is first,” the Madea continued, “priority since you’ve killed a couple of their lads now. You’re a bloody one, aren’t you?”
Rancid approval laced the last few words, and the Madea studied Halm until he felt uncharacteristically uneasy.
“I’ll make note of the blood match. Keep an eye on the matchboard for it.” With that, the official lowered his head and resumed his work.
Dismissed, Halm backed away from the desk and the watching Skarrs, wary of them all. It was the second to-the-death fight he’d issued, and while he was gladdened by knowing Vadrian the Fire was days dead, something about this recent challenge bothered him. Pit fighters eyed Halm shadily, and they didn’t glance away when he confronted their gazes. Ignoring them, the Zhiberian meandered toward a wall made orange by flickering torches.
With a little luck, the man known as Skulljigger would appear shortly, and they’d have a talk about their bloody future together.
9
Sunlight poured heat into the open arena, scorching the combed sands until shimmers rose and distorted the air like rising hellions. Thousands of onlookers dressed in a deluge of colors ringed the
Pit from top to bottom, with the thickest of them gathering at the stone lip overlooking the sands, where they flourished like animated grout. Curge regarded the terraced stands brimming with eager spectators and then squinted at the sun, hanging above the highest arches of the arena’s stone structure. He recalled conversations and plans for erecting poles from those arches so canvas could be strung out to offer shade to the people below. The open boxes had their own tarps to block the sun, a welcomed benefit of being an owner, but nothing could completely stop the searing summer heat.
Thankful to escape the sun’s scalding wrath, Curge ground his teeth as he plopped down in his seat and took an offered goblet of wine from a servant’s tray. He took a drink, gulping rather than sipping, and frowned at the vintage before directing his distaste at the woman.
“Did someone piss in this before you poured it?”
“No, Master Curge,” the woman replied.
Curge grunted and drained the rest of the wine in one swallow. He placed the goblet back on the tray heavily and turned his attention back to the Pit with a harsh snort and a swallow, dismissing the servant.
“Crack open another, then. Something that doesn’t taste like a latrine.”
“As you wish, Master Curge.”
“Trouble, Curge?” Gastillo asked, his golden mask lending his voice a metallic quality.
Curge thought he’d heard the door open to the viewing box and shook his head in disdain. He’d hoped the whole area would be his alone that day. “The wine,” he muttered without facing the owner. “Tastes like piss. Or what I imagine what piss would taste like if I had to drink it. Tell me if I’m right…”
Gastillo didn’t reply, and Curge smirked. The gold-faced once-gladiator was a whelp when it came to exchanging jabs.
“You disappoint me, Gastillo. I thought for a moment that I might be up here alone for the day’s fights.”
“I hope most of your thoughts are equally mistaken.”
“Harsh words… harsh.” The words bubbled from Curge’s throat. “Uncalled for.”
Gastillo took a goblet from the servant and brought it to his metal lips. The mask drank, only to emit a grunt. “Seddon above, that is bad.”
The owner immediately produced a hand cloth and slipped it under his mask.
“So what is it?” Curge asked, feeling sweat pop on his skin and wondering how the people managed with no shade at all. “Piss or just swill?”
“That one’s certainly off.” Gastillo motioned for the woman, and when she came, he returned the goblet. “Throw that whole bottle away.”
“No,” Curge interjected, scouring the ripening audience, “keep that one for the master of wines. Let him choke it down.”
“But bring us another bottle. Separate bottles,” Gastillo corrected.
“You don’t wish to share wine with me?” Curge inquired innocently. “It is a precursor to information, you know.”
“Information,” Gastillo hissed, settling into his seat and surveying the audience. The orator’s voice cut through the rabble of noise, introducing the first fights of the day.
“Aye, information.”
“You can’t be talking about the new house, can you?” Gastillo asked without turning his head.
“Ah, you know of it already?” Curge smirked. “Your agents are more effective than I thought.”
“They manage,” Gastillo let slip, which blunted the smile on Curge’s face.
“Then out with it.”
Gastillo rocked in his chair as if pleased with his hidden knowledge, displeasing Curge. He thumped the stump of his left arm against the stone wall of the box, the rounded flesh resembling a battering ram. “Did you hear me?”
“Did you say something?”
“You heard me. I swear, Gastillo, only now do I see the strategy behind always wearing that slab of tin on your face. And all this time, I thought it was only to cover your fright of a face. Now I see its true merit. Perhaps I should invest in my own mask to hide my thoughts and expressions.”
“Well. Perhaps you should.”
Curge turned back to the arena. Two men stood poised just outside the lowering portcullis, shifting on their feet. Both wore the fitted leather of the recently dead. Both held shortswords and round shields. To Curge, they appeared like mirror images, which elicited a sigh of bored annoyance. Free Trained shite. Still, he paid mind to all of them just in case one proved to be something more than their class suggested.
“Who are these punces?” Curge asked. “I didn’t catch the names.”
“The one with the war braid is called Targus while the other one is called Nadus. The new house has called itself the House of Ten.”
“I heard that already. Did you hear anything else?”
“The one who gutted Baylus the Butcher is its head, it would seem. Perhaps he thinks overseeing a pack of pit fighters is more of a challenge. In any case, your friend the Zhiberian is with them. As well as a handful of others. All with winning records, those who are still in the tournament.”
“Halm of Zhiberia.” Curge spat the last word as if it were filth.
“You remember him, don’t you?”
“Don’t play with me, Gastillo, not about that fat pig-bastard.”
“My apologies. The deaths of your men still sting, I see.”
Curge directed a look of warning at Gastillo before the fight below drew their attention. The fighters thundered across the sands, bellowing all the way, and met in the middle. A flurry of wild strikes cutting nothing but air made the audience cry out in pleasure, but those cries quickly soured when the more astute spectators realized the two pit fighters were only flailing at each other. The one called Targus swung at his opponent’s head as if he were attempting to cool the man off. Sucking on a tooth in contempt, Curge looked away from the match and focused on the dull gleam of Gastillo’s mask. The woman brought them goblets of wine, which they lifted from her tray.
“Who’s training the house’s gladiators?” Curge asked, suddenly wary of revealing any emotion around Gastillo.
“I don’t know.”
Curge sighed and heaved his shoulders in frustration. He’d have to find out if Clavellus was with them.
“You’ve become quiet, Curge,” Gastillo remarked, his mask pointed at the sloppy dance below. “Something bothers you?”
The clang of swords distracted Dark Curge for a moment. Such a resounding clash of metal might have signaled something interesting happening on the sands. Much to his disappointment, Curge saw the two men continuing to flail at each other. Free Trained shite.
“Nothing bothers me, good Gastillo,” you sunny tit, he thought blackly. “But since you shared, allow me to reciprocate. I heard about this House of Ten this morning, and I know the Zhiberian is with them. My agents are in the process of finding out who these ten are and who trains them. I expect the answers soon enough, which I’ll share with you. The taskmasters and trainers interest me greatly. Knowing who they are is just another piece of the puzzle needed for victory in the Pit.”
“Agreed,” Gastillo said and drank from his goblet.
Curge cautiously took a drink of his own and found it pleasing––not as sour as the previous wine.
“Much better.” He smacked with approval.
On the sands, swords clattered once more and ended with a yelp. Nadus dropped to his knees, his weapon on the sand while he buckled over and cradled his guts. Generous dollops of blood blotted the sands. With a casualness Curge approved of, Targus walked around his fallen foe, stained blade in hand. He stopped behind Nadus’s rocking form and pointed the tip of his weapon downward, much to the exultation of the crowd.
And he stabbed the man through the back of the neck.
Nadus toppled, to cheers and applause. Curge wasn’t certain if that was in appreciation of a terrible match being finished or the death. Probably the death. A good one often made up for a poor showing.
Nexus sat down between the pair of owners without greetings. “First b
lood of the day, I see.”
Curge regarded the merchant’s pallid features and eyed the oily slick of his graying hair. Nexus strained to see what had just happened in the Pit, thrusting his almost nonexistent chin out and squinting at the marred arena floor.
“Decided to join us, Nexus?” Curge inquired.
Nexus took a goblet from the servant’s tray without thanks and tipped it back before answering. That rude act alone made Curge want to bounce the old prick’s head off the box’s stone wall.
“I was attending to business,” Nexus said after studying the wine with an appraising eye. “Real business. And not this spectacle. Not that it’s any of your damn concern, your darkness.”
Curge caught the slight dip of Gastillo’s mask, as if that gold-plated cow kiss were smiling. He didn’t appreciate that at all, and the urge to smack the old bastard next to him swelled dangerously.
“You’ve missed the news we were just discussing,” Curge seethed, and in an admirable feat of self-control, turned back to the pit in time to see the victor walk off while the attendants labored with the carcass.
“Discovered a new way to gut someone?”
“Hardly.”
“Then I’m doubtful it was anything of interest.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“What is it, then? Out with it. Tell me, since you’re bursting to do so.” Nexus signalled for more wine.
Curge wagged a finger at the servant. “Is that the wine we’re drinking or the earlier vintage?”
“The earlier one, Master Curge,” she replied.
“You’re enjoying that slop?” Curge asked the wine merchant.
“This?” Nexus held up the filled vessel. “It’s a damn sight better than the sweetened rat sluice I usually drink here. At least this has both flavor and sting.”
“I thought it was piss.”
“Yes, well, you’re an uncivilized brute who somehow broke his chains and learned to speak language. One wouldn’t expect a fellow of your nature to judge proper wine. Not even if it was pissed down your throat.” Nexus inspected his drink and then the sands below while the jab slackened Curge’s weathered jowls. Even Gastillo froze visibly.
“You go too far, Nexus,” Curge said in a dangerously quiet tone, insult coloring his cheeks.
131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain Page 9