“Tomorrow.”
“Too soon.”
“The day after tomorrow.”
“Better. Your name is…”
Brakuss didn’t want to give it up. When dealing with Saimon’s hellions, one’s name was the very last thing one revealed. Still, he swallowed and gave it.
“Brakuss,” the voice repeated unpleasantly. “Who is your man fighting the day after tomorrow?”
He gave that as well.
“When next we meet, Brakuss, you’ll provide us with the names of all of your fighters entered in this season’s games. We’ll do the rest. We’ll contact you the day after tomorrow, at the Gate of the Moon, just before noon. And have no worries, whoever you have on the sands that day will win. Victory shall be yours.”
The relief in the once-gladiator’s face was unmistakable.
But then the voice hardened. “However, make no mistake. We know who Grisholt is. We know where his estate is beyond the city walls. He knows our reputation and our… appetite for vengeance. Remind him, will you, if he dares to betray the Sons… we will come for him. And you. And all in your vicinity.”
An exhausted Brakuss closed his one eye. “I understand.”
The presence lingered for heartbeats, and for a moment, Brakuss didn’t think he would live to relay that message to his employer. Then the light went out. The arms released him. He opened his eye and saw the door was open, and the long hall beckoned. He blinked at the sight and put a hand to his bleeding cut.
“Leave us,” a voice whispered from the dark, sounding as if it was eating something.
Brakuss did just that.
16
“Well, then, I have you now, don’t I? I have you right and proper. You miserable sacks of maggot shite. You diseased punces. Lickers of fine cracks. I hope you slept well, for after this day is done, you’ll drag your near-dead carcasses back to those boxes and lick your hurts like mauled cats.” Machlann blared at the six men standing at attention before him, his bushy moustache and beard shaking with every gust. The new recruits waited in the middle of Clavellus’s training area, on sands simmering with the sun’s increasing heat, wearing only sandals and loincloths. They all stood at near equal height, with the exceptions of Sapo and Brozz. Machlann glared at them all in turn, sparing no one, his hands behind his back and a sneer on his lips. Koba lurked off to one side with his head cocked, showing his horrible scar already gleaming from sweat and the fleshy hole where his left ear had once been.
Sitting above it all, on the second-floor balcony of his house, was Clavellus with his silver mug flashing in the sunlight, already two drinks into the morning. A pensive Goll leaned forward and folded his arms on the railing. He glanced at his taskmaster, who merely took a lengthy sip of Sunjan black while watching the proceedings, unperturbed by the verbal lashing.
Machlann stole the Kree’s attention with his next barrage.
“Somehow, Master Goll feels that you lot got push enough to be on my sands. I’m here to prove him wrong. Koba’s here to prove him wrong. Matter of fact, we have coin wagered you’ll break before the sun drops behind those walls. Eh? Coin wagered! No lie. A sure thing in my mind since we’re both here to shave the bark from the wood. Motivated to break you. You were Free Trained before, veritable horse shite of the games. You existed only to be trod upon by the House gladiators, to be bled and butchered at their whim. Why? Because you were simply you, taking up space and arms in a profession which real men had spent years training for, strutting in places you had no place being. Eeeee!” He growled as if lifting a boulder, drawing looks from some of the men, but Machlann raged on. “You had no reason for being in the games except the Gladiatorial Chamber––in all their grand wisdom––saw you as a bloody warm-up to the real sport. Perhaps even figured they might profit from your deaths. Eeeee! Perhaps they wanted to show the difference between drunken louts hacking at each other and two fully trained hellions battling to bloody conclusion. No one cared if you won or lost, lived or died, because you were alone on the sands. There was no one behind you. Now, however… you have someone behind you. You have each other. You have us.”
At one end of the line, Torello shook his head skeptically and looked at his feet.
“Eeeee, more to the point, my young missuses,” Machlann growled, his blue eyes flashing, “you he-bitches are mine, and here’s what you need to know. What I say, you do. If you don’t, pain will be yours. What Master Koba says, you do. If not, pain will be yours. In my eyes, you are not worthy to be here. Dried stains of horse shite have more right to be here than you do. I’ve already voiced my opinion to Master Clavellus and Master Goll, and this morning… I’ll prove it to them.”
An odd sense of having heard and seen this all before swept over Goll, and not so long before. While the trainer below droned on, he leaned over to Clavellus. “Does he always say the same thing to the men?”
“More or less,” the taskmaster replied mildly, studying the remaining contents of his mug. “Probably recites it in his sleep rather than snore. Not that it should lessen the truth behind the words. Remember, Master Goll, Machlann and Koba are training these lads to survive. The games have already started. Staying alive for the duration is his––our first objective. Then, maybe, we can prepare in earnest for next season.”
“I want them to win.”
“Oh, winning is secondary. If they survive any of their matches, chances are they’ll have won. You have to remember, you are––we are sending in a troop of Free Trained dogs who answered your call. There was no scouting. No selection process. We don’t know who we have here or the extent of their skills. And we have the gall to establish ourselves as a house amongst those who have taken this sport very seriously for a very long time––a topic for another day. I have no worries about facing Free Trained warriors, but we are, will be, at war with every house competing in the games just because of our impudence—at least, until we prove ourselves otherwise. And even then, they’ll be looking for our heads in every match. Worse, we can’t afford to kill any of our opponents, except the Free Trained. We simply don’t have the coin or the men to absorb a war between houses.”
A scowling Goll faced the taskmaster. “I’ve hired you, isn’t that right?”
“You have,” Clavellus granted.
“And wasn’t it you who chastised me for sending in one of my fighters to lose? Just for profit?”
Clavellus’s expression soured just a tad.
Goll continued. “And didn’t you say something about training gladiators to win? Or something to that effect? Training our lads to win? No, apologies, ‘our lads train to win’ is what you said. Ah, yes. That’s what you said. Our lads train to win. I remember it now.”
The taskmaster squinted at him in a new, appraising light, absorbing the rebuke.
“Train our men to win,” Goll rebuked, eyes locked onto Clavellus. “Nothing less. They’re house gladiators now. Victory is survival. Victory first.”
Clavellus flexed his bearded jaw and looked toward the sands. “Understood,” he conceded quietly.
Goll nodded, anger subsiding and pleased he’d won the exchange. It was far too early in the day to have at his own taskmaster’s throat, but a moment later something troubled him. “Why can we afford to slay Free Trained?”
Clavellus regarded him wearily and sighed. “Because they’re Free Trained. They’re alone. No one cares if a Free Trained falls as there’s no one to avenge them, unlike a proper house where blood usually demands blood.” He shrugged and went back to watching Machlann.
Goll digested that and did the same.
“Now then,” Machlann was finishing up, “you toppers are all rested up. Time for your first day of work.”
“I’m bored already,” Torello said. He sighted Goll and cried, “You never said anything about listening to this old pisser.”
Torello’s insult to the trainer momentarily left Goll speechless.
“Always one in every pack,” Clavellus muttered and sipp
ed his wine.
But Machlann bared his remaining teeth in a ferocious smile and gave all of his attention to the younger pit fighter.
“Not impressed with me, are you, my missus?”
“No, my missus.” Torello mocked with a cold leer. “I’m not.”
“Eeee, come at me, then.”
That arched Torello’s brow.
“Come on,” Machlann repeated and stepped back a few paces. He wore only a thick bundle of linen about his waist while his wiry upper frame, drizzled in gray hair right up to his beard, was shirtless and tanned to near leather. Though showing his age, he was far from frail looking. In fact, scowling as he was, he looked damned threatening. He flicked a hand at Koba, who tossed him a wooden practice sword. The trainer then threw a similar weapon at the feet of Torello, who regarded Machlann with disbelief.
“You’re unfit, you dusty crack.”
“And you’re scared now, my missus.” Machlann jeered. “Pick up that weapon and come at me, or by Saimon’s black hanging fruit, I’ll make you howl if I have to walk over there to you.”
Anger colored Torello’s face. His companion, the beefy Kolo, appeared very ill at ease with the challenge. Torello wasn’t a small man. Near naked as he was, like them all, he was clearly in fine shape. He rubbed at the black stubble on his chin, shrugged, and snatched up the wooden sword.
“Apologies, lads,” he said, but a cruel eagerness covered his face.
Three heartbeats later, Torello collapsed on his back, nose bleeding and blinking in astonishment while the trainer towered over him. The speed Machlann displayed in disarming and smashing Torello startled his students and made them take greater stock of the older man. Chuckles rang out from the scattered guardsmen from the outer wall.
Machlann scorched the air with insults and primitive, throat-clearing snarls of Eeeeeee! directed at Torello.
“Always one,” Clavellus muttered and reached for the pitcher on a table just behind him.
The only thing surprising Goll more was the speed with which the taskmaster attacked his spirits. “Bit early in the morning for that, isn’t it?”
“No,” Clavellus said pointedly, cocking an eyebrow while pouring the drink. He took a quick sip and glanced into the shaded interior of his house.
“Good morning, my sweet.” He lifted his shaking hand in greeting.
Nala, wearing white-and-green robes she made regal, appeared in the entryway. Her gray hair was tied back, and a heady scent surrounded her that distracted Goll from Machlann’s barking.
“Whenever you say that,” Nala spoke, “I’ve found you want something. Good morning to you, Master Goll.”
Goll nodded in disarmed surprise. He hadn’t formally met the woman.
“It continues, I see,” Nala said, gazing down at Machlann while holding out her hand.
“It does,” Clavellus answered, dejectedly handing over his mug.
“Where’s the one I gave you?” she asked.
“I’m training now. You don’t remember? I use the silver when training. Unless I can’t find the other.”
“Hm.” She sipped delicately at the mug. Her hazel eyes became slits of distaste. “Black. Haven’t you got any wine?”
“You knew it was beer before you tasted it.”
“Hmm. I could hear him from far back in the house this morning.” Nala deflected her husband’s point, indicating Machlann with a nod. She took another sip, longer this time.
“Still hate it, I see,” Clavellus observed sardonically.
“I was thirsty.”
“Oh, well then. Seddon forbid.”
Nala frowned at him. “I’ll be leaving for Pynn’s Brook, shortly.”
“With who?”
“Maro and Ailsha. I’ll leave you to your tasking. Try not to have anyone killed. I don’t want the smell drifting through the house.” With that, she took one last drink before returning the mug. She kissed his head and disappeared back into the house.
Clavellus looked into its silver depths and frowned. “Wench,” he muttered and reached for the pitcher.
“You allow her to travel by herself?” Goll asked.
The taskmaster cocked his brow. “You mean without me? I have no worries there. You know this isn’t Kalikos. Or Zuthenia. She has a capable guard and another servant with her. The road to Pynn’s Brook is also patrolled by Skarrs on a regular basis. She… doesn’t really care for what we do.”
Clavellus turned his attention back to the sands. Goll did the same.
An indignant Torello was in line with the other recruits, nursing his hurts.
Machlann resumed bellowing.
17
The morning became hellish for the six recruits, and Goll struggled not to show his disdain for some of the men’s lack of endurance. With redundant, commanding growls of “Do as I do!” Machlann got them to perform his burning squat, lowering his rump to the ground as if perched on an unseen chair with his arms straight before him for balance. The trainer dipped and rose time and time again until he held it and moved no more. The others complied, with Koba stalking around them like a dangerous bear, a menacing club in his fist. Sapo, the most physically imposing of them all, with his tremendous size and heavy muscle, crumpled after only a count of thirty-two and had no qualms screaming about it… until Machlann ordered him to shut up.
“Big man, that one,” Clavellus confided while sipping on yet another mug of beer. “Has arms like legs and legs like tree trunks. Impressive, but all power, no endurance. At least in the legs. Noisy about failing as well. Didn’t like that at all. Embarrassed.”
Tumber, the Vathian with the shaved head and great black beard, faltered at the forty- eight mark, collapsing to his knees with a curt groan. Tumber stayed there in the sand, grimacing while rubbing his thighs and watching the others.
“He did well,” Clavellus muttered loudly enough for only Goll to hear.
Torello’s scarred face contorted in pain at the fifty-four count.
“Stubborn, that one,” the taskmaster whispered and scratched at his beard. “His companion there is only waiting for––”
Torello buckled and sat down heavily on the hot sands. Kolo followed almost immediately, rubbing his short, prematurely graying hair. Goll noted that Clavellus didn’t say much about that.
That left only two: the Perician and the towering Sarlander. Brozz was easily the tallest of any of the others, edging out even Sapo, and surprisingly broad in the shoulders. He squatted with his arms straight out, his long pitchfork of a moustache quivering with mounting exertion. Junger actually looked serene as he continuously matched the trainer. Goll wondered if it pleased Machlann when a student fell.
Then, with barely a sound, Brozz dropped onto his backside. He exhaled, sat up, and hung his dark head between his knees.
Goll noted the ugly smile stretched across Torello’s face.
Then there was only Junger and Machlann. The trainer made fists in the air at times while Junger squinted in the bright sun.
“That one’s done this before,” Clavellus said, peering over his mug.
“You believe so?” Goll asked, catching a flash of light off the silver.
“Oh yes,” Clavellus whispered with interest. “Oh yes, indeed.”
“Well,” Torello said, “If there’s ever a contest for this foolishness, you’d both do well.”
Beside him, Kolo chuckled obediently.
Koba walked over to the pair and cracked their shoulders with his club, producing surprised grunts of pain. The scarred trainer loomed over them, and both Torello and Kolo kept their mouths shut.
The contest went on.
“My legs are about to fall off just watching them,” Tumber remarked gruffly after some time, squinting at the sun and smoothing out the impressive bush of his beard.
Surprisingly, Koba did not strike him.
“How long is this supposed to go on?” Torello groaned, probably encouraged by the fact that Tumber hadn’t been punished at all. That ti
me, Koba ignored him.
Parts of Machlann’s bare legs twitched with the growing strain with each successive dip. His movements became slower, increasingly painful. His cheeks puffed out, but the trainer kept his fierce blue eyes on the Perician, who squatted with his eyes closed, shutting out the world. The chests of both men worked. Sweat beaded down their faces. Machlann’s beard looked soaked.
“Here’s a lesson for you,” Clavellus said to Goll and then cleared his throat. The taskmaster spoke loud enough to be heard by all. “I think you have a winner, Master Machlann. Best move on to the next task.”
The trainer stood up stiffly after a count of seventy-two. A low rumble of a growl left his tired face, perhaps the only clue as to how close he had been to breaking. Grimacing, Machlann peered up at the balcony and took a deep breath.
“Move them on, Master Koba,” he struggled in a labored voice and turned back to Junger. “Straighten up, boy.”
Only then did Junger open his eyes and leave the squat. He flexed his legs, still springy, still strong, kicking them up and shaking them out. Upon Koba’s commands, the new men paced around the open sands, all the while eyeing the Perician with something akin to distrust and wonder.
Clavellus shook his head and leaned over to Goll.
“Our lad Machlann, as old as he looks, would have stood there like that until both legs snapped off and he fell over. Can’t have that. Too damaging for his pride and sends the wrong idea to any one of them lads. The trainer must impose an image of strength, always.”
“What wrong idea?” Goll asked, smelling beer on the taskmaster’s breath.
“Like it’s possible to kill him, for one,” Clavellus replied, gripping his mug. “If you feel brave sometime, ask Machlann about some of those old scars of his. But remember this. The trainer must have an aura of invincibility about him. And it’s my task to preserve that aura, that image, when I can.”
Below, Koba instructed them to pick up wooden swords from a nearby rack and got them working on striking “wooden men”—upright timbers with outstretched poles in the shape of welcoming arms, all for practicing strikes. Machlann stood apart, recovering like a winded, wounded wolf.
131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain Page 16