131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  Halm recognized the request in the fallen man’s gaze. He remembered the touching of fists at the very beginning of the fight. Whatever Sibo might have been, he was not a dishonorable man, and Halm had no wish for him to suffer.

  While some onlookers began celebrating riches not yet claimed, Halm dropped to his knees, sighed heavily and, with whatever strength remained, crushed the warrior’s windpipe with a chop of his hand. Then he broke the man’s head with one punch.

  Sibo departed, and Halm of Zhiberia, fists dripping raw carnage, stood on unsteady feet.

  To bewildering cheers.

  “Well done!”

  “Right and proper!”

  “Hellpup, Zhiberian! You’re a hellpup!”

  Squinting in discomfort, Halm gazed about, noting not all were rooting for him, not that it bothered him much. Then he found Borchus, and the flattering little smile on the agent’s face was as good as being dipped into an entire vat of healing ointments.

  “Victor!” the Stick cried, clapping a hand on the Zhiberian’s shoulder.

  And the doors above almost lifted from the explosion of sound.

  24

  They paid Borchus coin, given in a small cloth bag, and he heaped the wagers won on top as the next fight got underway, the crowd eager for the next round. Once every piece was collected, he met Halm in the waiting chamber. The overweight pit fighter had slumped against a brick wall, weak from blood loss and battle fatigue. He’d shaken off his spikes, grabbed a handful of bandages, and pressed a clump into the bite wound on his left arm. The mess of his nose and chin remained untouched, and Halm hung his head and simply allowed the blood to drip to the floor.

  The agent stood back from the wreck of a man and shook his head, tsking.

  At the sound, Halm lifted his bleeding head, his face pale in the torchlight. “What?” The word specked his lips with blood. “Ah. You.”

  “Aye that. You’re a mess.”

  “Did you… get the coin?”

  “I did, I did that.”

  “And?” Halm’s chin drooped.

  “I’d say you earned close to a hundred and forty pieces of gold for this one night’s work. Surprising, considering the level of competition here.”

  “In your hole,” Halm growled with a warning smirk. “I didn’t see you. Out there. On the Iron.”

  “That’s because I don’t make bargains I can’t keep.”

  “I kept mine.”

  “You did that. Seddon above, you certainly did.”

  “Don’t… worry. One day, you’ll grow up…”—his gruesome smile was lined with blood—“and do as I’ve done here tonight.”

  Feeling a sudden mix of wonder and, dare he admit it, respect, Borchus decided to let that one go.

  “If you can…” Halm took a breath, closed his eyes, and thumped his skull against the bricks. He didn’t speak for moments, and Borchus thought he might have lost consciousness. Then the Zhiberian’s eyes creaked open. The small movement struck the agent as being very, very tired. “Bind my wounds. And we’ll be off.”

  “You can walk?”

  “We’ll see in a few moments.”

  Borchus supposed that was true. He placed the sack of coin near the gladiator’s leg and got to work, bringing what was needed from the nearby bin of healing supplies. He dabbed saywort into anything bleeding, stitched what he could—once more sewing up cuts that had broken open—and wiped away excess blood. The bite wound couldn’t be closed, so he filled it with salve and bound it with thick bandages, hoping it would be enough, at least until Halm got to a healer. It took time, and Borchus felt clumsy in his administrations, which got on his nerves. When all was done, the excitement outside the chamber seemed to die down. The last fight had finished.

  “Thirsty,” the Zhiberian muttered after some time.

  Borchus glanced around. “Doesn’t seem to be any water about.”

  “Saimon’s hell with water. I want something with bite.”

  Borchus knew then the Zhiberian monster would live.

  “Can you walk?” the agent asked.

  Halm opened his eyes. With a grunt, he labored to his feet and nodded, holding a hand to his ribs. To their mutual surprise, he walked in a slow, straight line without a stagger or a limp. The audience had all but departed, but a few dangerous-looking types hung back, hesitant to return to the streets. Some watched the pair. A couple even nodded with approval.

  “Come back again,” Calagu called out when Borchus and Halm reached the stairs leading to the surface. “In five days, we should have enough men for another tournament.”

  Neither man from the House of Ten answered him.

  On the surface, the lamp had burned dry, and darkness ruled. Dim light beckoned over rooftops, and shadowy figures walked the side streets––the same people who had watched the fights under the street. The night felt late, and Borchus and Halm paused outside the storehouse, quietly watching dark figures bleed away into the pitch.

  Borchus walked alongside his companion, keeping an eye on him in case he fell.

  “Air’s sweet,” Halm muttered.

  Borchus regarded the sky and took a breath. “Compared with what we just left, I suppose.”

  “Air’s sweet,” the other reaffirmed, making Borchus wonder just how badly the man was hurting.

  “We’ll get rooms at an alehouse.”

  “We will?” Borchus asked, mildly surprised.

  “Aye. You…” Halm composed himself. “You helped. Wait.”

  With that, Halm stopped in the middle of the street, heedless of shadows lingering in nearby alleys. He pawed at the cloth sack he carried, opening it. The agent glanced about nervously, but no one moved upon them. With the performance the Zhiberian had put on that night, Borchus wasn’t really surprised.

  “Here,” Halm repeated, held out a fist, and dropped a dozen or so coins into Borchus’s hands.

  “What’s this?”

  “You don’t want it?”

  “Didn’t say that,” Borchus scoffed. “I’ll take coin from anyone who offers it. Including corpses like yourself.”

  “For your troubles.”

  At the moment, Borchus couldn’t think of one.

  “And your time,” Halm went on. “For watching my back down there.”

  “I didn’t watch your back.”

  “Well, whatever you… you want to call it. You did it anyway. And the sewing.” The familiar, horrid smile gleamed.

  “Well, there was that,” Borchus admitted, forgetting his earlier irritations.

  “Let’s find that alehouse, Borchus,” Halm rumbled in an exhausted voice. “Seddon above, I’m thirsty.”

  They got moving. And neither man spoke afterward, not even after they found an establishment and bought and rented their well-earned luxuries.

  *

  Standing in a nearby alley of the storehouse, concealed by the darkness, a stranger watched the Zhiberian and his stocky companion leave that building and meander off into the night. An itch took the watcher in the nose, demanding attention. He scratched at the misshapen lump of flesh, cartilage, and bone in the middle of his face and wiped a forearm across it. The Sons of Cholla had no idea who the hunched-over individual was or which clan he belonged to, but the Zhiberian might. And the watcher had learned long before that a person’s memory, no matter how much time had passed, could be triggered by just a glance.

  Because of that, Zamek had retreated, hiding in that rippling mesh of bodies below when the Zhiberian pit fighter had seen his face in the crowds. Zamek had only barely concealed his own surprise at seeing the fighter at the Sons’ event. Only the dregs and the animals fought below the streets.

  Though the fat warrior might not have recognized Zamek as the quartermaster who’d handed him the poisoned sword––the very weapon that had aided in killing Vadrian––Zamek took no chances and immediately left the Sons of Cholla’s crumbling underworld and their bloody entertainment. The night had been a success despite the appearance of
the Zhiberian.

  Zamek had learned what he needed to know.

  25

  Nordish Front

  In the darkness that had seized his consciousness, Arrus felt his arms and legs being pulled. Nightmarish voices whispered in his ears and rumbled in the distance. Things crashed into him at times, spinning his body like dust playing upon a breeze. With more pulling, the walls of the dark trembled as if being buffeted by mighty winds. Then these sensations subsided to the curious feeling of sinking into peacefulness, a stillness as warm as bathwater, which puzzled him in a dreamlike sort of way.

  Waking reality crashed upon his senses, twisting his arms in his sockets. Arrus cried out, a throaty whine quickly spent of breath. Laughter brayed over his head, and a stab of pain in his shoulders took his breath. More guffaws delighted in his agony. He opened his eyes and saw a forest floor trampled into a paste of decaying leaves and mud. They had planted him on his knees, and he realized his hands and feet were tied.

  A Sunjan spoke, causing Arrus to lift his head. Something hard smacked him just above his right ear, stunning him, while a second blow toppled him forward. Dirt plugged his mouth, and he realized with a sputter that they’d unmasked him. A hard boot caught him in the stomach, and his wind left in a gush, paralyzing him. Hands roughly gripped his arms and shoulders, pulling him back into a kneeling position. A man planted a meaty palm on Arrus’s forehead, forcing it back so he had no choice but to look upon his captor. The Sunjan, black of hair and beard and possessing both a green and a blue eye, squinted back angrily. The soldier breathed into Arrus’s face, daring him to speak. When he didn’t, the Sunjan removed his hand with a derisive shove, nearly upsetting Arrus once again.

  Arrus righted himself and glared at his captor, and a soldier standing behind him slapped the back of his skull hard enough to make it ache. That time, the message received, Arrus kept his head and eyes lowered.

  Armored Sujins moved about Arrus. Horses walked by. Sounds of metalworking rang out, as well as the chopping of wood. The sounds of activity surrounded Arrus, suggesting he was inside an enemy camp. Peering out of the corners of his eyes, he saw other Nordish men spread out in a line on either side of him, all on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. Arrus took a breath and became aware of a slap… slap… slap from just ahead––the sound of flesh hitting something. Sujins muttered nearby, but Arrus couldn’t understand a damn word of it.

  Someone shouted, heat in his voice, followed by the unmistakable crunch of metal on bone. One of the captured Jackals lay on his belly, his head split open to the jawline. A Sujin towered over the corpse, red faced and scarred, not bothering to clean the broadsword he had used to execute the prisoner. The warrior growled a few choice words at the body and sniffed hard enough to clear his sinuses before stalking off to a tree. Another soldier sat on a chunk of wood, casually flipping a dagger into the air and catching it, the hilt slapping his bare palm.

  Grim Sujins wielding axes and swords stood guard all around, their faces full of either contempt or cold indifference as they gazed upon their Nordish captives. Scratches and chips marred their weapons while torn chainmail links needed repair. Danger permeated the entire worn-looking lot, and Arrus understood he and his countrymen had been taken by experienced, battle-tested soldiers. What Arrus didn’t understand was why they were still alive. It wasn’t that kind of war for the Nordish, having put that point to their enemy at every opportunity. The Ivus had decreed all Sunjans to be put to a sword’s edge–commoners, soldiers, women, and children–and the Ikull’s commanding Kalash reminded his officers at every opportunity.

  The war was no longer for territory or riches.

  Prisoners. Arrus shook his head and lowered it, staring at the ground and the thin trickle of blood threading its way past him. The Sujins had taken them as prisoners, and only the all-knowing Curlord might discern what the devils had planned for them. A chill overcame him. The Sujins would torture them, discover no officers amongst the lot, and slaughter all. Arrus remembered the pale face of his dead brother and set his jaw in grief. They would meet again before long.

  A rustle of leather and mail caught his attention, and Arrus glanced up, as did some of the other Nordish men.

  There was no mistaking the new figure standing before them.

  The Cavalier regarded the prisoners impassively––the same man who had slain his brother and several other Jackals. The warrior’s shoulders quietly heaved, the dark stains covering his leather armor every bit as menacing as the blades hanging from his waist. His helm had no visor, and a black beard, fashioned into a hammer-like square, hung off his iron chin. Lines crossed the flesh of the Cavalier’s callous, swarthy face, reminding Arrus of the surface of a butcher’s old cutting board.

  Arrus knew this was his brother’s slayer, just from the way the warrior lorded over them.

  The surrounding Sujins quieted in the Cavalier’s presence. Even the dagger-tossing Sujin caught his weapon by the hilt and stood warily, minding his manners. None of the fearsome soldiers spoke in the Cavalier’s presence, adding further dread to the scene.

  The Cavalier––Blackbeard––lifted hands to hips, leather creaking as he did, and studied the assembled prisoners. He stood poised like death itself, daring anyone to give him reason to take a life. Arrus remembered the hill and avoided the warrior’s eyes.

  Blackbeard then reached up and pulled his helm off. He let it drop to the ground, revealing a scalp shorn to a stubbly rash, every bit as black as his beard. His face screwed up in distaste as if daylight on his flesh displeased him. He faced the prisoners as if they were an annoying side task needing resolution before he could carry on with more important matters. Grinding his jaw, the Cavalier glanced to one side and beckoned to a Sujin.

  This new man regarded the Nordish captives with a troubled expression. He wore no helm, though his chainmail shirt appeared tarnished but well kept. Pale-green eyes studied the Jackals for a moment. He took a breath, rubbed his dirty face, and glanced over at the Cavalier before asking a question.

  Blackbeard replied gruffly, and the Sujin got busy. He turned to the assembled prisoners and cleared his voice.

  “Officer? Officer? Who officer?” Green Eye asked and pointed at them in a raw slaughter of the Nordish language. Arrus could barely understand the words.

  “What’s he saying?” Arrus recognized Kestimir’s voice.

  “The poltu can speak,” said another. “To a point.”

  “That’s speaking?” exclaimed someone guardedly. “My ass can speak better.”

  “Your ass gets plenty of practice,” said one of the Jackals, putting a smile on Arrus’s face and causing others to giggle softly despite their predicament.

  The Sujin paused for a moment, visibly flustered at the chuckles from the prisoners, and glanced at the Cavalier. Blackbeard stood with a thundercloud of a scowl on his gouged features, clearly not impressed with his interpreter’s results.

  “That one looks ready to shite,” Kestimir observed.

  “He does,” agreed someone. But something in the Cavalier’s demeanor killed the smile on Arrus’s face.

  Then, with ominous purpose, the Cavalier motioned toward another Sujin.

  An armored giant of a man stepped before the line of Nordish prisoners, walking almost without a sound. The ogre held a massive battle-axe, the edges chipped in places from repeated sharpening. A full visor covered his face save for his sinister eyes, which studied the nervous captives to a man, those eyes a chilling, faded blue.

  Blackbeard rumbled a curt stream of syllables, and the executioner thrust his weapon’s head into the ground. He adjusted fearsome metal gauntlets covering his hands, ensuring the spiked knuckles fitted properly. Terror swept over Arrus then. The prisoners stayed as still as they were silent—no joking then, for fear of drawing the attention of that monstrous axe.

  The Sujin executioner questioned his commander with a look, and the Cavalier allowed a tired nod.

 
Without a trace of emotion, the spike-fisted slayer approached the nearest prisoner with a bored swagger. The executioner studied the man’s face for a moment, sizing him up from various angles, taking all the time in the world…

  Before swinging from the hip and pulverising the man’s jaw with one punch.

  The Nordish fell over flat.

  Not yet finished, the executioner stepped away from the fallen man, whose legs kicked weakly. The Sunjan quietly retrieved his battle-axe. With barely a breath of effort, he lumbered back to the unconscious man. He hefted the axe and, almost casually, drove its razor edge five fingers deep into the prisoner’s skull, splitting it with a clay-like crack. The executioner planted a boot on the corpse’s head and freed his weapon with a lurch. His example made, he backed away a few steps and stopped in the mud, becoming inanimate.

  The surrounding camp sounds flowed into the silence of the execution’s wake.

  Not surprisingly, the rest of the Jackals became very mindful of the Sujin holding the battle-axe across his pelvis.

  Arrus realized he was trembling. He licked at dry lips, blinking as if his eyes were crusted with grit. In truth, he was damn close to pissing himself.

  Green Eye stepped up and regarded the prisoners. “Officer? Who officer?” he demanded, butchering the language with his heavy accent. “Tell I officer. Ah, no kill. No kill. We. Uh, them.”

  The translator paused for a moment, drawing an irked glare from Blackbeard.

  “No?” a piqued Green Eye asked.

  No. The prisoners maintained their silence.

  Green Eye frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and waved for the executioner. The Sujin with the axe immediately looked at Blackbeard, who nodded imperiously.

  Clearing his throat before sighing heavily, the executioner waded toward the line. He nodded to a Sujin standing behind the chosen Jackal, and the guard gripped the man’s head with both hands. A gasp fled from the Nordish, followed by a terrified panting every bit as unnerving as the headsman’s axe.