131 Days [Book 2]_House of Pain

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “This is what you’ve been doing?” the Zhiberian finished, his back resting against the outer wall of the living quarters.

  “Aye that,” Muluk answered, sitting to his left.

  “Mm,” Pig Knot grunted in the affirmative, seemingly deep in thought to the left of the Kree. His arms lay close by his sides as if they might somehow lengthen his legs. “This is it.”

  On the sands, Machlann droned on with instructions, and the gladiators followed.

  “Could be worse,” Halm supposed, but he couldn’t think how—except perhaps being dead.

  “You missed the fight yesterday,” Muluk informed him. “That one there. Torello and the big one called Sapo. Almost came to blows.”

  “Over what?”

  “The big one has no wind to speak of,” Muluk confided. “And Torello couldn’t resist making jokes of him. Sapo doesn’t have a sense of humor. Not like Pig Knot.”

  Halm leaned forward just enough to catch Pig Knot’s withering eye.

  “What?” the Sunjan demanded.

  “Nothing. Just taking a look. Not meaning anything by it,” Halm answered.

  Pig Knot put his attention back on the men, watching how they moved about on strong legs.

  “What’s your take on these lads?” Halm settled back, feeling the aches of his many hurts. His hand felt the fresh layer of bandages covering the cuts where the stitches had burst. Shan hadn’t been impressed with the breakage in the least.

  “Well, that’s a mouthful,” Muluk admitted and rubbed his bush of black hair. “That Sapo one is damn angry about something. Intense is the word, and you didn’t see it, but he and Machlann got into a tussle a few days back. That was something. That war goat is every bit as harsh as his voice and no slouch with the steel. He put that Sunjan on his ass in the sand and left him there with a warning.”

  “Did he now?” Halm asked, interested.

  “Hard to believe, eh? Aye, he did, and I think in doing so, he damn near frightened the rest of them close to pissing. That Torello is a bit of a nuisance. The only time he isn’t talking, it seems, is when he’s out of breath. Kolo follows him around like he’s unfit in the head or something.”

  “Not daisies, are they?”

  Muluk shrugged and winced. Halm noted his friend’s discomfort. Long bandages covered Muluk’s shoulder and bound up his back. How he survived his battle with the murderous alehouse thieves would be talked about at tables in the years to come.

  “No idea. Don’t think so. Torello just might be the one that does the thinking for both of them, and for whatever reason, Kolo is content to listen. Not that it’s a bad thing. The lad’s pleasant enough.”

  “Hmm. What say you, Sunjan?” Halm asked, trying to pull Pig Knot into the conversation.

  “About what?”

  “The new lads.”

  “Whatever Muluk says is my mind as well.”

  “Trusting one, now, aren’t you?”

  “Right now, there’s only two people I trust in this entire villa, and they’re both beside me,” Pig Knot muttered, not taking his eyes off the morning exercises.

  “Not even Shan?” Muluk asked.

  “All right, three then.”

  “Goll?” Halm inquired.

  Pig Knot rolled his eyes. “Saimon can bleed that one. Untrustworthy dog blossom.”

  The curse silenced the pair, and they joined in watching. Their attention immediately went to the towering figure of the one called Brozz. The trainers directed the fighters to weighted swords and shields and paired them with wooden practice men. Machlann had them improve upon their two-strike combination and added a third, and the morning air soon clattered with every connection. Where the others still hacked, Brozz’s weapon snaked in and out with a fluidity both Machlann and Koba noticed.

  “He knows how to swing that,” Halm observed.

  “Look at the Perician on the end, then.” Muluk nodded.

  Halm did and beheld, for the first time, the wonder named Junger.

  He was holding back—that much became clear to Halm right away. The Perician didn’t just swing, he flowed without effort in his strikes, filling the space between Brozz’s connections with two of his own. Junger reminded Halm of a set crossbow being loosed, only to be smoothly primed almost immediately. Where the others strained, reset, and freely sweated, Junger seemed at ease.

  “Sweet Seddon,” Halm breathed, impressed.

  “He’s a handful,” Muluk agreed.

  “Where did Goll find him?”

  “Same place as the rest,” Muluk replied. “In general quarters. A hole we all know it is, but something tells me there was at least one Free Trained shagger that could potentially put a house gladiator in the ground. Just look at him. You think with speed like that he’d lack power, but he’s smashing that poor stick bastard. I dread to see what he might do to flesh and blood.”

  Halm couldn’t help but be impressed. Junger’s display almost made him forget his hurts. He’d been cut up so badly that Goll decided he should heal before ripping himself apart in training. In any case, he was glad to be on the side and merely watching rather than going through drills next to the blur of Junger.

  After a short lunch, the training continued into the afternoon, with Clavellus directing Machlann and Koba to take the six men to the center of the sands.

  “Eee now just watch,” Machlann growled and hefted a wooden sword. He stood before Koba, who had taken up a sword and shield. The trainer showed how to thrust, high and low to the body. “Don’t go for the head unless it’s clear you can stab it, else go for the body. Thrust with the arm, snapping it out while straightening your arm, like so—” Machlann rapped the point of his weapon off Koba’s shield. “Seek more power with the upward thrust while stepping into it. Wait until you are in close, then get your weight behind it and put a hand’s length of steel into his guts. If he’s at midrange, step forward and twist your shoulders for extra power, and make that punce wish he’d never heard your name. Like so.”

  Again the show.

  “Ensure your feet are no wider than your shoulders. And if you lunge, don’t over-extend, or by Saimon’s pisspot, I’ll brain you. Never lunge at your foe unless he’s already half dead on his feet. Too many things can go wrong if you throw yourself at him like a spear. With any thrusting, know the length of your weapon, get within striking range, and stick it––straightening the arm, driving it up from your hip, or twist the shoulder. Stick it in, see what happens, and get out of there.”

  “Your missus teach you that, did she?” Torello asked, smirking with sweat rolling off his person. The quip was so well timed, the other five men—even the stoic Brozz—smiled at the joke.

  Machlann scowled hard enough at the Sunjan to dissolve his delight at having amused his sword brothers.

  “Torello, you might very well die sputtering on the sands tomorrow or the day after, but until then, you’re mine, and I’m going to run you through Saimon’s hell,” Machlann growled, and proceeded to demonstrate thrusting three times, withdrawing after illustrating each separate attack.

  “Now, line up and strike at Koba and make it count. And Torello, I swear by Seddon’s rosy ass, if you even grunt the wrong way, Koba has my permission and full support in swinging back.”

  Unimpressed, the Sunjan glanced at his companions and concentrated on the task ahead.

  They lined up, one after the other, and took their turns stabbing at Koba, which he dutifully turned aside.

  “Good,” Machlann cried out at times. “Kolo, more snap in the arm. Think on that next time you come around. Eeee Sapo, still wishing for that axe? Don’t look at me with love in your eyes. Get away. Get away. In there, Brozz, get in there, you tall, sinister-looking punce. That’s it. Hmm. Stop. Stop!”

  Machlann held up a hand before Junger could set his feet and attack.

  “Perician, you strike that shield, understand?” Machlann commanded. “Koba will stop it. But you don’t hold anything back. Understand?”
r />   A stoic Junger nodded and focused on an equally impassive Koba. And all attention intensified on the pair, just to see what would become of the command.

  Machlann dropped his hand, and Junger lunged.

  The wooden sword flashed forward like an unleashed ballista missile. It clapped Koba’s shield and splintered upon impact, making everyone jump. Koba staggered back from the force of the blow, arms spiraling for balance, face a mix of disbelief and shock. All eyes went to Junger. The man had already recovered in a sorcerous display of speed, shattered sword still in hand, standing at ready guard with his expression muted and without a trace of haughtiness.

  Koba inspected his shield and touched a crack in its surface. In the awed silence, Machlann studied the Perician’s fragmented wooden shaft for a moment before turning and regarding an astonished Clavellus on his balcony.

  A pensive Goll did not share the enthusiasm.

  “Get yourself a new sword, lad,” Machlann said quietly.

  “You see that?” Clavellus asked, leaning back from the balcony’s railing.

  “Mm,” Goll grunted, eyeing the splintered sword. Junger even bent down to gather up the shards while the other gladiators stood and watched in quiet wonder.

  “That isn’t the word I would use,” Clavellus remarked with a chuckle and gently swished his mug around. “And that wasn’t even a word. I’d use something else entirely.”

  “What would you use, then?”

  Clavellus took a drink before answering and made a dismissive wave. “I’m not certain. The moment’s gone. But I know it wouldn’t be just a grunt. That’s practically an insult to what we’ve just witnessed. I’ve trained warriors for over thirty-two years, Master Goll. Thirty-two. Feel that number for a moment. I’ve seen naturals, and I’ve seen men grow into their own. Seen some wondrous displays of skill-at-arms and some incidents that will never happen again. Smashing a shield and breaking a practice sword like that isn’t something a person witnesses every day.”

  “Well, I suppose I’m not so easily impressed.”

  Clavellus held his tongue for a moment, his left hand quivering at his side until he made a fist. “No. I suppose not. Well, there’s still a way to go, but if I were a man to place wagers, I’d place my coin on that one.”

  “Hmm.”

  This time, Clavellus directed his full attention to the sullen Kree. “Is there something wrong? Something I should know?”

  “Not at all,” Goll answered, his dark gaze lingering on the fighters as Machlann commanded them to resume attacking Koba, who had replaced his shield. “I just think you’re making a fuss over one random occurrence. Nothing more.”

  The old trainer smiled, revealing teeth usually hidden under his thick beard. “Well then, Master Goll, let’s see if that… random occurrence should happen a second time, shall we?”

  I’m fine with that idea, Goll replied by way of screwing up his face.

  Clavellus rubbed at his beard. “Machlann!”

  “Aye, Master Clavellus?”

  “When the Perician has his turn again, see if he can do the same once more.”

  “Aye that.”

  Clavellus regarded Goll with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He dared guess that the Kree swordsman was attempting very hard to appear outwardly calm, though the tension in his posture was as obvious as any of the bandages on his arms or person.

  “Do it again,” Machlann said below.

  Junger nodded, focused on Koba while the trainer stood behind his fresh shield and adjusted his own stance.

  Then Junger’s arm lashed out like a bolt of fire, cranking into the barrier and again knocking Koba off balance. The wooden sword did not break that time, but the Perician once again had split the shield in two. Koba composed himself and inspected the barrier, shaking his head and pointing to the sinewy breach. He then tossed the shield to the ground and fetched another.

  “Again?” Junger inquired calmly.

  “When your turn comes about, lad. No rush,” Machlann answered, his natural growl subdued after the repeated display. Junger circled to the rear of the line while the others stepped up and tried to stagger the younger trainer off his feet. Despite the seriousness in their expressions and best efforts, none came close.

  “Well?” Clavellus asked, interested in the Kree’s response.

  “I’m not impressed,” Goll said, eyes narrowed and gazing to the ramparts of the far wall.

  This perplexed the old trainer. “And why is that, Master Goll?”

  The clatter of strikes resumed below. “You don’t see it?”

  “What is it I’m not seeing?”

  Goll fixed him with a hard, unflinching look. “I expected better from you, Master Clavellus. Much better.”

  “What is it?”

  Goll only just suppressed the displeasure in his voice. “He struck the shield only.”

  “He was told to do…”

  Clavellus’s beard hid his mouth dropping open. Dying Seddon above. The Kree might just be on to something. Goll believed, and rightly so, Junger could have struck Koba, as the drill had been intended, despite the trainer’s best efforts to defend himself. But Junger didn’t do that.

  Machlann ordered him to strike the shield, and Junger, by Seddon above, did exactly as he was told… but he could’ve done more.

  Clavellus studied the young pit fighter closer this time around. Machlann, Koba, they all had their suspicions, but now it was becoming abundantly clear.

  Junger, the Perician, was only playing.

  34

  With the day’s heat hammering on their sweltering forms, Machlann and Koba got the recruits on their feet and taught them close-quarter tactics for bringing down a man. Koba took the center of the sands and invited the black-bearded Vathian, Tumber, to dance with him. They crossed swords, and Koba demonstrated how a man could be knocked off balance by slapping Tumber’s hand away and sending him into the sands.

  Torello barked laughter and drew hard looks from the others.

  To Goll’s left, Clavellus shook his head. “Always one.” He lifted his silver mug.

  Goll remembered the leverage technique, having learned it from Machlann and Koba himself. Then a household guard followed the brick path marking the boundary of the sands, diverting his attention. One of Clavellus’s gate keepers, he carried a scroll case.

  “What’s that you have there?” Clavellus called down to the man.

  “Message from the city.”

  “Really?” the trainer gave Goll an imagine that look that might have been three parts wine. “Toss it up here, then.”

  “I can bring it up.”

  “And have you track sand and dirt across my floors? My good lad, it’s best my wife only trounces me this day and not you.”

  Clavellus motioned for Goll to catch the scroll, and the guard lobbed it into his hands.

  “Who’s it for?” Clavellus called down as Goll inspected the case.

  “Master Goll, Master Clavellus.”

  “From Borchus, no doubt,” the taskmaster muttered.

  “I’m glad he remembered me,” Goll said drily.

  “Oh.” Clavellus blinked, showing eyes practically red from the wine. “He remembered you. Have no doubts about that. That lad––well––let’s just say there’s little that escapes his attention.”

  “Or mine,” Goll said, suddenly tight-lipped. But Clavellus didn’t pay any heed as he’d gone back to watching the technique drill below. With a sigh, Goll opened the case and unrolled the message. His eyes became slits.

  “What is it?” Clavellus asked after another sip of his drink.

  Goll held out the scroll. The taskmaster regarded it and then Goll before taking the parchment, his beard moving as he read to himself. When he finished, he rubbed his mottled head with his shaking hand.

  “Seems like the House of Curge doesn’t want us to prosper at these games. At all.” Goll frowned.

  “This is because of me,” Clavellus huffed sadly. “For what
happened years before. I’m sorry.”

  Machlann shouted at someone below, but Goll barely heard it. “No. This has nothing to do with you, so feel no blame, but we now have a problem. Curge has effectively turned the entire Pit against us with his bounty.”

  “The Free Trained,” Clavellus corrected. “Just the Free Trained for now. Though, admittedly, it might very well extend to all houses. In their eyes, this is a hole of Free Trained warriors, a den of bare-assed dogs thinking they now have value. Daresay there isn’t a house in Sunja too pleased about us competing in their games, and with the season almost half over. They can’t protest it with the Chamber as that lot’s already taken your gold, so they do what’s left to them. Hunt our men in the arena. There’re too many houses to fight, and we have only… six. Seven if the Zhiberian can still manage. The blood matches will entangle and ruin us… ”

  “I’m not worried about the blood matches,” Goll said. “In truth, a man has to be ready to gut his opponent in the Pit. The blood matches only clear the intentions of both fighters.”

  “That’s true,” Clavellus reluctantly agreed. “But blood challenges take precedence over all other matches. And the house can directly assign whoever they think can kill the offending fighter. Or in this case, the chosen target. The way I see it, there’s only one way to deal with this.”

  “Not compete?” Goll asked.

  Clavellus wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something foul. “No, not that. They’re probably wishing we won’t compete. Probably think we’re cowering right now. No. I think we should go the other way. Throw some of that fear back at them. The Free Trained are only individuals. While there are potential upsets, that one element has always been their weakness. There’s no house behind them. The House of Ten will fight only Free Trained warriors on its first official day of competition, Free Trained brutes who’ll be hunting for the seven heads we send onto the sands. I suggest we respond with our own message… and butcher whoever stands against us. Like it or not, the remainder of this season will be a chore in convincing doubters that the Ten belong in the games—that the house is a legitimate adversary.”