by Rob J. Hayes
Anders realised the entire coliseum was built around the pits and the spectators area in three tiers of concentric circles around the grounds. He tried to picture how big the entire structure must be but failed. If he remembered correctly, and it was entirely possible he didn't, there were something like ten pits in the centre of the coliseum, each one a good thirty feet and circular with stands to cheer and jeer. Then there was the main pit; a monster of a battlefield at least ten times the size of its smaller siblings and stained with more blood than the average dungeon with more being spilled each day. With the housing and cells and armouries and mess halls... Anders was forced to wonder how anyone could afford to build such a monstrosity but then the Brekovichs had always been one of the richer blooded families and they made enough money from the pits to make their investment worth while; people flocked from all over the known world to watch folk die here.
They passed more guards inside. These weren't the usual mercs that one would find in the city of Solantis; they were men and women loyal to the Brekovichs but that didn't mean they had ever seen one of their blooded employers. Anders kept up the charade by talking to his companions, talking to himself, talking to the guards, all the while making sure he looked bored and dismissing any attempts at inquiring as to his intentions. All the guards saw was a blooded man who looked as though he owned the place and they were trained not to question their betters.
“Why don't we just stop and ask for directions?” Anders said after a while.
“'Cos we're almost there,” the Black Thorn replied in a terse tone.
Anders looked one way down the wide, curving corridor and then the other way. It all looked exactly the same to him. “How can you tell?”
“This place is built in three rings right. Makes sense that thems got their freedom would be on the outside, furthest from the pits. No cells in this ring, see. Rooms have been steadily getting' bigger. This Thunderfist we're lookin' fer is some sort of foreign champion, visitin' from somewhere down south. Reckon he'll have one o' the largest of these rooms.”
Anders couldn't fault the logic; it made perfect sense. “What do you want to bet it's the room with the two guards outside?”
Two burly-looking fellows dressed in some sort of hide armour bearing the Brekovich crest were standing either side of a large wooden door. Both men carried long swords at their hips and both turned to look at the approaching crew. Anders didn't slow his pace; to do so would give the game away.
“Quick an' quiet, Henry. I got the left one,” Thorn whispered in a hoarse voice from behind.
Anders stopped in front of the two guards and Henry and Thorn flanked him. Both guards glanced at the sell-sword and the slight murderess before focusing their attention on the drunken blooded man in front of them.
“My name is Anders Brekovich. I'm here to see that fellow you have in there.”
“I know...” one of the guards, a man with a pronounced lisp, started to say before Henry and Thorn moved as one. Stepping close stabbing the guards in a practised motion. Thorn's dagger took the unwary guard under the chin, the blade driving straight up into the brain. Henry's pierced the other man's side, hitting Gods knew what vital spots. Both men died on their feet. Anders grabbed for the man Henry had killed to help her lower him to the ground but she shoved him away. The guard was maybe twice her size but she struggled through it on her own.
“You know I'm starting to think you two might have done this sort of thing before,” Anders said.
“Reckon I could say the same 'bout you,” Henry replied, eyeing him with intense scrutiny. Anders grinned in reply. “Ya seem ta have a right good handle on pretending ta be from one o’ the families.”
Anders grinned sheepishly. “Well when you’ve got a bit of blood in you, you might as well make it work to your advantage.”
“Get those bodies hid,” Thorn said, giving all his attention to the wooden door. “Somewhere they won't be found 'til after tomorrow.”
Henry looked up and down the corridor. “Where?”
“How the fuck should I know?” Thorn whispered back. “Jus' do it. I'm gonna sneak in an' give this ta the target.” He patted the pouch of dust hanging on his belt.
“Reckon I should do it,” Henry opined. “Little bit quieter than you.”
“Aye but what if he wakes or somethin'? Name like Thunderfist I'm guessin' he's a big lad. Probably snap you in half.”
Henry snorted but bent down and grabbed the arm of one of the guards. “Anders, gimme a hand.”
“Right, of course.” Anders took one last look at Thorn, who was still paying the wooden door considerable attention, and then helped Henry drag the body away.
Thorn
Stealth was not one of Betrim's strongest skills; truth was it never had been. The Black Thorn had always been more of a blunt instrument designed to be used with a distinct lack of subtlety. That didn't mean he hadn't done a fair bit of sneaking about in his time. There was a knack to opening a door quietly and it involved a great deal of patience, something Betrim had in spades.
He pushed the solid lump of wood open with pain-staking severity until he could fit his head through; if the Thunderfist was still awake at this hour all pretence at stealth would have to be forgotten and Betrim could go back to his tried and tested method of hitting things hard in the face. The room was dim with a single candle burning low; close to guttering out on a small wooden table. Betrim could see a single wardrobe, a chest and behind the chest a single bed. A great lump of darkness lay sprawling on the bed; fully clothed, dark-skinned and snoring as loud as a roaring fire.
With a suppressed sigh Betrim pushed the door open wider and slipped into the room. It was the smell that hit him first; irritating to the nose and sharp in a way that made his eye twitch. It was an herb known as mint and Betrim knew some folk chewed it as a way to clear their noses and help them breathe easier. How any man could stand the taste if it was as bad as the smell Betrim could not figure. Personal taste aside he had a job to do and standing around sniffing at the air was not going to get it done. Without taking his eye from the unconscious mass on the bed Betrim crept closer.
When it came to sleeping Betrim knew there were two types of people; there were those who could fall asleep in an instant and would wake at the slightest noise, and there were those who took an age to drop off but who could sleep through a thunderstorm.
The Black Thorn had once known a man by the name of Millet the fourth; no one ever knew if there had been three other Millets before him, truth was no one had ever thought to ask. Now Millet had most definitely fit into the second category of sleepers. He'd been a hunter, and a successful one at that, but the Black Thorn and his crew at the time had happened upon the bounty hunters at night and decided to take no risks. The resulting battle had been loud enough to wake the dead but not Millet. The unlucky bastard had slept through the entire bloody affair. He'd only woken later when all his other hunters were dead. The crew had had their fun with the poor fellow before they killed him. Almost made Betrim wince to remember what they had done to him.
Oren Thunderfist, it seemed, was not a member of the deep sleepers. Before Betrim had gotten within three feet of the pit fighter his eyes snapped open and he flew out of the bed and straight at the Black Thorn.
One meaty hand grabbed Betrim by the neck and squeezed tight, the other wrestled with Betrim's right arm. Didn't take long for Betrim to realise he couldn't breathe with the Thunderfist's hand wrapped around his neck. The bigger man pushed the Black Thorn backwards and slammed him against a hard stone wall. Betrim pulled and pushed and wriggled and twisted his right arm but the pit fighter's strength was an indomitable force that held tight, locked him down. Betrim's left hand scratched at the hand around his neck; his three fingers tried to dig into flesh but it was no good. The Thunderfist's dark, almond-shaped eyes glared into Betrim's own eye with unrestrained malice.
Just as the world began to dim Betrim reached out with his left hand and grabbed hold of the
Thunderfist's right ear and he pulled with all the strength he had left. The big pit fighter growled, then squealed and let go of Betrim's right hand to deal with his left. The Black Thorn didn't waste a moment; he punched the man in the face twice with his right and then tore free of his grip, near doubling over as he gasped beautiful air back into his complaining lungs.
Betrim would have liked to take a minute to recover; unfortunately the Thunderfist was not so accommodating. Massive arms wrapped themselves around Betrim's chest and he threw a quick elbow back into the man's face. The pit fighter ignored the beating and Betrim found himself picked up, twisted about in the air and slammed back onto the cold stone floor face first. A hard fist punched him in his side, just below his kidneys and Betrim coughed out a wordless exclamation of pain before spinning onto his back, pulling up his feet and pushing the Thunderfist away.
The Thunderfist stumbled back a step and tripped over the bed. Betrim took the opportunity to scramble away on his arse and pull himself to his feet using the wardrobe to steady himself. By the time he reached his feet the Thunderfist had regained his and he charged the Black Thorn with a roar like a mad elephant.
Betrim was well aware this was not a fight he was likely to win. Both men were of about a height but the Thunderfist hadn't recently been stabbed and strapped to a table for three months. Truth was the big pit fighter was stronger than the Black Thorn had ever been and the Black Thorn was still not fully recovered. Even so Betrim knew he couldn't use his weapons; if he killed the pit fighter the job would be failed and there was no telling what Carlston might do in that situation. That being the case Betrim could only hope he matched the bigger man for ferocity.
The Thunderfist hit Betrim in the mid-section and again Betrim found himself shoved back-first against a wall. Before the Thunderfist could get the upper hand again Betrim leapt at the big man, shoving his knee into his stomach again and again and again. The Thunderfist responded by grabbing Betrim around the legs, lifting and throwing the Black Thorn over his shoulders.
He hit the floor and the air rushed out of his lungs. Before he could react he felt a leg fall across his chest and two big hands grabbed hold of his left arm and started pulling. The Black Thorn twisted, pulled and wriggled, grunted, snorted and growled and the Thunderfist responded by growling back and kicking Betrim in the face with his free foot.
He wasn't sure whether he felt or heard the crack first; he wasn't even certain which finger it was. The pain washed over him like a flood of boiling water and the shout that erupted from his lungs was somewhere between a cry of pain and furious howl of rage. Betrim swung his right foot round as far as he could and was rewarded with a loud grunt as it somehow connected with the Thunderfist's head. The pit fighter's grip loosened for a moment and Betrim pulled his left arm free, sat up and punched the other man as hard as he could with his right hand in the groin. The Thunderfist's mouth and eyes opened wide and he gasped in pain. Betrim was just about to reach for the pouch of dust on his belt when the pit fighter's knee came out of nowhere and caught him in the face.
Betrim rolled away and struggled back to his feet, cradling his left hand close to his chest; seemed his little finger was broken. The Thunderfist rose from the ground and limped forwards. The Black Thorn knew just how much it hurt to be punched in the stones and right now, he knew, the Thunderfist was feeling it. Didn't stop the big man from pressing the attack though. Betrim blocked the first punch with his right hand but the second caught him full in the face and forced him backwards, reeling from the force of the blow. Before he knew what was happening two more punches hit his back and Betrim's legs gave out, dropping him to his knees. He saw the arms closing around his head just in time and launched himself back to his feet, the top of his head connecting with the Thunderfist's chin with an unhealthy-sounding crack. Before the resulting pain could render him unconscious Betrim span and lashed out with his right fist, hitting the Thunderfist in the face, just below his left eye.
The big pit fighter stumbled back a few steps then shook his head to blow away the cobwebs and roared at Betrim. The Black Thorn, not to be outdone, screamed back at the big man, grabbed the pouch of dust from his belt and launched it at the other man's face.
The Thunderfist snatched the pouch out of the air with practised accuracy. Unfortunately for him his thunderfists were not designed to be gentle and as he caught hold of the pouch the dust contained within puffed out of the top and into the pit fighter's face.
The Thunderfist sneezed once and stepped backwards, wafting the dust away with his hands. Then he focused back on Betrim and roared again. Betrim was just getting ready to take a few more punches to the face when the Thunderfist's roar turned into a cough, then a sneezing fit, then he began to shake. The whites of the man's eyes started to look red and pink frothy foam started bubbling on his lips. The pit fighter collapsed to his knees and then fell onto his side, still shaking, his eyes wide and red with a steady trickle of blood leaking from his nose.
After a while the shaking stopped and Betrim had the unmistakeable feeling he was now sharing a room with a corpse. It wasn't just the steady leaking of blood from the body's nose, mouth and ears; it was also the stench of shit. Folk tended to shit themselves when they died and it appeared the Thunderfist was no exception. Betrim stood up from his battle-ready crouch and had a good look at the body without getting too close; truth was he didn't want to breathe in any of the dust. Definitely a corpse; he'd been around enough of them to know what one looked like. With a weary and painful shake of the head Betrim made for the door.
Henry and Anders were returning for the body of the second guard when Betrim stepped out of the Thunderfist's room. Anders was flapping his mouth as usual; seemed that one was a talker, Henry was smiling to his words; no trace of her usual sneer. The smile quickly turned to a frown when she saw Betrim.
“What happened ta you?”
Betrim had no doubt he looked a right state; covered in sweat, bleeding from half a dozen places, most of them located on or around his face, and if the bruises weren't showing up yet they would soon. There was also the matter of the little finger on his left hand being broken and pointing off in an unnatural direction. He knew that would need re-setting and he knew it would hurt like all the hells.
“Reckon we might been set up,” Betrim said to the others as Henry poked her head into the Thunderfist's room to have a look for herself.
“Shit, Thorn. Ya weren't supposed ta kill the bastard. Impressive though.”
Anders had himself a good look too. “What did you do to him, boss?”
Betrim leaned his back against the wall and sank down to a sitting position. Truth was he was tired and beyond tired. Nothing like a good old fashioned fist fight to knacker a man out. “Weren't me. Or well it was. It were the dust. Don't reckon Carlston ever intended that fella ta live.”
“Why would he send us in here to drug the Thunderfist if he just wanted the man dead?” Anders asked. “Why lie about the job?”
“'Cos we're not meant ta make it out o' here alive either,” Henry said after aiming a savage kick at the corpse of the remaining guard. “Reckon he knows 'bout me?”
Betrim nodded. Carlston was passing up the bounty on the Black Thorn's head to get to Henry. Not many folk would put revenge above that sum of bits but then some folk treated family as important and Henry had murdered his nephew. With some considerable effort Betrim pushed himself back to his feet and let out a noise somewhere between a growl and a sigh. He was just about to suggest hiding the other guard when the sound of voices drifted towards them from somewhere down the corridor.
Henry
Weren't often that Henry could say a situation was her fault but this one was without a doubt. It had been her that murdered Carlston's nephew and truth was she'd do it all over again no matter the damned consequences. Bastard had been beating on the young girl for little more than no reason and it had brought back memories. Memories best left dead and buried. Problem was with the memorie
s came the anger boiling up from somewhere deep inside and she couldn't control it; the need to commit some sort of violence became physical. Right now, she had to admit, she was pretty damned angry so she guessed it was lucky that, by the sound of it, violence seemed to be just around the corner.
“I think it might be wise to retreat, my lady,” Anders said in a shaky voice.
“Or we jus' stay here an' kill 'em all,” Henry replied. Staring down the bending corridor waiting for the owners of the voices to appear. They were still echoing; meant they were still some distance away but getting closer.
“I'm not sure the boss is up for another fight. He looks tired.”
“I'm good,” Thorn rasped. “Reckon ya might be right 'bout the retreat though. Some fights are worth avoidin'.”
Henry ground her teeth together, then spat, turned and sent a glare at Anders. “Stop calling him the Boss.” With that she limped past the other two, away from the approaching voices. Why the pain in her leg always chose moments like this to flare into life was beyond her.
They moved at somewhere between a walk and a run; following the curve away from the voices behind them, ignoring the open and the locked doors alike. They passed a group of three guards standing outside one of the occupied quarters. The men looked more confused than anything else and Henry doubted they could take the time to fight the bastards given they were being chased.
She crossed back into the second ring at the first opportunity, not even bothering to check behind her to see if the other two were following. It seemed to be slaves in this ring, cells with five or more people, men and a few women. The slaves either kept their eyes down, ignoring them or stared at Henry and the others with bitter resentment like it was somehow her fault that they wore iron collars. Never really made sense to Henry why some folk chose to be slaves. Seemed to her a person could put a collar on you and tell you that you're property but they could only make you a slave if you let them. Someone ever tried that with her and she'd find a way to kill them at the first opportunity. Some folk just seemed to give up and allow themselves to be owned though. The whole thing didn't sit right with Henry.