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 memories 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.
“Bugger this,” Thorn rasped out and slowed to a stop, doubling over as he struggled for breath. “I hate runnin'. Lets jus' fight the bastards.”
Henry stalked up to the big, one-eyed, sell-sword. “You the one agreed ta run.”
“Aye,” Thorn agreed. “An' now I'm the one changin' my mind. Let’s fight. Can't be that many of them.”
“Uhh,” Anders started then decided to shut his mouth. The fool was swaying on his feet. Didn't seem too out of breath though, despite the jog.
“Spit it out,” Henry growled, staring up at the blooded drunk. Sometimes it annoyed her that pretty much everyone was taller than her, and more so than most at times like this with her leg aching and impending death right around the corner.
“Right. Yes. Of course. It's just... the Brekovichs are rather rich. I think it may be safe to say there are a lot of guards. Probably more than we can fight.”
Henry looked to Thorn. The big man just shrugged back at her. Should have been up to him to make the decision; he was the one wanting to lead but seemed he couldn't be arsed. Henry was on the verge of deciding for them when the decision was taken away. Five armed men came trotting towards them from the direction they had been fleeing.
Looking around Henry did not feel confident. Truth was the curving corridor was wide, a good twenty feet across and that meant they could be surrounded. Henry didn't much like the idea of fighting enemies both in front and behind; seemed a good way to get stabbed in the back and those guards were carrying nice long spears that looked perfect for the job. There were still the other guards approaching from behind as well. Wouldn't take much in the way of numbers to overrun the three of them. Thorn already had his axe in his five-fingered hand a small knife in his three-fingered one. His little finger looked broken but then Thorn had never been the type to complain about injuries. Anders let out a large sigh and struggled to pull his rapier free from its scabbard.
“Anders, gimme the keys,” Henry ordered the drunk.
“Huh?”
“The keys, the ones ya took off the dead guard.”
“Oh, right. Of course,” Anders stumbled out then started fishing in his pocket. He pulled the small collection of keys free and threw them in Henry's general direction, though his aim was a good few feet off.
She snatched the keys from the air and approached the nearest occupied cell. Eight slaves, five men and three women and all scarred and looking like they knew their way around a fight, watched her with wary eyes. “Keep them off my back,” Henry said and pointed at the approaching guards just starting to fan out to try to surround them. Thorn understood and moved himself between the enemies and Henry, Anders followed a moment later, the point of his sword dipping and rising and swaying from side to side.
Twelve keys on the ring and Henry had no idea which was the right one; she hoped at least one of them fit the lock. By the time she tried the third one she could hear Thorn and Anders fighting with the guards. She heard at least one man die; heard the death rattle of his last breath. After enough killings the sound was well known to Henry; it was a pleasant, comforting sound. By the seventh key she could hear Anders spitting insults at his enemies, many of which seem to revolve around mocking their mothers. Thorn was quiet barring the odd rasping laugh. The eighth key slipped into the lock and Henry felt the mechanism turn and then she pulled open the cell door with a rusty scream. The slaves backed further into the dingy little cell, eyeing their would-be liberator with paranoid eyes.