The Darkslayer: Bish and Bone Series Collector's Edition (Books 1-10): Sword and Sorcery Masterpieces

by Craig Halloran

Spiders mixed with men. Too much. At least ogres can’t sneak up on you.

  A stiff wind tore at the edges of their cloaks, and gritty sand obscured his sight.

  Great!

  Behind him, the young men covered their faces with arms and cloaks. He could barely make out Georgio.

  “Stay close,” he said, shouting back. Billip stormed ahead, constantly looking back over his shoulder.

  Not now. Not now.

  Wind storms like this often passed quickly, but some lasted hours. It was one of the reasons he preferred the southern forest and jungles. The trees offered shelter, along with all the hills and valleys. The Outlands offered little shelter from the harsh elements of the bitter world. Head down, he pushed through the wind.

  It’ll break. Keep going. It’ll break.

  “Billip,” Georgio yelled. “We need to stop. I can’t see a thing.”

  The archer slowed, allowing the others to catch up with him.

  “We’ll live. Just stay bunched together and follow me. And pull your cowl over your head, stupid! Come on!”

  He forged ahead through the storm.

  I hate the Outlands.

  A jangle of metal caught his ears. Hollow. Distant. Lost in the wind. He kept going and heard the jangle again. He swore he heard a horse nicker.

  “Did you hear that?” he said, turning to the young men.

  Each of them shook their heads no.

  Billip pressed onward, stopping when he heard the jangle again. He unslung his bow and nocked a feathered shaft. He heard Nikkel hoist his heavy crossbow to his shoulder and Georgio’s sword scrape out of its sheath.

  “I heard that,” Brak said, stepping alongside Billip, holding the white ash cudgel at his side.

  Billip squinted into the windy darkness. Something blocked their path ahead. A wall of warriors on horses towered over them. The cloaked riders fanned out and hemmed them in. Their faces were shrouded. Hooves clopped over the dirt. Their great horses nickered and neighed. Long spears pointed toward their chests. In seconds, they were surrounded.

  A giant form rode forward on a horse bigger than any Billip had ever seen. His saddle creaked when he leaned forward and rested his forearms on his horse’s neck. The wind came to a stop.

  The scents of urine and manure drifted into Billip’s nose.

  Ogres!

  The great figure on the horse spoke.

  “What have we here? They’re too big to be underlings.” It sniffed the air. “Smells like humans. I hate humans. Kill them and grab their gear.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Creed rested his aching shoulders against the steel bars of his prison cellar. In the next cell over, a man urinated in the corner. Creed didn’t notice the smell anymore. Muck. Filth. Rotting hay. The foreboding silence. The stink of filth and death. He was miserable and far from used to it, but getting there.

  The man in the cell to his other side grumbled and lay down on his bed of hay. Creed didn’t know him. All the man did was whistle occasionally. He couldn’t speak, because his tongue was gone. There were others too. Waiting for execution, but none of them could speak. The guards wouldn’t speak or even look at him.

  Why do they keep me alive? Just to torment me?

  He ran his fingers through his long ratty beard. He hadn’t spoken to anyone since Gorgon the blacksmith had been crushed by the falling ceiling. That man had known many things and had been about to reveal them. Screams had come and gone as quickly as the earthquake came and went.

  Creed made a tiny mark on the wall with a small piece of stone he’d found. He counted the passing of the days and nights thanks to a crack of daylight in the wall. He’d marked four hundred and thirteen days since he’d last spoken. He coughed, hacked, and spat. The foul dungeon air had gotten to him.

  A tongueless urchin slid a plate of rotting food into his cell. A pair of rats scurried up and nibbled at it.

  Creed pushed off his shoulders and leaned forward. His mouth watered.

  One cell over, the shabby man rolled off his bed of hay and stretched his arm through the bars toward the rats.

  “You better back off,” Creed said, crawling toward the rats on his knees.

  The man ignored him and pressed his face harder into the bars. His eyes were wild with hunger.

  Creed pounced.

  The rats scurried.

  He grabbed the man’s finger and bit it.

  The tongueless man wailed a loud abnormal sound and tried to pull free. Creed’s teeth crunched down on the man’s finger. The man let out a throaty scream.

  My rats!

  Creed’s jaws clenched. The man slammed himself into the bars, trying to pull free.

  Clank.

  A key turned in the tumbler of the lock that led to the dungeon cellars. A rattle of keys rung in his ears. His jaws unlocked, and the other prisoner jerked his fingers through the bars with a sharp gasp, clutching his hand.

  A pair of Bloodhound soldiers came down. They wore chainmail, and the belts around their waists held swords.

  Creed’s heart jumped into his throat. His stare froze on their hard faces. Their gait was determined, but their slumped shoulders made them look uneasy. Something wasn’t right about them. The Bloodhounds were normally hardy and verbose. The last few trips down here, they’d been quiet and uncomfortable. Their swagger was gone. Stiffness remained. They marched by Creed and stopped at the other cage.

  The tongueless man’s eyes widened in horror and filled with water when they unlocked the cage. The man wrapped his arms around the bars and held on for his life. The bigger bloodhound grabbed him by the legs and grunted a heave. The prisoner held fast.

  “Don’t be stupid,” the other Bloodhound said under his breath. “There’s a smarter way to go about this.” He snaked a dagger out of his belt and jacked the screaming man upside the head with the pommel. The prisoner sagged to the ground and lay there, limp as a rag. The solider slid the dagger back inside the sheath and said to the other. “You’re embarrassing. Maybe it’s you who should be executed.”

  The bigger man blanched.

  The harsh words were music to Creed’s ears. A voice. Someone to be heard and spoken to.

  “Tell me about above,” Creed said. His voice was dry, and his words barely audible. He pulled himself up onto his scrawny legs and pressed his face to the bars. “Anything. Just tell me something about the world above.”

  The guards scooped the fallen prisoner up by his arms, dragged him out of the cell, and slammed the metal door shut with a bang. They headed for the stair with not so much as a glance his way.

  “Please,” Creed said with desperation. He stretched his arm out of the cell. “Tell me something. Anything. I am Creed. You must know me!”

  They didn’t say a word, just kept on walking up the stairs, one footfall at a time.

  “Tell me. Tell me something. Does the Lorda live?”

  The bigger man was last, and his head nodded forward before he disappeared through the archway.

  Creed heard the lock clank shut, the keys rattle, and nothing anymore.

  Does she live? Is she still here?

  Lorda Almen’s memory was all he had left. He stumbled back against the stone wall and slunk to the ground. Was that Bloodhound’s nod an answer to his question, or was it just his imagination?

  I’m going crazy, but I must hang onto something.

  His thoughts were accompanied by a long fit of coughing.

  ***

  Corrin made his way through Castle Bloodhound with a dog padding along his side. It was a short-haired shepherd, calico colored, its back taller than his knees. He made his way down into the empty galley and rummaged through the cupboards.

  “I’d be fed better if I ate from the kennels,” he said, looking at the big dog. He scratched its ears. “At least one of us is treated like people.” He sat down at the plank-board table, tore apart a small loaf of rye bread, and bit into it. “Mm … tougher than jerky.” He tossed a hunk to the dog. “Enjoy.”


  The past year had been one of the hardest of his life. Lord Grom had spared him but made it clear his status in the castle was fragile. He laid low. Made a few comrades and started spending time with the hounds. Caring for the dogs was the best way to avoid unwanted attention and turn yourself into an asset, so long as you didn’t mistreat them. Corrin had fared well for the time being.

  I’m sure Lord Grom will kill me like the others someday.

  The grizzly Lord of the Bloodhounds had become ruthless and aggressive with his own kindred. By tradition, The Bloodhounds were a tightknit family, like royals. Today, however, the slightest criticism toward Lord Grom led to swift discipline, which was often deadly. Corrin recalled the man whose neck had been stretched from a noose earlier this morning. His bare feet had twitched for many seconds before he died.

  Like a fish out of water.

  Seeing men die didn’t bother Corrin. He’d been a murderer for hire before he met Trinos. Something changed in him after that.

  I wonder where she is. I wouldn’t mind seeing her again.

  He drummed his fingers on the table and wondered about Creed. There’d been no word about him, and any mention of his name could lead to death. Corrin had no idea why Grom worried about Creed. It seemed no one did. It was some sort of secret. And any suspicious behavior got you sent out an on a mission. At night. Fodder for the underlings, who roamed the streets like common people now. It seemed the royals of Bone had given up the fight entirely. They were all holed-up in their castles.

  It’s despicable.

  None of the men who left ever returned. Corrin had spent time glimpsing into the streets from the taller spires of the castles. He could hear the underling chitterings and musings. Screams in the night. Taking pleasure with the living and the dead. There was some odd agreement of some sort, between royal and underling. It seemed the battle had been won before it even started.

  What has happed to my miserable city?

  He was tossing the rest of the bread on the floor when a woman entered the room. She wore thick robes and was small and portly, but she didn’t carry herself like a servant girl. Her captivating eyes met his.

  Corrin stood up.

  It was Lorda Almen, of all people. Her black hair was cropped above the neck. Her lithe figure was gone, now plump, almost heavy. Her wide hips swung when she walked, and her fuller breasts were well-displayed under her clingy robe. Her face was round, eyes tired, but she was still beautiful. Her face had a dark welt on it.

  “What happened there?”

  “I asked Lord Grom if I could see Creed again,” she said, reaching down and petting his dog, exposing a generous look at her heavy breasts. She eyed Corrin. “He doesn’t like that.”

  Corrin swallowed. Bish, she’s beautiful. Even with all the added pounds. He felt like he hadn’t lain with a woman for an eternity. Lorda’s scented skin and heavy buxom form aroused the man inside him.

  “Do you still share his bed?”

  “It’s either that or death.” She came closer.

  “At least you’re eating well,” Corrin said with a little shrug. “That’s not such a terrible thing.”

  “Lord Grom likes his women a little plumper, ‘like piglets and harlots,’ he says. The wine does it to you. It helps me get through the nights.

  “I see,” Corrin said, feeling a little bad.

  “How are you doing? You look well.”

  “I’ve not bent sent on a suicide mission yet, but I figure any day now.” He tried to turn away, but he couldn’t stop looking at her. There was something about her. “Might I ask what brings you here?” He looked around. “Isn’t it a bit dangerous?”

  “Every day is dangerous. I tire of it.”

  She slipped in behind him and draped her arms around his neck, pressing her pillowy breasts into his back.

  Corrin’s eyes closed. Magnificent.

  She whispered softly in his ear. Her words shocked him.

  “I need you to either kill Lord Grom or teach me how.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Fogle Boon. At one time, he’d been one of the most brilliant minds in the City of Three. Now his life was an epic catastrophe.

  “Are you sulking again?” Boon said with a large green snake draped over his shoulders. It was dead. “Quit thinking about that city. There are plenty of things out here to satisfy your ego.”

  Perched on a rock, Fogle dug in the dirt with a stick, feeling more rover than wizard. It was time to go back home. Raising an army or not.

  “I’m going back.”

  Boon slung the snake off his shoulders and into the dirt. His grandfather strutted around like a man of thirty. His tanned skin, sinewy arms, and sandals portrayed him as a man half his age, despite his short white hair. A man of the elements. Wild as an Outland hare.

  “Going back where?”

  “You know where.”

  “No, I don’t,” Boon said. He removed a thumb knife from his light-blue robes and began skinning the snake, sucking his teeth. “This is good for cooking. You’ll see. Get a fire going.”

  You get a fire going!

  He almost sighed but didn’t. It was daytime. The suns were hot. Sweat dripped down his back. He twirled his index finger and muttered soft words. Sticks from yards around slid into a pile. Fogle blurted a mystic word.

  Incataz!

  The sticks burst into flame.

  “Don’t be so lazy,” Boon said.

  “You don’t be lazy. You should have done it yourself.”

  “Just accept what we have to do, Fogle,” Boon said. He cut the snakeskin into sheets, wrapped the snake meat into them, bundled them up, and tossed several packets on the fire. Eyeing the fire, he licked his lips. “Green snake meat is good. You’ll see. It’ll put a smile on your face, even though that scruffy beard might hide it. Boons are more dapper. I thought we taught you better.”

  “What do you mean, ‘accept what we have to do’? Don’t you mean what you have to do?”

  “We’ll go back soon.” Boon lay back with his arms behind his head and rested beneath the suns. “Let’s just finish this mission. We need greater allies.”

  “This mission’s taken more than a year. It might take more years, at the rate it’s going.”

  “Not that mission. The mission we’re currently on. Don’t you pay attention?”

  “What other mission?”

  Boon didn’t reply. The old wizard began to snore softly.

  Fogle chucked his stick away. Hate it when he does this. Hate it when he does anything. It had all started with the striders. Four armed, long-legged men with bug faces. Their war drums were beating now. The jungs were gathering their clans as well. The sun-browned, course-haired nomads with devilish beards had joined in. Boon had been very effective in convincing them the underlings were a threat to everyone on Bish.

  Let’s see what Inky is up to. He closed his eyes and made the connection with his ebony hawk, which was a constant companion to the winds in the sky. Fly over the army. Fogle swore he could feel the wind rushing past his ears. When he flew with Inky, the gorges in the ground didn’t seem so deep and the mountains were not so high. The experience was exhilarating, being able to see mile after mile through the great ebony hawk’s eyes.

  Don’t land, just circle.

  He could see movement across the harsh landscape. Men were clustered here and there, and on the plains a small army formed: jungs, striders, men, and dwarves. Different patches of people from all over the north. Woodsmen, farmers, and soldiers from small cities. Dozens of them had become hundreds, and hundreds had become over a thousand. It was a force. But forming an army was one thing. Keeping them together was another. Boon had been appointed leader, to keep the order while he, Fogle, and sometimes others recruited.

  Hardly enough to march against the underlings.

  He and his ebony hawk-familiar had been keeping tabs on the underlings, who had armies of thousands spaced all over the northern Outlands, devouring everything in their p
ath. Boon had acted swiftly and avoided them so far, but a growing army couldn’t stay hidden forever. Fogle couldn’t figure out if the underlings didn’t know about them or if they just didn’t consider them a threat.

  They won’t ignore us forever. Keep scouting, Inky.

  He allowed himself to enjoy the flight a little longer, then broke the connection. He and Inky had gotten so close, that his familiar could warn him of any danger. And yet, he didn’t sleep much better at night because of it. There was always something worrying him. Either something was cackling in the wind, or the quiet was just too quiet.

  What did he mean by ‘we need greater allies’? What kind of allies does he have in mind?

  There was something about the way the old man said it. It didn’t sound like he was talking about people. But what else? If Fogle had his pick, he’d like to see some Blood Rangers among them. He missed Mood and Eethum. Maybe Boon was talking about the wizards in the City of Three? Maybe there were other races he’d yet to see. All of the races that gathered and counseled didn’t have any good to say about the royals. The ruling class of Bish had let them down. No assistance. No encouraging words. Fogle never thought he’d see the day when men bowed to underlings, but apparently in Bone it had been happening.

  They say it’s always been bad, but never this bad. Even Grandfather says so.

  He reached over, grabbed his rucksack, and removed his spellbook. It fit in the palm of his hand. He opened and closed it from the middle. One. Two. Three. The spell book became bigger each time until it covered his lap. He leafed through all the pages, stopping on one or another to meditate. It took almost an hour.

  I can only hope one of these comes in handy. Every time I memorize one thing, I find I should have learned another. It’s a good thing I have powers that work without the pages. But these spells are something.

  He ran his finger over the text of a spell his grandfather Boon had written, called Raw Bones. The wizardship was fascinating.

  It’s not my style, but why not? They’d do the same to me.

  Boon popped up into sitting position and rubbed his eyes.