The Darkslayer: Book 05 - Outrage in the Outlands

by Craig Halloran

  OUTRAGE IN THE OUTLANDS

  The Darkslayer (Book 5)

  CRAIG HALLORAN

  THE DARKSLAYER

  Outrage in the Outlands (Book 5)

  By Craig Halloran

  Copyright © February 2013 by Craig Halloran

  Amazon Edition

  TWO-TEN BOOK PRESS

  P.O. Box 4215, Charleston, WV 25364

  ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9884642-8-5

  ISBN eBook: 978-0-9884642-7-8

  THE DARKSLAYER is a registered trademark, #77670850

  http://www.thedarkslayer.net

  Cover Illustration by David Chen

  Edited by Cherise Kelley

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Publisher's Note

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  OUTRAGE IN THE OUTLANDS

  The Darkslayer (Book 5)

  CHAPTER 1

  Nerves of steel. Where are they? Melegal swore he used to have them; even in his own darkest hours, he'd had little fear. Ever since he was a boy he’d been beaten and abused to some degree, but it only reinforced his steely resolve. For some reason, as far back as he could recall, he'd always figured he could wriggle his way out of anything, until today.

  The Royal Coming of Age games were about to begin, and every face that sat along the benches was eager for blood. Royals—pompous, arrogant, extravagant, impossible and powerful—loved nothing more than seeing their falling brethren hacked down like rabid dogs. Melegal stood leaning against the wall, inspecting his fingernails, five rows up from the bottom of the arena. Say nothing. Talk to no one. Avoid all contact. It will be over soon.

  The arena, nothing extravagant but fairly large, was a small compound where the Royal sentries did much of their routine training. The Royals and sentries sat behind a wall that was about eight feet in height, along wooden benches where one was no more distinct than the other. Above them, a dome rested on a network of limestone pillars where sun and moonlight could gleam in through the litany of tiny windows, making for a majestic affect. Other than that, it was a place of seclusion. A safe place from prying eyes and a good place to muffle the cries of death. Melegal clutched his fingers in and out, pumping blood into his lengthy fingers. What to do? He felt obligated to be doing something. When all else fails, listen.

  Lord Almen sat in the first row, broad shoulders pulled back proud as a peacock, looking stately as well as deadly in his exquisite black silk jerkin laced with threads of gold. Along his side and spreading out were another twenty people who Melegal hadn't seen before. More Royals, some gray-headed, others bald-headed, both young and old, each having a smile when Lord Almen had their attention and a sneer when he did not. Staff, young women, attractive and revealing, served wine, food and other pleasantries to the men who gathered around one another like a host of evil colleagues. Melegal wanted to spit. Blathering men.

  The arena itself had other guests, ones that Melegal knew all too well. Sefron sat alone, near the front of the flock of garish Royals, neck craning back, and hanging on their every word, wearing more robes than Melegal had ever seen him in before. There is still time to kill you today. He brushed his fingers over his wrists, feeling the contraptions hidden beneath his sleeves and fighting the urge to launch the darts he’d acquired from the Slergs when he took them into custody. Elation had filled him when he came across them. They were prized weapons, indeed. When the right time and place presented itself, he’d be ready. I’ll feather that slaggard’s flabby back full of them.

  A pair of heavy double doors were pulled open from inside the arena. The contestants of the Coming of Age Games were pulled inside, heavy chains clanking, to a small course of cheers.

  “Booooo!”

  “You’re going to die, you wretched Slergs! You killed my brother,” one Royal shouted, rising to his toes and hurling a goblet of wine at Leezir.

  Here we go.

  Melegal wanted to crawl into a hole, such a dreadful feeling over came him. He’d been in an arena similar to this before, but on the other side of things, when he was an urchin serving in the Slerg castle, watching his one and only friend, Venir, take ritual beating from the Slerg boys. He’d never forget that day, during another ceremony, when Venir stuck it to the twins, Hagerdon and Creighton. That was the day he knew if he was to ever be free of the Royals, or to live a long life, his road to freedom was through Venir. He fought to keep his eyes away from the men inside the arena. Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look. He looked.

  There they stood, two Slerg men and a Slerg girl, beaten, downcast and destitute, except one, Hagerdon. Fighting a hard cough but known to be quite a swordsman, the man kept his chin up, green eyes still ablaze. Always hated him and his brother. Such scrappy arses. You’d think I’d be happy to see them go. Instead, Melegal felt pity. Venir’s bloody seed. The man still makes my life impossible.

  He looked at the man who he should be trying to save, Brak. The man, or boy rather, was a monster by comparison to the rest. Tall, sullen-eyed, big-boned with a tuft of blond hair hanging down past his jaws. He stood still, shoulders stooped, eyes gazing at the ground like nothing more than a common mute. Melegal had at least seen to it that he wasn’t whipped, but he swore he heard the man’s stomach growl from where he sat.

  Melegal rubbed his chin. He could see little of Brak’s father in him, other than his blue eyes. I’m not so sure he’s Venir’s seed. But he knew that he was. Something eerie about the man’s presence told him so.

  He fanned himself with his cap and took a seat a few benches down, all alone from the rest of the crowd. Lord Almen’s hawking eyes caught his for a moment. He swore the man was going to kill him any day now. He bowed his chin, turned, and refocused his attention on the inner arena, where six well-armed youths were conducting routine exercises with wooden weapons along the wall.

  “Look at that one's head,” a haughty voiced boy said, swinging a heavy club. The others all looked over and laughed. “Ten gold says I crack it open first.”

  “I’ll take that, and raise you fifteen more. My, his face is three times bigger than mine,” another said, strutting around swinging his wooden sword.

  They were all laughing and practicing quick little moves.

  “I’m in for twenty. They should have just given us cows and sheep to slaughter. It would last longer.”

  “But we aren’t supposed to kill them,” one said, his black hair as straight as an arrow.

  There was a pause among the boys and then an outburst of laughter.

  “Tell you what,” one said, freckled and brown headed, “we can take the little Slerg girl back to our quarters and give her something to feel good about after we’ve killed what’s left of her family. She’s cute for a Slerg. Has all of her teeth anyway.”

  “Not for long,” one said, whacking a wooden mallet into the wall.

  They chattered back and forth like gossiping women, but Melegal could hear the nervous twinge in their voices. It was their first trial against men, unknown men at that. And even though the cards on the table were overwhelmingly in their favor, there was a wild card, Brak. The bastard son of the unstoppable Venir. And Melegal swore it had been Brak’s hands that
bent those bars in the sewers. I hope he at least snaps a few necks before he perishes. Alas.

  The bench felt abnormally hard on his skinny butt as he shifted in his seat the ever slightest. Normally, the skinny thief had ice water in his veins, but now his dexterous poise had been violated. Keys. Sefron wanted them. He’d seen them and taken a trip from one side of the city to the other with them. He’d broken into Lord Almen’s office to find them, against his will, something he was certain was Sefron’s doing. I’ll never follow the reason behind that. Now, he was certain that Lord Almen suspected him. He’ll have me dead as a toad sure enough. Wicked Royals. He clenched his fist. I’ve had enough.

  He cocked his chin and watched another unsettling figure from the corner of his eye. Another unanticipated obstacle. A woman, tall, sinewy, with short raven hair and maroon lips sat several feet over from Lord Almen. A sheathed sword lay over her lap where she scowled. He noticed Lord Almen's eyes drifting to hers from time to time. Interesting.

  Melegal was certain it was the same woman from the chamber room, the one he'd thought looked so familiar. Still, he found himself looking over at her, and she was looking back at him. Dark blue eyes as sharp as razors. Face scarred from injury or mishap. Scowling at him like he was the plaque of the earth. He knew who it was: Jarla the Brigand Queen. He scowled right back and turned towards the other notable woman in the room, who was scowling at Jarla. Lorda Almen.

  She was picture perfect, legs crossed below her short white and rose colored tunic dress, revealing her sensual calves. The Lorda was a marvelous woman who stood out among the rest of the Royals, her lithe frame feline in grace, her every movement accenting her generous curves beneath her snug but appropriate garments. Melegal could see poisoned daggers behind Lorda Almen’s glaring expression on the raven-headed interloper. Fascinating, even when hating.

  She flipped her dark hair behind her shoulders and locked eyes with Melegal. His heart pounded with new energy. The Lorda had become quite fond of him over the passing months. He’d saved her from her own son, Tonio. He’d killed an innocent man that day, Gordin, a commander of the Almen Castle watch. Stabbed him in the back. Duped the Lorda into believing Tonio was at fault and had gone from being a goat to a hero. His plan had worked, and so far, he lived.

  Still, Lord Almen and Sefron he was certain remained unconvinced. But, as time passed, Lorda stayed fond of Melegal and treated him less like a servant and more like a confidante. He’d even walked through her gardens with her once, and her exotic nearness had almost curled his toes. If not for her interventions, he was certain he’d be nothing but charred or rotting bones. He read her full and perfect lips as she spoke to one of her servants who got up and headed his way. No, not now!

  The servant was a pretty little thing, light hair pulled back in a bun, her servant robes ruffling over the bench as she squatted along his side and whispered in his ear.

  “The Lorda would like a moment with you, Detective,” she said, bowing, then gracefully walking away.

  All the men inside the arena were lathered up in conversation, pointing and goading one another as Melegal made his way over with sagging shoulders. Despite the pleasure of Lorda Almen’s presence, she still had her own way of being as demanding as her husband. Who must I spy on this time? He glimpsed at the back of Jarla’s muscular back. I can only imagine. He huddled beside the Lorda, catching the full effect of her arousing perfume. Perhaps I can swipe a drop or two for Haze.

  “Detective, it is good to see you,” she said with a pleasant smile. “I’ve heard that you and Sefron have worked hard together on this venture. Is that true?”

  No.

  “I do what must be done in hopes it pleases the Lords.”

  “I see,” she said. “But, are you not the one who brought in all of these Slergs? Tracked them down one by one and saw to it that only these few remain? The cleric had no part in that, did he?” She eyed Sefron, frowned, and returned her gaze to Melegal. “We can never get the fiend from the castle, it seems. All he does is ogle the women and creep up on the girls.” She reached over and grabbed his sleeve. “He’s a disturbing one, and I can only imagine he’s hard to work with.”

  Ha.

  “It is true, Lorda, that I am responsible for capturing these men, and the cleric played no part. He did manage the risky task of inviting Lord Almen’s guests and picking out the wine and appetizers for this event. I think he even has a blister on his lips to show for it.”

  Lorda pulled him in closer, laughing and pressing her soft bosom into his arm, sending a wave of passion through him. He wanted to pull away, but she was holding him fast. What if Lord Almen saw? Cripes! Just toss me in the arena, why don’t you? But Lorda’s servants obstructed the view. Lightning raced down his spine as Lorda Almen’s lips nibbled at his earlobe and she whispered to him, “See that black clad whore over there?”

  There’s only one Jarla.

  “Yes, Lorda, “ he managed.

  “Kill her.”

  There’s too much blood rushing to my head. Did she just say—

  “Kill her,” she squeezed his arm, “… and I’ll be so very grateful. Don’t kill her, and I’ll be disappointed.” She let go. Returning to her stately posture, her voice was a cold as stone. “And you don’t want to see me disappointed. Now go.”

  “As you wish,” he said, turning his steely eyes way. Jaws clenched, he got up, and his mind started thinking. Madness! Why me? Kill the infamous Brigand Queen. Watch a friend's son die. I need to at least try to save him. Possibly die in the process. If anyone is to go before I expire, it will be Sefron. I’ve had it with these Royals. He took a place on the bench adjacent to the back of Jarla, allowing his hand to slip to one of his daggers. Let the Lorda think I’m at least going to try. Women!

  CHAPTER 2

  Brak cast a glance at the leering faces in the crowd. He looked back down. At his side, Hagerdon and Leezir stood in as bad a shape as they’d ever been in before. Leezir hacked and coughed, a trickle of blood coming from his lips, his breathing crackling and raspy. Hagerdon, battered and bruised from head to toe, eyes almost swollen shut, stood chin up and chest out, glaring at his enemies.

  The Slerg fighter's eyes locked on his as he said, “Brak, get your chin up. Your father’d be ripping those chains and whipping their scrawny arses with them if he were here. They’re going to take you down. Rip you apart. Take some of them down with you.” Hagerdon fell to the ground when a spear butt cracked him in the head. A chorus of laughter followed.

  “Shaddup, Slerg!”

  Brak reached out to Hagerdon and caught the tip of a spear in his ribs.

  “Don’t move, Mute! Else I’ll poke a hole in you before the fight begins.”

  He shuffled back, chains jangling at his feet, as Hagerdon struggled to rise. He looked around at the people in the seats in the arena now. One woman was stunning, another one scowled. His mouth watered. He could smell the food that robed servant girls carried to the men adorned in the most extravagant clothes. His stomach sounded like a bullfrog as it growled. He’d do anything to eat again, just one last meal and he’d be happy to die. He just didn’t want to die hungry. It seemed like such a sorry way to go.

  He glanced over at the young men, most of whom he swore were his age, and something else stirred in his hungry belly. Anger mixed with fear. They’d said the crudest things about the little girl, Jubilee. Things he couldn’t even imagine. At the same time, he suspected much of what they said was true. Yet, he had no desire to fight them. He just wanted to leave this place. He just wanted to eat. He wanted to see his mother, Vorla, again.

  “Hoy! Big Face!” one of the young men said. “We’re going to chop you up and feed you to the pigs! Ha-hahahahah!”

  Brak looked down at his toes. He’d gotten accustomed to Hagerdon’s insults over the passing months, but these young men’s tongues made the Slerg fighters sound like honey.

  “His face looks like an orc’s butthole!” another one added.

&
nbsp; “His head is shaped like a cracked ogre’s egg!”

  He blocked it out and glanced into the stands once more. A flabby man, odd like a hairless bird, was trying to run his hand up a slender girl's robes. Then he noticed the skinny man with steely eyes, the one who knew of his father. There's sympathy in the cold man’s face. This awareness brought him more fear than hope. It was as if the man who captured him, the one they called Detective, was looking at a corpse. He couldn’t take it anymore.

  He pumped his big fists in the air, and his voice filled the arena, “LET ME EAT! PLEASE, LET ME EAT!”

  A stark silence filled the arena. Food dropped from the mouth of one man, and a young royal dropped his wooden club.

  “I DON’T CARE!” Brak moaned. “JUST LET ME EAT ONCE MORE BEFORE I DIE!” He wiped the tears from his face and fell to his knees. “PLEASE!”

  Creighton hissed a fierce whisper at him, “Pull yourself together, you imbecile! Die with dignity!”

  Brak didn’t know what that meant and did not care. He was miserable, alone and starving.

  A murmuring began among the men and soldiers, but it was the one in the middle, the broad shouldered vulture of a man dressed in the most ornate clothes, who spoke first.

  “I thought you said he was a mute, Detective Melegal?” Lord Almen said, looking back over his shoulder at the skinny man who knew his father.

  The thin man shrugged and said, “I figured he’d eaten his tongue, and why wouldn’t I, Lord Almen?”

  A small chorus of laughter erupted.

  “I see, Detective.” Lord Almen let out a chuckle and turned his attention back on Brak. “Hmmmm … Brethren, I say we let this former mute eat. Perhaps a plateful of pig’s innards would do.”

  “Nay, Lord Almen, a spoonful of slat would be better.”

  The suggestions continued, one after the other, and Brak could feel himself slipping into the ground beneath his chains.

  “Get up, Brak! Die on your feet, not on your back like a coward!” Hagerdon said.