The Darkslayer: Series 2, Box Set #1, Books 1 - 3 (Bish and Bone)

by Craig Halloran

  “My name’s Silia. You can call me Sil if you like.” She handed him a glass. “And you are?”

  “Venir,” he said, smiling. “And I think Silia is a pretty name. It goes well with you.”

  She smiled and said, “Drink, and let’s see how well things go.”

  Venir gulped it down in one swallow.

  “You aren’t supposed to do that!” She slapped his chest. “You’re supposed to taste it.”

  “I did.” He could feel it burning down his throat. A mixture similar to wine but with the syrupiness of grog. A sweet bite of nectar in it. “How about another? What is it?”

  “Port,” she said. “We call it Netherland Port, and it’s pretty hard to come by, so don’t waste it.”

  He snatched the bottle from the bar and gulped a few swallows down.

  “Easy with that!” Silia said, grabbing the bottle.

  His eyes widened. He set down the bottle and eyed it. Now that he took the time to look at them, the curves and the markings on the black glass deeply disturbed him.

  “Netherland Port, you say?”

  She nodded.

  “Where does it come from?” he said, pushing the bottle away.

  Silia shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.” She leaned forward. “Of course, the guild provides it, so we don’t ask questions. They sell. We buy. It’s improved our business.”

  Venir noticed several bottles of port on the table. There was something odd about those bottles, as well.

  He tickled her knee again.

  “I’m more of an ale and grog man.” He handed her the bottle. “It’s all yours. Nice meeting you, Silia.”

  Startled, she said, “But, I don’t want you to go.”

  He patted her on the rump and said, “It’s been a long life. I need some time to myself.”

  “I can get someone else,” she said, frowning.

  “I prefer you, but I need to be—”

  “I know, alone.” She smiled a little. “Just let me know, Venir. I’ll be close.”

  He nodded, turned away, leaned back, and rested his arms on the bar. He was worried about Brak, mad at Kam, and uneasy with everything else.

  He spread his fingers out on the bar.

  Chok!

  Someone stuck a dagger in between them, saying “You’re not wanted here.”

  Chapter 15

  “This isn’t my way,” Fogle said, dashing the sweat from his brow. He and the strider chief, Tarcot, lay on their bellies in a thicket. It had been hours. No more than a few hundred yards away was the underling army’s camp. “Not my way at all.”

  Tarcot put one of his four hands on Fogle’s shoulder. His bug face wasn’t readable, but where there might be lips looked to be a smile.

  “This is war. A good war. Expect to do unordinary things. Extraordinary things. If you want to live.” He made a buzzing sound. “Or die.”

  “Seems all we talk about is dying these days. When can we start living again?”

  Tarcot pointed.

  “As soon as we kill all of them.”

  “Seems you’ve spent too much time with my grandfather.”

  Tarcot made small circles with all four of his hands.

  “He’s loopy. I like him.”

  Fogle had to admit one thing: crazy hadn’t gotten them killed so far.

  “Excuse me,” he said, closing his eyes. With a little concentration, he saw through the eyes of Inky. The great bird circled high above, keeping an eye on anything that approached their vicinity. The underlings didn’t prowl to far from camp, and they had shown little concern for any threats the past few months. They had the numbers and upper hand on things. He opened his eyes.

  “What did you see?” Tarcot said, tilting his head in quick jerks from side to side.

  “Just underlings. None near, but not far enough.”

  “Good,” Tarcot said, squeezing Fogle’s shoulder. The strider looked behind him. “Do you know what the plan is?”

  Fogle shook his head. Boon hadn’t told him. He’d just taken the spellbook and asked that the two of them make sure there were no interruptions. That had been at dusk. Now it was well past noon. Fogle spent his time remembering what he could about the spells inside the book. There were hundreds. Some took seconds to memorize, others minutes or even hours, but he couldn’t recall any that could possibly take this long. That wild wizard is probably trying to memorize them all. Fogle didn’t like being kept in the dark. He didn’t like being without his spellbook much either. He felt naked without it.

  Can’t be that much longer. He glanced behind him. Unless he got lost again.

  “Perhaps I should go check on him,” Tarcot said, “if it will make you feel better.”

  “Uh,” he said, looking around, his heart skipping a little, “let’s both go.”

  Both crawled backward through the brush beyond the tree-line and rose up. They turned and saw Boon sitting cross-legged in a clearing, chomping on nuts.

  “I wondered when you two would show up.” Boon said, twitching his mustache.

  Fogle and Tarcot looked at each other, then back at Boon.

  “You were supposed to show up, not us.”

  “Was I?” Boon lifted his bushy brows and shrugged. “I suppose I was. But I knew you would eventually find something amiss, Grandson. Not many spells take so many hours.”

  Fogle clenched his jaws. There was always some kind of little test that he failed. I knew this!

  “And which spell did you cast?” Fogle asked, looking around nervously.

  “You’ll know soon enough,” Boon said, looking up into the sky. “But in the meantime, I have another plan.”

  “Are you going to fill us in, or are you going to run off with my spellbook again?”

  Boon patted the heavy leather tome that lay by his side and said, “Now it’s your turn to use it, and you had better be quick. My spell could go into effect at any time.”

  Thoom…

  The ground shook, and everyone’s eyes widened. Fogle leered at his grandfather and said, “Did you do that?”

  Boon jumped to his feet, tossing him the spellbook.

  “Read, and be quick about it.”

  “Read what?”

  Boon opened it up and started thumbing through the pages. His grubby finger rested on a particular page.

  “This one. I don’t have it in me,” he said, excited.

  Thoom…

  Boon poked the pages. “Hurry!” He turned to Tarcot. “Come with me!” He and Tarcot darted toward the brush.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” Fogle said, his heart racing. He didn’t like being alone.

  They were gone, and something monstrous was coming closer.

  Thoom …

  “Where do we go? What do we do, Wizard?” Tarcot said. He put his four hands on the ground. “What have you done?”

  Boon stood tall, eyes open, arms dangling at his sides. He breathed heavily. The spells he had cast had left him weary. He fought for concentration. Finally, Inky’s vision merged with his. Little over a mile away, a large figure strode over the hardscape, and it wasn’t alone. He lost the connection, and his knees buckled.

  Tarcot held him up by the shoulders.

  “What is it, Wispy One?”

  Boon blinked, and his neck rolled side to side.

  “Trouble. Big trouble.”

  “A giant?”

  Fogle mustered his strength and staggered away from Tarcot, shaking his head.

  “Several giants,” he said.

  “They come to kill underlings?” Tarcot asked.

  “No, they come for me.”

  “You? Why you? Why you so crazy in your head?”

 
Thoom…

  Tarcot grabbed his arms and shook him.

  “What do you do? What do you do?”

  Boon swallowed. He had spent the last several hours using a summoning spell, hoping to see one giant, but not many. How did this happen? But of late, some spells had more power and others, not as much.

  “I’m the bait,” he said to Tarcot. “I’m leading them into the underling camp. So they can fight it out.”

  “That is good then.”

  “No, that is bad. The underlings were supposed to win. I’m not sure they can now.”

  “This plan make no sense,” Tarcot said. “Giants will crush them and then crush us.”

  He eyed Tarcot.

  “Well, we still have to do our part, and I’m ready for that.”

  “What part is that?”

  “We have to go to the underling camp,” he said.

  Tarcot waved his hands.

  “No, no, no.”

  Thoom … Thoom …

  “There is no time left. Now be still, so I can cast another spell on us.”

  “Tarcot does not like your magic use so much.”

  “It’s a protection spell,” Boon said, “of sorts.”

  Tarcot cocked his bug head.

  “No, it’s something else.”

  “A disguise spell then,” Boon said.

  “What kind?”

  “Well, we can’t go into an underling camp if we don’t look like underlings.”

  Tarcot poked him.

  “You turn into underling. You go into camp.”

  Thoom! Thoom!

  “Alright then. I’ll do it to myself then. Just be still.” He held his hands out, closed his eyes, and mumbled some words. Power surged up through his feet and flowed into his body. He opened his eyes, and Tarcot stood before him with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Nothing happened,” the strider said.

  “Is that so?” Boon said, looking back at the underling that Tarcot had become. He smiled. “Take a look at yourself.”

  Tarcot stretched his arms out and jumped.

  “You did this!”

  “Aye, now stand back.” He muttered more words, transforming himself. He was now an underling as well. “Time to pay the underlings a visit.”

  Tarcot shook his head. His eyes were pale yellow gemstones. His four arms were now two. He continued to study himself and shake his head. “Wispy One is bad fortune. Likes to try and get killed.”

  Boon led. A straight jog for the underling camp. He’d be the beacon to the giants, and they wouldn’t stop looking until they found him. The idea had been to lead the giants into the hive of underlings and let them kill the giants. At some point, more giants would look for their brethren and discover them fallen to the underlings, inciting a nasty feud. But if the giants won the battle, they’d still come after Boon. And if they caught him, they would drag him back to the Under-Bish.

  At fifty yards from the camp, underlings on the backs of large sand spiders closed in. They chittered sharp commands from glowering faces. Spears pointed at Boon and Tarcot from all directions. Boon didn’t respond. And that’s when he made a stark realization. They might die before the giants even got there.

  I can’t speak Underling.

  Chapter 16

  “Don’t worry, Brak. I’ll look after you,” Jubilee said. She fed him a hot bowl of stew. “Until they get you fixed. After that, you’re back on your own.”

  He took a mouthful and chewed slowly. He was in Kam’s room, where Venir usually stayed, propped up on the couch and looking out the window. He felt empty inside. Foolish. Fighting ogres was foolish, especially without a weapon. He’d paid for it.

  Jubilee fed him another mouthful. Cleaned up his chin with the spoon.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  He could still see the ogre, Gondoon, lording over him, triumphant. He’d never seen an ogre before, but he’d heard stories about them from Billip and Venir. But this ogre wasn’t some ordinary ogre, either. Billip made that much clear. ‘Never saw an ogre where steel skips off skin’. And like a fool, Brak had tried to go toe to toe with it. Billip said he was lucky he wasn’t in pieces. Venir was just furious.

  “Do you want another bowl?” Jubilee said, wiping his mouth and smiling.

  Brak shook his head. At least that part moved.

  “What are you smiling for? You don’t smile much,” he asked Jubilee.

  “Because I’m usually tricky and spiteful?”

  “Well, yes,” he said, shrugging.

  Jubilee gasped.

  “Brak, you just moved your shoulders.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes,” she said, “do it again.”

  He tried. Nothing happened.

  Sadness washed away the thrill.

  “Are you sure you saw that?”

  She nodded and patted his shoulders with her little hands.

  “Well, it will happen.” She looked him in the eye. “You know why I smile now when I normally don’t? Because I’m just glad you came back alive.” She pinched his cheeks. “And when you get back on your feet, I’ll be mean to you again. I’ll be back. I’m going to fix you more stew.”

  “I don’t want more,” he said, turning his head and watching her go.

  “You don’t have a choice.”

  He grunted a small laugh and heard the door close behind her as she left, leaving him in the quiet and all alone. Kam’s apartment was nice. He hadn’t spent much time in anything nice before. There were curtains and rugs. The smell of the room was always good, and things were always in a nice order. Kam had really surprised him when she said he could stay there and that she’d find him some help. He always figured she didn’t like him, being Venir’s bastard son and all. He wondered if his mother Vorla and Kam would have gotten along. They had similar qualities.

  Probably kill each other.

  He looked down at his legs. One was cocked out of place to one side. He concentrated. Tried to move it. His eyes watered, and his neck swelled up. He didn’t want Jubilee to see him cry again. But she understood. She saw him for who he was: not a man, but an over-sized boy. A tear rolled down his cheek. He must have cried more than most do in Bish. His mother dying almost killed him. Being starved half to death had been even worse. Now this.

  Stop crying. You’re too big for this.

  He sniffed and snorted. His father’s angry face bothered him. Venir and Billip had argued with each other the entire miserable trek back. It wasn’t a pleasant thing. Each one seemed to be blaming the other. At least Venir had spent some time with him. They had talked as Venir walked by his side while the horses towed him …

  “I’m sorry about your mother, Brak.” Venir said. A deep frown creased his battle-riddled face. “But Vorla was a good woman to me. And our time was … well, memorable. Did she ever tell you how we met?”

  Brak said, “No.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  Brak nodded.

  “All right then. As it goes, long before I became this blood-mad axe-wielding slayer, I was a soldier of sorts. Young and full of as much bull as you could cram into a minotaur—”

  “What’s a minotaur?”

  “Uh, well, a very large man with horns. Like the ram-faced mintaurs in the City of Three.”

  “I see,” Brak said.

  “I was what is often called a sword-for-hire, or sell sword. Some call it a mercenary. I’d joined up with a group I met south in the tent city. They called themselves the Steel Picket, which was a fairly renowned organization of its kind. A bunch of sell swords like me and your mother.”

  “She was a fighter,” Brak said.

  “A good one. Better than me at the time. Back then, I wielde
d a blade like an orcen pick. I was pretty young, not seasoned, and your mother a bit older and wiser than me. She’d been with the Steel Picket a few years already. She made quite an impression the first time I saw her. Short sandy hair, well-formed and attractive in a bodice of chain and leather armor. She told me to gawk at some of the other ladies, but there weren’t any.” He laughed. “We got to talking after that and stayed pretty close from then on.”

  “It was my first journey of the kind. Scouting and protecting the caravan train from brigands and any other strange things this world had to throw at them.”

  “Underlings?” Brak asked.

  “They weren’t very troublesome back then,” Venir said, slapping a mosquito on his neck. “We fought mostly orcs, kobolds, gnolls, ogres, snakes, giant vultures, and some other strange monsters. We traveled back and forth, between the north and the south. We were together for more than a year. Lost a lot of good men, but never a single caravan. It made a better man out of me, and so did your mother.” His face became distant after that. “I lost track of Vorla after that.”

  “What happened?” Brak said.

  Venir shrugged.

  “I was just getting started, wanted to move on to other things. We argued a bit. It got fierce. She slung words as sharp as swords, and I slung some back. She didn’t want me to go, I guess, but she didn’t say that. She called me some names and stormed away. I left then. Never even said ‘so long.’”

  Venir put his hand on Brak’s chest. “Now I know why she was so mad.”

  … It hadn’t been a long conversation, but it meant the world to Brak. He mattered to Venir. His mother had mattered, too. But he couldn’t help but wonder how things would have turned out if Venir had stuck around.

  The apartment door opened. He tried to reach for the tears on his face, but nothing moved.

  “You could have at least waited until my tears dried up, Jubilee.”