Movement flickered. Two underling blades flashed nearby.
Brak picked the corpse up from the ground and launched it into the two assaulting figures. One by one he hewed them down with his sword in bone splintering chops.
Clatch-Zip! Clatch-Zip!
Bolts zinged into his back.
He reached behind himself and ripped them out. He found the assailants and bore down on them.
Underlings were fast, but not fast enough.
Brak pounced on one, crushed its body beneath his great weight, and drove the bolts into its eye sockets.
The second underling rushed in with a sword, chopping straight at Brak’s belly.
His hand lashed out, catching the underling by the wrist and jerking it to the ground.
Whop! Whop! Whop!
Brak punched its face in.
He let out a blood-curdling howl and tracked down every dark fiend his battle-fueled eyes could find and killed them all. One by one.
Georgio ran his sword through his final attacker. The underling twitched on the end of his blade and slid off with a hiss. Heart racing, Georgio eyed the plaza-turned-slaughterhouse. Dozens of people were dead. A dozen underlings were dead, too.
“Bish!” he exclaimed.
Splattered in blood, Brak lumbered through the ranks of the dead in a daze with shafts protruding from his body and gashes scoring his flesh. The oversized young man collapsed on the ground.
Georgio rushed to his aid. “Brak,” Georgio said, rolling his friend onto his side. He plucked a pair of darts out of his back and laid him down. Brak’s face was smeared in blood, yet he still breathed. “Can you hear me?”
Brak shook violently, let out a throaty growl, and fell silent.
Georgio’s head filled with questions. How did Brak walk? Where did the underlings come from? And where was …
“Nikkel!” he called out. “Nikkel!”
Through the smoke, he located his friend lying on the ground, blinking his eyes. Georgio plucked darts from him.
“Hold on. These things take time to wear off.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes. “Did you see Brak?”
Nikkel blinked once.
“He survived. We all did,” Georgio said, looking around. The dead were everywhere, and the lamentations of the survivors began. “Too bad for all of them. Now that the underlings have started, they’ll never stop.”
Chapter 8
Lefty’s struggles were muted by the iron grip that held him fast.
Figures!
“Keep it shut, halflin’, if you don’t want a nasty lump on yer head.”
The bear of a man hugged Lefty tight to his chest, and his meaty hand engulfed Lefty’s entire face.
“Did you hear me?” a deep voice said.
Lefty mumbled the best he could.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
The man hooked his hands underneath Lefty’s armpits and held him out like a toddler.
“Mood?” Lefty said, cocking his head.
The dwarf with the blood-red beard streaked in white shook him and said, “What do you know of the king of the dwarves?” He gave him another rough jostle. “What, fair-headed one? What?”
“Stop shaking me,” Lefty blustered.
Still holding him tight to the chest, the big dwarf’s arms steadied. He was big and broad, the same as Mood, a bit smaller, heavier, and older. His face, weathered and tanned, had more wrinkles, too. He wore buckskin leather dyed in deep red and green, similar to what Mood wore. And there were two heavy swords, more like machetes, strapped to his hips.
“Are you a Blood Ranger?” Lefty asked, swallowing.
“I am,” the dwarf said, cocking an eyebrow. “You seem to have particular knowledge of such things. Tell me more about it, halflin’, else I shake yer guts out.”
“He’s a friend. Er, was a friend. I don’t know. It’s been a long time since I last saw him,” Lefty said. He became dejected. “And Chongo.”
The dwarf’s brows lifted.
“Ye know the King and the pooch?” He grunted. “Now that’s somethin’.”
“Uh … I’m Lefty. Will you put me down now?”
The dwarf dropped him and started to wander off.
“Excuse me,” Lefty said, catching up. “Where are you going?”
“To kill those underlings. I’ve been tracking them for weeks. Dirty fiends are sprouting up like hair on an ogre’s back.”
“Can you get me out of here first?”
The dwarf turned on him. “What did you say your name was?”
“Lefty. Lefty Lightfoot. And what is your name?”
“Pall.”
“Pall?”
“That’s it.”
“What do you say, Pall? Can you get me out of here?”
Pall shook his bearded head. “It’s not safe out there for the likes of you. I think you are better off in here.”
“I want to leave,” he pleaded. “The wart-nosed dwarves are hunting me.”
“Wart-nosed, you say?” Pall said, rubbing his chin. “Why are they hunting you?”
“It’s a long story, but I was their prisoner, and I escaped.”
“Wart-nosed bad,” Pall said, scanning the murk.
Lefty could see a hint of blue in his eyes.
“Bad, bad, dwarves.” He started marching off again.
“Wait,” Lefty said, “where are you going?”
“To kill them.”
“Kill who?”
“The wart-noses. We don’t tolerate that brood.”
“What about the underlings?”
“Er, well,” Pall shrugged his heavy shoulders, “I’ll kill them too.” Pall set back into his stride.
Lefty cut him off.
“Will you move before I stomp you into the swamp?”
“Please, Pall, take me out of here.” Lefty’s voice cracked. “Mood always looked after me, and you should too.”
Pall took a knee. “Listen. I’ll kill them, and then I’ll take care of you.” He rested his hands on Lefty’s shoulders. “It’s the best I’m willing to do. Come, wait, or go on your own.”
“But there are so many, and there is only one of you.”
Pall slipped a hand axe out of his belt and handed it to Lefty.
“Come,” Pall said, “Now the odds are better.”
Shoulders slouched, Lefty followed along.
Will I ever embrace the madness?
Chapter 9
The City of Three reeled. Doors and windows were boarded up and the streets abandoned. And not long after that, the bickering began.
Why did the underlings attack?
Who made them mad?
That was one side of it.
We need to flush them out!
Kill the black-haired vermin!
That was the other.
All the people sitting at the table inside the Magi Roost preferred the latter. The Magi Roost was closed.
Boon, usually cheerful, had the most serious look about him that Melegal had ever seen.
Billip leaned over the table, cracking his knuckles and stroking his black goatee.
Fogle’s eyes drifted through the room, searching for Kam.
Men have no shame, especially wizards. Heh, and thieves, Melegal thought.
Georgio and Nikkel shared a pot of coffee. A week ago, they had returned banged up and coated in dried blood, having carried Brak a mile through the streets. Their lips had been wild with stories about underlings attacking and Brak going berserk and walking again.
Now the mannish teen sat beside Georgio, who kept having to prop him up. Brak’s left arm lifted a shaky spoon of stew to his lips, but that was all he was good for. Geo
rgio had dragged him inside with holes and cuts all over him. Kam and Joline had spent hours stitching him up. It had been a rough night, but Brak lived.
He should be dead, yet he lives, much like his father. But quieter, thank goodness.
Melegal rubbed his eyes. They’d been talking about the underlings for days. It seemed half the city wanted to flee. Maybe a quarter wanted to fight. The bloody assault on the City of Three had been something never seen before that anyone could remember. He took a sip from his goblet.
“Melegal,” Boon said, “you are an observant man. Do you have any insight to share on this?”
He lifted his thin grey brows, parted his lips, and said, “No.”
I’ll let you fools start the work. For the moment, I’m only out for myself.
“Oh, come off it, Me,” Georgio said, glaring at him. “You have something. You always do. Quit being a puckered arse!”
“Stop fuming, child!”
Georgio started up out of his chair. “Fuming!”
“Don’t be so excitable,” Tarcot said from the opposite end of the table. “You have too many loose tempers in your ranks. Striders don’t argue. They plan. Plot. Avenge.”
“Well said, Tarcot,” Boon added. “And I agree.”
Billip yawned. “So what are we going to do? The Royals have declared martial law and have forbidden any action. We seek, we strike, we get put in shackles.”
“It’s as if they are protecting the underlings,” Nikkel added. He rapped his fist on the table. “I say: if we aren’t going to fight them, then I’m going back to Two-Ten City. They don’t put up with this sort of slat down there.”
“I don’t think there is still a down there,” Billip added. “Though I wish there was.”
Indecision. Such a strange place to be in. At least the big oaf never had this problem.
Even Melegal was uncertain what to do. Going outside only brought hassle by the City Watch and soldiers. Staying inside was always the same company. All the barmaids had stayed home. There was no place to go. No place safer than where he was. And then there was Jaen and the tower she’d tossed him from. He had no desire to be transported there again. Yet he felt eyes were watching. And ears were listening, perhaps.
Mages know too much. Share too little. He eyed Boon. I bet he knows much more than he lets on. He took a sip. Well, I do too.
Melegal remained tight lipped about his dealings with Jaen and Venir in the Snake Pit. It being him, no one asked him questions. They understood his dour demeanor. Georgio was the only one who knew him well enough to pick his brain, and the oversized boy wasn’t smart, just nosy. And Jasper, a mystic sneak herself, kept to herself. So far.
This wouldn’t be so bad if I had Quickster.
He tilted his head back and sighed. Nothing tasted good right now. Not the wine. Nor the food. And the company was becoming stale. Most interesting of all, no one spoke of Venir. He didn’t understand exactly why, but it seemed everyone had become accustomed to Venir’s comings and goings. Even Georgio didn’t mention him.
“I think it’s time I turned in,” Fogle said, yawning. “We can resume our fruitless discussion on the morrow.” He scooted out of his seat.
“Good idea, Grandson,” Boon said. “You’ll need good rest for tomorrow’s journey.”
“What journey?”
All eyes fell on the two magi.
“We must return to the Outland. There is a war to be fought, and we have an army to tend.” Boon shifted in his chair toward Fogle. “Did your titillated mind forget about that?”
Fogle’s face darkened. “No! But I’ll be going nowhere anytime soon.”
“There is nothing for you here.”
“Nothing for you, maybe! Sorry if I don’t embrace your insane obsession with underlings, but I think I had best stay here and defend my home.”
“So be it,” Boon said, turning away. “Nestle all you want, the result will still be the same. A true champion of Three would take the fight to them. Eh … and I’ll be needing my spellbook.”
“Your spellbook? No no no,” Fogle said, wagging his finger. “It’s mine by right.”
“Do you plan on reading it to the ladies? Letting them rub your shoulders while you study it late at night? Pah!”
Melegal tapped his fingertips together. Interesting. That old man is not so bad.
Tarcot stood up. “I’m ready to depart as well. Now is better than later.”
Boon had spent much time talking about the army that was being raised: jungs and giants, allegedly. Striders and pitchfork-wielding farmers. It seemed plenty of people wanted to fight, except for the Royals.
“Agreed, Tarcot,” Boon said. “And as much as I’ve enjoyed my stay, I’m ready to get back at it. I’m a Boon.” He glanced at Fogle, eyes intent. “This is what I do.”
Fogle turned away.
“Anyone care to join us?” Boon added.
Billip spoke up. “I’ll go.”
“Billip,” Georgio said, surprised, “really? You can’t go.”
“If I’m going to fight those fiends, I had best fight with a group that’s leaving the City of Three.” He cracked his knuckles. “I’d probably get arrested here for doing it.”
“I’m going too,” Nikkel said.
“What’s gotten into you?” Georgio said.
“I want to fight. Fight in an army. My father did all the time, and I’ve always wanted to.”
“Pickings are slim to none out there,” Georgio said. “Remember the trip up here?”
“I know, but that was only because you and Brak ate all the food. Seeing how you won’t be with us,” Nikkel said, glancing at Brak. “I think we’ll fare much better.”
“But …” Georgio started, then his chin dipped to his chest.
Brak swung his good arm over and hit him in the head. “You go, Georgio. I’ll make do. I’ll walk on one arm if I have to.”
“I’ll watch Brak,” Jubilee piped in. She’d peeked in from around the other side of the fireplace. “And what I can’t help with, Joline and Kam will.” She glared at Nikkel. “Even though I think going is a stupid thing.”
Oh, they grow up so fast, don’t they? Melegal tilted the goblet to his lips. When he set it down again, all eyes were on him. “You know I’m not going.” He refilled his goblet and raised it high. “I’ll keep you in mind from time to time.”
Chapter 10
“May I join you?” Fogle said to Melegal.
Hunkered behind the warmth of the crackling fireplace, Melegal scooted a chair over with his foot. “Sure.”
It had been several days since Boon, Tarcot, Billip, Georgio, and Nikkel had left, and their departure had been ugly. Kam’s voice had shaken the candles out of the chandeliers, and Joline had blubbered for two days. Even Melegal had felt a little water stir in his gaze.
Fogle drew up his robes and took a seat with a sigh. He was cleaned up now, new dark-green robes with intricate designs. His hair was cut short, and the rugged beard was gone. His expression was deep, his eyes penetrating.
“Should I feel guilty?”
“Huh,” Melegal laughed. “For preferring life over death? I don’t think so.”
“Hmmm…”
“Here’s some advice: don’t let guilt kill you.”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
Melegal shrugged his narrow shoulders. “You know, I don’t think it’s not going that bothers you.” He glanced at the bar, where Kam and Jubilee were working. “I think the reason you stayed here is what makes you feel so guilty.”
Fogle swallowed.
Melegal nodded. “Women are beautiful and dangerous things.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Fogle said, glancing toward Kam. Their eyes met with twin smiles
and slid away at the same time.
“You do know he’ll return,” Melegal said. “He always does. He’s like a fungus that keeps growing back on your foot.” He took a gulp. “Not that I would know.”
“I know,” Fogle said, “and I like him, but … may I?” He gestured to the pitcher of wine.
Melegal filled another goblet and slid it over.
Fogle gulped it down. “As I was saying … well, never mind.”
“You were going to say that you like him, but you hope he doesn’t come back.”
Fogle’s eyes widened on his scholarly head.
“Don’t feel bad,” Melegal continued. “I’ve felt that way plenty of times before.”
“You’ve known him long.”
“Since we were children, and if I had more friends like him, then I wouldn’t have any enemies.”
“Why’s that?”
Melegal laughed. “They’d kill them. That’s the kind of loyal friend he is when he’s around, and I’d say he’s pretty loyal to old Fire-top over there, too. And let’s not forget his daughter.”
“Slat,” Boon said, sagging down. “She’s not even mentioned him, though.”
“And you haven’t either, I’ve noticed.”
Fogle laughed until tears rolled from his eyes.
Melegal refilled his goblet.
Fogle drank it down. “Am I a dog?”
“No, you are a mangy cur.”
“Well, how come I feel so much better?”
“Because you’ve accepted the truth—and you’re drinking some pretty strong wine.”
Chatting back and forth, they shared another goblet.
Fogle opened up some more. “I tried to kill him once, in a mind grumble.” He pointed toward the bloodstain on the floor. “See that spot?”
“I heard about it.”
“Well, you’ve never heard this.” Fogle leaned forward. “He strolled in here, brawny and brazen, and Kam melted all over him. Jealousy enflamed me.”
The Darkslayer: Series 2, Box Set #1, Books 1 - 3 (Bish and Bone) Page 33