The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid

by Craig Halloran

  The ogre—a full eight feet of bulging brawn and belly—snorted the air. Its yellow eyes widened on a head as big as a barrel of ale, that turned his direction. Fogle Boon felt so cold on the inside, and now his veins turned to ice as the ogre stormed his way, heavy steps thundering into the ground.

  Fogle fanned his frozen fingers outward as he shouted, “KRYZAK-SHO!”

  The power warmed inside him. Four radiant darts of energy slammed into the ogre’s chest, drawing a howl of agony. Not good. The angry ogre was still coming. His spell had misfired. A single syllable from his chattering teeth had slipped, and a barrage of needles designed to enter the face and pierce the brain had simply bored into the thickset muscle and bone of the massive humanoid. The effect would do little more than leave a scar on the monster's smelly hide, but Fogle didn’t have time to worry about that now. DUCK!

  The ogre swung over his head as Fogle rolled through the snow, fumbling inside the pockets of his robes. He grabbed a small rod of steel and thrust it before him, catching the next blow that glanced off a field of energy of bluish hue. Fogle’s fragile arms shook under the force, loosening his numb fingers along the rod. Focus, mage! FOCUS!

  He clutched the rod in two shaking hands now as the ogre pounded away. His body shook to the core. It gave him some idea of what actual fighters went through. He had previously only heard them discuss melee. The spell within the rod only had so much it could take. The transparent field of magic was chipping and cracking like the shell of an egg. He caught his first close-up view of the ogre as it snarled in his face. His razor sharp mind noted the large canine-like teeth, jutting chin and protruding brow. Its expression was evil, cruel and without compassion. The smell of salt and manure didn’t mix well with the pure cold air he was growing accustomed to. The smell was pungent and unrelenting, and his eyes watered. The humanoid continued to pound away, not a mindless beast, but a cunning creature that was going punish him before it ripped him apart and ate him. Fogle screamed.

  “MOOD!”

  His shield was fading, the fragments falling and dissipating in the air like blue crystals. There was nothing he could do at this point to save himself except cry out for help. His arms began to sag because his joints ached. I don’t want to be an adventurer any more! He wanted to say it, but he didn’t have the wind to say something that long.

  “Mood!” he managed, as the next blow punched him deeper into the snow, wracking every joint in his bony body.

  Futility. Fatality. He was going to die. Any second now, the next blow was bound to smash through and crush his skull. It made him more mad than fearful. A stupid beast was about to crush his brilliant mind. Even worse, he would die a virgin. He seethed.

  “MOOD!”

  It was too late. He never thought about his own family until this very moment, and all of those years of studying, ignoring the social pleasantries of his kind. The fun oh-so-many had and bragged about, he'd passed on for knowledge and power. And all for what? To be squashed like a bug without his own seed ever sown or spilled.

  “MOOD!” BONE!

  The ogre raised up its stubbed club one last time as the last shards of magic faded away from Fogle’s shield. The ogre showed a growing leer of triumph. Anger and shame swelled inside Fogle, raced from his mind and into his booted leg. If I can’t procreate – this mindless bastard shall not either! He launched the heel of his boot into the beast's harry crotch, drawing a howl of alarm. Fogle fell back in the snow, exhausted, laughing and muttering.

  “No celebrating with your ugly counterpart tonight!”

  The ogre snarled with rage as it raised its club once more. Fogle’s eyes widened as the club reached its zenith and began its downward arc. Well, if you can crack my skull you can crack anything.

  Slice! Somewhere a hand axe began to sing.

  Howling, the ogre reeled backward.

  Slice! Slice! Slice!

  A streak of blood splattered across Fogle’s face and robes. He noted the warm syrupy feeling and the smell of boar’s blood. He’d seen Mood gut one back in Dwarven Hole. There was a sickening sound, like an axe chopping into a rotting log, as he managed to force himself up on his elbows.

  There was Mood, standing over the dead ogre, ripping his axes from its skull. The Blood Ranger was coated in dark blood, unlike that of his hair and beard. He was big and grizzly, his emerald eyes blazing like fire underneath his bushy brows. His head shifted left and right above his thick shoulders, wild and frightening. Fogle still wasn’t used to it, the Blood Ranger's odd way. But, the King of the Dwarves was the only friend he had. Fogle let out a trembling sigh, and his warm breath fogged, reminding him of how cold he was.

  “Yer going ta need a bath, Ogre Bait,” Mood said, slinging the blood from his blades into the snow.

  He managed to sit all the way up, happy that his cold arse was still a part of his living body, and to say, “Me? Look at you, Ogre Slat.”

  Mood glanced over his shoulder, checked the blood on his clothes and laughed. The dwarf was coated in blood from head to toe. “Hah!” The husky dwarf walked over and pulled him up off the ground like a child. “Never seen that before.”

  “What? Ogres? That’s the seventh one we’ve fought since we’ve—“

  “Tenth!”

  Fogle gave a quick nod of his head. “I see, so the tenth since we’ve been wandering these mountains. What are you talking about? ‘Never seen that before’?”

  “Never seen no wizard kick an ogre in the family jewels before!”

  “Is that so?” he replied, rubbing his hands feverishly together. I hate this cold.

  “Aye,” Mood replied, “saved your life, it did. I’s coming over ta bank, too late, certain ye was gone.”

  “Where were you anyway?”

  “Killing ogres, Wizard. I thought you could handle them by now.”

  “I thought I had back-up!”

  “Ye did, er ye’d be dead,” Mood stated. “Ho! Ho!”

  Fogle’s teeth were chattering again.

  “What are you so ho-ho about?”

  Mood lit up a cigar and said, “Ye did good. Saved yerself. Fought til’ the end. Venir'd liked to have seen that. I like it. Glad you still be.”

  The ancient Blood Ranger's words warmed him, leaving him with a sense of pride, unlike his old kind, but the new kind, something good. He reached out his two quivering fingers.

  Mood smiled and said, “A smoke eh … well, Ye’ve earned tis day.”

  “How about a fire, too?”

  ***

  The fire was warm, but Fogle was still cold and miserable as his victory, albeit a small one, did little to warm his spirits. Now here he was, traversing icy mountains filled with avalanches and monsters, all to help find a man that he hardly knew. Mood had led him on ice cold feet in and out of crevasses, caves and over the tops of mountains for weeks on end. Every step was just as treacherous as the last, and if Mood saved him once on this trek, he’d saved him over a dozen times.

  He shivered as he rubbed his hands over the fire and said, “Mood, tell me more about your dwarven women.”

  Mood’s bushy red brow perched in the firelight as he asked, “Whatcha want to know?”

  He didn’t want to ask any questions at all. He had always assumed he knew everything he needed to know, but when it came to women, the subject was as foreign to him as the Nameless Mountains.

  He pulled a thick woolen hood over his head and blew out a long puff of white breath.

  “I was just reflecting on the colorful stories that Mikkel and Billip shared. I was wondering if what I heard was true, or if it was more of the same ole’ orc's slat men like to tout."

  “Hmmm …,” Mood tugged at his beard, “I see. Yer sounding more likes an adventurer now. Ho! Ho! That’s grand. Almost dyin’ gets many men thinking about women, children and such.”

  Fogle glowered at the Blood Ranger. Answer my question.

  After a long moment Mood sat up saying, “Oh. Ah, well, dwarven women are frisk
y sorts, so I’d say what ye heard was true. But, don’t be disrespectful of them. They’ll get you back. Kin of mine once woke up hanging naked by his beard over top a pile of hot coals.”

  Fogle cringed as the image formed in his mind.

  “And another kin with his—”

  “That’s enough. I get the picture. Be nice and courteous. I got it. Ah … Just forget it.”

  Fogle stood back up and headed for his tent.

  “Don’t worry, Wizard. I’ll have my wives take care of your needs when we get back,” Mood rumbled.

  The offer, as generous as it sounded, didn’t seem quite right. Fogle turned and said, “Would there be any unmarried ones available instead?”

  Mood slapped his knee and said, “Ho! Yer a funny one. An unmarried dwarf! That’s silly.”

  Fogle pulled the flap of his tent open.

  “See ya in the mornin’.”

  He entered, sat inside the darkness and muttered a spell. The canvas of the small tent began to warm and glimmer. Ah, that’s better. It was a small cantrip, not powerful but effective. He’d been using it on and off, trying to get used to the cold, but the icy air was barely tolerable. Inhospitable! Mood told him he’d need to toughen up, but he wasn’t Mood. He was a scrawny man with frozen toes. He sneezed, pulled out a cloth handkerchief and blew his nose, remembering something he needed to ask Mood. Reluctantly, he peeked his head outside in the cold saying, “Mood, do you really still think we’ll find a druid up here? I’ve almost lost track of the weeks.”

  Mood was gone, the fire was out and only the petite figure of an alabaster woman clothed in a snow white fur toga remained. Behind her was a pack of large wolves, shoulder height, with saliva dripping from growling teeth. Not possible! Fogle rubbed his eyes as she turned to face him. Two pink eyes, buckled in anger, ran over Fogle as a sudden chill raced through his spine. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and she scared him.

  Her voice was haunting and powerful as she spoke:

  “You killed my ogres … now you will die.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Two babies cooed in the nooks of the underling Lord Verbard's arms: one with emerald green eyes like his mother, the other with golden eyes like his uncle. Verbard snorted lightly through his nose, and the two underling babes clutched at his chin with their sharp little fingernails and sneered.

  A seductive voice from behind him breathed in his ear.

  “Glad to be back among your family, I see. Aren’t your babies so adorable, Verbard? Were they not worth the all the suffering I put you through?”

  The green-eyed one was tugging at his finger when he cleared his throat and said, “Dearest, I’d rather walk barefoot on the sun-scorched land above for another year than spend another single moment with your over-pregnated hide.”

  Her fingernails tugged into his shoulders as she squeezed them and replied, “That’s my Lord. A heart like a rock and a tongue like a forge. Oh … how I missed it.” She snickered as she came around him and scooped up the babies, draped in midnight-colored cloth. “Now, now, little ones, we can’t have you getting too attached to your father. That would make you soft and weak, like humans.”

  Verbard’s silver eyes glimmered under his mate’s playful and penetrating smile. Her rose colored eyes, long silky white and black hair and gossamer slip stirred the blood within him. Her figure weeks earlier was a monstrous thing unworthy of an ogre. Ghastly. He shuddered at the thought, for he’d never be able to shed the horrific image from his mind. His passion didn’t come as easily as before, but in a few decades he was certain he would overcome that. His mate, now back in her prime, was hungry and lonely, but his new duties from Master Sinway kept him on the move, much to his relief.

  Two underling women entered his den and took the children away. Not what I had in mind. His mate wrapped her arms around his neck as she slid her lithe frame onto his lap. Not again.

  “Lord Verbard, there is one way to escape me: you only need to impregnate me.”

  He groaned and hissed under his breath.

  “Your urgings are getting thin. Perhaps it is not me you long for, perhaps it is my brother that you miss.”

  He studied her eyes, hypnotic and unmoving, capable of hiding the darkest secrets about any mental inquisition. No, she would never reveal what he suspected, not that he cared, but somewhere within he did. He shoved her from his lap and floated away, robes dragging across the black marble floor.

  “I’ve responsibility.”

  Her hiss was cut off as he flicked his palm, slamming the doors shut behind him.

  ***

  Things had changed for Verbard in the Underland. His kin—brothers and sisters one and all—treated him differently than before. He and his brother Catten were of the highest order, well regarded and feared, but it had been his brother, the more astute politician, that garnered the majority of their admiration. Now that had changed. Verbard was not only feared, but now admired as well. He liked it and all of the additional pleasantries that came with it. After all, it was he who had rid his people of the pesky but formidable menace, The Darkslayer.

  Everyone bowed or nodded as he passed them on the streets of the city. The underlings traveled on foot, along narrow black roads that led up and down the caves and around the spires in the bowels of Bish that hung up and pointed down in cones. Commerce: fruit, meat, some cooked and some raw, were skewered on sticks. The smell would rot an urchin's nose, but to the underling pallet it was quite salivating.

  Verbard paid his greeters little mind as he made his way to Master Sinway’s Castle, which overlooked the Underland City. There was no need for a road to get there, but there was one. A crossing of sorts. It turned around the hard rock like a coiling snake, defying the odds of engineering, instead consisting of magic entwined with minerals and glowing with the bluish hue of the underlight. Verbard had no need for roads, unlike most underlings, as he sailed upward to the mouth of the cave castle entrance and proceeded through a portal over thirty feet in height.

  There were guards, at least a hundred, if not a thousand, how many he did not know, but he often wondered. No challenges came—though his heart did beat a little faster—as only a fool would challenge the Master inside his own castle. He knew where to go. Through the iron doors to the iron throne. He hated iron. It was such an ugly color and a tasteless metal. The rat-like fur on his arms began to rise as he proceeded, remembering that last time Master Sinway's iron-irises almost bore out his mind. He saw no need to challenge Sinway any more, not without Catten. Besides, he had done it more to piss off his brother then to challenge the master. Ah Catten, tis not the same without you.

  He floated by the humongous iron doors, landed at the empty throne and kneeled. He hated this part most of all: being there at the appointed time and waiting. He was careful to shield his resentful thoughts. He thought of death instead, death of mankind above. His body began to relax.

  ***

  Little more than an hour had passed when the air began to shimmer around him. Verbard opened his eyes and fixed them on the floor at the sound of cave dog nails clicking over to the sides of the throne. The cave dogs weren’t alone; another strong presence was there. The Vicious? He had not seen one in months, but he did care. The mystic bodyguards of Master Sinway were not something he was comfortable around. It wasn’t a fear of them, but rather his lack of command over their power.

  “Rise, Verbard,” a voice as ancient as the ore of Bish spoke.

  He rose to his feet and found himself face to face with a Vicious: smooth black skin wrapped over a body of corded muscle, sharp teeth bared in a grin over crossed arms. What is this? His underling heart, as black and fearless as it might be, began to pump quicker in his chest. Its black eyes with white pupils met his, boring into him as if he were some kind of meal. It leaned a little closer, almost touching his chin. Verbard didn’t like it, but as he brought up the energy to defend himself against it, it backed away, stepping alongside the arm of the throne.
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  Sinway looked to be smiling within his deep black robes, iron colored eyes gleaming in the dark, fingers needling his chin. The cave dogs, four in all, grey with matted hair, sat four feet high, to the tops of their heads. The fearsome beasts looked ready to tear him apart at a single command. His heart pumped faster still. Let them try and eat me. They’ll be worm food in an instant.

  Master Sinway’s voice echoed softly as he spoke.

  “I know it isn’t customary of me, Verbard, but relax. I didn’t bring you here for slaughter, instead for celebration,” he said, snapping his fingers.

  Verbard’s heart flinched as his ears popped. A fine table of hardened wood appeared, encircled by chairs wrought in gold and silver. A vat of wine and pewter goblets were the centerpiece. His silver eyes flitted between the display and his master. What is he up to? He stepped back, bowing, as Master Sinway eased his way over to the table and sat.

  “Underling Port, isn’t it?

  “Yes, Master Sinway.”

  Suddenly, Verbard felt like a boy, helpless before his father, or grandfather, both of which had creative ways of initiating punishment. He swallowed hard and hoped his robes hid it.

  “Sit and drink with me,” Sinway said. “We’ve much to talk about.”

  He moved to the table, sat and picked the goblet up in his hand. He could smell the port, full and rich, salivating to say the least, and if he ever needed a drink to ease his tensions it was now. He was in uncharted waters with the most powerful underling of all.

  Sinway cracked a smile as he hoisted his glass and said, “Drink Verbard, vanquisher of The Darkslayer. Drink and be fulfilled.”

  The Vicious, lone and dominating, had slipped behind his chair as the cave dogs surrounded the table.

  You first, he wanted to say as he brought the cold rim of the metal goblet to his black lips. Poison is such a cowardly way to kill me. He could at least tell me what I fouled up this time. Bottoms up, then. He drank. Sinway let out an unsettling chuckle as his world was turned inside out.