The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid

by Craig Halloran

  He could see the walls of web billowing at their backs. He turned cold. Nasty. This spot would have to do. But it gave better cover, so for the moment they were safe. He checked his wound. A nasty sliver of meat was taken off of his right shoulder. His leather armor saved it.

  Maybe armor isn’t so bad.

  His jerkin sleeve was soaked to the cuff. The men patched each other’s wounds, staunching the bleeding the best that they could. Billip’s heart thundered in his temples as he listened for the next wave of comers. As the howl of distant battle reached his ears he wondered if they would see Venir or anyone else ever again.

  ***

  Venir had forgotten the wounded man he left behind. He was hunting now, and his comrades weren’t his concern; his enemies were. Gripping Brool's oak shaft with white knuckles, he felt invincible. The helm heightened his awareness. He had questions ... Why hadn’t they seen him? ... but that could wait. He moved on with caution, over the creek and through the dense foliage.

  He wasn’t alone; Chongo had found his side. The pair had tracked underlings together for years, and now they both had heightened senses to serve them. The dog stopped, ears perked up. He hunched down. He saw the silhouettes of underlings coming up the mouth of the ravine. Keep coming, vermin!

  Bloodlust stirred inside him, and his compulsion to kill them was overwhelming. He could smell their oily stench, almost burning in his nostrils. His hatred of these foul creatures that had destroyed his life so many years ago began to boil over. The helm amplified his senses as the eyelets burned blacker than the night sky. He no longer cared what happened to him, only what happened to them.

  Destroy them!

  Thought and magic intertwined into a focal point and down the ravine he bounded. Rushing their flank never occurred to him, nor did an ambush. He padded over the wet stones and braced himself along their path.

  He counted six underling warriors moving up the gorge. Some of them crept in a staggered column, while the others covered the ravine banks to the left and right. Their faint multi-colored eyes glinted as their heads moved, left and right. He heard their low chittering commands escaping their narrow lips.

  In place of physical battle prowess, underlings preferred to trap and outnumber their opponents. Their magic, combined with their cunning and callousness, made them a formidable force, and difficult to kill. Their warriors were as big as an average human woman, bigger and stronger than ordinary underlings. Their bodies were hard from decades of battle that gave them strength that belied their smaller size.

  Several footfalls away, the foremost underling stopped and gave a signal. Venir watched them turn still and almost disappear. He could see them clutching their curved blades, waiting to pounce. Like a four-legged ghost, Chongo padded down the path. He followed, like a wraith, watching their gleaming eyes focused on the lone dog. Could they really not see him?

  The underling in the front, donned in chain mail, hissed at the growling dog. It’s not even looking my way, Venir thought. His body was bursting, the axe white hot in his grip. He let out a blood curdling yell.“RRRAH!”

  Venir sheared the bewildered lead underling's head from its shoulders. The others stared in astonishment as he appeared from the darkness and descended on them like an angry minotaur. His appetite for blood unsatisfied, he pressed his attack like a steel tornado, deeper into the brood. Yelling like a berserker and chopping like a lumberjack, he came down on the next two underlings, hacking their small shields into splinters and mutilating them with splattering swings. They rushed in. His anger rose. Hurling his shield, he caught one in the ankle. A series of cuts and stabs drew his blood before he battled them away. The iron shod of his great axe shattered an underling’s chin, and another fared still worse as he jabbed the long axe tip into its throat. He tore the spike out, ripping its neck open.

  He was ready for an entire hoard, his mind one step ahead and his body responding in kind. He watched in slow motion as another underling charged toward him, a curved sword in each hand. He leapt right over the bewildered creature, swinging his axe deep into its gaping maw, splitting its face before he descended to the ground. Blood from his gory axe dripping on the ground, he awaited more attackers. Where are they? He could feel them.

  He was picking up his shield when he saw one scurry away. He cursed, and then scanned the area. Somewhere nearby he heard his dog yelp. He rushed to its aid, finding the shaggy brown pooch ensnared by forest vegetation. Underling magic! He had encountered it before.

  He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. As he approached his dog, his boot snagged on the vines, tripping him. He watched smaller roots and grasses reaching upward like tentacles, encircling his legs like serpents.

  “Bone!” he yelled, tearing and twisting at them. The foul foliage had engulfed the dog entirely, leaving only a trace of muffled whimpers. His skin crawled with the evil presence he felt bearing down on him.

  Two dark-robed underlings, armed with small double-shot crossbows, descended towards him from the ravine bank as if on air. He jerked his shield up as the closest one fired at his chest. The bolt ricocheted away, drawing an angry hiss. He heard murmurs echoing somewhere in his helm. Above him he noticed long fingertips pointed his way, glowing red. He had to free himself.

  He sliced at the roots with the edge of his axe. To his surprise, the vines recoiled and began to wither at the blade's touch.

  “Chongo!”

  The other suspended mage fired another bolt into the foliage where the dog was engulfed. Chongo yelped and fell silent. Venir lost control and charged the airborne assailant. It blasted him with a volley of burning red missiles that bore into his flesh. He cried out in agony. The air filled with the stench of his singed skin. The pain strengthened his rage. He kept going, climbing up the bank, jumping up and catching the cloak of the floating figure. He pulled it to the ground. It chittered, trying to crawl away. Its strength was no match for his weight as he crushed into it, bringing a groan. Pinning the little figure down by the arms, he smashed his helmeted forehead several times into its gnashing face. Its evil countenance burst open like a rotten pumpkin as it died. He fumbled for his axe and turned back toward his dog.

  The remaining underling uttered something. The air seemed to be sucked away in the gap. Shock waves blew through the trees, bending the saplings, slamming into his body and down his spine as if he were being pummeled by a hundred hammers. He fell to his knees, face dripping blood, unaware of his surroundings, lost. The pain was something he never recalled. His hands and feet were numb, burning, cold and limp.

  Somehow he got up, stumbled towards his pet and fell just close enough to reach the snare with his axe's spike. He could see the bonds disintegrating as the dog lay prone, panting and bleeding.

  Rising up on one knee, he found himself between the dog and the lone underling mage, now hovering twenty paces away. He saw its mouth moving, thick black hair covering its head like a shroud. Raising his powerful arms, Venir slung his axe over his head with a scream. Straight as a spear it sailed, the tip crunching deep into the underling mage's chest, driving its floating body to the ground. He staggered over to its crumpled body. The spike was wedged deep into its black heart. Its gemstone green eyes stared blankly at the sky.

  He spat the blood from his mouth, wrenched out the axe, and checked for more enemies. He pulled out the wooden bolt from Chongo's hindquarters. He tasted the tip and spat. No poison. Unable to feel his legs, but desperate to save Chongo,he lifted the dog in his arms and got a lick in the face as he backtracked up the ravine. The forest was quiet, but he knew underlings were still everywhere. His battered body forged ahead.

  ***

  Trapped behind a massive rock on the steep hillside, Billip felt his neck hairs prickle. He could see the sweat dripping off Mikkel’s body like rain drops as water trickled down the bank. The forest was quiet other than occasional sounds of the skirmish deep in the ravine. His shoulder ached. He craned his neck, but his comrade’s ragged breathing h
indered his ability to detect approaching assailants. They could be anywhere.

  He had fought underlings often over the years and knew their tactics well, but it did little to quell his terror. Unlike Venir, whose hatred for underlings blazed as pure as the suns, his was still like all other men on Bish. Billip’s hatred for cave dwellers was at times surpassed by his fear of them.

  Glancing at Mikkel, he managed to make out the whites of his eyes. The big man was nodding his head. Billip kept his arrow nocked, bowstring straight, resting his shoulder while his friend clutched his club.

  Several feet above the forest floor, two cloaked underlings floated undetected in and out among the trees, their clutching hands motioning in the air with intricate patterns. A soft blue glow wavered in their palms.

  Where are they? Billip thought.

  He scanned what he could, oblivious to the floating figures in the trees. He was certain if he could not see them, they could not see him. Not far from his hiding spot, his ears didn’t detect the faint whisper of an underling chanting through its thin black lips. His instincts told him something was going on; he just did not know what.

  The low hum of tiny wings caught his ear, and he crouched down as the sound grew. A plague of mosquitoes had found its way among the rocks where they hid. The whining of their buzzing wings increased inside his ears. It seemed as if every mosquito in the ravine began swarming around the men.

  What is going on?

  The mindless insects consumed the men in a frenzied search for human blood. He could see them, tiny and large, gathered all over Mikkel, who brushed at them in frantic alarm. He could feel them sink their needles into him a hundred times and drink his blood. It has to be magic... his mind reasoned. He choked down the urge to run. He knew they were being flushed out. Don’t panic. Tiny welts appeared on his corded forearms as the insects tapped into his veins. Mikkel was covered from head to toe, tormented by the little fiends. Billip tried not to flinch, but his will was tested beyond the limit. He could see Mikkel biting his lip and covering his nose. It was time to act. He mouthed and gestured the words to Mikkel.

  Run. Flush them out. Find cover. I’ve got one shot. Go. The tortured man turned to face down the bank. With Billip readying his bow, the larger man charged out from behind the rock and down the ravine like a maddened bull. Through his swollen eyelids, he caught a flash of light blasting into his powerful friend, who fell down in a scream.

  There in the trees.

  Down below, he could see the brawler’s silhouette engulfed in a mysterious blue flame, drawing forth a sound of searing skin. Mikkel fell to the forest floor, screaming before rolling out of sight.

  He wondered which fate was worse, the bugs or the fire. Only Mikkel would know now, but he thought he’d prefer the fire. A smell of charred insect bodies and smoldering hair drifted in his nose. He feared his friend might be finished. Billip heard a throaty laughter below. Mikkel appeared, rising to his feet, only to fall backward as a small crossbow bolt struck his belly. He lay in a singed, motionless heap, Skull Basher still in his hand. Billip couldn’t believe it. He scanned the trees; he couldn’t let his friend die for nothing.

  He replaced the arrow he had nocked, drawing another from his quiver. It was unique with blood-red feathers, a blue-black shaft and a ruby-like arrowhead. The old warrior who had given him the bow assured him he would know when to use it. That must be now. He nocked the special arrow with his mosquito-covered hands. He took aim in the trees, scanning back and forth. The arrow tip twinkled as he did so. Maintaining his poise, he searched for any sign. Nothing showed of their concealed assailants. His eyes moved with the arrow, left, right, up and down, but the whining flurry of insects piercing his arms, neck, face, and eyelids was distracting him. As he swept up and across the ruby arrow tip flashed.

  He swept it down.

  Nothing.

  Then back up, and it flashed again.

  He lined up the tip so that it glowed steady in light. A silhouette began to form in the tree tops. It was an underling, floating near the upper branches of a willow tree.

  Got him! Center mass. An excruciating surge of pain dug into his shoulder when he pulled back the bow string, but he let the shaft fly.

  Twing! Zip!

  A streak of hot red light punched straight through the sternum of the hovering underling and out of the other side.

  Bulls’ eye!

  The underling still came toward him, chittering with rage. Had he missed? No, he knew he had hit it, yet it came. He fumbled for another arrow, brushing the ravenous insects away. As the underling began descending toward him, a look of horror crossed its features. The underling began to glow, eyes and mouth catching fire from the inside. Suddenly, it exploded in a bright red flash. A cloud of black ash filled the air. Billip crouched back down, noticing the mosquitoes losing interest in him as well. He wiped the creatures away, and gathered his thoughts. Got to check on Mikkel!

  He ventured down the ravine, bow ready. Another shadowy figure descended on him from above, and he dropped his nocked arrow. He clutched after it as the cloaked underling drifted toward him. Terrified, he watched it touch the ground and crumple in a sagging pile.

  Billip inched closer and noticed his red-feathered arrow lodged deep in its brain. Shivering at the sight, he marveled that the arrow had somehow found two targets from his single shot. Powerful magic, indeed. Did the same apply to the bow? He reached for the arrow, noticing that the feathers were now blackened and dry, its magic spent.

  He slid down the ravine and soon came upon Mikkel on the ground; his breathing was shallow and raspy, lips caked with blood. The man groaned as he sat him up. He put his canteen to Mikkel’s lips.

  “How is he?” an eerie voice said from behind.

  He turned and saw a startling figure of muscle and metal splashed with gore. Vee?

  “Not good. I haven’t seen him this pale since his wedding. We need to get him away from here.”

  The sounds of battle grew louder all around them. A full-scale attack must have begun.

  Venir handed Chongo over to Billip and hefted Mikkel over his shoulder.

  “Agreed—let’s move … they’ll be on us in no time.”

  The thick webs peeled away as Venir’s axe sliced through them. Gasps of pain escaped labored lips from behind him as they treaded back up the ravine. He was exhausted, body wracked with pain. Holes had burned in the mail that covered his belly, singing his flesh to metal. The men reached the bottom outpost wall and entered through the same steel storm drain they had been defending. He locked it down as they headed inside the bowels of the outpost.

  Three stout Royal henchmen in scale armor guarded their path, but moved aside with wary glances. Venir could see debris falling from heavy activities above. He led the way upward through the wide tunnel of rock and soil while the sounds of chaos grew. Dim light filtered in at the far end where a steel ladder led twenty feet up through a man-sized hole.

  A lanky figure in pale green terrycloth robes and ankle-strap sandals descended the ladder at a brisk pace, hopped off the final five steps and rambled towards them. It was a tall man, near seven feet in height, his narrow face light-skinned and boyish beneath short sandy hair. His voice was soothing, somewhat childlike, his light blue eyes showing a wisdom and compassion that was rare on Bish.

  “I knew you would be here.”

  “No surprise you knew that, Slim.” Venir said.

  Slim was a man who had answers and seemed to know more than most men, despite his youthful appearance.

  “I know you. You never miss a party,” Slim said, raising his eyebrows. “Mikkel looks bad." The boyish man began inspecting the brawler with his fingers, motioning his hands downward.

  Venir lowered Mikkel to the ground and started to take off his helmet.

  “Leave it on,” Slim gestured. “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

  The young man noticed the archer's load.

  “Ah, it’s my favorite pooch … how sad
.”

  He laid his long slender fingers over Chongo’s hip.

  “Be still,” the man whispered.

  Venir could see Slim’s face twist in agony for a fleeting moment before returning to normal. He grunted.

  “Ah,” the cleric said with a smile as Chongo licked his face. “That wasn’t so bad, was it, Boy?” Slim then turned back to the man laid out in the tunnel and said, “Now the big man. Hold him still, you two.”

  Venir pressed down on Mikkel’s shoulders and watched the young man work. He couldn’t believe their good fortune. Slim always reminded him of a young Melegal, except more friendly, something the thief resented. Billip helped him pin down the listless man’s powerful arms and legs. Here we go.

  The long-limbed man grabbed the shaft of the small bolt lodged in Mikkel’s belly. The iron warrior’s mouth and chin were covered in spit and blood. Slim's slender lips muttered a fast cadence of words, and as he spoke, power radiated into his glowing and elongating hands. The bolt blazed in his hand like a furnace poker as he extracted it inch by inch. The warrior screamed and writhed. The smell of burning flesh filled the tunnel as the charred bolt turned to ash.

  Mikkel groaned, his light eyes flitting open and closed. The cleric placed his hands on the man’s hard belly and gashed thigh. Again, Slim’s face distorted in anguish, but this time he aged before their widened eyes. The wounds closed, and it was over as fast as it had begun. Slim gasped for air, his now withered face full of hard lines and cracked teeth. Venir thought Slim looked like the oldest man he’d ever seen.

  “He’ll be all right,” the cleric said in a ragged voice. “He should be able to walk in a minute, but he’s not up for fighting for a while.” Slim stood up, hunched over, and cracked his skinny neck. “Ah … man, sometimes I hate this.” “What’s going on up there, Slim?” Venir asked, looking at the shaking ceiling above. “They need to know that the underlings are bringing more forces now.”