The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid

by Craig Halloran

  “Too late; it’s over. Outpost Thirty-One is already lost. And if we don’t get moving, we’ll be lost, too.”

  His and Billip’s eyes met as Slim continued.

  “You don’t want to go up there. It’s overrun. I’ll fill you in.”

  Slim stretched out his long arms, and Venir watched the older face slowly regain its youthful vigor. The young man now inspected Venir's wounds and began chatting in the quick.

  “Here goes—the brigands stormed the east gate. Three hundred Royal horsemen rode out to battle them, or so we thought, but they just kept on riding, giving the brigands clear access to the outpost. I’m not sure which Royal general it was, but he clearly betrayed the rest. It won’t be long before all the gates are compromised and we’re up to our elbows in underlings. Now, we’ve got to go back out that way.” Slim pointed his long index finger toward the south grate where they had just entered. “No choice.”

  Venir saw Billip’s dumbfounded look. It was a heck of a story.

  Mikkel groaned and sat up.

  “Man, my stomach hurts. What did you do, Slim?”

  “Saved your life, that’s all. The tummy ache’s a side effect. It’ll go away,” Slim said, patting the man’s charred head.

  “Thanks,” Mikkel muttered as the healer helped him onto his feet.

  “That’s a heck of a haircut, Mikkel!” Billip said with a faint chuckle.

  “What?” The warrior reached for his head, feeling the singed remains of his black hair.“It might grow back,” Slim said with a shrug. “… one day. Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” the archer said, tugging the man’s robe. “We need a plan. And I can’t even pull back a bowstring.”

  “Man, what did you guys do out there? And what’s with all the bug bites? That’s gross!” He said it with his face drawn, hands on his chest. “You got whipped by a bunch of little underlings, didn’t you?” Slim now ran his ginger fingers over the archer’s shoulder, then reached into a pouch and pulled out a small jar and applied a pasty blue salve to the wound.

  Billip’s face lightened up.

  “What’s that amazing stuff?”

  “Pigeon dung.”

  Billip’s face turned sour.

  Slim had a childish grin and said, “Just teasing, it’s a little something I whipped up. I haven’t named it yet. Good thing your wound was only cosmetic. It’s just a little make-up to match your cheeks. You’ll be fine.”

  The chuckles came, but were hollow, none more so than Venir’s. He wasn’t so sure he could get them safely out of there.

  Billip rolled his shoulder, releasing a brief smile, cracking his knuckles. Touching the scar that had already formed over the wound, he said, “It’s closed up!”

  The healer slapped his tender shoulder, bringing a grimace.

  “And don’t worry about the scar. Get a nice tattoo over it and the ladies will love it, especially the orcen ones.”

  The tunnel was silent for a moment as Venir watched all eyes draw on him. Other than Slim, the bunch looked ragged and beaten. He wanted to collapse. His belly burned. His body ached from head to toe. It seemed there was no other way out. One choice, Fight or flee.

  “Let me take care of you, Big Man. That’s a nasty mess in your belly.”

  Venir’s voice was harsh.

  “No, let’s go.”

  The cleric stepped out of his way.

  ***

  Slim tried to convince the sentries at the outer grate to come along, that remaining would be to their immediate peril. They laughed. They were hard and loyal men who would not abandon their duty. The soldiers made it clear they would rather die than run, wished the men good fortune and turned away. Closing the storm drain behind them and then sealing it shut, one yelled out.

  “Bish be with you!”

  Now the men stood in the forest, listening. Venir could hear the rising crescendo of bloodshed ringing in his ears. He could picture the underlings and the brigand army spilling inside the outpost and blackening its interior. The gates were compromised. The shouts of Royal orders were silenced by magic, missiles and manslaughter. Plumes of fire and smoke filled the sky.

  It was clear that the onslaught was overwhelming and no Royal man or beast would survive. A great chunk of evil would follow the valiant soldiers into the bloodied ground, however. That seemed clear judging by the roar of the fighting above, but it would not be enough.

  Mikkel was nodding his head.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “The last plan was to get word to the northern cities for assistance,” Slim said. “So let’s head that way, or else I’ll go alone.”

  Venir said, “No, we go south. They won’t be looking as hard there. The northward route will be the most heavily guarded. The underlings will be thick for miles.”

  “The underlings will be everywhere—period!” Mikkel retorted.

  Slim had something to offer.

  “I have magic that should conceal us all. But, I don’t want to use it until the last possible moment. It won’t last long. We’re going to have to move like the wind to get clear. I’ve got other ideas, too. Are you with me?”

  Having ventured with Slim before, Venir had some idea of what he had in mind. He wasn’t keen, but they had little choice other than to trust his magic. It could do more than heal.

  “I’ll take the point. For some odd reason they can’t see me. The rest of you should be fine. I just hope there’s nothing worse than underlings out there looking for us.”

  Slim tightened the cords on his sandals.

  “That's grand, Venir. You just gave me another idea. By the way, nice helmet or whatever that is. It makes you look mean … like Melegal.”

  Venir barreled down the ravine with Chongo at his side. The others followed not far behind, all thoughts heavy on the downfall of Outpost Thirty-One. Mikkel managed to recover his heavy crossbow as they passed by the ambush site. Venir maneuvered through the thick foliage like a metal apparition, striding through the dark like a bobcat. He could sense underlings were all around, but not close enough to pinpoint. He fought the urge to find them, as the helm's awareness made the battle very compelling. He began to realize that he could lead them all out of harm’s way if he could stay focused on fleeing, rather than killing.

  Nevertheless, the spiked helm on his brow beckoned him to make contact and destroy the underlings. He had to stop more than once to regain his composure, rather than succumb to the battle lust. His will was strong, but only his loyalty to his friends prevented him from giving in to his reckless desires.

  He led them through the forest, minute after minute, stirring little more than a muskrat. His nerves were on edge as every unfamiliar sound seemed amplified. He looked back time and again, but Billip signaled they weren’t followed. They were already a full mile down the hill. Almost free. He kept them moving.

  At this pace the great hill that held Outpost Thirty-One would soon bottom out; they were almost halfway down. He felt something strong ahead and froze.

  Slim fidgeted beside Mikkel.

  Venir signaled back, Nothing.

  Venir began moving again. He heard the lanky cleric sigh in relief. Their careful footfalls through the humid, bug-filled forest became agonizing; they had been creeping along for almost an hour.

  Again he stopped.

  They all went still. Small underling patrol! he signaled. Straight for us. Hide!

  Slim began muttering soft chanting words.

  Venir turned to watch. The air around the three men and the dog thickened. Next, all he saw was a small grove of trees where his comrades had stood. The illusion worked.

  Venir sunk beneath a thick willow tree. The silhouettes of three underling hunters, armed with light crossbows, stood in a small clearing not far from him, chittering in the quiet.

  Venir’s bloodlust plagued him like a growing migraine. They were right in his path. He should sheer them like sheep. He quelled the urge with iron will, controlling his burgeoning lust and w
atching them begin to move on up the ravine his way.

  Don’t move. Don’t breathe.

  They passed him and were standing beside the grove of trees that were once men. Venir heard one sniffing the air into its hawkish nose. Venir tightened his grip on Brool.

  Here we go.

  Another underling shoved its comrade along the way, more intent on the sound of the fracas farther uphill, and they passed onward. The throbbing in Venir’s head subsided after another long minute, and he started moving again with more haste. The odd grove of trees followed him. Within the hour they were at the bottom of the hill, safe and facing the open plains to the east.

  “Wow!” Slim exclaimed, checking the looks of his tree-like arms and hands. “I can’t believe we just waltzed through that nest of evil. Insane!”

  They all shook their heads, stretched their limbs, and basked in the red moonlight. Such moments as this didn’t often come without consequence. “Now what?” Mikkel said, rubbing his tender thigh.

  They all looked at Venir. The outpost had fallen. Good men would die. He wanted to take an army in himself and drive the underlings back into their caves. Mostly, he wanted to find Jarla and make her pay. He swore he would hunt her down and kill her, but now was not the time.

  He took off his helm, dropping it into the sack, feeling the warm night air soothe his aching head. He ran his fingers through his thick locks of blond hair.

  “Two-Ten City … we’ll spread the word as we go.”

  CHAPTER 7

  (The Present)

  Plop.

  Louder and closer. Venir was blinded to everything but that steady sound. A beacon of death or a beacon of hope, which he did not know, nor did he care. Move or die. So be it.

  The ground beneath his feet had turned to blackened shale as he treaded steep inclines only to slide downward again. His despair was replaced by anger only to turn back to despair again, but the sound kept coming.

  Plop.

  What was that sound? It seemed familiar now, like streams that rippled over the rocks where he fished as a child. Those days—singing in the sunlight, sucking down fish eggs and washing in the streams—seemed ancient and impossible now. Blood and body parts littered the water like rotting logs, and his days had been darker ever since, no recourse, no choice. Fight or Die.

  “URK!” he gasped as his body pitched forward, and then he tumbled downward over the shale, each tiny rock cutting under his skin like broken glass under the force of his momentum. His fingers clawed into the ground. His feet kicked, but he did not slow. He slipped off the edge of something. The wind whistled through his ears as he fell.

  SPLASH!

  The water was cold, dark and unfriendly. The weight of his helm and axe was pulling him downward as his feet paddled for the top, but he had no idea which direction that was. In the back of his mind he figured he was back in the river and just needed to find the bottom. How deep could it be? He could walk back ashore. He sank. His body began to labor for air, twitching and jerking in the murk. Brool glimmered with life as his lungs began to collapse with death. Drowning, what a pitiful way to go. Bloody lying giants! Then again, maybe he should have taken the advice he was told.

  He closed his eyes, letting the icing waters slow his struggles, and thought his final thoughts of Kam, underlings and grog. Ah, but to have at them all once more. Something burst through the water, wrapped around his body and yanked him out. He gasped for air, writhing against the grip that had his arms pinned to his sides. As the icy water cleared his eyes and ran down the rivulets of his helm, he found himself face to face with another foe. A giant with a boyish face, bald and one-eyed, held him like a child’s doll in its mighty grip. The face was pitiful and scary at the same time. Its skull, as big as a boulder, was misshapen at the top, one ear sticking out and the other looking melted on the side. Its breath of seaweed and fish wasn’t the most unpleasant he’d encountered, but the split blue-green tongue rolling in its mouth might've been the ugliest. Venir was certain he was about to be eaten.

  It screamed in Venir’s face.

  An army of orcs couldn’t have been any louder.

  Venir screamed back.

  It screamed again, louder than the last, shifting his helm on his brow.

  Its grip loosened, and Venir took in a full swallow of air.

  “RRAAAWWWW!”

  Its brown uni-brow perched above its one good eye.

  “Hur-Rah?” it said.

  Venir gazed at his foe. A deformed giant with only one working eye was standing knee deep in dark water that was surrounded by a lake shore, encompassed by rocky ridges that jutted from the mist. A cone of mist went up as high as he could see before it stopped again in the clouds. Rocks jutted left and right from the smoky spirals, but near the shores there was green, brown and life. A drop of water, as big as his head, fell in the water beside him.

  Plop.

  Venir warmed at the thought of the small victory, but it was short lived as One Eye started to carry him away. The one big brown eye stared at him, with admiration it seemed. Venir’s head whipped around. Must escape. But there was only water, rocks, a mile long shore line, if that, and more mist. If he killed the giant, then where would he go? Think Venir.

  “Where are you taking me?” he yelled.

  Its working eye squinted, and its split tongue rolled as it gave him a curious look and spoke.

  “HUNG-GAREE.”

  Venir gulped as its enormous belly groaned.

  CHAPTER 8

  As Melegal sprang back to his feet, his short swords, the Sisters, were gleaming in his hands. The leather wrapped around the pommels was reassuring as he crouched and faced his unseen foe. Two small figures, decorated in wooden masks, were blocking his path back into the street.

  You can’t be serious.

  “Coin or death, Whore Bred?” A long steel knife flashed in one urchin's hand as the other flanked him with a notched and rusty longsword. Melegal was in no mood to laugh as the renegade urchins adorned in ruddy red robes and bare feet closed in. They were members of the guild, one of many that bred thieves, liars and whores. You can’t be serious. This bunch in particular called themselves the Wastrels of the Rose, he recalled, a peasant lot of cutpurses at best. They leaped back as he made a quick lunge at them.

  “Come now, children. Run, before I have to skewer you,” he warned.

  Each masked face turned toward the other before returning their weird little gaze back to him. I should kill them. Stupidity is a crime, in some cases. How did they sneak up on me, though? Melegal shouldn’t have been surprised, ever, but his focus on Sefron had almost proved to be his undoing. A more formidable stalker might have been successful in putting his life to an end. He’d have to be more careful.

  “Coin or death—”

  Melegal swatted the flat of his blade on the front of the boy's mask.

  “Yes, I know—Whore Bred. Is that the line your guild master has you using when you rob the honest and stupid folk?”

  “Yaaaaar!” the other one lunched.

  Clang! Melegal smacked the boy's blade from his hands.

  The other charged. Really? Melegal cracked the flat of his blade on the other urchin's mask, knocking it clear off. The Sisters became a blur of steel in the twilight.

  Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!

  The pair, one boy, one girl, both ugly and pitiful, fell to the ground clutching their heads as they tried to crawl away. Melegal’s booted feet pinned their robes to the ground as he warned them, “Keep moving. Start crying or screaming and the next strikes will be with the edges of my blades. Got it?”

  They nodded as their elbows scraped over the pavement.

  “Mercy!”

  Tears of pain and fear dropped onto the stones below them. It was uncharacteristic for these little thieves to try and take a full grown man like Melegal. They tended to work in small groups, strike fast and bully younger or elderly people, but times were as desperate in Bone as they had ever been. Th
ere was a clamor coming from the other side of Bone’s massive walls that the underlings were coming, coming to kill them all. Of course, it might have been rumors alone, but there were more desperate people being taken in than ever before. However, Melegal had other things to worry about.

  “Tell me something, urchlings. Are more of you nearby? Cause if there are, I’m going to carve a hole in you both this big,” he said, making a large circle in the air with his blade.

  They both shook their heads.

  “Good, so tell me this: how long have you been following me?”

  It was the girl who spoke.

  “Just a few corners, M-m-master.”

  That’s more like it. Maybe I should keep them around.

  “Ah … I see,” he said, slowly strolling around them. “Tell me, did you see a man enter this alley before me?”

  They both shook their heads.

  He kicked the boy in the head. “Don’t lie to me! Did you not see a man shuffling like a snail over the ground, a mere twenty paces ahead of me?”

  “No Master, I swear!”

  “No, no such man. Only you!”

  He wanted to kill something, anything or anyone. He touched the tips of his blades into their empty bellies, drawing blood as he grimaced with rage.

  “Don’t lie to me! Where is the man you saw before me?” He looked down the alley, a dead end one way, a street up the other. He didn’t miss anything, not one single detail. Studied the walls, not so much as a portal, ladders, or ledges to climb along, not Sefron anyway.

  “P-Please don’t kill us, Master. Mercy!”

  Melegal’s voice was cold as ice when he said, “Why not? You’ve nothing to live for.”

  “We don’t want to die,” the girl said. “We want to live to see the morrow. Please don’t kill us. We’ll help you find the one you lost.”

  Stupid urchins.

  Melegal sheathed his blades. He knew the difference between a lie and the truth when he heard it, and these pathetic waifs had not lied. But, he was still certain they’d be better off dead. “Pah! Go rodents, and remember: if you cherish the morrow so much, make sure I never see you again.” He stomped their wooden masks to splinters. “I’ll not forget your faces, not now nor twenty years from now.”