With both hands free, Mood stepped in for the kill.
“Gah!”
Something seized hold of his feet. He looked down, thinking to brain the man with the missing foot, but instead he watched the ice begin to crystallize and grow up and around his feet.
“Ah, not this again,” he said, launching his hand axe into the chest of the last mountain man.
The man fell backward, dead.
He chopped at the ice that was up to his knees now.
“Save your energy, Dwarf,” the druid woman said, “and perhaps I’ll show mercy on your friend. As for you, however, I think you’ll make a nice frozen ornament for me—what in Bish?”
A shrill sound erupted from inside the tent. The druid woman pressed her hands over her ears. She wasn’t screaming, but whatever it was, Mood could not hear. He chopped into the ice, trying to block out the foul noise. From the corner of his eye he watched the tent rip free from its tethers and blow away with the force of a gale. Pelts and wolves were flying in the air.
BOOM!
Mood felt like a giant just smashed him in the head. He fell to his hands and knees, struggling to regain his feet. All around him was some form of devastation. The snow was gone from the leaves of the trees; smaller growth was ripped from the ground, and the druid woman lay quivering on the ground, clutching her head. Where the tent once was a man now stood, his big bearded face pale, his bright green eyes exhausted.
“Yer just full of surprises, aren’t ya Wizard?” Mood said.
Fogle raked his brown hair back from his face and said, “As impossible as it seems, sometimes I surprise myself.”
Mood gathered his other axe from the Mountain Man’s bloody chest and said, “So, I take it you’re a full-fledged adventurer now?
Fogle smiled as he looked over at Cass’s voluptuous form.
“I guess you could say that.”
Mood snorted, pulled a cord of thin rope from his pouch, and tossed it as Fogle’s feet.
“Bind her hands, then. It’s time to go.” Cass mumbled something, but didn’t resist his binding.
“Should I gag her?” Fogle asked. “And what makes you think she’ll help us?”
Mood procured a cigar and lit it up, saying, “Wizard, ye’ve whipped her. She’ll not be crossing you again. At least not until this deed is done. After that, anything goes I suppose.”
As Fogle pulled her up from her knees she spoke.
“My word, Fogle and Ranger, I’ll carry out this quest, just don’t release that awful sound again. If I had pants I swear I would have pissed them. So take me to Dwarven Hole to see this two-headed dog. I promise I’ll do what I can.”
***
It didn’t seem right, marching a woman he had just bedded hours earlier through the dangerous mountains like a prisoner. Still, Fogle had been warned by Mood several times already, Ye can never trust a druid. He couldn’t help but wonder if they all looked as incredible as her.
Mood led the way, dragging a small sled that secured their gear. The Blood Ranger was a determined juggernaut, his thick back and heavy set shoulders unusually broad, with his blood stained axes criss-crossed on his back. Fogle couldn’t help but wonder if he saved Mood, or if Mood saved him … again. And where had all that magic and power come from, which had leveled the druid’s fragile home?
He looked over his shoulder. To the right and left, a pack of humbled timber wolves followed. For whatever reason, he was glad they were there. The journey home, Mood promised, wouldn’t be any easier than the journey there.
He guided Cass forward, his hand pressing into the small of her back.
“Feeling frisky again are we, Fogle?” she said, stopping and somehow grabbing his hands in hers. “Unbind me and I’ll make this trip … more interesting.” Her pink eyes looked deep into his. “Or just take me as I am.”
A flush of red washed over his normally pale face. One thing was for sure, the journey back seemed much warmer than the journey there. Still, a question hung in his mind.
“Are you sure you were a virgin?” he asked.
Mood’s gruff voice cut in.
“Of course she weren’t no virgin, Wizard. What do ya think she kept those two brutes up there for, protection? Now pull your brains out of your groin and get moving. Storm’s coming!”
Cass giggled as he pushed her away and frowned, thinking of the two brutish men that both lay dead, frozen blood mixed with snow. She had not even mourned their loss.
“Ah, don’t believe the dwarf. He’s just jealous. Of course you are the only one to lay with me, my defiler … er … deflowerer,” she said with a hint of discontent.
Fogle just shook his head and moved along. The sky was darkening with his attitude. He wanted to believe one thing, but he knew the truth was another. Was Cass just a common slut, the kind his mother warned him about? Some men could make the most of that, but he was pretty certain that he could not.
CHAPTER 24
“Detective! Detective!”
Melegal had been driving the City Watch beneath the City of Bone for hours, closing in on his prey, all thanks to a skinny little bird whispering the Slerg whereabouts, among other things, in his ear. And now, after preaching and disciplining the men of the Watch, all Bone had broken loose. The dogs, loud and slobbery, had gone into a frenzy when a family of sewer cats crossed through the tunnels.
“Shut up! Shut these mangy mutts up before I slit their throats, you buffoons,” he ordered, shoving one unsuspecting Watchman from his path. He sucked in some air through his teeth, resisting the urge to kick a dog—choked tight on his short leash—in the throat. He had come to hate dogs, all except one, he supposed, giving the fleetest of thought to the two-headed Chongo.
The men pressed along the slopes of the dank tunnel walls, heads down, eyes averted. A City Watch sergeant straddled his long legs on both sides of the tunnel, peering through a portal that was a little over two feet in diameter. The sergeant was long and stringy, too tall to enter a common door, now bent over almost unnaturally, seeming to be quite uncomfortable. Sweat was dripping from the man's long slender nose as he sucked in his raspy breath to speak.
“I sent my hound, Oggie, in there. He made it back thirty feet or so, let out a bark and yelped.” The man shuddered a sob. “That was it. I think something got him. I never heard him yelp like that. It must be those Slergs, I tell you. They better not’ve killed my Oggie.”
Good, one less noisemaker the better. Hmmm. This might work out well for me.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Send in the rest of your hounds. Avenge your beast!”
“But Sir,” the sergeant started to speak, but stopped. “Ulp.”
Melegal stuck his dagger half an inch up the man’s nose.
“This isn’t a booger picker, Dolt. Now, shall I give the order again? Am I so low as you that I must order dogs and not men?”
“Apologies, Detective! Apologies!” the sergeant blinked rather than nod.
Melegal withdrew his blade and said, “Shut up and do your job.”
The man looked confused.
Melegal warned him, saying, “I’m going to kill you, Fool. Now speak and do your job.”
The lanky man nodded his head, turned and yelled down the tunnel.
Don’t yell!
“You heard em’ men—Release the hounds!”
***
Brak loved dogs. He had played with them all his life, all kinds, big and small. Some were herders and others hunters, and now one lay unmoving at his feet, a herder and scout. He could tell by its calico coat. He wanted to cry, but there was no time for that. At least three more were coming, and they sounded different than the last: ferocious and hungry for flesh. He didn’t want to hurt any more of them, not innocent animals, anyway.
“I surrender!” he yelled. “I SURRENDER!”
There was a series of sharp whistles, and the dogs came to a halt.
Someone in the background was saying, “Did you hear that? That ain’t hu
man.”
“Shut up, Fool!” a hateful voice sounded. “Unarm yourself, then, and come forth so we can see you.”
Brak lumbered down the tunnel and let out a loud sigh. The dogs, four in all, growled at his side. “Easy boys,” he mumbled.
“Any sudden moves and those dogs will tear you to bits.”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Brak said.
“He’s coming. Be ready; it might be a trick.”
“Shut up already!” the hateful voice came again.
“I’m tossing out my weapons,” Brak said. One knife and two swords, one his, the other his dead mother, Vorla’s. He wished she was still here, caring for him. He dreamed of her often, and it was of very little comfort, but it was something.
Slowly, he began to squeeze back through the portal, into the torchlight, where many men with swords and torches waited. He wondered if he would be heading into the furnace to join his mother and so many others. So sad, he had failed in his quest to find his father, Venir.
***
“Sweet Mother of Bish. Look at the size of his head,” the sergeant exclaimed.
In his life, Melegal had been surprised a few times, but even he could never have anticipated Brak’s big droopy face popping out into the torchlight. He was at a loss for words.
“Do we kill him?” someone asked.
Everyone moved backward as Brak’s form began to slowly fill the tunnel.
“How’d he fit in here?”
“I’m not carrying him out. We’ll have to cut him in pieces.”
“What do we do?”
Brak’s lazy face showed no emotion or expression as he stooped inside the unyielding confines of the corridor. Melegal’s thoughts raced to Venir, the Drunken Octopus, Chongo, Lefty and Georgio. Everything good he remembered washed over him as he felt compelled to grab Brak and run. This is not good for the boy, er man.
“Detective, shall we gut him?” the sergeant said. “We’ve still got more pursuit. They’ve left this one to slow us.”
Slap!
It stung Melegal’s hand as much as the man’s pock-marked cheek, but it felt good.
“Are you doing my thinking for me now? Is your tongue privy to things that I am not? Are you the detective or am I?”
Slap! Slap! Slap!
“Who is making the decisions here?” Melegal demanded.
The truth was, he enjoyed tormenting the City Watch. It was one of the few perks left of his job, better yet he could see to their demise from time to time. The City Watch were not of the Royal families' fabled sentries. They were chattel, nothing more. He liked their disposability.
“Y-you are Detective, Melegal, Sir. Apolo—”
“Piss on your apologies, and shut your ignorant hole. Now …” Melegal gestured to the nearest Watchman, “you two pissants crawl through the hole and see what lies ahead, and take your stupid little dung eating pets, too.”
He felt Brak’s heavy eyes on him, but he ignored his gaze. Maybe the young dolt won’t remember me. Pah. I better gag him … and blindfold him, before it’s too late.
“You—Wart-face! Blindfold and gag him. Gag him first.”
“Y-yes, Detective.”
Melegal looked through the portal now, satisfied Brak was well under control. If this man was truly Venir’s son, then he had to be careful. Such knowledge would be valuable because Venir was still, for all purposes, a wanted man by the Royals, regardless of Tonio’s involvement. He’d watched over Venir before in his own kind of way, and he didn’t take much comfort in taking his son in. It can’t be his son. It just can’t be.
A voice shouted from up ahead.
“Detective, there’s a grate here, bars, no way through.”
There was a lot of barking going on, too.
“Shut those beasts up! I can’t hear you, Fool! What’s this about bars?”
There was a yelp followed by the man’s voice resounding off the rock walls.
“The bars on the grate … er … well they look bent, but there’s no room for someone to crawl through, not even a pooch.”
As Melegal made his way through the portal, he poked the lone remaining Watchman in the chest with his dagger and said, “Don’t lose my prisoner. Fail at your peril.”
“Aye, Detective.”
That’s the same dolt that lost the last one. Run man-child, Run.
Making his way to the men, he ran his slender fingers along the stone corridor. His keen eyes searched for any disparities in the architecture of the walls. He noted none.
“Well,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, “step aside, torch bearers, so I can investigate your brilliant discovery.”
The men shuffled away, eyes nervous and averted.
“My, well look at this. You’ve indeed found a grate. A barrier of some sort, agreed?”
They nodded.
“I tell you, it takes more than the brain of a gnat to make such a discovery. I’ll be sure to report this to your superiors.”
Melegal swooped his cloak around his back and over his knee as he squatted in front of the bars.
“A little more light, please,” he beckoned with is hand and pointed.
As the Watchman lowered his torch along the rim, he made a startling discovery. The wrought iron, thick and ancient, had been bent. Fresh debris. Interesting. Small chips of stone lay along the edge of the grate's metal rim, but worst of all were the markings. The scratches in the iron were fresh, and he could feel the tiny jagged edges around the bottom bars where something had pulled them out and pushed them back again. He looked back down the tunnel. Through the portal he could see Brak’s bulk dimming the torchlight from the other side.
One of the Watchmen cleared his throat and said, “How’d they get through there?”
“Huh,” Melegal sort of laughed, rising back to his feet. He’d seen Venir bend bars as thick as these before, but he never saw him bother to bend them back. Wouldn’t that take more energy? My, what a seed he has sown!
He shifted his hat on his head and motioned for the men with torches to step away from the bars. Look. Listen. He closed his eyes and opened his mind to the magic with his cap. It was something he’d been practicing which he was becoming quite fond of. Winding through the darkness of the endless corridors were footsteps, confusion and something else unexpected. Something breathed, evil and luminous, beckoning to him and picking at his mind. Something dormant was now awakened, and it was hungry. Slat!
Melegal flattened himself on the ground.
Clatch. Clatch. Clatch. Zip. Zip. Zing.
He was running.
Son of a Bish!
Ignoring the impaled faces of the City Watchmen, Melegal dashed down the tunnel and leapt through the portal. In the next instant, one dog after the other was piling on top of him and yelping in a frenzy.
“Get off me, hounds!”
“What was it?” The alarmed sergeant cried out, ducking along the wall.
Melegal was wiggling his finger through the hole inside the hood of his cloak.
“Just cornered Slergs, is all. It seems they can’t find a way out.”
The sergeant scratched his head, pushing his back to the wall, while peeking back and forth through the portal.
“Your charming friends are dead, but they died valiantly, discovering a murderous sewer grate. Now, take our prisoner to interrogation. You, Dear Sergeant, will get the glory of continuing this pursuit from the other end.”
“Y-yes, Detective.”
Melegal tried to contain his inner shivers as he made his way out of the tunnels. He couldn’t find the moonlight fast enough. Something was down there: evil, insidious and powerful, and he had no desire to find out what that was. He’d heard stories about hoards of ghouls and other monsters that lived within the catacombs of the ancient ruins of Bone. Now he had an overwhelming fear that he had just awakened something that didn’t want to be woken. I am already having enough trouble sleeping.
***
Brak didn
’t know what interrogation meant, and he didn’t care now that he could smell the clean air above the ground for the first time in days. Maybe, just maybe, without anyone one's help, he could escape. Maybe the skinny man called Detective might help. He could dream, dream of many things vast, unnatural and wild, but those dreams had not come lately. The dreams of his father were gone.
CHAPTER 25
“Bish!” Mikkel cried out as the multi-bladed knife of the underling clipped his nose.
He ducked and dodged, shaking off the rust, back pedaling back and forth between the two underlings as he parried with his club. It was the fighter's instinct that rushed him back into the battle against man’s most ancient of foes. He wanted to retreat, his mind recoiling, the frightening countenances of the underlings boring into his flesh: fearless, merciless and cruel. They came at him, one striking high, the other low.
Get it together, Man!
Clumsily he batted their blows away. How long had it been since he’d been in a fight, anyway? Perhaps it was the old warrior, the man they turned away, who cried out the first warning and charged into the fray. The weathered warrior now lay in a pool of his own blood, face split in half like something had just hatched from his skull. Mikkel couldn’t shake the sadness that crept though his skin and chilled his bones.
Bang!
Clank!
Whomp!
Bang!
People were screaming, running in all directions, falling prey to the fearless little hoard that invaded their sanctuary. There were at least ten of them, but Mikkel wasn’t making a count. He found himself pinned up against a wagon. The underlings chittered, their rat-furred faces and beady emerald eyes unblinking, cold and bright as they began to whittle him down.
Smack!
Billip caught one of them on the wrist, drawing an angry howl.
That’s more like it! Now fight like a man!
The underlings weren’t any different than any he’d faced before. Small like women, hairy grayish skin corded in knots, fluid in motion, confident in gait, evil in intent, their jagged blades—cruel tortuous devices—licked in and out like striking snakes. Bandoliers of knives and darts and small swords made an eerie jangle on their hips, and even without that armament the rest of them was just as scary. Sharp teeth that could rend flesh like a wild animal and claws that could shave the bark from a tree allowed the minions of the Underland to kill and hunt at all times.
The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid Page 14