The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid

by Craig Halloran

  Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a young woman and her boy trapped beneath a carriage. Two other underlings, blood dripping from the blades in their hands, screeched, rushing towards the helpless prey.

  Nikkel!

  The reminder of his own son’s life and safety tore away his fears, unleashing his dormant fury. Mikkel roared. The sluggishness of his long powerful limbs had burned off, turning his defensive actions into a bludgeoning fury. His club, long, studded and heavy, twirled high in the air a split second before he brought it down with a skull-cracking blow. Parts of the underling’s brain oozed from its nose as it fell over, leaving the other's serrated maw of teeth agape as it turned to escape the black warrior's fury.

  “Where do you think you’re going!” Mikkel yelled, giving chase, twisting back away at the sound of the woman and boy screaming. “Bish!”

  There was a thrashing of blood spilling out from underneath the wagon. The underlings were a tangled mass of black flesh and leathers, claws clutching as the woman and boy kicked and flailed. Mikkel caught one underling by the foot and yanked it squealing from under the carriages.

  “No you don’t!” he said, dropping his club and pulling the underling away.

  Dark black finger nails dug into his wrists. Mikkel cried out in pain, releasing the fowl underling that scurried away.

  He looked under the wagon. “Bone!” The woman and boy lay dead, throats torn open and eyes gouged out. A swell of emotion formed in his light watery eyes. “BLAST THEM ALL!”

  Mikkel whirled around at the growing sounds of chittering underlings. His club, Skull Basher, was nowhere in sight. The cobblestone road he defended was smeared in blood where Billip stood, coated in black blood, brandishing a blood-soaked broadsword. He wasn’t alone: a dwarven fighter, stout as a stump of oak, black bearded to his knees, grasped a blacksmith's hammer in his hand. Beside him, another dwarf was on his knees, choking up blood and fighting for his breath.

  “How are you holding up, Billip?” Mikkel asked, rushing to his comrade's side.

  Billip swayed where he stood; a jagged gash in his pants was soaked in blood.

  “I’d be better if I had my bow in my hand. This melee’s exhausting. Bloody underlings!”

  “Aye man!” The dwarf interrupted. “You’d be better fighting from afar, bow or sword. I’ve seen one-armed halflings swing better steel than that,” the dwarf gloated, “but at least, being a man and all, you tried.”

  Billip said to Mikkel, “This must be a friend of yours.”

  Mikkel said, “No, never seen him before, but he seems to know you pretty well.”

  But the time for jokes was over. The streets were cleared, all of the fighting men were dead as far as they could tell, and the underlings, with superior weapons, armor and numbers, had them surrounded. A dark cloud had descended on the City of Three.

  “So, you going to go down barehanded?” Billip commented, wiping the blood dripping in his eyes on his sleeve.

  “Just like the day I was born, I guess.”

  “We dwarves are born with hammers for hands. Here, soft black man, take this,” the dwarf growled, tossing his hammer to Mikkel. “You’ll be needing it more than me. Now, by Mood’s blood red beard, who wants to pummel these underlings!”

  “Come on, Dogs!” Mikkel yelled.

  Billip remained silent, sword up, eyes forward.

  “It’s time to crush some skulls!”

  The underlings chittered with mockery, small crossbows aimed and ready. Mikkel could see the wet dew of poison reflecting on the bolt's tip. There were many men on Bish that could dodge a crossbow bolt, but he wasn’t one of them. All he could do was hope he got one last swing.

  Billip muttered at his side, “It wouldn’t be so bad if I had my bow in my hand.”

  “You two ladies run, I’ll cover you,” the dwarf said. “Those little bolts won’t hurt—”

  Clatch-zip.

  The bearded dwarf caught a slender six-inch dart in his burly arm and fell over dead.

  “Slat!”

  Every underling bolt in Bish looked to be pointed their way.

  Clatch-zip.

  Clatch-zip.

  Clatch-zip.

  Clatch-zip.

  Clatch-zip.

  Clatch-zip.

  ***

  Everything seemed to be moving in very slow motion. The bolts, each and every one of them, he swore he could count. Three were bearing down on him, agonizingly slow, all center mass, one left, one middle, one right. If he twisted and turned either way it wouldn’t matter. He was flat footed and ready to die. He glanced over at Billip, and to his surprise Billip was glancing at him, eyes wide as saucers. He turned back to look at the deadly missiles, each and every one twice as close as it had been before. Huh? Then he heard a familiar voice bellow.

  “MOVE, YOU TWO IDIOTS!”

  Mikkel dove to the left, Billip to the right.

  Whap. Whap. Whap. Whap. Whap. Whap.

  The bolts juttered as they embedded themselves in the cart behind him. The underlings howled with outrage, their bewildered faces searching the ground and sky.

  “What in the—”

  “TAKE COVER!” A woman said it in a convincing and powerful voice. She was gorgeous, radiant, and dangerous all at the same time. Her wavy tussles of auburn hair billowed in the sky. She was no ordinary woman, rather an extraordinary creature, an angry mother whose nest had been disturbed. Mikkel sucked in his breath as he caught a glimpse of her warm glowing face.

  “Kam!” he exclaimed.

  And she wasn’t the only one.

  Two men, one robed in pure white, the other robed in a color of blue he had never seen before, dropped down behind the pack of underlings. The one in white, older, hair yellow as a bale of straw, held out a slender long black staff, inches from the nose of an underling. The creature grasped the staff in both hands and tried to yank it away. Mikkel gawped. The underling turned white from head to toe and then its body collapsed in on itself.

  “Sweet Mother of Bish!”

  The blue wizard scattered a cloud of silver and dark purple dust in the air. The agitated underlings began to snort and wheeze. Mikkel almost laughed as they fell to the ground in writhing spasms, kicking clawed feet over the cobble stones in agony, twitching and lurching like fish out of water until they moved no more.

  That’s when Kam came. Her wrists were entwined with ropes of white lightening as she unleashed her tendrils of energy. The remaining underlings clutched at the burning energy that wrapped itself like a snake around their necks. The mystic snake slithered inside one underling's mouth. It disappeared for an instant, then the underling's eyes flared with white hot light. Slowly at first, Mikkel watched in astonishment as the energy passed through one ear and out the other. Again it raced, passing in one underling and out the other underlings, boring new holes, faster, gaining blinding speed and fury.

  Mikkel shielded his eyes as the brilliant light continued to grow.

  FOOMPH!

  When he turned to look, nothing remained of the underlings but several piles of black ash. The three wizards, Kam, the White and Blue ones, methodically gathered up the dead underling bodies, hoisting them with unseen hands, guiding them through the air and piling them all together. A crowd of citizens now gathered, murmuring in amazement. The blue wizard, his features ageless, handsome and dark, muttered something unintelligible to the common man. The pyre of black underlings blazed to life and burned green with black smoke rising to the sky.

  Mikkel covered his nose, eyes squinting when he noticed Billip standing beside him. They both shrugged as they returned their gazes back to Kam.

  A cry rose up from behind the crowd, and each of the wizards faces turned. Someone was pushing their way through the crowd with a dead underling hoisted over their shoulder. A pair of underling blades was jammed in its black-haired skull. As he tossed the underling into the fire, Mikkel could hear the young warrior say, “You missed one.”

  Mikkel could
n’t contain his smile.

  It was Georgio.

  Someone screamed from a nearby window.

  CHAPTER 26

  Hohm City was considered to be the most dreary city of all. Tucked in the northwestern most corner of the word, Hohm remained in chronic seclusion from the sunlight. A thin veil of fog rolled over the city and through the streets, bending over window sills and corners, a constant companion of those who preferred the seclusion.

  The marsh itself, leagues long as it was wide, kept any curious people or invaders away. The willow tree roots were sunk deep in the mud, but their height rose over a hundred feet in some places. Black backed crocodiles rested on massive lily pads, and swamp toads were as big as a man’s head. Every crawling, climbing, murk dwelling creature was ten times bigger than anything you’d ever known. So the people of the City of Hohm said.

  Morley Sickle, a man of age, long forgotten by his neighbors, had lived in the City of Hohm all of his life, with no desire to go elsewhere … until now. He had come across a stranger of the most amazing character, weird and undeniable, when taking his wares, a very potent homemade wine he called Jig, to sell in the general store. The stranger, handsome beyond reason, asked to sample his Jig, and they’d been talking almost incessantly ever since. This all started months ago, and it had its benefits … at first.

  “Morley,” the newcomer said, his tone pleasing and demanding, “tell me, how many pickles do you think are in that jar?”

  Morley, pinching the upper bridge of his nose, eyes squinted, tried not to think about it. I don’t give a slat!

  “That’s not a number,” the man said, raking his fingers back through his long locks of blond hair. “Really Morley, you need to do better than that.”

  Morley scooted towards the burning hearth in front of the tavern fire, trying his best not to think. If he could stop breathing, he would. He rubbed his bejeweled fingers as he stared at the brilliant gold and precious gems that adorned his hand. They were worth a hundred times more than anything he ever wanted. A thousand times if that. He groaned. What good were they when he was under the steady watch of his unavoidable new companion?

  “Guess, Morley. Guess, I say!”

  Morley lurched up in his seat.

  “One hundred twenty, Scorch! One hundred twenty!”

  Scorch grabbed him by the face, perfect hands squeezing his saggy cheeks up on his fear filled face, shaking his head.

  His heart was thumping like a drum behind his ears, and a drop of water slipped from his eye duct and ran down along his nose.

  “Hah! Morley, there’s only fifty one. Fifty one pickles in that jar. But, after you go fetch me four of them, then there will be just …”

  Morley swallowed a glob of spit and said, “Forty seven?”

  Scorch released him, sat back and slapped his crocodile boots up on the table.

  “Of course, you dullard. Now, fetch more jig while you're after it.” Scorch snapped his fingers, popping Morley’s ears, “and some more of that mossy cheese, too. I love the smell. I don’t know why I love the smell of cheese, but I do. Ah yes … cheese, pickles, and jig. Mmmmmm. …”

  Morley shuffled away, taking his time as his feet creaked over the floor boards. Every day had been like this, one nonchalant meaningless task or question after the other. But, he dared not think that. I need to die. If there were only a way to kill himself without thinking.

  “Morley,” Scorch chimed, “I don’t like what you’re thinking. And no, you can’t make me angry enough to kill you, either. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I can even become angry, but I think I can become drunk.”

  Scorch hoisted his strong chin up towards the rafters, closed his eyes and slowly brought each of his index fingers to the very tip of his perfect nose.

  “Er, well, I think I can be drunk, but still very formidable all the same, unlike your kinfolk. A bunch of sots they are, except the dwarves; now they are good for mixing.”

  Get the pickles. Get the wine. Get the cheese. He repeated over and over in his mind, casting his glances at the empty tables and chairs of what used to be one of the liveliest places in Hohm. The most colorful men and women thrived in Hohm despite the dullness of its gray atmosphere. The strange fog from the marsh softened the tones and features of everything procured or living. It gave people a permanent sense of privacy, and the Royals, with their own dark and mysterious ways, didn’t seem inclined to interfere so long as the people behaved themselves and paid taxes on time.

  A man, head shaven, tall and brooding with a jagged scar between his lips, twisted the top from the large jar of pickles and handed him a wooden tong.

  “I like the big ones, Morley, much juicer, and don’t forget the cheese or the jig.”

  The sound of the man’s perfectly strong and tranquil voice had the effect of a tack hammer tapping on his head. The barkeep returned with a rather large block of greenish and yellow cheese on a plate with a thin layer of white fuzz coating it.

  “Ah, it smells wonderful,” Scorch continued, tapping his fingernail on the table.

  Morley flinched. The sound of Scorch’s voice did that. He couldn’t control it.

  “Thanks, Sam,” he muttered, returning back to his table with a plate full of rank smelling cheese, tongue assaulting wine and big bumpy green-blue pickles.

  Scorch licked his lips as he tucked a handkerchief under his chin.

  “Care for some?”

  Morley shook his head.

  Scorch carved off a chunk of moldy cheese and stabbed it onto a pickle. Stuffing it into his mouth, he said, “Where is everyone?”

  “It’s after curfew, the dark of night time. No one can leave their homes during this season. The marsh gets edgy. Dangerous,” he said, hiding his trembling hand under the table.

  Scorch pointed his fork in his face and said, “Are you certain it’s the marsh and that they're not just terrified of me?”

  “No,” Morley admitted.

  “But Morley, explain: why would these people be frightened of me? Am I not as handsome and charming as a man can be? Do I not fight like ten men in one? Did I not vanquish that horrible creature, er … what was it called?”

  “A slog dragon.”

  “Yes, that ugly thing. Big as a pair of ogres it was. Breath like a sewer. Did that not bring comfort among your citizens?”

  If Morley could've bitten his tongue off he would've, but he hated pain and blood, and tongues for that matter. He stammered as he said, “No.”

  Scorch rapped his fist on the table.

  Morley banged his knee on the table.

  “Why don’t they like me, then?” Scorch said, stuffing an entire pickle in his mouth.

  “Because you challenged so many people,” he said, thinking pickles.

  “Such contests are considered enjoyment and profitable by your kind, are they not?”

  “Yes.” Pickles. Pickles. Pickles.

  “So what happened?” Scorch said, washing down the remaining cheese with a tankard of jig.

  “You won the contest.”

  “So I did, and that’s a good thing.”

  “But they all died …”

  Scorch frowned as he rubbed Morley’s shoulder. “So they did.” Scorch then smiled. “But only because I am so … oh what is the word?”

  “Marvelous?”

  “Yes! Marvelous. I like that word,” Scorch said, standing up from his seat. “Now, let’s take a walk in this marsh, shall we? I can’t have anything more dangerous than me running around out there.”

  Pickles. Pickles. Pickles.

  It was all Morley thought as he dragged himself along behind the most powerful man on Bish.

  CHAPTER 27

  District Twenty Seven in the City of Bone wasn’t the same as it used to be. Tucked behind the enormous wall of the north-eastern most hemisphere, it was known as the lost city within the city. Vagabonds and murderers ran the streets, along with the most indecent and dangerous of guilds. The Royals, whose City Watch patrols
maintained a presence just about everywhere to some degree, had avoided this place entirely. It was foul, abandoned, the streets broken, store fronts rotting, every other piece of glass shattered and every corner a harbor for violence or deceit to some degree. It was the place where people went when they had given up, the most desperate of all people, which was rare, because quitting was not part of the make-up of the people in the City of Bone or in all of Bish, for that matter. Trinos had made it that way, but things had changed and she didn’t like it.

  Trinos stood in the street like a magnificent piece of china displayed in a butcher shop. Her platinum hair cascaded over her elegant shoulders. Her deep luminous eyes were probing and curious, her clothes of the common sort in design but woven with materials one could not discern or describe. When she spoke, everything moving or crawling stopped to listen, for when her lips moved it was like watching red porcelain lips pouring wine.

  “This is not good,” she said, shaking her perfect chin. “I need more able people to continue this work.”

  A large group of men surrounded her, bowing and nodding in acknowledgment. They might as well have been hairy ogres among a new born child, each as rough in feature and texture as a man could come. Their clothes were little more than rags, but every button was buttoned and every stitch had been stitched. They bore scars, marks, burns and some were even missing one of their murderous eyes, but something was different among them beyond the appearance of their character. They moved with purpose.

  Trinos lifted her hand and said, “Find me twenty more able men.”

  A man with a bent nose and wavy black hair that was combed to one side of his head, his calloused fingers fidgeting with the mismatched buttons on his shirt lifted his head to speak.