The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid

by Craig Halloran

  “Venir, will you please put me down? I’m getting sick,” Adanna said.

  He set her down and took a long look in the sky.

  The moons in the sky, both a dull reddish hue, stirred his blood. Hogan had caught him up on mankind’s plight and the onslaught of the underlings. The days he thought he was gone in the Under Bish and Mist had turned out to be months, perhaps longer. No, it seemed Bish was upside down. Something was wrong, very wrong. He could tell.

  “Are you a'right? You seem lost,” the soft woman said, pulling him into their small but accommodating tent. “You’ve been a bit aloof these past few days.” She pulled his shirt off and began running her fingers over his scars.

  The underlings. According to Hogan, they were as thick as weeds in every direction, subjecting their terror on every race with extreme prejudice. But humans, however, seemed to be taking the brunt of the punishment. Venir was happy to be living and breathing among men again, relishing every day of life. He was different, his vitality returned, a spring in every step, and brightness behind every word. He feared nothing. His belly was filled, and other needs satisfied. He was ready to live again, and for now the underlings would have to wait. But something in the back of his mind was beginning to ebb.

  Adanna pushed him down onto the blankets, straddled him and began pulling her top off.

  He reached for her breasts.

  “Venir!” someone shouted from outside his tent.

  Adanna dived for her clothes.

  “Go away, Hogan! I’m—”

  “Shaddup, Man. I know what you and my daughter are doing. There’s no time for that. You need to come and come now!”

  Venir stepped outside, the hot night air bristling on his scarred and naked chest.

  “I see you trimmed your face.”

  “Actually, I did that,” Adanna said, stepping out from behind the tent flap.

  Hogan shook his head. It was clear he was perturbed by their relationship. “Baltor is coming.” Adanna’s father waved his hand in front of his face. “Man, how much have you been drinking? You smell like a half-orcen sot. And now Baltor comes, full of fire, wanting to challenge you for Adanna.”

  “What!” she interjected. “I’m not some trophy whore. I can choose whom I please.”

  “No you can’t!” Hogan warned. “You agreed to be Baltor’s mate, and word bound it. Now you’ve gone and broke your oath.”

  “I never made an oath, Father! Baltor was there when I was alone. There’s not some pact between us.”

  “Well, the fool does not care, and he’s not alone. Venir, he’s dangerous. Stupid, but dangerous as a gnoll. And I’d be lying if I said he didn’t worry me.”

  Venir smiled grimly and said, “Let him come. I’ve fared pretty well against better.”

  “At least hide until you can be prepared, Man. You’re swaying like a tree about to fall.”

  “Too late,” Venir huffed, rubbing his blurry eyes.

  Baltor had arrived, accompanied by a handful of Hogan’s men and another troupe of outlaws and renegades. Baltor was big, his muscles solid as if he were carved from the trunk of a tree, unyielding. His head was shaved on both sides. A strange black collar adorned his neck, and his brutish body seemed unnatural beneath the face, with a sinister look lurking behind his wild eyes.

  “Adanna, come with me!” Baltor ordered, thumbing his chest.

  She stepped forward, mouth opening to speak when her father pulled her back.

  Venir crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, saying, “What’s the matter, Baltor? Are the hairy hind ends of your orcen sisters too much for you to handle?” hic

  Out loud chuckles erupted from the growing crowd, gnoll and orc among them.

  Baltor rushed up and jabbed his finger in Venir’s face.

  “I’ll kill you!” he said, practically frothing at the lips.

  Venir, despite his impairment, could see the glazed look in the man’s eyes. Baltor, already mighty of frame, was endowed with something else. Mystic herbs, dark ones, most likely. It was something the black markets from Outlaw's Hide sold. He couldn’t remember what it was called, but it was pricy, something that the Royals were more apt to get their hands on as opposed to common men.

  “You couldn’t beat me if my arm was tied behind my back,” Venir said, sneering down on the man. He was getting annoyed. Then he heard Adanna gasp.

  “You heard him! One hand tied behind his back! A Challenge!”

  A fervor arose in the crowd. Venir’s big mouth had landed him a few challenges already. All of his talk of dragons and giants had branded him as a bit of a loon, though his stories did sound quite convincing and even caused the oldest of crones to swoon.

  Unlike challenges in the more civilized establishments in the world of Bish, Outlaw's Hide played by very loose rules. Anything that sounded like a challenge could be construed as a challenge, which was a strong reason why most outlaws kept to themselves. The mildest of disagreements could be turned by gossiping mouths into the bloodiest of contests.

  Hogan reached over, grabbed him by his arm and said, “Are you a fool! Baltor’s an induced bull.”

  “Hah, more like an induced imbecile. I’ve fought a minotaur, and if anything, he’s a sheep, or a cow.” Hic “You’re a cow, Baltor.”

  Adanna stood in front of him, her round face looking up at him like he was a complete lunatic. “What have you done, you fool?”

  Hic “I’m taking measures so that the next time we lock legs there’ll be no interruptions.” Venir swept her up in his arm and gave her a hungry kiss. “Hold on to that until this is over.”

  Adanna gawped and turned away.

  Venir was being shoved into a circle that had formed, of bloodthirsty men, orcs, gnolls and striders. The dwarves and halflings stood in the front. As he peered around, a brief thought of Melegal came to mind, as the coins began their clinking journey from hand to hand. Somewhere, a one-armed troubadour with an eye patch played and sang a semi-rousing tune on his lute.

  There was a day when the underlings cameAnd the Darkslayer wasn’t there to Slay the Day …

  Instead a loon and bald-headed goon squared off to play a game

  Tis the day , where one brute must die.

  Bye, bye in Outlaw's HideWhere the liars and the convicts come to live and to die.

  The good ole dwarves mix the grog and the wine, singing

  This'll be the place that ye’ll die.

  Bullslat! Someone interjected.

  This'll be the place that ye’ll die.

  “Right or left handed?” A gruff looking man with a long piece of rope asked. “Ah … it seems you're right handed,” the man said, looking at the missing finger tips on his left, then proceeded to tie off his right arm. He tested the bonds and yelled out, “He’s secured.”

  Venir gave his missing fingertips some study as Baltor paced back and forth like a caged animal, drumming his head with his fists. That’s when Venir noticed a series of very tall and large figures looming farther behind the ranks of the crowd. He was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, someone was trying to kill him.

  A tall slender man, long haired and wizened, stepped in the middle of the circle, robed in brown clothes from head to toe. Venir had never seen him around before. The man lifted his hands, and the crowd fell silent.

  “You, Venir, have made a challenge against Baltor. One-armed you’ll fight until one of you begs for mercy or succumbs to death. Is this correct?” the man said, his voice loud and tranquil.

  “Aye,” Venir said.

  “And you, Baltor, you accept?”

  “Aye,” Baltor said, his sneering face fixated on Venir’s as he smashed his fists together.

  Venir couldn’t ever recall having fought one armed before. How much harder could it be?

  “ONE!”

  The rambunctious crowd gasped into a whisper as every eager eye widened with elation.

  “TWO!”

  CHAPTER 34

  Exhaustion.
The word wasn’t sufficient. Fogle lay in a bed that was little more than a mattress stuffed with feathers and hay that sat on the floor. It might as well have been one of the finest beds and mattresses in the City of Three as far as he was concerned. He was no longer cold, and that was all that mattered. He yawned, stretched, tossed and turned, but nothing eased his jangled nerves. However, he did find great comfort in the fact that he lived. Even if it was in Dwarven Hole.

  “One adventure down … no more to go,” he murmured to himself.

  At least I’m warm. His room, consisting of the heaviest wooden furniture he’d ever used, was uncomfortable. But, a sense of security filled him, despite all of the commotion that occurred outside. The dwarves, a more melancholy than mirthful race, were active. Hammers striking steel were always echoing from within the Hole, along with the sounds of a roaring furnace being stuffed with coal and stoked.

  The underlings. It seemed the dark vicious little race of creatures had begun to crop up everywhere. On his travels back, Mood had apprised Fogle of their bloody presence and wicked deeds. The most horrific things had happened to several villages and farm towns south of Dwarven Hole. A longtime safe haven under the dwarven wings had all but been wiped out.

  It was there Fogle Boon witnessed mankind slaughtered. For the first time, Fogle had been filled with horror. The people, many weeks dead, coated in flies, rodents, worms and decay had even been buried head first in the ground. Their swollen, rotting, gnawed on legs were the most repulsive things he’d ever seen. Jackals and other animals that fed on carrion had picked many of the bones clean. That was far from the worst of it all. The heads of men, women, and children sagged on wooden stakes, mouths hanging open, eyes gouged out. It seemed the vulture hawks considered them a delicacy. And the smell, so horrible, foul and rotting, had made him retch. His stomach became queasy at the thought of it.

  Sitting up, he rubbed his weary eyes. Three days had passed since he, Mood and Cass had returned, and for three days, two of which he hardly moved from his bed, he had done nothing. Mood was absent and Cass as well, but his dreams of her had kept him company. Now he was bored and lonely. What was his next move? Remain, or return home? Return home, or resume his quest to find Venir? And what had happened to his ebony hawk, Inky, that he’d sent into the Mist after the brutish man?

  A soft knocking rapped at the door.

  His heart raced. Cass.

  “Come in,” he said, returning to his feet.

  The door swung open, revealing two dwarven women, laden with heavy terry cloth towels in their arms.

  “Yes?” He said.

  They entered, followed by a third, a brown bearded dwarven man pushing a heavy cart that appeared to be filled with a giant tub of water. The dwarven man set two blocks behind the wheels, gave him a gruff look and departed. The two dwarven women remained. One added something to the water that made it sizzle, and a pleasant smoky aroma filled the room. That’s when Fogle realized that he hadn’t bathed in months, perhaps longer. He felt disgusting when the moment he last bathed hit him. What would my mother think?

  He rubbed the wiry hairs on his bearded chin and began to wonder if he should shave as he watched the little women get to work. The two stout little figures moved with purpose and grace that seemed odd. Their round little faces were smooth and warm, eyes narrow and inviting underneath thick heads of hair pulled up in buns. They wore tight sleeveless robes of fleshy tones that revealed short muscular arms and well-rounded chests and rears. Fogle swallowed as he recalled the conversation he'd been having with Mood, before they were captured by Cass. It seemed the King of the Blood Rangers remembered. Either that, or he just stunk really bad.

  “Eh … I suppose you want me to get in?”

  The closet dwarven lady didn’t respond. Instead, she reached over and began helping him out of his clothes. His rosy cheeks did little to hide his embarrassment as the two silent women helped him step up into the tub. As his first foot sunk into the steamy bubbling water, he felt his eyes begin to burn. Oh my, that feels good. A smile broke out on his face as if the last three years of his life had been returned. There was no shame now; his surroundings were as meaningless as the dust on the floor as he sank down into the water feeling like a king. Ah … I deserve this, he thought, letting his heavy lids close. Strong fingers began rubbing the knots out of his shoulders, and the other lady dwarf began scrubbing him into a thick lather. All embarrassment washed away. I could get used to this.

  “Fogle Man-Whore! What do you think you are doing?”

  Water splashed over the lip of the tub as he twisted his body around. There stood Cass, arms crossed over her chest, her bare foot tapping on the floor with a perturbed look on her delicate face.

  “I, well,” he stammered, “I haven’t bathed in months.”

  “So, I suppose it’s been so long that you have forgotten how to do it yourself?”

  His mind scrambled to find an adequate excuse. I don’t need one.

  “No, as a matter of fact, I’m lazy. And there's nothing quite like the hands of a strong dwarven woman to rub out the icicles you used to freeze my thews and bone. And who are you to reprimand me on my bathing habits? Aren’t druids notorious for bathing in nothing but mountain sludge?”

  Cass’s jaw clenched on her pale face, and her pink eyes narrowed with a murderous intent.

  He didn’t care. She had brought him nothing but misery the entire journey back, offering comfort only to pull it back. Maybe it would have been better to have remained a virgin, after all. Ah, but those pink lips are as delicious as wine. He slunk deeper into the warm watery confines of the tub. “What is it? Have you come to gawk or to torment me more?”

  She shoved his head down under the water and pulled him back up by his hair.

  “Fool! I’ve come about the dog, and your thoughts are of yourself, Man Whore Fogle.” Cass turned and left, the door slamming behind her.

  “Well fiddly-dee,” he said, as the wonderful bath seemed to sizzle through skin, muscle and bone. He felt short fingers rubbing the muscles in his knotted shoulders. Ah …

  Wham!

  A door slammed into the wall.

  “FOGLE MAN-WHORE! Get your arse out of the water and follow me!” Cass stood in the doorway again, her eyes like burning roses. “The dog is about to die!”

  CHAPTER 35

  They came. Like a black snake Lord Verbard’s army slithered beneath the world of Bish towards the unsuspecting City of Bone. It was agonizing. Verbard stood in the back of the bow of a barge that hosted over fifty underlings. Moving an army, though a small one by some standards, was like pushing a heavy cart through a trail of mud. The barges, six in all—each hosting Juegen soldiers that controlled Badoon hunter squads that minded the mindless albino urchlings and ravenous cave dogs—crept over the black waters of the Current with agonizing haste. As patient as the underlings were, Lord Verbard had no patience for this.

  I haven’t the faintest idea where to start in the City of Bone. Does anyone? Or, is this Master Sinway’s way of sending me on a suicide mission?

  Verbard sharpened the tips of his fingernails with a metal file. Nearby, hunkered between the weapons and supplies, a pair of large mangy cave dogs were ripping troll meat apart. Days ago, his army happened upon a handful of the slimy and brutish race. More or less, the trolls were the ogres of the lands below: rare, unsightly and monstrous. One barge had been tipped over during the surprise attack, the underling bodies either crushed or dragged into the dark. Thirty had been lost, his army already diminished before his battle even started. He had taken precautions to avoid another tipping experience.

  I hope Kierway doesn’t plan a head count. The brat probably will. Perhaps I can gather the details from him. I shall have him do my work for me.

  It was strange. Verbard was an underling with nothing more than pure hatred towards the race of men. His hatred stoked fires within him, sparking imagination of inflicting the most cruel and twisted things. After his battle with th
e Darkslayer, he had had quite enough, but now he was pressed into delivering a siege on an entire human city.

  Men will not be ready. Men will die. But at what expense?

  He reached down into an unnaturally deep pocket inside his robes, wrapping his fingers around the dry parchment of an ancient scroll. It gave him comfort. He knew something about the City of Bone. He’d seen glimpses of its interior before. Would it be possible to conjure the imp once more? Could he control it without the help of his brother? He tucked the parchment back inside his robes. Did I ever even need my brother's help? Verbard’s feet shifted beneath him as the barge came to a complete stop. He made his way to the fore, where two heavily armored Juegen stood, pointing ahead.

  As black as it was, there were still faint traces of light to an underling's discerning eyes. Ahead, the wide expanse of the Current’s waters began to broaden, but a dam of rock and stone had barricaded their way through the next corridor. Were they stuck? Not that Verbard was in any hurry, but it would take a day or more to clear the way. The other half of the army, he hoped, didn’t experience such delays by trekking through the caves. It had seemed better to split his forces than to move them all as one. Perhaps he should have split them into three. It seemed that something was intentionally trying to slow them, and it wasn’t men. Trolls.

  “Protect me,” Verbard ordered.

  The Juegen, covered in plate armor from head to toe, withdrew their long curved blades. Another set, each with a barbed trident in its grip, gathered near as well. A silent word traveled back from one barge to the other. If the trolls attacked again, they would be ready.

  Verbard’s silver eyes opened, gleaming with light. He stretched his palms upward toward the cave ceiling. Mystic energy filled him, tingling first around his ankles and spiraling upward around his body, through his neck and into his mind. It was arousing his senses, which began to heighten to another level. Something primitive lurked nearby, dormant, maybe lazy, but strong and formidable. He felt it. It was agitated. But where was it?