“What do you think, Venir?”
“They’re gone. They followed the first few miles.” He unrolled his blanket that contained the large leather sack. “I’m going to do some scouting.” He tossed his borrowed broadswords on the ground.
Hogan cocked an eye and said, “With no weapons?”
“Too much noise.” Venir stuffed his sack into a pack that Adanna had given him and slung it over his shoulders. “I’ll need your cloak, Slim.”
“But I like this cloak. Take Hogan’s.”
“Too small.”
“First you get us kicked out of camp, and then you abandon us.” Slim slung it from his knobby shoulders and said with a frown, “Fine.”
***
It was past midnight. Outlaw's Hide was in full swing. Heavily armed and cloaked bodies swaggered through the dusty streets singing or crying out shouts of alarm. Venir swaggered as well, cloak hood draped over his face, a jug of wine swinging at his side, vengeance on his mind.
Where is that ogre!
There weren’t too many half-ogres here. The sound and smell of them, a salty mix of manure and urine, would knock you down if you weren’t ready for it. Venir sauntered in and out of the tents and shabby buildings, one muck and filth ridden alley at a time. Farc, like most ogres, would prefer his privacy. The big humanoid preferred caves, mountains and high places. If anything, Farc probably preferred the wide open spaces that Outlaw’s Hide provided.
Venir took a deep draw through his nose.
“Ah!”
Venir followed his nose towards a ramshackle barn where many beasts for slaughter and burden were stabled. A canvas tent, large enough for a host of people, sat catty cornered to the edge of the barn. There was an inhuman squeal of delight coming from within, followed by a series of heavy smacks on bare flesh. Venir kneeled down inside the shadows between the barn and tent, his keen eyes scanning for sentries. An orc leaned against a pile of logs near the tent entrance, hairy hands draped across its bulging belly. It wiped its mouth and yawned, peering around before it tossed another log on the nearby campfire.
Venir pulled out the sack and withdrew Brool. Its razor sharp edges seemed to hum in the moonlight. On cat’s feet he slipped around the back side of the tent and slit open a hole the size of a man. Pulling the edge of the canvas back, he saw the backside of Farc’s hulking form, sitting on a stool. Bent over the half-ogre’s knee was a squealing orcen trollop. Her dirty blonde hair cascaded onto the dirt floor as she squirmed underneath Farc’s heavy wallops. Please don’t be Dolly.
Venir took a breath and waited, avoiding the lantern light as he stepped inside. The shaft of his axe throbbed in his hand. His murderous thoughts began to consume him. His enemies, one and all, must go. Something beckoned him onward towards the removal of all evil. It was him or them. He took another step forward, axe hanging ready over his shoulder.
“Hrmm,” Farc murmured, as his head, the size of three men’s, swung back his way.
The tip of Brool met the ogre’s temple, drawing blood.
“Sssssh,” Venir warned the orcen woman, unfamiliar to his relief, jaw dropped open.
“Who dares?” Farc said in a huff, a nervous twinge in his voice.
Venir applied more pressure. Farc took a sharp draw through his nose.
“Ah … Venir,” the half-ogre said, “come to assassinate me like a coward, I see.”
“No, I came to get a better look at the orc's arse,” he retorted. “Flat on your belly, Wench. Shut your eyes and think about bathing.”
The trollop flopped onto the ground, thick forearms covering her head.
Venir flipped Brool’s blade under Farc’s trembling chin.
“What are you wanting, Venir? You beat me, cripple me, humiliate me, and that's not enough. Now come to kill me?”
“Aye, Farc.”
Farc grunted. The half-ogre sat, hands on his knees, head tilted down.
Venir could smell the big humanoid's fear as he watched the blood drip from Farc’s temple. That’s it. Sweat it out.
“Tilt your big head back,” Venir ordered, lifting Farc’s chin with his axe. “I can’t have you crying out before I get this over with.”
Farc made an audible gulp. The orcen woman went into a fit of squealing shudders and sobs.
“Any last words, Farc? Care to give that hairy arse another good whack before your body’s fed to the other pigs?”
The half-ogre let out a raspy sound.
Venir tilted his head down and said, “What’s that?”
“S-Sp …”
Venir grabbed a handful of hair and growled, “ Spit it out, Ogre.”
Farc trembled as he managed to say, “Sp-Spare me.”
“Say again?”
“Spare me, Venir. Spare my life,” Farc pleaded.
Farc's monstrous shoulders sagged. His fingers were lifeless at his side. He was beaten.
Venir pulled his axe away.
“I’ll need horses. Water. Rations. Your word, Farc. For your life, this grudge is over.”
Farc nodded as he buried his face in his trembling hands.
What was it Mood said? he thought as he departed.
Never trust an ogre.
***
The first dawn’s sun was rising as Venir galloped to his camp.
“Whoa,” he said, pulling back the reins on a large chestnut steed. Sliding out of his saddle, he inspected impressions in the dirt and grass. The smell of blood was in the air, something rotting and foul as well. “Bone!”
On foot he dashed over the rugged terrain, pushing his way over the tall grasses and thick jungle of vines and trees. He donned his helm. Wind, blood and death whirled through his senses. A burning sensation raised the hair on his arms. He moved forward, heavy feet smashing down the thick grasses, his head on a swivel, his heightened senses alert for the unnatural. He heard the crickets, an owl, a slithering snake, buzzing flies, but none of the distant mocking chitter of underlings, far or near. He pulled the helm off and dropped it into the sack as he stood on the edge of the meager camp. His blood ran cold.
Dark stains were smeared over the patches of moss and grass. Hogan’s head, eyes wide with terror, was lying on its ear in the dirt. The man’s clothes and body had been severed in many places and made up into a mound of flesh.
Venir’s knuckles whitened on Brool’s shaft.
One … Four … Nine … Eleven …
The underlings were many. The footsteps of two women, Adanna and her Mother, were intermingled with the underlings. It was clear they had no concern of being followed. Venir cursed and spat, fighting his urge to howl.
He heard the frightened scream of a horse.
“Slat!”
Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw as he burst through the brush and into the clearing. A jolt of fear erupted in his spine as he scrambled to dig out the armament.
“Sweet Bish!”
CHAPTER 44
Melegal lay flat on his belly on a mattress of feathers inside McKnight’s old apartment, exhausted.
A key. A key. What did Sefron mean?
Haze straddled his back, her fingers working masterfully over the knotted fibers of muscle on his back and shoulders.
“You sure are tight for a thief,” she said, boring her thumb into the middle of his back.
It felt like the blade of a knife was being driven into his spine. Outrageous. He had never been anything less than supple before. Now, under Lord Almen’s geyser of pressure, he was as taut as a bow string these days. He felt Haze’s warm lips pecking on his knobby shoulders.
“Will you stop, Woman,” he said, not a question but an order. “You know I hate that.”
“Oh, but I like the little goose bumps it makes on your bony back. It’s adorable.”
“Rub, you wench! And don’t ever use the word adorable in my presence again. I’ve removed tongues for less.”
Haze giggled. “As you wish, Detective.”
He felt her gyrating her
hips in a rhythmic sway as dripped more oil onto his back. Ah, that’s nice. The scent, something with cinnamon, elated his nostrils, and the warm oil opened his pores like a mild lava. It was one of the best moments he’d had in days. Why haven’t I let her do this all along?
Melegal buried his face inside a small pillow, trying to envision what the key that Sefron mentioned looked like. How could a key free them from the Almen bondage? If there was such a key, one thing he was certain of, he would have it before Sefron. The half-naked pasty skinned cleric would have to fend for himself.
He let out a sigh.
“Feeling better?” she said.
“A little,” he said, words muffled in the pillow.
If I were a key where would I be? Melegal noted every object from Lord Almen’s study beneath the kitchens: A cupboard of maps and scrolls. Two desks, one used, the other abandoned, no chair and four deep drawers. A small armament of weapons in the corner. Nine lanterns. Eighteen Candles. A molding rug on the floor with a hollow spot below that he had noted because of the way Lord Almen always stepped over it. Hmmm. Two shelves full of small decorations and awards. Above, wooden rafters. A drop down ladder. The edges of tapestries concealing who knew what. A box, small as a hand. A chest of cast iron as big as a man.
“What are you thinking, Me?” Haze said, shoving her palms into the center of his back. A notable series a cracks followed, continuing up to his neck.
His eyes popped open. “Ahhh … nothing.” Key. Key. Key. Key. Key.
***
Seek. Retrieve. Key.
Melegal held his hand on his aching head as he crept through Castle Almen. It was always quietest in the hours before the first dawn, long before the city roosters crowed. In the kitchen, a tiled expanse of wood-fed ovens and long maple tables, he’d wedged himself into the dark shadow between two cupboards and settled in. He could hear mice, a pair, their tiny nails scraping the tiles, small teeth nibbling into a silk sack of corn flour. Exterior shudders creaked from a nearby window pane where the two moons' glow added a gentle light in an otherwise dark room.
Listen, Fool.
Everything was quiet and natural, yet ominous and threatening. It was the time of day none should be trespassing within the walls of the castle, not even the heralded detective. Only the sentries and members of the Royal family roamed at night. It was foolish for him to do so. Got to find that key. He rubbed his fingers over his chin. What am I doing?
His compulsion was natural. The urge to find something of value, enhanced by magic, suggested by an enchanted mind, only charged the thief’s natural tendencies. Whatever it was that Sefron wanted, he wanted it more, even at his own peril.
A sound of heavy footsteps made its way up the stone stairwell. Unmoving, eyes closed, Melegal remained one with the kitchen. The sounds of the sentry alone lent a picture as clear as daylight to his mind: a large man with a hitch in his step sauntered through the kitchen and began to rummage quietly through the cupboards. Ah, good. It made things easier. No sentry would dare abandon his post with Lord Almen within his chambers.
The sentry was chewing now, strong teeth chomping into a piece of hard fruit. Melegal could feel a shadow closing over the moonlight that was shed his way, the man’s footsteps only a few feet away and passing.
“Hmmm,” the man said as he stopped, his boots turning over the floor. “What’s this?”
Melegal heard the man pick something up from the table. He cracked an eye open. The sentry held a long kitchen knife, it’s keen edge reflecting the moonlight. The sentry’s head cocked back and forth on his bull neck. Slat. Like a beast in the fields, the man sensed something was amiss. Melegal could feel the tension rise in the man. Instincts beginning to fire. Oily sweat beginning to build.
Slowly the man turned, his sword scabbard thunking against a table leg. Melegal felt his heart begin to race as the sentry reached toward the cupboard he hunkered behind. He pulled his cloak tight and dipped his chin deeper into his chest. A heavy footstep landed inches from him.
Burp!
The smell of apples and tobacco wafted through the air, followed by a strange sounding fart.
“Mmmm … that’s better,” the sentry grumbled, tapping his fist on his chest as he continued to walk by, back towards the stone stair case.
Melegal slipped behind the man, matching him step for step, wading through the funk of odor. One would think you’d get used to it. The man was halfway to the bottom when he let out another burst, louder than the last, echoing within the corridor. The fool could wake the dead with that.
Melegal’s hand slipped down to the pommel of his blade. He eased it from the sheath, making a scraping sound of metal on wood, like a whisper. Ten more steps he followed the man like a shadow, the small torches wavering light against the wall. The sentry stretched his arms high, turned at the waist and farted again. Enough. Melegal raised his dagger and poised the tip on the man’s broad back as he slipped behind and cradled him like a child. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.
His mind tingled. His thoughts raced. The man swayed. Melegal slid his dagger in the sheath as the sentry’s knees buckled and he teetered forward. Catch him. He grabbed the man behind his girdle and scooped his arm underneath the man’s chest. Heavy bastard. Blasted chainmail. Melegal sagged along with the man as they both crumpled to the landing. Whew. The man began to snore like an ogre. Melegal rolled the man onto his stomach. That should do it. Up the stairwell, the small torches, two in all, offered little light against the black stone walls. He withdrew a pair of steel gauged wires and dropped to a knee. Eyeing the keyhole, he stuck the two thin rods inside and began picking. Melegal was already aware of the mechanisms within as he had heard Lord Almen locking and unlocking the door before. It was a heavy brass key that worked the lock, and turned the tumblers. Still, it was not the average lock. Rather, it was one designed to give the utmost security … pop … except when dealing with the utmost thief. Unimpressive. Sliding the tools into the pouch with one hand, he depressed the thumb lever down with the other. He took a deep breath. Why am I doing this? And pushed the door open. Have I gone mad?
CHAPTER 45
Fogle’s feet were anchored on the edge of the abyss. His arms and back were straining against a heavy mystical rope that he squeezed inside his grip. He wasn’t the same man now, no longer a weakling of a wizard, but instead a titan of sorts. Inside his mind was another world within, one that he knew quite well.
A woman's high pitched scream echoed behind his thoughts.
Hang on, Cass!
Below him, a vat of vile looking green and black goo bubbled with anger. Little by little it sucked the rope he held, burning the fibers in his grasp. Fogle groaned, digging the heels of his boots into the dirt. He’d been here before. Another world. Locked in a mind grumble of the oddest kind. He liked it, but he was losing control. He cried out.
“Cass!”
No reply.
“Cass!”
He slipped the rope over his shoulder, feeling as if a giant, legs like trunks, filled with muscle, churned back at him from the abyss. Something was pulling back, stronger this time, the weight unimaginable. NO! Smoke rose as the rope slipped through his skin, rending his flesh. He screamed. NO! Think, Wizard!
He screamed for Cass one last time as he fought to hold onto the rope.
***
One second the druid woman Cass was there, wrapped up with the wizard Fogle Boon. In the next second she twisted, contorted and plunged inside of Chongo. It was possibly the strangest thing the King of the Blood Rangers, Mood, had ever seen in all of his centuries.
Mood huddled before Chongo’s dreary heads, holding the beasts in the nooks of his arms. He could feel the dog’s big body shaking, its body writhing with sickening sounds. The wizard, Fogle, sat with his face transfixed on a woman who was no longer there. Sweat was dripping from the man’s forehead, his body straining against an unseen force.
“Hold on, Boy,” Mood said into Chongo’s ear. “Help’s coming.”
In truth, Mood had never seen a dog or anything so sick before. The beast was well past the point where any other beast would have been put out of its misery. Mercy had come to mind more than once. No animal or man should be made to suffer like that. He could only assume that Chongo held on for some reason. The dog was his friend, and he was his. “I got you!”
He looked over and saw the worried look on the lady dwarven faces. Each one was contorted, exerted, and intense. One had her arms around Fogle’s waist, and the others followed suit in a chain from behind. Fogle pitched forward, tugging the entire group with him. Chongo trembled and shook, but Mood held on, feeling that the beast's bull necks were not quite as strong as before. That’s when the smoke came. Fogle’s hands were burning.
***
Agony. Never had Fogle experienced anything on this level. Chongo was the furthest concern from his mind. Cass was foremost. He couldn’t let her go, not with the feelings he had. Not with so much unresolved between them. He wanted to know. He wanted to know how she felt about him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her. It seemed he was about to find out soon enough because his back was being dragged over the ground towards the acidic burbling of the pit. Think or die. Isn’t that what the oaf said? All of this suffering over one man, one dog, one person. What was the meaning of that?
More rope raced through his loosening fingertips. Just win, Fogle. Win!
He dug down into his belly and began loosening the lid off a kettle of energy. There it is! A dormant power lay unused except when his life or another’s was in peril. He'd found it when Ox the Mintaur died. He'd found it when he thought Mood was about to die. A bit by accident on both accounts. It had been there when the underling Catten was shutting his brain down. He didn’t have the control then, but he was gaining control now. The Bone with the lid! For Three! He shoved the deposit of energy over.
Elation. Magic and mind intermingled, forming a coating over his mental body. A shiny coat of metal replaced this skin. His grip became hard as iron. He rolled the rope around his wrist and pulled. The sucking pit of goo let out an eerie wail of anger. Fogle rose to his feet, his face molded in steel, his muscles bulging of hammered iron.
The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid Page 23