The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid

by Craig Halloran

  “More!”

  More came, and food followed. He stuffed every tasteless bite inside his mouth and chewed. The steak, bread, cheese, and rice did little to fill him, but the grog and ale offered something good. That’s when a strange feeling overcame him. He shifted his big hips on the stool as he turned.

  Six Watchmen in brown hats with black bills stood soaked from head to toe, dripping on the floor. A net was stretched out by the two on opposite ends. He heard one of them say, “On my signal, men.” Tonio’s face offered a jagged smile, and he leapt behind the bar.

  The net whipped through the air, its weights smashing into bottles and clearing the shelves as Tonio crawled down the barkeep's alley.

  “You missed him, you idiots! Kill him! Kill him now!”

  Tonio rose behind the bar and caught the tip of a sword being buried in his shoulder. He ripped his sword free with his other hand, sneered and stabbed his assailant's face. He rolled over the bar and squared up against his attackers. In a rush they came, their steel clashing into his.

  Clang! Clang! Clang!

  Their arms juttered like bowstrings as he swatted them away. He could feel something now. He was alive within, a swordsman.

  Clang! Stab!

  One man clutched at his bloody belly, his sword clattering on the floor.

  He ducked under another man’s blow and cut open the skin beneath a third man’s chin. He punched a forth in the nose with the pommel of his sword. The men came on, one at a time, at a speed that seemed too slow to measure.

  Cut! Stab! Thrust!

  Down they went.

  More men spilled through the back door as others screamed and scrambled to the front. His fingers closed around his other hilt, ripping the blade from his sheath, and the swarm of men began to fall even faster.

  Chop! Chop! Chop!

  Stab! Stab! Stab!

  Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!

  He was lightning in a bottle of blood. The screams of pain and cries of alarm were a symphony in his mangled ears as metal clashed and chopped through bone. The decorative room was getting a makeover, velvet curtains and polished floors now coated in red blood and grey guts.

  One man, stout as a stone, came at him with a heavy war hammer, only to be sliced like a dinner roast. Tonio felt his sense of worth begin to return. He’d been there before, fighting and scrapping among his comrades, but now he was something else. He was powerful. Supernatural.

  “TONIO!” he shouted as the men of the Watch ran.

  Others tried to drag away their dying friends as Tonio noticed Sam the barkeep shaking with horror. The man’s blood-speckled face said it all. The barkeep knew him, and more importantly he knew himself now. Smiling, he showed off his blood-stained teeth as he sat down at the bar, his work done.

  “Grog.”

  Both of Sam’s hands trembled as he handed over the bottle. To Tonio's surprise, the barkeep spoke, “Y-You killed about a dozen Watchmen, T-Tonio.”

  Tonio tilted the bottle to his lips and drank.

  “Ah!” He wiped his armored sleeve on his mouth and said, “And I’ll kill a hundred more … you included … if I don’t find the man called Venir.”

  CHAPTER 56

  “Since when do underlings take prisoners, Venir?” Slim was filling a small canteen from a drying stream bed.

  They’d been running for what seemed to be hours, but Slim had reassured him they’d lost any pursuers by now. A simple spell, the cleric reassured him, would throw anything off their trail. The cleric, Venir knew, was very resourceful like that, but he still kept looking over his shoulder from time to time.

  As for the man’s question, Venir didn’t have an answer. The women, Adanna and her mother whose name he did not know, most certainly were dead. If not, the torture would be unimaginable. He sat on a large stone, head down over his hulking shoulders, drawing with a stick in the dirt. He’d tracked the underlings as far as he cared to go. Any closer and there was no telling what he would do.

  He huffed. “Since when does anything in this land do what it’s supposed to do?”

  “Good point,” Slim said, standing up and stretching his long limbs. The man looked like a crane in his pale green robes and sandaled feet. “So, you aren’t really going to try and rescue them, are you? It would be suicide.”

  Venir looked up with a grim smile, “For who?”

  “Oh, listen to you. Ready to put on your shiny helmet and take on an entire regiment of underlings now, are we? Well count me out. I’ll just flap my way north, like everyone else.”

  “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to try and kill them all. As for the women, well Adanna stuck her neck out for me, else I’d be dead already. I have to do the right thing.”

  Slim laughed. “The right thing? Since when is dying the right thing? Venir, you can’t do it all on your own. Your weapons can only take this fight so far. It’s a thousand to one, not including all the other creepy crawlies. You’ll be spider food by dawn.”

  Venir shrugged. “Anything’s better than the Mist. Besides, I had time to realize that’s what I do.”

  “Well, why don’t you get serious about it, then?”

  He cocked he head and said, “I am serious.”

  “No, you’re being unrealistic. Raise an army and protect this land from the fiends.”

  The thought had crossed his mind, but that was long ago. Before Brool. Before he became his own one man army.

  “I’d rather raise my one axe instead.”

  Slim shook his head.

  “You said nothing lasts forever, what then?”

  He looked up towards the suns. They were hot on his face, and it was good. He took a drink.

  “I’ll become a cleric like you.”

  Slim raised his arms over his head and said with exasperation, “You lunatic! Clerics don’t chop the living up into little pieces. What am I going to do with you? I’ve walked these lands for decades, even before you were born, but I’ve naught seen one like you, Venir: half happy, half mad. All at the same time. I don’t understand you.” He kicked the dirt.

  Venir didn’t understand himself, nor did he care to. He didn’t understand Slim’s point of view, either.

  “What difference does it make if I’m happy or mad? I’m still going to kill underlings.”

  Slim responded in a mocking voice, “I’m still going to kill underlings.”

  Venir slung his pack over his monstrous shoulders.

  “Don’t go all girlie on me now, Cleric. We’ve got some scouting to do.”

  They made their way over the slick greenery of the twisting jungle to a cliff face that dropped off behind the trees. Venir wiped the sweat that stung his blue eyes as he crawled to the rim of the edge. Slim slid up beside him as they peered down. Anger and fear began to churn inside his stomach as he scanned the scenery below. He looked over at Slim. The man looked like he’d just swallowed a crow.

  “I’m not going down there,” the cleric said, his voice barely audible. The cleric then handed over the small spyglass they’d salvaged from Hogan’s belongings.

  He lifted it to his eye and soaked in every detail. Down on the plains, less than half a mile away, were underlings. Hundreds of them milled between rows of small dark grey tents. Their shapes and sizes were indistinguishable, but that wasn’t all. Venir recognized their different manners. The underling warrior hunters called Badoon were there. They had dark leather armor underneath heavy cloaks. The foulest of creatures, the albino urchlings, were there as well, hunkered beneath canvas shades. Four nostrils flared on their faces as their teeth gnashed, and clawed hands opened and closed as they stood chained to posts. They were the creatures that had most recently wounded Chongo.

  A rock of guilt stuck in Venir’s craw. He’d convinced himself that Chongo would be all right, that his dog and the rest of his friends were better off without him. He was dangerous. Reality hit him now: as far as he knew, he’d left his most trusted friend, Chongo, to die.

  He caught
an odd flash of movement in the glass. A half dozen of the giant tarantulas were heading away from the camp in pairs: south, east and west. A pair of floating magi were in tow, each to the side of the basket of underling soldiers mounted atop the spiders. It was a scouting party, and most likely they were looking for him.

  “See any sign of the women, Vee?”

  He fought the images of the women woven inside a cocoon of webs, every drop of water sucked from their bodies. Perhaps they'd been taken as food for the spiders. He couldn’t imagine what else was needed of them. His head began to ache as the suns beat down on his bullish neck.

  “No. I think we’re going to need a closer look.”

  Slim’s head snapped in his direction.

  “We! No, you!”

  “Slim, sometimes you just have to decide what’s worth dying for.”

  The slender cleric's jaw fell open.

  “What happened to you in the Mist?”

  “I realized some things: Living for myself isn't as important as living for others. I’ve been at war with the underlings for a long time, and that will never end. I’ve come to accept that. I think I could have saved more lives, but I’d been trying to avoid the battle for years.” He pointed his two good fingers over the plains. “I’ve a feeling they wouldn't be here if not for my being gone.”

  “Your friends stick with you. You should stick with them.”

  “It’s dangerous being close to me,” he said, closing the spy glass.

  “Well, you are the Darkslayer … and this is Bish.”

  “I guess I am.”

  “So, what's the plan?” Slim said, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. “Do you want me to fly over like a bird? Or … I could turn you into a snake. You could slither right through them? How about a beetle?” Slim’s long fingers fidgeted in the air. “They won’t mess with a beetle. I like beetles.”

  The cleric continued on with one ludicrous idea after the other. In the meantime, an enormous tarantula had broken off and was coming their way, along with a host of underlings and two magi. Whatever was going to be done would need to be done soon. It wouldn’t be long before the spider began to scale the cliff they overlooked.

  Venir punched Slim’s bony shoulder.

  “Ow!”

  “Can you control the spider?”

  Slim rolled back over on his belly. His peaceful face bunched up with fear.

  “No. I only do that with animals and people. Uh … that thing's moving pretty fast, Venir. It’ll be on top of us in no time. Shouldn’t we be going? Or is there something else that you wanted me to do?”

  Venir caught movement from the corner of his eye. Something was rushing over the plain from the north, a small cloud of dust behind it. Venir pulled open the spyglass. A pair of underlings were running for their lives on the backs of smaller sand spiders like the ones Venir battled near the Red Clay Forest months ago. His knees burned at the memory, and he still had the scars from the acid-like venom to show for it. Another quarter mile behind them came a host of riders on horses. A banner of deep red, light blue and white led the charge of a few score war horses.

  “Slim, look there,” he said, handing him the spy glass and pointing.

  “I’ll be! Royal Riders!”

  Venir could feel the thunder from the distant hooves now. He wasn’t the only one. The spider stopped, pivoted its eight legs and headed back north. The fleeing underlings on the sand spiders had made the edge of the camp and sounded the alarm. The underling army assembled in moments, rank and file facing the charge. Venir’s heart began to pound in his temples. He rubbed his hand on the flat of Brool’s blades then slipped it between his pack and shoulders.

  “Now’s your chance, Slim. Come on.”

  Venir slipped off the edge and began his descent over a hundred feet down where the open plain awaited him. It was more of a steep grade than a cliff, so he slid more than climbed, scraping up his legs and arms all the way down. He didn’t feel a thing. He gazed north. The Royal Riders hand formed a single line formation. A Royal banner billowed in the hot winds at one end and the other. The Royal Riders were a mishmash of elite soldiers from all outposts that represented most all of the Royal Houses. It was good thing.

  “Sweet Bish! I never thought I’d be happy to see Royals!”

  He flinched as something skittered down the cliff along his side. A beetle as big as his hand hung on the jagged rocks. It was black, with splotches of olive green and white. Two pale green eyes flared at him as two protruding black antennas seemed to make an angry gesture. The black and gold wings hummed to life, and the beetle soared toward the underling camp and disappeared in the light.

  “Hmph …”

  Another fifty feet down and Venir noticed something else. Something writhed beneath the clay patches of the sun baked plain. Tiny holes opened up in the ground. A funny feeling overcame his senses. Something lurked beneath the surface: spiders, snakes or more underlings. Maybe something worse. The mammoth sized spiders were returning to camp. The small army of horsemen would have a hard enough time with one of them, let alone six. The underlings, he knew, were full of surprises.

  He hurried his descent and dropped the final ten feet to the ground. He pulled out the spyglass and watched the odd gait of the giant tarantula. He was still have half covered in the guts of the last one he’d slain. Atop the creature was another basket of six underling riders, chittering and pointing back and forth. The underling magi floated six feet above the ground like shades, covered in robes from head to toe. His mouth became dry, and he wished he’d taken one last drink.

  “Bones of the dead!” he exclaimed as more underlings began to pop up from the ground in the distance. Their jewel speckled eyes infuriated him. “Too many underlings, not enough Royals.” He found himself longing for a saddle between his legs. Chongo. He had to find his beast. He swung the spy glass back towards the riders on the spider. Their faces were turned his way. The spider stopped and turned. His blood froze. Slat! The brass on the spy glass gleamed in the dipping suns. He slammed it closed. The spider reared up on its back legs and charged as the underling magi soared his way.

  Venir yanked his shield and helm from the old leather sack, along with something else: Mood’s scale mail shirt.

  “Well Bish blast my eyes!”He pulled it over his head, arms bulging under its short sleeves. He stuffed the sack in his backpack and strapped it on his shoulders. The air went still as he strapped on the helm and felt his blood rise. He could see, smell and hear everything as he stood like a gleaming metal statue in the suns. His powerful legs churned forward like a charging bull, and Brool whistled at his side. One second the blue sky was clear in the horizon and in the next instant the underling magi raised their clawed fingers high in the air. The ground beneath him erupted in white hot light.

  CHAPTER 57

  Melegal had arrived back at Castle Almen in time enough to see the head removed from the shoulders of the sentry he’d put to sleep hours earlier. The gloomy feeling followed him to the meeting that involved himself, Sefron and a very irritated Lord Almen. As usual, he averted his stare, but his tardiness was not to be ignored nor his tawdry clothes and breath bathed in alcohol.

  The Royal Lord shared with him a sincere concern, which was odd, about an incident that occurred within the city. He was a scowling hawk when he dismissed him, saying, “I shall deal with you later.” Melegal silently promised himself to do his best to see to it that later never came. Without further courtesy, Lord Almen departed, leaving him all alone with Sefron.

  Sefron had been a different matter entirely. There he stood, as the cleric sat, inside the confines of a dark but quaint living room. All of the preparations for the Royal Coming of Age games were in order according to Sefron, who rambled on with one detail after the other. The foul cleric with a mouthful of blackening teeth kept showing his tell, to Melegal’s chagrin.

  “The key to this event …”

  “… and another key moment … “
/>   “Where the guests are seated will be key ...”

  Melegal kept his internal fervor in check. The deceit was confirmed. Without a word, he hit the streets and left Sefron babbling all over himself. I’ve found the key to killing you, Sefron. Won’t be long.

  The pressure behind his eyes began to ease the farther he traveled from the castle. For a few more hours I live. How grand! The merchant class was in full swing as he weaved his way in and out of carts, carriages and burly laborers. There had been a time, it seemed so long ago, when he’d been sleeping in with a belly full of wine and playing footsies with a run of the mill wench. Those days might as well have been ages ago. His simple life as a swindler had changed for the worse. Those memories erupted from within as he stepped inside The Chimera.

  Retching wasn’t the greeting he’d expected, but that’s what he got. A Watchman, barely a man, was vomiting on the floor. Melegal’s pale demeanor flushed at the sight of all the blood and gore. It looked like twenty men had been slaughtered on the battlefield, but he could only count half a dozen heads. This wasn’t the homecoming he was expecting. Behind the bar was Sam, a stout man with greased black hair and a pock-marked face. Sam was puffing heavily on a fat cigar, nervous, his smoke reddened eyes trying to blink away the horror.

  Another city Watchman was jotting down notes on a piece of parchment and nodding in dismay. Melegal walked over and snatched the parchment away, saying, “That will be all, Sergeant.” Buffoon.

  The bigger man whirled in anger, but then caught the brooch pinned on Melegal’s cloak.