The Darkslayer: Series 2 Special Edition (Bish and Bone Bundle Books 1-5): Sword and Sorcery Adventures

by Craig Halloran

  “Drag the body in the hole and let’s see if it fits,” Hoknar said, rising up. “And if it doesn’t, you can pull it out and start digging again.”

  Lefty looked at the corpse on the ground. Its pudgy face, meaty wrists, and bulging belly. It wasn’t a short fellow either, but a big man.

  “I can’t move it.”

  Lefty was the size of a child. Maybe sixty pounds.

  Hoknar grabbed him by his blond locks, pulled him up to his toes, and leered at him.

  “You’ll do as I say.”

  Lefty swallowed. He wanted to pinch his nose, but held back. Wart-nose’s breath was just as bad as an orc’s, and you never got used to it.

  “It’s impossible. You know that, Hoknar,” he said. Be stubborn! They respect strength of will. “You do it.”

  Hoknar picked him clear up off his feet.

  “You’ll do it,” he said through the chestnut braids in his beard. “Or you’ll die.”

  “So be it then,” Lefty said, “I’ve had enough of this. Kill me now then.”

  “You’ll die in the Gruell.” Hoknar slung him to the ground. “Now put him in the hole.”

  “It’s impossible!” Lefty said, balling up his fist.

  Hoknar threw a hatchet into the ground between his feet and said, “No it isn’t. Get on with it.”

  Lefty gawped.

  He can’t mean …

  “Hurry up. I’m hungry.”

  Lefty picked up the hatchet, walked over to the body, and stared into the glassy dead eyes. He raised the blade over his head.

  Sorry, but I don’t want to die in the Gruell.

  The Nameless Two

  CHAPTER 12

  The Warfield. The hottest spot on Bish. Fierce heat. Scalding hate. Men clashed against underlings and their evil beasts. Bish drank their blood, black and red. Their bones and limbs fed the sand.

  It started with over five hundred royal riders, galloping like a storm with piercing lances pointed down. A forest of green and golden banners waving in the air. The blinding sun glinting off polished plate mail and full plate armor.

  The underlings, over a thousand of them, met the charge. Teeth gnashing. Nostrils flaring. A wave of dark bodies and razor-sharp steel, bracing themselves for the oncoming assault. Most were on their feet. Many rode spiders. A volley of bolts and javelins flung through the air.

  They met with an ear-splitting crash.

  Lances impaled underlings like rotten fruit. Heavy swords clove through skull and bone. Steeds trampled underlings and spiders under thundering hooves. Shrieks and clamor filled the air. Underlings tore men from their horses. Spiders sucked on horses’ necks.

  Men swung claymores. Underlings fell in half.

  Juegen underling soldiers’ blades slid through steel and into flesh.

  Carnage.

  Death.

  The shadows of vultures that circled above.

  The men, larger and stronger, mowed the underlings down like sickles mowed wheat at harvest. But the battle wore on. An hour. Two. The fight went on. Laborious. Merciless. The blood-splattered armor of the royals slowed them. Their efforts became sluggish. Futile. Men swung their swords and battle axes one last time and fell down in the dusty grime. Underlings ripped off their helmets. Tore out their throats.

  The last man in full plate armor faced the last group of underlings. A surge of knotty black bodies converged with sharp weapons raised. His claymore cut through two of them, and then more than a dozen lethal strikes sealed his fate.

  Trinos sighed.

  It was the second battle in a month where the royals were defeated. She wanted to help, but dared not. The men of this world had to decide their own fate. They needed to send more soldiers. Not hide them in the cities and castles. But at least some fought the plague that was overcoming the land. There was still honor in some men. Bish just needed more to come forward.

  To either side of her, the Nameless Two waited. Silent and sandaled, robes waving in the wind, swords slid between the belts on their hips.

  “Go,” she said.

  Out of the great hilltop they went, onto the battle-bloodied sands below.

  She remained on the crag, watching everything. The small mountain was special. It had power that allowed one to see all over the Warfield. But with her powers, Trinos could see beyond that from here anyway. She could see all over most of the world, and she was looking for someone. That someone was Scorch.

  She rubbed her chest. He’d almost killed her. She was haunted by the memory of him draining the power from her with that mystic lance. She had survived because an underling named Master Sinway had stepped in. The underling wanted the power for himself, the same as Scorch did. Its lust for power was unequaled in the world. The Nameless Two had dragged Trinos out of the great hole in the ground. It had taken her months to heal, and she was still far from herself.

  Bish leeched off her power, and Scorch’s. Neither he nor she was going anywhere now. They were stranded. And though still all-powerful by comparison to everyone else in the world, for the first time in eons she was certain she was no longer infinite. Instead, she was almost mortal. Perhaps she was mortal.

  Can I die? In the world that I created?

  It was one concern. Scorch and the underlings were another. Scorch was a meddler. A destroyer. The underlings were ravenous for power. Domination. They both needed stopping, but she no longer had that kind of power. Bish was consuming what was left of her power, fueling the world with it. And ever since Scorch started interfering, the world was out of balance, and she had no idea if she or her equalizer could fix it.

  She closed her pretty eyes, spread-out her fingers, and focused on the rock beneath her feet. A trickle of glowing energy rose from the ground and into her fingers, filling her with power. Strength. It went on for only seconds, then stopped. Her eyes opened, and she chewed on her lip. Bish had cut her off.

  It’s a living and breathing rock. Even more surprising than I made it out to be.

  She had created Bish for her own entertainment. Now she was part of that entertainment, only … she could feel everything that everyone else felt. Pain. Sorrow. Suffering. Goodness, kindness, and gentleness were overwhelmed. Her dog-eat-dog creation was devouring itself.

  Was I mad when I created this mess?

  She clenched her fists.

  If I am going to stay here, I can do without Scorch. This world isn’t big enough for the both of us.

  She turned her attention to the next battle that was about to unfold. The Nameless Two faced the underling survivors.

  Scorch needs to die.

  ***

  Pain. Life. Ched still experienced both. The royal knight lay prone, staring over the Warfield’s blood-splatted dirt and into the horizon. Bodies lay in heaps. Friends and foes. Blood oozed from gaping wounds. He lay prone, unable to move, with a spear jammed through his back. The surviving underlings chortled in victory, scurrying through the masses of death.

  I still live, you bastards!

  Blood dripped over his eye. Something else caught his gaze. It was cutting the underlings’ chortling short. Two figures in sandy robes approached, stirring the dust with sandaled feet. Bright steel hung on their hips.

  The underlings fanned out and chittered orders back and forth. The ghost-like figures didn’t slow. They drew their long swords, exposing bright razor edges.

  The Nameless Two?

  Ched had heard the legends about them. Shades that showed up after the slaughter and finished the suffering off.

  The Nameless Two spread out.

  The underling forces split apart and hemmed their assailants in. Shoulders slumped, some limped, while others made angry hisses. They attacked.

  Steel flashed in the wink of an eye, and the first underling fell over and died.

  The underling soldiers cried out and surged.

  The Nameless Two spun and parried. Countered with blinding speed.

  Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice.

  Underlin
gs lost arms and hands. Black blood spurted from ruptured necks.

  Stab. Stab.

  Black hearts were punched. They pumped no more.

  The underlings were quick and fast.

  The Nameless Two were quicker and faster. Impossibly so.

  Steel clashed. Skin Flayed. Muscle was severed from bone.

  Ched stirred and reached for his sword. Blood-stained gauntleted fingers stretched out. Life still flowed through them.

  Kill them! Kill them all, you ghostly fiends!

  Exhausted, bloody, narrow chests heaving, the underlings faulted back.

  The Nameless Two pressed.

  Steel sheered through steel into one underling’s neck. The screaming face of the black fiend caught a mouthful of fist in its teeth. A pommel came down, cracking its head. A sword pierced its back. Underlings scrambled, fell, and died in a hurricane of steel. Only one was left. Flanked by the Nameless Two. A juegen underling soldier covered in blood-splattered plate armor. Dark steel whirled in both hands.

  The Nameless Two closed in.

  Ched coughed up blood.

  The juegen struck one full in the chest. With its other blade, it parried the strike of the other. Metal rang off metal with a clang.

  One of the Nameless Two countered with quick strikes, while the other sagged to his knees, swords skipping off an underling’s armor.

  The underling let out a triumphant chitter, ripped its sword from the downed Nameless One’s chest, and squared off to attack the standing.

  The remaining Nameless One was smaller than the fallen other. Lither. Not as formidable. But steel licked out like a metal snake tongue.

  The dazzling fencers danced back and forth. Sparks and bits of steel flew in the air.

  The juegen clipped through robes. Pounded at parrying wrists with hammer-like blows.

  The Nameless One flailed back. A decapitating blow skipped of the hardened armor of a raised shoulder. It went on for another minute. The underling struck with slow heavy blows. The Nameless One sidestepped and batted the next blow away. The juegen struck again and again, missed and stumbled.

  The Nameless One swatted the flat of its blade off the back of his metal-covered head.

  Clang!

  The juegen gathered itself and swung again.

  Swish! Swish!

  The Nameless One struck back.

  Bang! Bang!

  The underling’s swords fell from its grasp. It dropped to its knees and ripped off its helmet. Its eyes shone blood red. It chittered a curse and bowed its head.

  Slice!

  Body and head fell to the ground, spilling black blood until it died.

  Ched wanted to cheer but mustered only a bloody cough. He watched the Nameless One rise and remove the other Nameless One’s hood, revealing patches of hair, a scarred and burnt face.

  A man and woman.

  Ched coughed again.

  The burning eyes of the Nameless Two met his startled gaze. On sandaled feet, they came right at him.

  They come to give me mercy.

  Vultures dropped from the sky, gathered around, and started pecking at the surrounding flesh. The Nameless Two stood over him, looking at one another. Their faces were more dead than living. Their flesh mostly skin over bones. They raised their blades together and gazed back down at him.

  Mercy.

  CHAPTER 13

  “That was incredible,” the man said, panting. He reached for his clothes at the end of the bed and looked back at her. “Really incredible.” He licked his mustache and gazed over her generous curves. “I don’t normally say things like this, but thank you.”

  Trodd was a well-knit man, lean-hipped and muscular with a short rugged beard covering his face. He slid his cotton shirt on and a coat of mail over it. Pulled on his trousers and buckled his belt. He was one of Lord Grom’s finest. Captain of his guard. He picked up his sword belt, slung it over his shoulder, and took a deep breath.

  “Not a word of this,” he said, looking into Lorda Almen’s eyes, then drifting to her splendid breasts. “My fate depends on it.”

  Curled up on the blankets, she smiled.

  “You have nothing to worry about, young lord. Your talents are appreciated as well.” She prowled over the bed on hands and knees. He met her at the footboard. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body into his, and sucked on his neck. “You’ll be missed.”

  There were footsteps outside of Lorda’s room. Trodd’s eyes widened, and he eased her back.

  “I had best go. Lord Grom may return any hour.” He gave her a fierce kiss. “I never thought there’d be a woman worth risking my neck for.” He stuffed his feet into his boots and listened at the door. He opened it and winked. “See you soon.”

  “Not soon enough,” she said, blowing a kiss at him.

  ***

  Three days later, Lorda Almen stood alongside Lord Grom. He had his hairy arm wrapped around her waist. They stood on a stone balcony overlooking the courtyard, where a ceremony had just taken place. Captain Trodd was in the wind and rain, hanging by a rope around his neck.

  “He was a good Bloodhound,” Lord Grom said in his gruff voice. “But he never should have laid his paws on my Lorda.” He tipped her delicate chin up so that her beautiful blue eyes met his. “I’m sorry for that.”

  Lorda squeezed his hand and said, “Thank you for seeing justice done. Sometimes your hounds act like animals when you’re not around.”

  “I know,” he said, reaching down and squeezing her rear end. “Come. Show me how thankful you are.”

  “Certainly, Lord Grom.” You bearded pig. She followed Lord Grom off the rain-soaked balcony and took a quick glance at Captain Trodd’s boots swaying in the winds. He wasn’t so bad. But it took more than a few tussles to get everything I wanted. Most importantly, Creed lives.

  ***

  Creed hacked and coughed. Kicked at the straw on the ground. He wrapped his arms around his shoulders and curled up into a ball. Sweat beaded his forehead, and his skin was pale and clammy. Fever. Chills. Anguish. He had the fever. It was often fatal.

  Above, water dripped through the cracks of the slime-covered walls. It always did when it rained, and it had been raining for days, it seemed. The crack that normally shed daylight after dawn remained dark and dreary all the time. The wetness and the damp raggedy clothes he wore chilled him to the bone.

  “Guards,” he managed to say with a croak. “Guards.”

  Flickering torches were the only answer. Drops of water extinguished two of the four that illuminated the room, leaving the small dungeon darker than it had ever been before. It was lonely. No cells were filled with dying life but his. He fought through another fit of coughing.

  “Guards!”

  I have to get out of here!

  “Guards!”

  I’m going to die in here …

  ***

  Kill Lord Grom. Ridiculous.

  Corrin worked a brush over one of the large dogs in the kennel. It was one of Creed’s, a short-haired shepherd, black, brown and white-patched, with a long snout and high pointy ears. A fine dog. Voracious protector.

  “Does that feel good, Manx?”

  The dog stood tall and rigid. His head jerked from side to side a little. Corrin had seen Manx tear the throats out of two underlings. He was every bit as formidable a hound as he looked to be. It had taken Corrin months to get close enough to pet him.

  “You know he’s alive, don’t you?” he said, brushing the dog’s back. “I wish I had your instincts, but I can’t be so certain.”

  The dog whimpered a little and scratched at the floor.

  Corrin turned his gaze toward the kennel entrance. His hand felt for the dagger on his hip. Two bloodhounds in leather armor entered, wearing belts and hanging metal. Both of the scruffy hard-faced men leered at him. They rounded up their dogs out of the cages, put on their harnesses and leashes, and left him with a disapproving gaze.

  Good riddance.

  Corrin
knew both of them, but not well. He was still an outsider and not much of a talker. His presence was accepted, but that was about it. He was unprotected without Creed. And no one dared talk about that man. It seemed everyone knew something bad was going on, but they’d learned to live with it. And now Lorda wanted him, or her, to kill Lord Grom.

  Not sure if I’d be doing the Bloodhounds a favor or not. I’m certain not all hate him. But I know they all fear him.

  Killing Lord Grom wouldn’t be easy, and Corrin had killed many men. The older well-knit man had been a petty assassin for years. He’d killed for as little as a bottle of wine worth only a small sack of coins before. He never minded killing people. He always figured no one really wanted to live in this horrible city. And now Bone was worse than ever.

  But Trinos had changed Corrin. The moment he saw her face, another purpose had renewed him.

  He grabbed Manx’s leash.

  “Do you want to go for a walk? You don’t get out much.”

  Manx pawed his leg. Corrin put the leash on, and outside into the courtyard they went, into the drizzling rain.

  “Ah, it’s good to get some fresh air,” he said. He glanced down at Manx. “No offense, but your kennels stink of slat and piss. My nose is sensitive, you know. But I’m getting used to it, and that might be a really sad thing.”

  They made their way around the inner circle of the courtyard. No one was out. None of them ever were. The odd royal family kept to themselves, and all the meetings Lord Grom held were very private. Corrin hadn’t even made it within twenty feet of the door where they were held. The dogs watched and guarded it. And that was what made killing Lord Grom so difficult. The hounds.

  Never had to kill a man surrounded by a hundred of his loyal hounds. Killing a man surrounded by underlings would be far easier. Nothing is more loyal than a hound.

  It was one of the reasons Corrin spent so much time in the kennels. He needed to learn about the dogs. All of the Bloodhounds were born with hounds at their sides. They ate, slept and slat with them. Corrin never had a pet. Most people in Bone didn’t. The royals rode horses. Some folk kept cats for mousing, but that was about it. He eyed the platform where Captain Trodd was recently hung. The noose gently swayed in the wind. He rubbed his neck.