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

by Craig Halloran

Battle-hardened muscle sprang into action. He snapped his shield over his head. Darts ricocheted off the metal. Underlings surged in a tight knot down both sides of the alley, hemming the big fighter in.

  “Ah, the little worms want to die some more. Good!” He pulled his shield to his chest, raised Brool up high, and charged. “Feel my wrath!”

  The throng of fiends lowered their small spears. It wasn’t the typical underling patrol, rather a heavily armed unit designed to hunt renegades like Venir down. Their hate-filled eyes were bright ruby gemstones, their chitterings sheer horror to mortal ears.

  Venir brought his war axe down with an angry laugh.

  “Ha!”

  Spear shafts snapped. Striking swords clattered off his shield’s metal. The underlings fought like wild cats. Jabbing. Stabbing. Screeching.

  Brool and Venir sang their own song.

  Slice! Chop! Crunch!

  He gored an underling through the chest with Brool’s spike.

  Glitch!

  He slung the impaled underling over his shoulder like a shovelful of dirt. The underling’s corpse landed on top of the oncoming others.

  Outrage!

  The angry fiends redoubled their efforts. Attacked with vigor. They made sharp whistles.

  Brool whistled back.

  Slice!

  An underling’s head popped off. Blood spurted from its neck. It dropped to its knees, still swinging. The next attacker met a more grisly fate. Brool split its face in half.

  Chop!

  Venir wrenched the blade from the bone. Coated in gore, blood charging his veins, he continued the onslaught until the breath of life in the underlings was no more. Venir slung the blood off of his axe, plucked a few darts from his body, and limped down the alley.

  Helm warned.

  Thump-thump.

  Venir whirled at the sound of an underling heartbeat.

  An underling crawled out of the heap of flesh and darted down the alley at inhuman speeds.

  Venir gave chase in great strides, but the underling’s mystic dash was too fast. The alley opened into the moonlit streets, offering the sanctuary of escape.

  It glanced back, offered a mocking chitter, and turned away. And then it tried to slow down, but too late.

  A man larger than Venir stepped into the alley. He towered over the underling, reached down, and snatched the little monster up by the neck in two hands.

  The underling flailed its arms and kicked.

  Snap!

  It moved no more.

  The huge man tossed the fiend aside like a rag and wandered deeper into the alley toward Venir.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?” Venir said to the man.

  “And let you have all the fun?” Brak said, laying his hand on Venir’s shoulder. “Sorry, Father, but sometimes I just can’t sleep at night. Not when all these devils are running loose.”

  Venir peered up into his son’s face. Brak stood nearly seven feet tall and was built like a bull. There was contentment in his soft eyes. Venir shook his head. “I guess I’ll have to make sure Jubilee tucks you in better. Come on,” Venir said, nudging Brak forward. “And don’t slip on those entrails.”

  Brak smiled. “All right, Father.”

  Venir went back down the alley, twisted and turned through a couple more, and hunkered back behind an abandoned tavern wall. Brak did well for a big person. He was an observant young man and did his best to shadow Venir’s moves. It made Venir’s heart swell a little. He just didn’t want to get Brak killed.

  Brak slumped back against the wall beside him and peered into the gloom.

  Even with the assistance of Helm, Venir didn’t hear any enemies close by. He dared to speak softly. “How did you find me?”

  Brak shrugged. “Not sure. Just wandered until I heard some noise or sniffed out fresh corpses. Lo and behold, there you were.”

  Venir huffed a laugh. He needed one. The last few months had been nothing short of intense, since they’d blown up the underling hive. “You could at least put some more armor on.”

  Brak brushed his hand over his leather tunic, decorated in metal studs. “I’ve got thick skin.”

  “You have a thick skull.”

  “I believe it’s inherited.” Brak drummed softly on his knees and glanced up at the tower tops in the sky. “Do you think she’s up there?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  Venir did, he just didn’t want to admit it. Brak was talking about Kam, and he didn’t want to talk about Kam. It made him think of Fogle. It made him mad at her. He squeezed Brool’s handle. “No idea.”

  “Fogle came by before I left. Looked really tired.” Brak cleared his throat. “Said he’d seen Kam, but only for a bit. I asked if she was well, and he said, ‘Well as can be expected, given the nature of the inquisition.’ I wonder what he meant by that? Do you think they’re hurting her? Aren’t they her family?”

  “Families can have very sordid ways. You never know unless you live with them.” He clenched his jaws. It burned him up that Fogle had access to Kam and he didn’t. After all, he was the father of Erin, and that made it even worse. Fogle, however, had the connection with the wizards in the towers, and they wouldn’t permit anyone else inside. At least that was what Fogle had told them, and there was too much of a reason not to believe him. “I like to think she’s safer in those clouds among her own than she is down here.”

  Brak bobbed his chin. “True.”

  Venir popped upright.

  Helm burned on his head. A sudden, powerful, pulsating warning.

  “What is it?” Brak asked, gathering himself up to his feet. His eyes were alert and ready.

  Venir’s nostrils flared. His eyelets gleamed. “Don’t know.”

  A fiery ball of red and orange light streaked across the sky and collided into the top of one of the towers.

  Ka-booooooom!

  The ground shook. The tower toppled over.

  Gaping at the burning sky, Brak said, “Sonuvabish!”

  The Darkslayer Battles

  CHAPTER 2

  “I think it’s high time you stopped looking over your little shoulders,” Pall the Blood Ranger said back to Lefty. “Ain’t no one gonna be following us out here.”

  “You said that last week,” Lefty replied, picking up his pace along the big dwarf’s side. “And the week before that and before that and—”

  “Pah, I get it. You ain’t dead, and you ain’t going to be. Not with me around, anyway.” Pall blew snot out of his nose. “Did I ever tell you about the battle with the Balfrog? They have horns, you know.”

  “Yes, you’ve mentioned it.” Lefty rolled his eyes. “No need to mention it again.” He glanced behind him. For several weeks they had been traversing the barren Outlands. The bright suns glared above, beating on him all day, only to dip and leave him shivering at night. As refreshing as the suns had been, he was getting tired of sweating. His legs were chafed, and his feet blistered. “Can we stop for a bit?”

  “Stop? We just started.”

  Lefty slunk down to the ground and dusted the sand off his big feet, which were red and swollen. Grimacing, he pinched pus out of the blisters.

  “You should have worn boots,” Pall stated. “Dwarven leather keeps out the weather.”

  “I don’t have any boots, remember? And they only slow me down.”

  “The only thing slowing you down now is yourself.” The brushy-faced dwarf squinted his brows toward the horizon. The weathered dwarf was one with the elements. Nothing bothered him. Not a fly, scorpion, snake, or mosquito. It was all the same as the wind to him. He cocked his head. His nostrils flared. “Smell that?”

  Lefty crinkled his nose and took a whiff. “I’m downwind from your dander, but I’ve a feeling that’s not what you’re going for.”

  Pall cupped his hand to his ear. His bloodred brows lifted.

  Since they’d departed from the marsh, they’d been in one scuffle after another, all of which cou
ld have been avoided. The orcs had been at least a mile away, but Pall had ambushed them. A band of underlings’ trail was found. Pall ambushed them. There had been gnolls, kobolds, more orcs, and an ogre that seemed lost. Pall ambushed them all. Slaughtered them. “Give evil the same respect it would give you: none,” he said.

  Lefty quickly got the drift of this extreme prejudice. He gathered himself up on his knees. “What do you hear?” Or see. Or smell.

  “Riders. Lots of them.” Pall’s meaty hands fell on his machetes. “I think they’re coming this way.”

  Lefty eyed him. “Perhaps they’re hunting us. Maybe they’ve become wise, and they’re ganging up on the Outland vigilante.” He huffed. Lefty’s plan had gone awry. Instead of heading where he hoped, back to the City of Three, he’d wound up on a wild dwarven excursion. Or rather execution. Bloody Blood Rangers. “Maybe we should hide.”

  The dust-coated warrior spun around slowly. “Where? Besides, I’m not one for hiding. Now ready yerself.”

  “Of course you aren’t,” Lefty said, gathering himself up onto his feet. He pulled out his hand axe and sighed. “Do I really have to do this?”

  Pall took a knee and pointed. “Get in there.”

  Lefty climbed into the rucksack on Pall’s broad back. It had been altered so that Lefty’s legs dangled out of either side of the bottom. To make matters worse, his face looked out from Pall’s back, not over the shoulder. It was how Lefty had seen some parents carrying children. This is humiliating. What would Georgio think? He’d laugh his butt off. And Melegal? He’d never let me live it down. A faint smile formed on his lips. I think it’s good that I miss them.

  “Get yer helmet on,” Pall said.

  “I don’t have a helmet.” Lefty turned in the rucksack to peek in front of the dwarf. A cloud of dust was coming their way. Lefty’s heart jumped. That’s a lot of riders.

  “Hum,” Pall said.

  “‘Hum’? What do you mean, ‘Hum’?”

  “Er, well, I’m thinking maybe evading this horde wasn’t such a bad thought after all.” The Blood Ranger scooped some dirt into his hands, spat on them, and readied his machetes. “I suppose it’s too late to conceal ourselves now.”

  “Oh, great.”

  The riders thundered right up to them. They were the size of men, faces covered in cowls, clad in dark, heavy cloaks unusual for the Outland. Their horses nickered as they came to a stop and surrounded Pall and Lefty. Scalps of hair hung from the riders’ belts. Heavy swords were strapped to their saddles. The riders encircled the two and lowered their spears.

  Lefty sunk into his sack.

  “You’re a strange-looking fellow, Red Beard,” said one of them in a low, rugged, and dry voice. “I’d know where you’re heading.”

  “I’m heading where I’m going,” Pall fired back, “not that it’s any concern of yours.”

  “The Outlands are especially dangerous to be traveling in such a small number,” the rider said. “And you’re far from any settlements. I can’t help but wonder how you managed to make it this far.”

  “Wonder no more, and be off with you, man.”

  “No need to be so defensive. If anything, we only came to offer protection. After all, this world is filled with underlings.” The man pulled his cowl down. He had a thick head of brown hair and very light eyes. A jagged scar was on his chin, making for a sinister look about him. “We can escort you and”—his eyes fixed on Lefty—“your child to the next settlement for a price.”

  “Not familiar with your custom of offering help at the point of a spear,” Pall said. He stepped up to the man and pushed his spear aside. “We’ll take our chances.”

  “A wise man would accept assistance.”

  Lefty felt the muscles in Pall’s back knot up. He took a closer look at the rough lot. They all had scalps of one color or another. Their horses’ gear showed Royal insignias. These men were not Royals. They looked more like scavengers.

  One of the riders sidled up to the leader and whispered something in his ear.

  The leader’s eyes widened. “A Blood Ranger, you say?” He studied Pall. “That would explain the beard as red as a brush fire.” He toyed with the scalps on his belt and ran his tongue across his lips. “And I bet those blades are fine dwarven steel. Hmm, so,” he said down to Pall, “is this true, are you a Blood Ranger?”

  Pall squared off on the man. “Aye.”

  “Excellent,” the rider said, lowering his spear. His eyes flashed. “Kill him!”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Did you sleep well?” Jasper said, sliding out of Melegal’s cot. She put her feet on the floor and stretched her arms out.

  Melegal caressed the soft skin of her bare back with the back of his hand. “I don’t get much sleep when you’re around.”

  “You slept much better than me,” she said, covering her yawn. She stood up, wrapping the blanket around her waist but leaving her back to him. She moved with feline grace and a nice sway to her hips. “But that’s probably because you’re old.”

  Cold demeanor, warm body. I like it.

  “Don’t let these silver locks fool you,” he said while toying with his hair, which rested over his narrow shoulders. “Now fetch my coffee, wench.”

  She turned halfway around and said with flaring eyes, “Wench?”

  “Do you have trouble hearing me from such a short distance? Perhaps you are old. Nothing but a shape-shifting crone of a sorceress.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, gliding over to a small wood-burning stove. Her fingers flicked into fire and the wood inside the stove crackled with burning life. “But you’ll never know.”

  Oh, I’d know. “If you say so.” Melegal strapped on his dart launchers. He’d become quite fond of the weapons. He stared at them with admiration. Saved my skinny arse more than once since all Bish broke loose. Slathead underlings. They ruin everything. “Be sure to put a little honey in my mug, honey.”

  Jasper rolled her eyes.

  She’d been frosty at first, but once her city began to fall apart around her, it hadn’t taken long for her to find someone to cozy up to. Melegal liked it. He found her mysterious charms both appealing and interesting. And she had finally come on board about the underlings’ evil ways. She hated them now too.

  “Are we heading down to the Nest?” she asked, bringing over a cup of coffee.

  He took it and eyed it.

  “Oh,” she said, irritated. She went to the cupboard, picked out a clay jar, and brought it over. She drizzled honey into his cup with a spoon. “Better?”

  He sipped and shrugged. “It’ll do.”

  She huffed, dropped her blanket, reached down, and slipped into her sorceress garb. It was a short tunic dress in dark greys and blues with dull sequins woven on it in intricate designs. It enhanced the curves of her figure, and her pale skin was ghostly against the dark cloth. “Are you going to the Nest today?”

  “No… we’re going.”

  “Me?” Her face brightened. She’d been begging to go down there for weeks, but wizards weren’t welcome. “They’ll allow it?”

  “I’ve made arrangements.” He put on a grey long-sleeved shirt that did well to hide the dart launchers. He flipped his cap on his head and smoothed it over the side. “You aren’t feeling uncertain, are you?”

  “Me? No.” She leaned over and straightened his cap. She kissed him on the lips. “I can’t wait to show you how grateful I am.”

  He ran his hands up her thighs and squeezed her rump. “Why wait?”

  “Because the wait will be worth it.”

  Ka-boom!

  Melegal sprang toward the tiny window and pulled open the shutters. One of the wizard towers was burning. Another huge ball of flame brightened the night sky and blasted into the tower. The entire city shook.

  Ka-booom!

  The magnificent piece of architecture teetered and fell. Huge clouds of smoke filled the streets. Cries of alarm erupted from once-sleeping throats. Melegal closed the shutters.
<
br />   “What did you do that for?” Jasper said.

  “Because the view is horrible.”

  A hard knock sounded on his apartment door.

  “A moment, Zurth,” Melegal said, jumping into his trousers and stuffing his feet into his boots. He slugged down his coffee and buckled his sword-belt on. He looked at Jasper. “Open the door.”

  She stepped across the tiny apartment and twisted back two dead bolts and opened the door.

  Zurth stood in the doorway, eyes wide, big, and ranging. Towering behind him, the uniquely svelte half-orc, Slom, waited. “What’s going on, boss?” Zurth said.

  “The sky is falling. It’s falling all around us.” He took Jasper by the hand. “To the Nest.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “It’s wrong. Bloody well wrong,” said a Bloodhound named Foxmire, a heavyset man. He wiped the sweat from his clammy brow. Corrin and he were posted in one of the castle turrets, manning the ballista. It was well after nightfall. “That’s three more this month already.”

  Corrin leaned against the framed window of the turret house, sharpening his blade on a whetstone. It made slow scraping sounds. Below, the front gates of Castle Bloodhound were being opened. Good Bloodhound men, accused of treason, were being banished from their life-long home. Insanity or greed. Sometimes hard to tell the difference.

  “Corrin,” Foxmire said to him, blinking, “you’re an outsider but family now. What do you make of all this?”

  He lifted his shoulders. “I keep my tongue as silent as my mind.”

  The puffy man’s neck rolled. He blinked repeatedly. “Aye, I see. I see.” He wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers and took his place back behind the ballista. “But for the Bish of it! No one is talking about anything. And we’re talkers. Especially me. Not to mention I can’t sing anymore.”

  “You can still sing,” Corrin said, putting away his knife. “Just make sure you don’t end up singing with a noose around your neck.”

  Foxmire shook his head. “I’m beginning to think that might not be so bad. Better than being fed to the underlings.”