The Darkslayer: Book 02 - Blades in the Night

by Craig Halloran

  No match had ever gone like this. Everyone knew the rules, but no one had ever witnessed such a loss before, not even Venir. Melegal had turned this challenge into something quite extraordinary.

  The barkeep spoke: “You miss a third time, missy, you lose. If you hit, you win.”

  No one in the room could decide how to bet this time. It seemed they were incapable of calculating the odds. But Luke snatched more coins in favor of the thief. Venir sipped on his grog while eyeing his friend. He saw Melegal raise his brows a couple of times. He didn’t know what to think. Maybe his friend had lost his mind.

  Still, Venir could see the pressure mounting on Haze—and her sisters, who were biting their shirt collars now. Haze was faster than she was smart. He could see her going back and forth over Melegal’s hands. Then Melegal fanned out his fingers on the table. Was he taunting her? Haze’s face turned blood-red.

  “Ready?” the barkeep cried.

  There was dead silence.

  Venir’s eyes widened.

  “Go!”

  Wham!

  The blade embedded itself. “A hit!” someone cried. Haze gave a shout of triumph. The room roared, but Melegal never moved. Venir pushed people away from the barkeep. He saw there was no blood. Melegal was sitting, his hand unmoved. The blade was sunk deep, right between Melegal’s middle and right index finger. Haze had missed. She was only a razor’s edge away from either finger, but there was not a nick on the thief’s hand.

  “I can’t believe it,” the barkeep said. “The man wins!”

  While the winners rejoiced, the losers shouted “cheat” from their frothing lips. Luke offered to buy some rounds but many scowled and left. Grinning, Venir took the gold from Sis, smiling at her scowling face. Haze nodded at Melegal, shoulders sagging, and walked away. Venir watched Sis and Haze help the biggest sister walk to the far side of the tavern and sit her down. Only Venir, Melegal, and Luke remained at the punctured table.

  “How’d we do, Luke?” Venir asked.

  “Embarrassingly well,” he said, beaming a wide smile.

  “Well, I’m certainly not embarrassed to take their money,” Melegal said, “so hand it over.”

  Luke set down the coins. Melegal made them disappear.

  “Well, Melegal,” said Venir, “that was pretty good, I have to say.”

  “No, that was great,” the thief said.

  “Indeed ,” Venir said, slapping him on the back and pouring him a fresh goblet of wine.

  It wasn’t long before the crowd was nipping at their heels again and they relished every minute of it so much so that Venir soon forgot the Motley Girls were still in the tavern. He even forgot about Dresla—but that was only because other suitors came his way.

  The night was still young, and danger still hung in the air, despite Venir’s lack of perception. The Motley Girls weren’t done with the men just yet.

  CHAPTER 15

  Royal Lord Almen strode through his courtyard and out the portcullis gate, where a guard snapped to attention. With his house ranked fourth in the City of Bone, Almen remained a very busy man.

  It was the Royals who kept order in the world of Bish, using their power and wealth for both good and evil, and for keeping a grip on the cities. Though they were also subject to the natural order of things, they were at the top of the food chain. The Royal houses in each city varied in ranking and responsibility. The houses were neither purely good or evil, but in general an entire family leaned one way or the other. In the pursuit of greater power, houses would strive to destroy or align themselves with others. When they were not united by waging war abroad, they waged war games among themselves instead. Their plots and schemes were so thick, insidious, and fluid that an outsider would never know what was happening.

  At the time of Lord Almen’s birth, his house had ranked tenth, and much of its rise had been due to his singlehanded success. Now, at age forty, he was in his prime: handsome, tall, athletic, and broad shouldered, with thick brown hair and clothed in rare fabrics of crimson and gold.

  The guard exhaled as Almen passed, for the slightest discrepancy in the Royal lord’s eyes had cost many sentries a night in the dungeon—or worse. Royal Lord Almen was not a good man, nor were most who shared his exquisite castle. He relished his power over others.

  Castle Almen boasted marble, inlaid gold, silver, and gems, all worked into spectacular designs and breathtaking artwork. Royal families loved to invite members of other Royal houses to show off their latest finds. Candles by the thousands of all shapes, colors, and sizes were lit in every room and corridor to set the mood and best accent the decorations.

  Each house had its talking point. The Almens had a knack for spectacular design that ensured their name would be held in awe in every other Royal house. It was a practice among their kind to enslave a talented commoner long enough to create a few masterpieces. Then they would dispose of them. No one else could make use of their talent or learn to replicate it. Few outsiders knew what occurred on the inside, for servants stayed within the walls, but a few succulent morsels of gossip escaped, for most residents of the city served these houses in one way or another.

  Royal Lord Almen was rounding the corner toward his study below the castle when he nearly bumped into his half-naked cleric, Sefron.

  “What are you doing here?” Almen said. “You know I don’t want you running about my castle unsettling my guests. Your business better be good.”

  “I apologize, my lord. But you told me that Te—“

  “Stop, idiot!”

  The Royal lord clutched his hand around Sefron’s greasy throat, making the cleric’s normally bulbous eyes bulge even farther.

  “How many times do I have to tell you not to use names. Must I feed you to the dogs?” He wanted to flay the skin off the troublesome man. “Do not speak, Sefron. Follow.”

  He released his grip but had to restrain himself from slapping him. Sefron was annoying, but a serviceable man whom he needed. The flabby middle-aged house cleric scurried behind the lord, dark eyes round like a frightened child, his naked, pale, and hairless form lumbering to keep up.

  A lone armed sentry stood steadfast by a stone entrance beyond the castle kitchens. Torches were spaced ten feet apart along a sloping spiral staircase chiseled from the rock. Few but Lord Almen were allowed down here; indeed, few family members knew or even cared where the lord did their dirty work, for which he retained their unwavering loyalty. Sefron pushed open the thick oaken door at the bottom and closed it again behind Almen.

  The room was unlike any other in the castle. Walls of rough sandstone fanned out, forming catacombs that were lit by ample torchlight wavering in the constant draft. Several tables and desks sat here and there, all stacked neatly with papers and maps. Beside one stood a tall, sinewy olive-skinned man in white cotton robes, studying something.

  “Teku, what news?” Almen said.

  “Greetings, my lord.” Teku bowed. “I have had an encounter with some of the adversaries you inquired about. It seems your suspicions are well founded. The Twelfth House of Bone has been behind recent events. The prisoner was unwilling, though she was convinced after a time.”

  Almen pulled up a chair and sat down, considering the words from Teku’s rich voice. Sefron wheezed behind him and the torches crackled. The Twelfth House was the Slerg family, once the Sixth House of Bone, whose fall had come at the hands of the Almens—his very own hands at that. The Slergs should have seen it coming, he thought. He remembered the day he took them down to nothing.

  Well over a decade had passed since then, and the Slergs had barely been able to maintain their Royal status. Had they not been absorbed into another house, the family line would have become extinct. But they had survived near the bottom and even managed to absorb some weaker houses. He always knew they were still a threat, but so were all the others. He was accustomed to watching his back.

  Now the Slergs wanted to get back on top—or wanted revenge—and had made their first move. Alme
n wasn’t sure which. They had managed to damage Lord Almen’s reputation by exposing a weakness in his family line. Tonio, his most promising son, had disappeared, as well as Almen’s finest house detective, McKnight. Despite a lack of proof, the Slergs were receiving all the credit, and now it seemed they did have a hand in it after all. No one knew for sure what had happened to Royal Lord Tonio or Detective McKnight, but Almen was proceeding with his plans regardless. He would have the Slergs where he wanted them soon enough.

  Almen studied the silent Teku, who had been on this assignment for weeks. He was his trusted chief assassin. Teku relied on hand-to-hand combat as opposed to poison, traps, and the like. The man took pleasure in doing the killing himself. Almen admired that.

  And even though Teku was as mysterious as a ghost, over the years Almen had come to appreciate him. He trusted him as far his gold could pay, and that was a lot.

  “Anything else, Teku?”

  Almen was hoping for news about Tonio and McKnight. It still frustrated him that little evidence of their disappearance had surfaced.

  “No, sir.” Teku bowed.

  Then Sefron spoke up, no doubt to shift Almen’s attention away from Teku.

  “Can I get anything for you or your guest, my lord?” Sefron said.

  “Food and wine for me,” Almen said. “Teku?”

  “Fruit and water, my lord,” he said.

  “Have the servants prepare plenty, Sefron. We will be here awhile.”

  *****

  Sefron closed the large oaken door behind him. He pressed his ear to the door, waited, and then raced up the stairs. At the top of the steps, he was panting as he passed the sentry and entered the kitchen. The heavy aroma of beast, stew, and wood-baked bread filled the room, as dinner for the fifty-odd family members and guests was being prepared for the most exquisite part of the day.

  The women would look ravishing, their lips bathed in wine pressed from the finest slaves in Bish. The men would gorge themselves while blathering on about their reputations and meaningless accomplishments. Royal Lord Almen knew Sefron loved the romance of it, but he would never let the cleric attend. He just didn’t belong—and Sefron’s resentment made him strong.

  His stomach growled as he spotted a fresh batch of fluffy split rolls. Almost swooning from the aroma, he grabbed one, then two more, and a giant pat of butter. He gave Almen and Teku’s food requests to a pretty gray-eyed servant girl, who darted away from his stare.

  Then Sefron found a small table where the staff dined, and he sat down to enjoy the hot rolls, humming in self-delight. It was a benefit of his position as cleric that he ranked above the common staff, and he took full advantage. The girl returned and set down the food, eyes averted. Sefron tugged at her long brown braids, running his pasty hands along her lithe figure, smiling as she trembled.

  “It’s okay, dear. Go back to your duties,” he said with a hungry sneer.

  Chuckling, he stacked the two trays of food on one another and returned past the sentry and down the stairs. He hovered near the door at the bottom, but heard nothing. He knocked. Teku opened the door, took the trays of food, and closed the door in his face. Sefron scowled and dragged himself back up the stairs and found a spot where he could keep his eyes on the dinner party—as well as the servant girl.

  CHAPTER 16

  In a small room four floors above the Drunken Octopus, small torches supplemented the faint red moonlight that penetrated through two small windows. A small cot sat beneath each window, and two more between them, each with a green blanket. A coffeepot brewed on the little coal stove that warmed the room. The only other furniture was a small cupboard and a wooden table with four unmatched chairs of varying sizes. Though lacking a woman’s touch, the room was cozy and full of life.

  Lefty Lightfoot sat crossed-legged on the floor, scribbling on a parchment as fast as his tiny fingers could fly. Beside him lay several large leather-bound tomes that collected parchments he had already finished. He was a halfling boy, about the size of a human toddler. His blond hair fell over his intent light blue eyes as he kept blowing his locks away. He was a sole survivor of a devastating attack by underlings. Venir, Georgio, and Melegal had taken him in and he’d been their ally ever since.

  Survival was the main focus of everyone on Bish, and halflings were no different. Halflings survived by moving throughout the realm in small clans, like gypsies. They were good scouts and woodsmen, and experts in trading, bartering, and sleight of hand. They could talk anyone into buying or trading by pestering them to no end. The only way to make them go away, other than killing them, was to strike a deal. Plenty of fair-haired halflings had perished, however, in pursuit of an ill-advised transaction. Lefty had inherited the trading skills of his clan, as well as other special gifts, and did a fine job keeping his friends stocked with groceries. He brought at least that much to the table.

  But right now, Lefty was scribbling down every word as Georgio recounted tale after tale of Venir—the Darkslayer. Georgio’s curly brown locks bounced as he recounted how he had helped the Darkslayer to destroy the Forest Magi in the Red Clay Forest in dramatic fervor. The halfling listened close as he wrote.

  “So I took out my sling,” Georgio said, “and Melegal took out his. We waited to make our move. Then Venir got caught in some vines or something, and the Forest Magi started casting spells. We struck like a cat. No … I mean like a panther. Wait, like an eagle, I think. Uh … what does a sling strike like, Lefty?” Georgio asked while scratching his head.

  “Hold it,” Lefty cried. “I’m trying to catch up. You talk too fast, young human! My hand hurts from writing this past hour. Let’s take a break and have our coffee.”

  Lefty put down his quill and gingerly massaged his little hand. Georgio shrugged and heaved a sigh. The excitement of recounting this adventure with the Darkslayer had left Georgio breathless, Lefty noticed. He grabbed two ceramic cups from the cupboard and filled them. Smells good, Lefty thought, wafting the aroma through his nostrils. He set the cups down on the table, took a seat by the husky boy, and relaxed. After a several sips in silence, he heard Georgio begin to hum. He realized that he felt like humming too. Actually he was ready to race around the room and do anything. He sipped more coffee. Then he began humming, whistling, and singing along.

  “Do you like the coffee?” Georgio said, hopping from his chair, swinging his elbow about.

  “Yes, I like the coffee!” Lefty said, jumping onto the table.

  “Would you like more coffee?”

  “Yes, I want more coffee!”

  Then Lefty leaped onto Georgio’s back. Over and over, the big boy marched him around. Lefty’s body and mind were not his own. He started to leapfrog Georgio and then Georgio did the same over him. Lefty landed as silent as a cat, while Georgio thumped on the floor like a small black bear, causing cries to come from underneath the shaking floor. The coffee on Bish was intoxicating, and for these boys it might as well have been a kettle full of grog. Lefty then lay back and giggled, tears streaking his face. Georgio did the same then perked up, running over to the urine shoot, and began to pee.

  “Ah!” he said.

  Lefty kept giggling. At last he managed to regain some composure, sat on the floor, and leaned back against his friend.

  “Lefty, why are you writing down all this stuff? I’ve never seen anything like it,” Georgio said, fumbling through the books.

  “Georgio!” Lefty raised his voice.“How come you keep asking me this same question? We can’t help it, either of us.” He shrugged, palms raised. “Can we? We just have to.”

  “That’s weird,” Georgio said.

  “It is,” he replied, elbowing him and causing a grunt.

  For indeed, Lefty Lightfoot had become obsessed with chronicling any and every event he could about his friends and the Darkslayer. He couldn’t help it for some reason, as if he were compelled to do it. He even dreamed about it.

  Lefty did enjoy it, though. It made him feel like he belonged. His
tomes were filled with tales of the big warrior, many of which made him cringe. He also wrote in a language no one could read. Even savvy Melegal had trouble with it. It was halfling shorthand, Melegal insisted. That must be how Lefty kept pace with Venir’s blathering, the thief would say, if not by magic. But, given time, Melegal swore to Lefty that he would be able decipher it. Lefty just laughed at him. He might teach Melegal one day. The thief had taught him many things, after all. Melegal seemed demanding most times, but Lefty noticed that the unpleasant thief would crack a smile at his skills from time to time.

  “When’s Vee coming back here?” Georgio said in a huff. “He got back and now he’s been gone nearly two days. What in the world could he be doing in this cruddy city?”

  “Girlfriend, maybe?” the halfing said.

  “Yeah right! Vee doesn’t need a girlfriend. That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard,” Georgio insisted, finishing off his coffee. “Besides, he can’t be having more fun than us!” The boy stood up behind Lefty, meaty hands on hips. “Well, want to come to the stable? I gotta feed Chongo and Quickster.”

  He watched Georgio put on his muddy shoes and head for the door.

  “I’ll stay, but hurry back. They’ll need some good coffee, and they always show up around coffee time,” Lefty replied as he began writing again.

  “Okay,” said Georgio. “I’ll go the back way; they get mad when I go through the tavern. See you soon.”

  Lefty waved, but a queasy feeling started in his stomach. Georgio was a true friend; Lefty just could not imagine what he would do without him. An odd sense of dread overcame him as he watch his best friend saunter away. Lefty, though, thought maybe it was just the coffee making him sick and continued on finishing the latest tale in his tome.