The three uncomely women lay still, bruised and bloodied. He shook them all, only managing to stir the one called Sis.
“Eww …” she mumbled, looking up at him. “Just kill me, man, I got no fight left.”
Instead Tonio dragged her down the steps by the hair of her head. The open dungeon door awaited him. He sat her up in the corridor outside the dungeon, leaning her against the wall.
Tonio stepped inside the cell. He stripped down to his trousers and tossed everything else outside. Then he threw Sis the heavy cast-iron padlock, but no key was with it. He stepped back inside the dark room, out of view, and sat down.
He would never go home … could never go home.
*****
Sis struggled up to her feet, but didn’t peer into the dungeon. She closed the door and secured it with the padlock. She heard a muffled sob, and then she heard no more. The man, whatever he was, had given up, and that was just fine with her. She gathered his belongings, then spent the rest of the day rousing her bludgeoned sisters. They left the dungeon corridor and thought of the man no more.
CHAPTER 51
The Ogre’s Nest was stunned. Orcs and ogres alike gawped in confusion. If Brandoff the Brawler was caught off guard, he did not show it. Instead he tugged at his small black beard, then slugged down more mead.
“Well, it’s Jarla the Brigand Queen,” Brandoff said in his deep garbled tongue. “Did you enjoy being defiled so much by me the last time that you want defiled some more?”
Loud laughter erupted and spread like fire throughout the barn. The orcen women turned their noses up.
When the laughter subsided, Jarla pointed at him. “I claim that you cheated on our last challenge and that you owe me another match.”
Roars of outrage burst from the lips of the armored orcs. Hands went to hilt, and steel was brandished. She wouldn’t be surprised if a sword burst through her back. Every orc cheated, but calling them a cheater was another matter—a matter of honor. A mug of mead caught her in the chest, splashing her face. She didn’t move, hands on hips.
“Queenie, go away. I won’t tell you one more time. There will be no challenge here or anywhere. I will say, though, I am tempted to toss you over again like the last time.”
Brandoff stroked his goatee as he stood up and walked around her. She would have shuddered at the memory, but she blocked it out.
“I am flattered that you enjoyed me so much that you came back all this way for more. My prowess speaks for itself: even the human women cannot resist Brandoff the Brawler!” he shouted, opening his arms wide and bringing roars of triumph that shook the rafters.
“You prowess lasted as long as a wink,” Jarla shouted in his face, “and I’ve known dwarves that are larger.”
Brandoff ulped at the statement. His brethren were wide-eyed, and the orcen women snickered. More laughs followed. Orcs and ogres always liked a good joke.
He swatted her on the butt, almost knocking her down.
“Get out of here, wench, or I shall have you chained with the beasts.”
Her blue eyes shined with outrage. She knew he didn’t have anything to lose. But she could tell that he was not confident that he could beat her twice. Why else would he let her go? He waved his hand in her face. He gave a signal and his colleagues began to drag her away. She had to do something. No! She knew Nightmare was near.
Then she screamed as loud as she could: “COWARD!”
It grabbed everyone’s attention. Serving trays fell from fingertips with a clash. Who would ever have the audacity to call an orc fighter a coward in his own tavern? They all took a closer look at the woman who said it. She knew she’d hit home. Brandoff’s grin turned to a scowl.
The word coward in the world of Bish was a potent one. It carried different weight among the races, but among them all, it was a great insult nonetheless. They had different ways to deal with it. When it came to the orcs, their pride would never let them walk away from that word. It was the worst insult you could call an orc, and it was often followed with a fight to the death. Honor and dishonor had meaning on Bish.
Tables were dragged away as the center of the tavern was cleared. Brandoff stood in the middle of the floor facing her. She was a striking woman, standing over six feet in height, but she paled in front of Brandoff. He was two hundred fifty pounds of muscle covered by thick layers of fat. She seemed an unlikely threat, and she felt like one too.
Being the accused, Brandoff had his choice of weapons. He pulled out a heavy sword that the orcs had designed, called the “fang.” It was a big machete-like blade with a fang at the tip above the blade. She had seen her own brigands use these weapons to shatter bones and bust open the heavy armor of Royal soldiers. Brandoff eyed his own, fingering its fang.
Another warrior tossed his at her feet. She picked it up, checking its heft and balance. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d fought with a sword or any weapon for the matter. The fang was not even meant for a man’s arm, let alone a woman. She closed her eyes. Nightmare.
The level of excitement and tension raced inside her. Bets were taking place. None in her favor. Instead they bet how long she would last. Jarla’s stomach was in knots and she had to fight back the urge to vomit. Her brow became feverish. She readied herself in a defensive stance. She watched as he chopped and flipped his broad blade with skill and ease. It was clear that he aimed to finish her.
“Last chance, queenie! Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have another defiling in the hay as opposed to a certain death?”
“I’d rather die, you pig,” she said.
“Then so be it, queenie!”
He rushed in, his fang blade flashing before her. She froze as the blade plunged her way. Move! She ducked out of the way. Her heart raced, her body became alive. Nightmare.
She stepped around the circle, keeping her distance, her sword held in two hands above her head. Brandoff seemed to toy with her as he lunged in and out, testing her. The powerful orc brought down a serious of blows that sent shocks through her arms, numbing her hands. Over and over, he banged down on her blade. The orcs and ogres bellowed as they gathered around.
She eyed his mocking face as she parried over and over again. Sparks flew from their clashing blades. Every time he struck, she almost dropped her weapon. One mistake and he would cleave her twain. He was just waiting for the opening. She couldn’t let him have it.
Jarla shuffled her feet, gasping for breath, almost coming to her knees for the last blow. Her wrists ached, her chest labored. She knew she couldn’t keep it up. The orc looked determined to kill her. He played with her no more. She slipped on a mug someone tossed behind her. Brandoff’s fang came down as she struggled for balance. It glanced off her blade and sheared skin from her arm. She cried out in pain. The room erupted.
Her arm was soaked in blood. The pain almost made her black out. Somewhere she heard a horse neigh. Nightmare! Brandoff came to finish her off, raising his blade high. Deep inside her, something exploded. She screamed as she stepped under his swing, whipping her blade upward between his powerful legs. He roared in shock as she split him between his privates, dropping him, genderless, to the floor. Brandoff the Brawler’s life as he knew it would be forever changed … if he managed to live through this. He wallowed in the horrifying misery of his castration—and began to die. His brethren watched in silence.
“Stupid orc,” Jarla muttered. “Now,” she said with authority, “where is my horse?”
A path cleared before her that led deep into a back stable. She sobbed aloud as the dapple gray stammered its feet, then raised on its back hooves. Nightmare’s stable appeared to be the cleanest in the barn. A pitiful-looking orcen girl with red hair and a disfigured eye smiled at her. Jarla hugged her mount’s neck, tears streaming from her eyes. She began to feel like her old self again. She bandaged her arm then saddled her steed. She mounted Nightmare and trotted back through and out of the Ogre’s Nest. Jarla the Brigand Queen had returned and a tiny portion of her
army followed.
CHAPTER 52
The Outlands of Bish made up the majority of its landscape. Hot, barren, and dry during blazing days, the Outlands were often chilly and crisp during the dark moons’ night. Traveling long distances over the course of weeks and days was extremely dangerous in the Outlands, as the landscape seemed to change under the different shades and use of night.
North, south, east, and west bearings were not what travelers always relied on. The suns and moons rose and fell at different times on occasion. Their beacons were always full and round with light regardless of the seasons. Days and nights could be longer and shorter; oft times this was nothing noticeable, but days that were longer than most could be devastating for the unwary traveler.
Bish’s unique elements made even the most frail of the races hardy and durable survivalists. It was never safe to travel long in the Outlands, but it was the best way to leave your enemies and past behind you. It was what Venir’s small party had decided to do as they trekked northeast over the wasteland of sand and stone toward another city.
A normal trip between the City of Bone and the City of Three was three to five days on horseback. This was one of those times in Bish where the days and nights were long. The days were quickly becoming weeks between the two cities. Blasts of hot wind and dry sand parched and cracked their lips.
Georgio’s thoughts drifted toward death as he questioned leaving the sanctuary of Bone. He no longer had a home, it seemed. He felt as if he would perish in the desert. He was thirsty, exhausted, and hungry. He didn’t know which was worse: the dungeon he’d escaped from, or the endless days in the heat.
He rode on the back of Quickster, with Lefty huddled at his back. He worried about his friend, who had barely managed a word in two days. He looked back at Lefty from time to time, but the halfling’s eyes were weak.
Up ahead, Venir walked beside Chongo and Mood. They looked like three giants, not bothered by the miserable conditions. Georgio wanted to be like that, but he could barely even stand. The men took care of him and the halfing. He was grateful. They gave him hope. He just wanted to get as far away from Bone as possible. Wherever they were going, it would have to be better.
As nighttime came, Georgio and Lefty curled up under the bellies of Quickster and Chongo while Venir and Mood took turns vanquishing ravenous and enlarged rodents, and poisonous millipedes, scorpions, and snakes. Mood would eat the millipedes and tell stories, laughing under his beard. The sickening sight only made Georgio feel worse. Everything was bad and there was nothing he could do to change it.
Venir hadn’t said much to him other than, “We’ll be there soon.” Soon never came and Georgio felt as if he was the cause of all the trouble. Was Venir mad at him? The only person he saw him talking to was Mood. It made him uneasy.
As they trudged along, he started to realize there was no water left. Nor food. He was biting off his sandy fingernails, watching them grow back, only to eat them again. Sleeping was as exhausting as staying awake. His nightmares came over and over again. He was suffering. His friend Lefty was now tied down to Chongo’s saddle, unmoving. He began to think the City of Three was a myth and that he had been brought out here to die.
He was dreaming of McKnight cutting off his fingers again when he was suddenly awakened. He saw Venir’s broad grinning face looking down at him.
“Georgio, we’re here,” Venir said.
Georgio rubbed the sand and grit from his eyes and looked forward in bewilderment. If there ever was a place that he didn’t possibly believe existed, it was this city. Before his very eyes, a majestic city sat in the distance with a backdrop of a colorful green and blue mountain range behind it. Green pastures surrounded the city, which looked to be enclosed in part by high alabaster walls of cut rock and marble.
Unlike the foreboding appearance of the City of Bone, the City of Three was more welcoming and pleasing to the eyes. He noticed a blue skyline that seemed brilliant over top of the mountains, and the clouds looked even more white and numerous than what was seen back in Bone. Though they were still miles away, the colorful spires on the castles within shone like burnished chrome armor. He forgot his suffering. It was beautiful.
Streams of water came down from the mountains, some ending abruptly at rocky edges and cascading into waterfalls and then into ponds and large streams that apparently flowed into the city. He licked his cracked lips. He remembered Venir telling him that this city was unlike Bone. It had more than just humans. Dwarves, halflings, striders, and taurs lived and frequented it as well. He couldn’t wait to see them. The best of the best contributed to the City of Three, but just like any other, it had its problems and odd characteristics as well. Venir warned them of what those might be, but he was eager to enter.
“Mood, I guess this is it for now. Thanks for the escort,” Venir said.
Mood’s nose crinkled. “Pah, it’s just another filthy city. I can smell it from here. You do what you gotta do. Me and Chongo will wait at Dwarven Hole for you. I’m due back. You know, I’m still the king, for all it’s worth.”
Venir laughed as he knew the Mood hated his responsibilities but could not avoid them forever, either.
“Did he say he’s taking Chongo? Why?” Georgio asked.
Venir sighed. “I told you already. He can’t go into the city. There is nowhere safe for him in there. He is safest with Mood for now. Besides, Chongo needs special care from time to time and only the dwarves can do that.”
“Okay,” Georgio said, pouting as he hugged the big pooch that was busy licking him like a dog treat.
Then he realized he had forgotten about Lefty. He looked and saw Venir cradling his tiny friend in his arms. His heart fell when he saw the look on Venir’s hardened face. He began to cry as he walked over.
“Is he dead, Vee?”
“He’s still breathing, Georgio.”
Venir’s words didn’t comfort him. He saw Lefty wrapped in a blanket like a child, gaunt and lifeless. He heard raspy breathing coming from his cracked lips. Georgio didn’t want to lose his friend. Not now.
“Can they help him in there?”
“He’s pretty sick. The desert flu takes time to heal from.” Venir knelt down and faced him. “You have to be strong for him. Now let’s get moving.”
Georgio didn’t want to move. All of his worries and fears swarmed back. The bright city before him dimmed. Death still lingered in his life. He crawled onto Quickster’s back and they trudged along.
CHAPTER 53
The orcs lived in clans scattered all over Bish, making settlements wherever they felt. They were a strong, stupid, and fearless race just a few notches above the underlings in terms of evil. Their evil nature consisted of being nothing more than a loud and filthy nuisance among the rest of the world. They were intolerant of the ways of the other races, feeling themselves superior, but what mustered in force never blossomed into any kind of threat. They were limited in intelligence and magic. It hindered them from ever doing anything strategic. Their dreams of conquest were never fulfilled. They fought more amongst themselves than the rest, so largely they were ignored.
A gang of roughneck orcen boys had worked their sweaty, snotty, and piggish faces into quite a lather. The ugly children played harsh games of sport together in the field of grass and dirt as if it were war. The piggish-nosed, heavy-browed boys and girls whacked and tussled each other with the virility of grown men.
Their ruddy skin was tanned deep from longs hours of play in the sun. They pulled each other’s locks of coarse black and brown hair with passion and roars of terror as they struggled for the prize. There was no discrimination between the sexes, either, as private parts seemed to be open game for quick kicks and rabbit punches. They laughed, slapped, spit, and elbowed each other with little concern for safety. Fairness was not considered by the brainless orcs. Despite their flaws, lack of grace, and culture, they were still pretty darn tough and they liked to prove it.
A large sewn-up cattle hide stuff
ed with tender meat was the orb of delight that sailed high in the air. Over and over, it crossed the suns and into the brute hands of the orcen children. The two teams played keep-away with that leather orb, guarding it like a treasure and as if their lives depended on it. Victory came when the other team succumbed to the other, either by force or surrender, but the latter never came. The biggest and strongest children of age would wear all takers down to a point of exhaustion or dehydration, then gut open the orb of meat and celebrate with his or her team. It had always ended that way for centuries.
The ugly skinned-up face of a big orcen boy crinkled as he was searching for the prized orb that had been punted high into the sky. He lost it for a moment in the red sun’s haze. He shuffled his feet when he saw it coming down. The boy’s arms stretched out as he licked his lips, his eyes wide. Catching it, he turned to run over his pursuers. But the child hesitated as he ran his filthy hands over the orb.
A loud snorting erupted from his snout as he gazed on the orb and saw the bloodied head of one of his teammates instead of the usual orb.
Stamping his feet, he screamed, “Ugh! Ugh! Ugh!”
Pursuit stopped as he tossed the head to the ground. The rest of them gathered, looking at the head and one another. Then a sound caught their attention. They looked into the sky.
A loud buzzing noise filled their tiny ears. A creature hovered over them, holding their prize. It tore into the orb’s contents with its short powerful arms and three-taloned hands. A wide row of razor sharp teeth ripped into the red meat. A large evil eye gazed down on them, and the creature’s two leathery bat-like wings flapped like a hummingbird’s. The orcen children looked up at Bish’s most horrible creature of magic, but they did not know that. All they knew was that whatever it was, it was eating their meat and it was going to die.
The Darkslayer: Book 02 - Blades in the Night Page 23