The thought of meeting a giant dwarf and a two-headed dog kept Fogle’s imagination running wild. Setting foot in Dwarven Hole would be a tale in itself. Venir told him he might not like it there but he didn’t care. He just kept his cowl tight and did his best to keep up with Venir, who took the lead.
Fogle watched as Venir’s determined gait never slowed. The helmeted man looked like a myth as he carried his great axe at his side. He didn’t understand how he wore the armor in the heat, either. I guess that’s why he’s the Darkslayer and not me. He was far from fit for this travel, but he wouldn’t let the warrior know that. It seemed Venir loosened up as soon as he left the city. This must be his comfort zone. Fogle was glad because he still had his worries. He had never been in a real fight before. Not even with a lizard or insect for the matter, and Venir said they were quite big out here. He couldn’t tell if he meant it or not. He shuffled to keep up from time to time, but Venir paid him no mind. It was clear that Venir was on a mission, something that only the Outland survivor could understand.
Fogle wasn’t without a companion, though. He’d brought his pack-bearer, Ox, who was a mintaur—a stocky man-like creature with a horned ram’s head and hooves instead of feet. Ox stood just over five feet tall, was muscular, clothed like a man, and had a long leather rucksack filled to the brim.
Fogle spoke with Ox, in his language, but Ox didn’t have much to say. It was good having him along, though. The sleepless mintaurs were a hardy race, small in number, peaceful, and one of the few that the dwarves liked. He had been in the service of Fogle Boon since he was a boy. Ox always worked for him, as well as protected him. Fogle had no better friend. The sack on Ox’s back carried everything he needed. He would have been lost without his magic necessities.
The illusionist brandished a broken five-foot staff. He showed its ancient workings and iron shod to Venir. The man told him it was just a stick and it might come in handy for firewood. It had offended Fogle, but not for long. The staff was more than just a stick. He kept it with him when he memorized his spells early in the morning. He stayed prepared. Every day, he felt as if it could be his last. Adventure had a different meaning.
They traveled far in good weather the first few days, with barely an encounter. A few pesky orcs came their way, brigands, but Venir brandishing his axe intimidated them and they ran away. Venir and Ox stayed on guard the whole time, even while Fogle slept. He couldn’t help it. He had to rest his inner self. Venir didn’t allow for fires at night, either, but it wasn’t cold. His blanket saw to that. A simple spell kept the creepy crawlies away, but his dreams stayed. Something foreboding was near. He felt it every time he woke. He looked around. Nothing.
But Eep was not far away.
CHAPTER 64
What now, masters? Verbard heard Eep ask in his mind.
Verbard nodded at Catten as watched the Darkslayer and company trotting over the barren surface. He and his brother had abandoned Oran’s lair. Verbard was unhappy. He liked that place.
They had just finished their own trek and now they were hidden in caves northeast of Dwarven Hole. Verbard was frustrated, as he’d hoped to already have acquired the armament that had been inside the bag.
Catten said in a hiss, “The foul man even sleeps with it on.”
“He keeps it close. Wouldn’t you?” he replied.
“We have to try something, brother.”
He made a risky decision and Verbard commanded the imp: Grab the backpack with the sack inside the first chance you get!
But they had other problems. An ogre mining camp blocked other caves through which they sought to travel below. It was another issue that had not yet been overcome. Still they waited.
CHAPTER 65
Mood was chopping his blades hard and fast at the skin just above the giant’s kneecap. Chunks of flesh peeled off as the Horace screamed. Horace backhanded him, knocking Mood hard into the rocks. He groaned, clutching his chest as he struggled back to his feet. He was thankful he had on his braided leather armor, or else his ribs would be shattered. He shook off the pain. It would take more than that to stop him today. He wasn’t about to let the giant take any more of his friends.
Mood yelled as he rushed back in, ducking under Horace’s mace, and began carving again. He chopped into the hard skin over and over. His arms ached but he pumped away. Horace knocked him from his feet and brought his mace down. Mood rolled away as stone shattered from the shaking ground. The ten-foot giant stared down at him. It seemed like an impossible task to defeat Horace. The giant didn’t seem hurt, but Mood had a plan. It had to work.
The dwarves knew how to fight giants better than any race on Bish. Mood had to make his cuts count. He wouldn’t get many more chances. One solid blow from Horace, and he was done for. Chongo leaped onto the giant’s back and Mood rushed in once more.
The giant grasped Chongo by one of his necks. The dog’s bites did him little harm. Mood cut hard and deep into the back of Horace’s leg. He heard a yelp of pain. He chopped again. Blood started to flow. Normal blades couldn’t cut Horace’s skin, but Mood’s blades did. The giant screamed as he let Chongo go.
“You are going to die, dwarf. You can cut me all you like, but it won’t be enough before I crush you like your children!”
“We’ll see about that, stupid!” Mood yelled as he cut Horace on the inside of his upper thigh, almost rendering the giant genderless.
He knew giants hated being called stupid. It made them careless. He pressed on.
Stepping and dodging, Mood’s twin axes began slicing deep gashes into the giant’s thick hide. The Blood Ranger inside him took over. Nothing could stop him now. Every chop hit its mark like venomous snake bites. Horace’s tree-trunk legs were bleeding all over. The giant kept hammering down two-handed strikes with his giant mace. The rocks shattered like glass under the blows. Mood felt like the whole mountain would fall down.
The terrain was becoming loose, yet Mood paid no mind to the treacherous footing. But then he slipped. Horace brought his mace around, catching him flush on the shoulder. His axes flew from his grip. He spun to the ground. Breathless and in pain, Mood turned his heard just in time to see the mace coming down on him.
“Hah!” Horace yelled in triumph.
Wham!
Mood rolled out of the way as lances of pain shot through his busted shoulder.
Wham!
He kept rolling out of the giant’s reach. Chongo jumped over top of him, barring the giant’s path. Horace laughed some more.
“What’s the matter, Mood? Shoulder busted?” The giant rubbed his own shoulder.
“Yes, stupid! It’s busted. Stupid luck of a stupid giant!”
“I’m not stupid, you are!”
“You’re stupid, all right. You are bleeding pretty bad. It just hasn’t reached your senses yet, beast. Your gonna be off your feet any moment now and I’m gonna cut you up over and over again.”
Horace glanced at his legs that were thick with blood. A look of worry crossed his face. Mood had shredded the giants tendons around his knees and legs. The giant staggered back, slipping in his own blood, then he dropped like a stone. He began roaring and tearing at his clothes attempting to stop the bleeding, but it would not.
“Mood, stop this bleeding and I swear I will never come back. I will promise you that!” he yelled. “Giants don’t break their promises! You know that!”
Mood was silent, in memory of all those Horace had killed, and watched the evil giant suffer.
“Brothers, save me!” Horace cried out over and over again.
The giant’s cries for help continued on as Mood watched. If other giants heard his call, they did not respond, for he had shamed them. Mood sat down and watched. It was the most pitiful sight he ever had seen. The giant bellowed out in misery to end his suffering through healing or death. Mood didn’t think he deserved either. He would let him suffer forever if he could. After several hours and the day passed into night, Horace the hill giant died. Mood sobb
ed, but not for the giant, but in memory of all those who had fallen. Mood had his vengeance and many lives would be spared in the future. His heart was still heavy when he patted Chongo on the head.
“I never could have done it without you, boy.”
The Blood Ranger dwarves had a tradition with some of their fallen enemies, depending on how they ranked them. Sometimes a proper burial was in order. In the case of Horace, it would be something else.
Mood and Chongo spent hours slowly dragging the behemoth to the bottom of the rock hill and into a small forest nearby. He stripped the giant of all his belongings and then began skinning the giant from head to toe. He carved him up like stag meat. He then prepared a spit and fire in the wood, lit a cigar, and slowly roasted pieces of the evil giant’s flesh. Chongo stayed by his side over the next few weeks, chewing on the bare giant bones. Mood consumed every bit of Horace the hill giant.
Chongo didn’t understand but he heard the dwarf say, “They don’t call us Blood Rangers for nothin’.”
CHAPTER 66
Verbard bickered back and forth with his brother as they waited for Eep to fulfill his mission. They argued about how they would bypass the ogres that were mining deep into the caves they sought. The pair could have bypassed the creatures easily enough, but a battle with a host of ogres was not a wise decision. Verbard wanted to go for it, but his brother was adamant they would not.
The ogres mined minerals, gems, and metals like obsessed beasts. Oft times, they skirmished with the crafty dwarves over territory. The dwarves would sometimes let them be. Ogres were lousy miners, but they could swing a pick all day. It was a sound that Verbard became quite uncomfortable with over the passing days.
He observed the tireless ogres. Their hulking seven- and eight-foot frames lumbered in and out of the tunnels pushing massive carts or carrying boulders. Their picks were bigger and heavier than the underlings themselves. Their powerful swings struck the hard rocks that showered sparks and rung like thunder. They chanted in bellows as they worked in horrific harmony.
The adventure was becoming tiresome. Verbard had to destroy something. They needed to get moving through the pass. Too many. He looked over to his brother whose nose was in a scroll. No guts. Three or four ogres would have been manageable but over two dozen ogres was suicide. He didn’t care. He began chittering some words. Catten stirred from his studies. Verbard felt nothing. He was a shadow now and he drifted without notice into the mines below. This should do it.
It didn’t take him long before he returned to his brother. He could feel Catten’s golden eyes boring into him.
“What have you been doing?” Catten asked.
“You will see,” he said under an unbreakable grin.
Catten shook his head and turned away.
The next day, an ogre erupted from deep inside one of the tunnels. Large chunks of gold, silver, and rock-sized gems were spilling from its massive arms. The underlings watched the scene below them, transfixed. The ogres stormed into those tunnels like bees in a hive. One after the other came in and out, carrying all the precious elements they could. Verbard was clapping his hands while Catten scratched at his chin.
The ogres began dancing all over their camp and even burst into song. Verbard saw broad grins full of yellow rotting teeth under protruding brows and bright dream-filled eyes. The amount of booty they were collecting from their tunnels was inconceivable. Verbard knew but the ogres’ capacity for reason wouldn’t account for that. He could see confusion in his brother’s watchful eyes. You’ll see.
The ogres had stopped work to celebrate. They piled up their hoard. They celebrated with a feast of raw bear meat and horrendous homemade grog. Verbard could smell it from where he stood. He wanted no part of that bilious drink. It was known to paralyze men.
“What is this, Verbard? Some sort of stupid distraction? Shouldn’t we go now?” Catten said with a hiss.
Verbard held his hand up and pointed downward at the ogre bonfire. Moments passed as he heard the revelry ringing clear.
Catten lurched forward as one ogre felt compelled to smash a large chunk of gold into another grog-drinking ogre’s head. The camp burst into thunderous laughter. Here we go, Verbard thought.
Another ogre followed suit with his massive gem. Then one launched a silver rock at his brethren. The ones who did not have any of the treasure were the ones laughing the hardest. Chaos blossomed. It would take more than a few shiny rocks of gold or silver to hurt an ogre. As soon as those objects contacted them, they began to get in on the bludgeoning too. Catten hissed. Verbard chuckled.
The ogres soon began to massacre each other. Noses were broken and bleeding, teeth were shattered, bones were crushed. They were out of control. One ogre in particular was terrified as he could not stop striking himself in the face with the two copper rocks he had picked up in self-defense. Over and over, he bashed his own skull until he could stand no more and died. So confused they were that they didn’t know who was friend of foe.
The madness spread like a virus and the confused ogres were eliminating themselves with the colorful booty they’d gathered. Verbard was thrilled with his cursed illusion. Many of them were knocked out and many others died at their brethren’s hands. After a long sequence of violent events, the survivors came to their senses again. Broken bones and headaches abounded, but Verbard didn’t hesitate to finish his plan.
“I have had my fun, now you should have yours,” Verbard said.
He pointed to his albino urchlings and Catten waved to his Juegen warriors. The creatures charged into the camp. The ogres were far from ready. The Juegen’s curved swords were precise and sliced like whips in the air as they pierced the hearts and necks of their massive foes, some prone and others feeble. The Juegen guards’ speed and cutting was relentless as they carved into their massive foes as if they were giant children.
The albino urchlings ran up and down the backs of the brutes like scurrying rats, stabbing and jabbing them in the eyes, ears, nose, and throat with their clawed hands. Blood ran everywhere as the horrific sight of slaughter and mutilation was one for the ages.
Lord Catten was now nodding.
One lone ogre escaped and hid for days. It had the wit to utilize his free hand and cut off the hand that held the rock he was hitting himself with. It was a small part human and despite its ignorance of that, it was indeed what saved him. Its broken face and bloodied stump for an arm began to heal. It headed back to the mining camp.
When it got there, the ogre saw many bodies of his fellow ogres buried headfirst in massive holes that had been dug with their legs protruding from the ground, which was littered with severed heads as well. Vultures had gathered by the hundreds to feast, and the underlings that had afflicted them were long gone.
The gold, silver, and gems had only been rocks, after all.
CHAPTER 67
It was just before daybreak as Venir, Fogle, and Ox had begun preparations to break from camp. Venir sauntered out of the way to relieve himself in a glen nearby. He stuck his axe in the ground, surveying their surroundings. Ox stood nearby, packing the wizard’s sack. Fogle Boon was kneeling on his pillow, deep in meditation. Venir began to pee. Almost there, he thought. A strange chill ran down his spine. He crooked his ear.
Fogle Boon shouted, “Venir! Ox! Something is afoot!”
Venir cut himself off midstream. A familiar buzz hit his ears. He whirled the mage’s way. Ten feet from Fogle Boon was a stocky bat-winged creature holding Venir’s backpack. That imp! They all charged at the intruder, but the imp flew into the air. It bared its razor-sharp teeth at him, then buzzed high above and out of sight. He looked back. Brool was still stuck in the ground.
“Was that what I thought it was, Venir?” Fogle said. “That imp or something like it that you told me about?”
“I think so.”
Venir went over and pulled Brool from the ground. His shield and helmet still lay near, but the bag that held them was clearly gone with his backpack. He didn
’t know what to think. One thing was for certain: underlings had to be near. They had been watching him all along.
After several moments, Fogle asked, “Now what? Will your weapon still work, disappear, or what?”
“I don’t know,” Venir said, grabbing what gear he had left. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. In the meantime, let’s keep going because whatever is going to happen is going to happen.”
Fogle’s wizened face lit up at the statement. “I guess so.”
CHAPTER 68
Weeks had passed since Melegal’s roommates had departed. His face grim, Melegal sat on his cot within the apartment and tried to let the serenity soak in. The first few weeks were bliss in the absence of the chubby boy Georgio and his halfling counterpart Lefty Lightfoot. Their chronic attention to his comings and goings had become wearisome. Now no one asked a thing about his business. It wasn’t what he expected.
Night after night, he did as he pleased. The women, the wine … it was what he was used to. He was a typical greedy thief living large. The splendid City of Bone was his playground. But his old indulgences didn’t have the same flavor as before. How could that be? He looked over to the table where the halfling’s tomes sat, save for the one that had gone missing—which Melegal had discovered well after Venir and the boys had departed. Melegal had almost solved the puzzle of Lefty’s shorthand. Melegal had spent more time on that than anything else the past few days. Plus the missing tome ate at him. Where could it be?
He stood up, cracked his neck, and stretched. He sat back down, looking around. The cupboard was bare. The metal coffee carafe sat cold on the coal stove that had not been kindled in weeks. It had never seemed so empty to the thief. Even the time between Venir’s visits had not been so desolate.
The Darkslayer: Book 02 - Blades in the Night Page 28