The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge

by Craig Halloran

  UNDERLING REVENGE

  THE DARKSLAYER (BOOK 3)

  The Darkslayer (Book 3)

  Underling Revenge

  By Craig Halloran

  Special Edition

  Copyright © 2012 by Craig Halloran

  TWO-TEN BOOK PRESS

  P.O. Box 4215, Charleston, WV 25364

  http://www.thedarkslayer.com

  1st Edition

  ISBN eBook: 978-0-9827799-6-5

  eBook Version 1

  THE DARKSLAYER is a registered trademark, #77670850

  Illustrations by Ernie Chan

  Editing by Cherise Kelley

  Publisher's Note

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  UNDERLING REVENGE

  VOLUME III

  Note from the Author

  Sadly, in May of 2012 my illustrator Ernie Chan passed away. He is greatly missed. He was a friend and great to work with. He had also been my favorite Marvel comic artist ever since I was a kid. He was best known for his work on the Savage Sword of Conan series. I apologize that this book won’t have any interior illustrations. I have yet to find someone to pick up where the amazing Ernie left off, but I am working on it. The characters on the cover, Farc the half-ogre, Eep the imp, and Mood the Blood Ranger are the last drawings I have from Ernie, and I choose to use them on the cover as a tribute to him. I can’t promise that they are all in the story, however.

  Chapter 1

  The standstill had been going on for days, ever since Venir parted ways with Fogle Boon. North, south, east, and west no longer mattered. Wind, rain, or fire would not stop him. No, he was on a mission, the same one he had been on for years. This time, if he completed it, he thought it would be over. Alive or dead, this would have to end it.

  His canteens were empty and had been so for a day. He needed a stream, an oasis, a raindrop … anything. He dug his hunting knife into the dirt of a small chasm where water must have once flowed. The dirt was soft and full of gritty pebbles. He dug out the dirt with his hands, making it a foot down before the damp sand and dirt began to show. He scooped out the wet mud, placed it in his cowl, and squeezed it. Wet drops dripped into his eager mouth. The best ale in Bish wouldn’t have tasted any better. He gave it a go a few more times and then sunk down in the shade to rest. The water helped a little, but his stomach began to groan again. How much longer did this battle have to go on?

  Venir was accustomed to suffering in his life, but the past few days had been a strain indeed. He had been reduced to little more than a deranged tracker—a madman of the wilderness—ravenous for the blood of some underlings. His head had a steady ache, something he seemed to be getting accustomed to. He could sense those underlings: their moods and their contempt, hatred, and fear of him. One hundred scorned women couldn’t have hated him more than the pair that evaded him in the sky certainly did. Fogle Boon had told him they would eventually come down, but Venir began to doubt that the citified mage—who had never seen an underling—would know anything about them. He rested.

  Dawn had long ago broken, and Venir knew he was in for another long day. The underlings were determined to drag him over the most treacherous of terrains. They were moving again; he could feel it. He looked out ahead where jagged outcroppings of rocks and briars awaited him. He could make out two specks that stood out against the bright sky. It was the underlings, waiting for him to sleep, stop, or fail. He carried his shell of a body over the hard ground, Brool still hanging in his grasp. He wished they would do something, anything. He couldn’t figure out if they were trying to flee or lead him to a trap. He looked over and saw the Endless Mists, miles in the distance. He stared, shook his head, turned, and moved on. He kept moving forward, step after step, watching the underlings move away slowly. He lost sight of them in the sunlight. His brain groaned inside his helmet.

  “Bone.”

  He thought of Melegal, Georgio, and the City of Bone. ...And Kam. Only a fool would leave a woman such as that: beautiful, sweet, and seductive. What he wouldn’t do to taste her lips again. Instead, he chased the filth of Bish, in the middle of nowhere, outmatched and against the odds. Had Kam been in another life that he only dreamed about now? He trudged on, his belly full of hunger and hate. His single-minded focus was razor sharp on the task at hand. It was not time for fantasies, not time to be soft. It was time to finish what the underlings started long ago.

  He had followed for several more miles when the landscape began to slope upward. The ground was slick with shale, leading up into rugged hills and sheer rock-faced walls. It was the perfect place to slow his efforts and force him to drop his weapon and climb. He could see the specks getting bigger. They seemed to rest above the crest of the hilltops.

  “Come on, rodents! Come down and fight!” his voice cracked.

  There was an echo and a stiff breeze, but that was the only answer he got. He opted to walk around the steep cliff faces, looking for an easier way to ascend toward the top. He could feel their disappointment in his unwillingness to climb. Let’s have some fun. He set his axe down, felt for some finger holds on the rocky face, and began to climb. There it is. He could feel their elation and sense their cold bodies coming closer, floating down his way. He wasn’t even ten feet up when he hopped back down and grabbed his war-axe, Brool. Feeling the frustration and anger of the underlings made him laugh.

  “Ha-Ha-Ha-Ha!”

  He could see the underlings pulling away. They were scared of him, but why? Maybe Fogle Boon was right. Maybe they did doubt they could kill him, but he didn’t doubt that they could. He was starving, and what had sustained him this long was a mystery to him. He had to eat, and eat soon. Maybe that was their plan: make him weak from the lack of food and water and blast him away at his lowest point. He found some tufts of grass along the hillside. Pulling grass from the dirt, he tried to chew it as he had seen long-horned goats do before. It tasted bitter. He chewed and tried to swallow. He spit it out, convinced that weeds were for beasts only.

  Venir wanted meat, eggs, birds, rodents, or anything he could skin and put on a spit and roast. He’d been a tracker for years, survived in the south and the Outland for days on end, but the terrain he trekked through now offered nothing. They knew that. The crafty underlings were plotting his every weakening step straight into the grave. It made him angry. He pushed himself a few miles along the hilly terrain that now reached as far as he could see. It was new territory for him. As he walked along the jagged hillside he spied a nook in the rock. A nest was hanging over the side, on a narrow ledge just a few hundred feet in the distance.

  He could taste the raw yokes of a wild condor on his tongue. A single egg like that would fill him for another day. He scanned the sky. The underlings were as far away as he recalled them ever being since he started chasing them. He made his way up the hillside, passing through the wide crevasses that hindered his sight of the sky above. If the underlings were concerned with his whereabouts, he didn’t sense it. Instead, he gauged his position and tried his best to sneak up under the nest that was near the thick branch of a twisting vine-like tree. A condor perch maybe.

  If he was careful and quiet, there might be
a bird in the condor nest as well. The levels leading up to the nest were rocky and steep, but manageable. There were no signs of life in the area, no vermin or other fowl in the air. Venir pulled himself up over the ridge and spied the nest a few more dozen feet above. His hunger was growing at the thought of food. He was ready to continue his climb, but his helmet burned. He stopped and waited, peering up the steep face of the hill, but the sky was not there, just more terrain. He didn’t sense anything more pressing than before. The underlings must be farther than he imagined, possibly heading toward another risky path. Now might be his best shot at getting the food he needed, and maybe they needed food, too.

  Wary of any changes from above, Venir climbed upward, half-crawling and walking, over the slippery stone. His feet slipped, sending loose shale falling below. He caught himself and pulled himself back on the ledge. He looked at the nest above; nothing moved. Could the nest be abandoned? He’d hate to risk it all if it was empty. He made his way onto the ledge, which was just wide enough to hold his feet on the ground.

  A mild gust of hot air came whipping through the hills. He paused and took a breath. No underlings came or seemed to know of his cause. He was fine. Move or die … of starvation. Thirty feet away he could see the old branch dangling over the hill. It was thick with leaves, branches, and twigs. He could make out the nest in the hole in the rock several feet above the ledge. He would have to somehow climb up to it. The wild condors of Bish were thirty to fifty pounds of meat. Venir's dry tongue began to water. However, their beaks were more than capable of snapping off a finger or toe. Their wings were powerful as well, capable of lifting a stout dwarf from the ground and knocking him from the ledge. He looked down. He was higher up than he expected. The wind made his sure feet unsteady. He began to dig Brool’s spike into the ground with each step.

  He shuffled farther along the ledge, getting closer and concerned. Where were the underlings? He looked up again, but the sky offered nothing new, just more sun and clouds shading the ground below him. His head throbbed, his stomach growled, and his ribs hurt. He grimaced as he shook his head. Let the underlings come; I’m gonna eat something regardless.

  He stood under the nest and listened. The wind whistled through his helmet as he stuck Brool spike-first into the hard ledge. He grabbed some loose dirt and tossed it into the nest. Nothing stirred. Reaching up, his fingers didn’t quite make it to the nook's edge. He searched for finger holds, but the slick face of the hill was bare. He looked outward, craning his neck to make out any birds in the sky. The helmet gave him better sight than normal, an extra awareness, but there was nothing to be seen or heard. He couldn’t risk the climb. Something didn’t seem right. Now what?

  He looked at the strange branch jutting from the ledge. There were many scattered along the hillsides, growing like leafy arms from the rock. Looking closer, he saw bunched brown leaves, like a hive of twigs that were twisted up along the branch. It was another nest, possibly, but odd. It looked easier to get to, just a few feet out. He traipsed onto the branch, straddling it, his knife in hand. He looked back to check his war axe. His hands felt cold without it in his grip, which was odd for such a hot day. He waited, his head throbbing the same as before, steady like a pulse.

  “Man’s got to eat,” he mumbled, shaking his concerns.

  He scooted over the branch like a ravenous animal, peering downward at the long drop before he hit the hillside below. There it was, the makeshift nest, tangled up with the vines of the corded tree limb. YES! The branches were a dull gray like the rock, and knotted with rough bumps all over the bark. He gently jabbed his grandfather's hunting knife into the misshapen nest. Nothing moved. He stabbed again, careless of any peril waiting inside. Who cared if something deadly burst out? If it moved, it lived. If it lived, he could eat it. He stabbed again. Nothing.

  He turned, stabbed his knife into the limb, and began pulling apart the outer husk of the nest with his hands like a hungry bear. The leaves, moss, and twigs fell slowly to the ground. Inside the nest he saw something shaped like an egg. Yes! It was almost as big as his hand, light brown, and somewhat translucent. It wasn’t like any egg he had ever seen before, but there were a thousand things in Bish he’d never live to see. An egg was an egg however, and he was going to eat this egg.

  “Come to Vee,” he croaked, licking his lips, the prevailing dangers all but forgotten.

  The air was still, the hillside quiet as he scanned the sky once more: no birds, no underlings, and no problems. He grabbed the egg. It was warm in his palm and felt like it was beating in his hand. His face shined with delight. He wanted to stuff the entire thing in his mouth. He took his knife and began trying to crack a hole in the top of the shell. His face was bathed in light as the egg burst open, and something cracked beneath him. BISH!

  Chapter 2

  Someone was stroking his back, causing him to stir from his relaxing slumber. The feeling of gentle finger nails caressing him up and down his body was stimulating. It wasn’t something he had been used to in the past, but he was now. Melegal rolled over on the small wooden bed, staring into the beaming face of a younger woman. Her eyes were soft, and her smile was warm as he ran his hand along the firm curves of her body. Being an employee of Castle Almen had many advantages, and sleeping with the ginger servant girls was one of them.

  He held her eyes, sat up, and let her begin rubbing his shoulders. Ah. Her hands were rough from her castle duties, but he still liked it. He admired his surroundings: a sparse room, typical of any serving quarters in the castle. This room in particular was little more than a bedroom in a large closet. It suited him just fine. The girl with Melegal was only one of many that he had shared the private space with. It wasn’t much to him, but to the women it was, compared to other quarters with stone floors. Melegal forced those memories from his mind. He inhaled a deep breath through his nose and let the woman knead the muscles between his shoulders. He had another busy day ahead, and it wouldn’t be long before his mind was no longer at ease.

  A few more minutes passed by before he patted the hands that were working out the stiffness in his shoulders. Tension wasn’t something he was used to, but it was a part of his life now. The girl slipped off the bed and gathered his clothes. He could see some of the scars on her back from whippings, but none were fresh; he had seen to that. He felt some pity, but not so much as before. He had his own scars, but most he had gotten used to, and she would, too.

  The rest of the woman was in fine shape, much more so than the trollops in the belly of the City of Bone. She had tawny brown hair and a slender face. She was clean and mannerly, subservient and accommodating, leaving him to go about his business as he pleased, no questions or badgering for more coin. She straddled him as she slipped his shirt over his shoulders. He liked the smell of her scented hair. Her body was suggesting many reasons for him not to leave yet, but he had to go. She began pulling up his trousers, taking extra care they were a comfortable fit. She looked into his eyes, biting her lip, but he shook his head. He pushed her away, bringing a giggle, and finished dressing. Why is it so much harder getting out of bed than in it? He grabbed his floppy gray hat, slapped the pouting servant on the rump, and made his way from the quarters.

  Melegal stood in the sub-level of the castle where servants worked, ate, and slept. It was busy in the morning, and dozens of bodies, young, old, and small were working like ants. He used to be one of them, but not anymore. He made his way through a washing room, all eyes averting his. He could see the stress lines and dark circles under the eyes of many young faces. It bothered him, when he knew it shouldn’t.

  He continued up the stone-faced corridor, toward the door that led up inside the main castle. It opened before he reached the handle, and he lost the spring in his gait. There stood Sefron, face sagging, belly bulging, and bug-eyes watering. Great. He scowled as he pushed along his course, but Sefron blocked his passage.

  “Where do you think you are going, Melegal? You are not to be going wherever, wheneve
r you wish.”

  Melegal’s hand slipped to a small knife tucked inside his vest. Fat sicko would sound better without a tongue. A nice red line along his throat would be nice, too.

  “It’s nowhere you need to be concerned about. Now step aside before I shove a blade up your nose.”

  The cleric’s face tightened up, but he didn’t budge. Melegal averted his stare, but could feel Sefron’s watery eyes boring into him, fighting to somehow gain control of him. It left the thief uneasy, staring at the strange pasty man, so he avoided it, to the ire of the cleric.

  “You don’t belong here, Urchin. You belong behind this door with the rest, slaving at my feet. Stay out of the castle … and I mean clear out. Only return when you are called.” Sefron wheezed as he spoke. He always did, especially when irritated.

  “Lord? Is that so?” He touched his chest. “I’ll have to check that with Lord Almen, I suppose. He’ll certainly be upset with me treating another Lord so poorly. Lord Sefron the slimy. It sure sounds good. I can’t wait to mention it to him!”

  Melegal watched Sefron slink back, eyes flitting with uncertainty. He pressed on.

  “As I recall, he wasn’t very fond of you questioning his orders. Even for a Lord. Now, what was it he did to you that last time you trifled with me? Hmmm …”

  He posed in thought, rubbing his chin, listening to Sefron’s breath growing thinner.

  “Ah … yes, I remember now. He had you cleaning the muck from the cracks of the elderly Royals! Wasn’t that it? That’s right, I recall seeing you disposing of several bowls of granny slat—”

  “Enough, Urchin! I’ll have you drained alive of all your fluids if you ever meddle with me again!”