The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge

by Craig Halloran

The busy servants that had been crossing through the hall veered away, eyes on the ground, out of the two men’s paths. It wasn’t the first of the standoffs between the detective and the cleric, and unlikely to be the last, but they certainly didn’t want to be on the end of Sefron’s anger. Melegal almost began to laugh as the scrawny cleric’s frail chest heaved. He looked the foul man up and down with a sneer. He could never understand why the man wouldn’t wear more clothes. The cleric’s skin was pale and clammy, his belly soft and hanging over the breach of cloth he wore around his waist. Sefron’s pale legs were scrawny and knobby kneed, his sandals slick with grime. Melegal thought Sefron was one of the most disgusting men he had ever seen. He never got used to his appearance. I’d hate to be his mirror.

  Sefron gave him one final leer and shoved by him, barking at the nearest servant. Melegal didn’t stick around to see what happened, either. He breezed through the door and entered the serving corridors that surrounded the main castle floors. As much as he enjoyed jerking the cleric around, he knew he had to be careful. Sefron had displayed talents he lacked in the world of magic, and magic was something he preferred to avoid. The cleric had also been around the Almen family for decades and was favored by Lord Almen for some insane reason. No, Sefron had his uses, just like he did. In the meantime, Melegal felt it best to avoid the cleric whenever he could, but not take any of his slat, either. He allowed himself a smile. He just had to be sure to watch his back, which he was comfortable with.

  He pulled back a portion of a blue velvet curtain and looked into one of the main living chambers of the castle. It was just past the crack of dawn. Sunlight began to shine through the stained glass windows above. A serving girl was watering fresh-cut flowers while another dusted. No Royals were around, or sentries either, which was good. Lord Almen insisted he maintain a low profile and avoid conversations with his family beyond passing courtesy. It was a great idea to him, but if a Royal demanded his conversation he had to play along. Hence, he avoided the castle most of the time, as their probing and demanding nature made him feel confined. However, a few simple words such as, Excuse me, but Lord Almen is expecting me, and I don’t want to be late, seemed to do the trick. But their questions also revealed to him much about them. He stored that knowledge deep under his cap.

  He stepped through the living room, marveling at the exquisite design. Paintings, tapestries, and decorations, each of which was worth a small fortune, adorned the room. There was a sofa large enough to sleep ten people from end to end. Melegal always wanted to sit on that sofa, filled with plush pillows and made of cattle-neck leather. He had never even touched it. He walked close to the edge of its seat, fingers twitching. There was just something about that couch that seemed forbidden, like many other things in the castle. I bet it’s never been napped on before.

  “It’s a beautiful couch, isn’t it Detective?”

  Melegal turned, a bit quicker than normal, at the sound of the woman’s voice. There she stood, in another entrance-way, arms folded … Lord Almen’s wife. He was at a loss for words for a moment, his eyes glancing into hers, then down to the floor.

  “Yes ma’am … it is,” he said, pulling his hat from his head.

  She began coming his way and said, “Would you like to sit in it, Detective?”

  “No ma’am. No thank you.”

  “Look at me,” she said in a stern voice.

  He obeyed, much to his pleasure. Lord Almen’s wife was perfection from head to toe. Her face was soft and elegant, beautiful cat-shaped eyes, and voice that seemed to purr. He didn’t feel worthy of being so close to such a beautiful creature. In an instant he locked in every detail of her being. She wore soft leather sandals that matched her painted toes. Her legs were shaven and showed a tanned sheen underneath a dark cherry colored robe that cut off at her upper thigh. A loose black belt around her tiny waist kept the robe from falling open. She held the neck closed above her ample chest, and her teeth were white as snow. He was convinced he would do anything she told him to do, and he just hoped it wouldn’t get him killed. She continued.

  “Let me give you a command, Detective. Do not ever call me ma’am again. If you do, I’ll have your skin flayed from your back. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes … Lorda Almen?”

  He looked up and held her gaze, knowing full well she was considering having his skin flayed from his back. Her eyes were intelligent and contemplating, and he began to feel like his days were suddenly numbered. Oh no, what have I said.

  “Sit down on the couch, Detective. Get comfortable.”

  He did as she said, but he didn’t feel one bit comfortable.

  She sat down beside him, crossed her legs, and said, “I bought his from a caravan of merchants from the City of Hohm. Actually, they came into this castle and stitched its entirety together. Very impressive, isn’t it?” she said, rubbing one of the couch arms by her side with a delicate and bejeweled hand.

  “Yes, Lorda Almen.”

  “Lorda will do, Detective. Of course, Royal Lorda Almen would have been the correct response, as you would address my husband as Royal Lord Almen. Do you understand, Detective?”

  “Yes.”

  How can a woman smell as good as she looks? It was a trivial thought, but a reflex, as he was getting nervous. He should have remembered how big the Royals were on titles after all the years he had spent working beneath them. Servants often were whipped for less. He needed to get out of here, offer his excuse.

  “Of course, I don’t care for all of the titles, but it is my role as the head matron of the castle, to see to it that all are addressed properly and according to the common rules of social etiquette. Royal etiquette, that is. So Detective, I suggest that you be very careful how you address me among others. I would hate to see you lose your tongue because of a simple slip of it.”

  “Thank you, Lorda.”

  Lorda Almen shifted in her seat, allowing her robes to briefly fall open. He glanced. Her eyes were stern as she gave him a once over from head to toe. Blast your eyes, Thief! He didn’t know whether to look at her or away, but he held her steady stare. It seemed safest to keep his eyes where he could see hers.

  “So Detective,” she purred, “can you use your powers of deduction to tell me how much money I spent on this incredibly comfortable couch?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ah … a quick reply. I like that. Very good, and you are right. I did not pay for it, and nor did my husband. Do you care to consider why we didn’t have to pay?”

  “Because they were doing you a favor, Lorda?”

  “No … it is because after I had them build it, I couldn’t bear for them to make another just like it … so I had them killed.”

  He knew it. He wasn’t going to say it, but he knew it. He needed to get out of here, and he didn’t want to know any more. He sat still as a stone, her eyes still searching his, testing his reaction. She seemed frustrated that her story hadn’t garnered one. He couldn’t help but swallow, though. It was time for him to make his exit.

  “Lorda—”

  “Ah-Ah-Ah … don’t speak unless spoken to, Detective. Now come with me.”

  He didn’t want to leave the couch now, and going anywhere else with her was a really bad idea. He hoped another Royal or servant, anybody, would show up and offer a distraction so he could weasel his was out. At the moment though, the castle seemed like a graveyard. It was breakfast time, and they were a long way from the dining hall, and getting farther with every step it seemed.

  She led him up a small flight of marble stairs and stopped on the middle landing. An ornate vase of pewter, black, and gold sat on a shelf, filled with fresh white roses. Just above it was a painting. Oh slat! Melegal’s narrow shoulders grew tight as he began to wring his hat from behind his back. Let me go. Let me go. Let me go. Lorda Almen studied his gaze, which had returned back to hers. Please don’t let this be about him.

  “Detectiv
e, I am in need of your services, and it is something that is to be kept between the two of us.”

  He gave her a subtle nod.

  “Good … Now the man in the portrait is my son dearest son, Tonio.”

  The mere mention of the name sent chills down Melegal’s spine.

  “He has gone missing for many months. My husband assures me that he is in the south, soldiering on a mission, but that is not the understanding I have from my sources. I cherish my husband Almen more than life itself, but he keeps many things from me, protecting me, so to speak.”

  No … controlling you, so to speak.

  “But my son Tonio is special to me. His siblings don’t compare, despite their talents …”

  Melegal could feel the truth of her words, and her eyes watered as she grazed the portrait with her finger tips. Her sincerity was genuine, but Melegal couldn’t understand how she could adore a monster like Tonio. Only a mother could love that man, something he would never understand. Still, her long-lashed eyes suggested there was some good in her, unlike many of the others he crossed in the castle.

  “… and this portrait is about all I have left of him,” she said, letting out a small sob.

  He wanted to jam his hat on his head and suggest she let him be, but the effort might offend her. His hat might be lost, and he didn’t want that. It was too risky. He was going to have to stick this one out, despite his discomfort around one of the most powerful women in the City of Bone.

  Her voice regained control as she said, “I want you to find out what happened to him, even if the news is the worst. I need to know if he’s dead or alive. I don’t care which, and I want proof.”

  Great, maybe I should just go into Lord Almen’s study and ask to be flogged to death.

  “There was another detective, McKnight was his name, and if you can locate him he may be of some assistance. He was in our service, but my husband has told me that his services had become inadequate and that he found a more favorable replacement … you.”

  Are the dead ever really dead these days? Is it possible that if I shovel a giant pile of pig slat that the man will be re-born? Why not; I’ll get right on it.

  “Again, Detective, I cannot emphasize how imperative it is that you keep this between us. If my husband were to find out he would be upset with me, so I will be grateful for your discretion. A man can gain much when he pleases me.”

  She ran her finger down his chest to his belt and stopped.

  “I expect to hear from you as soon as you find something. I realize that these delicate things can take some time,” she paused, “but I am not a very patient woman.”

  “Yes Lorda.”

  “I believe my husband is awaiting your arrival, and I suggest you don’t be late.”

  Melegal watched her perfect legs for a moment as she headed back up the stairs and disappeared. I can’t believe this! Why me? It was hard enough working directly for Lord Almen, and now he worked for his wife ... in secret. He would have avoided the castle altogether if not for the willing serving girls, the good food, and the excellent wine. Now it seemed as if he had escaped from one net only to land in another. He made his way through the busy kitchen, ignoring the stares of the servants. He passed a sentry at the top at a door and headed down the stone steps toward Royal Lord Almen’s meeting place. A large wooden door awaited him there. What would the Royal Lord have for him today? It was always something new and despicable. He hesitated.

  Knock! Knock!

  *****

  Lorda Almen was unhappy. She missed her son dearly and didn’t believe her husband. She had spent weeks trying to figure out exactly what had happened to Tonio, but to no avail. Now, desperate and angry, she decided to reach out to one of Lord Almen’s own. The house Detective Melegal gave her some hope, and she knew he could be swayed. He seemed to take her threats seriously, but they were harmless. She could lie with conviction—as was part of her role—just as naturally as strolling down the hall.

  She had told the detective the story of the couch, a tale, nothing more, as the sofa pre-existed her days in Castle Almen. It seemed he had believed her, and that was all that mattered. She wasn’t one to commit murder for the simple prize, but she was close to those who were. She made her way back to her quarters and sat down on the edge of her bed. A serving girl was there, cleaning and dusting. The girl bowed and began to dismiss herself.

  “Stay. I need my feet rubbed.”

  The young girl, dressed in a plain gray smock and black-dyed slacks, sank down on both knees, removed Lorda Almen’s sandals, and began to rub her feet. Lorda let out a sigh, laid back on the bed, and ran her slender hands through her black hair. It felt good to be the Lorda of the Almen house.

  “Now, be sure and do a good job, or I’ll have you whipped.”

  Chapter 3

  Mood pulled out a cigar and lit it up. The aroma was strong, like burning wheat and cherries. Fogle caught a solid whiff and said, “That’s not bad. Let me have one; I used to smoke a pipe back home.”

  “Ho! Ho! Naw, Little Man. This is dwarven smoke, mystic and strong. Ye’ve got ta have the right blood, dwarven blood, or out you go. The smoke will do ye fine.”

  The cigar smoke was thick, hanging in the air like a yellow mist. Fogle stepped inside and sucked it in, holding his nose.

  “Heh, what are you doing, Little Man? You’ll be flying back home if you aren’t careful,” Mood said, fanning the smoke away with his meaty hand.

  Fogle didn’t care. The smoke was just what he needed, that and a bath, maybe even a woman, too. He thought of Kam and the last conversation they had. He had never spoken so long to a woman before, not to his sisters or his mother even. He found her splendid, intelligent, and voluptuous. He made sure to burn a mental image of her in his mind: long auburn hair, sweet eyes, a soft face, and her chest swelling behind the laces of her dress. What if Venir were not to come back? Did that even matter? This was Bish after all.

  “Mood?”

  “Yes, Little Man.”

  “How did you come to know Venir?”

  Somehow, Fogle could see a reflective expression in Mood’s eyes. Fogle had never noticed them before: deep, ancient and thoughtful.

  Mood said, “Ah, now that tis somethin’ I’ve never spoke of before, or bin asked for the matter. Funny ye should ask. I’ve been thinkin’ about it lately myself. I’ve been wandering this world for centuries, ain’t ever met a man like him but once.”

  Fogle pulled off his boots and began rubbing his burning feet. Even with a horse, he still did more walking than he was accustomed to on the rugged terrain. He rocked forward and asked, “Really, why is that?”

  “It just is,” Mood said, letting out a puff of smoke. Fogle Boon swore he saw an image of Venir appear in the smoke. He blinked hard, but the image had dissipated.

  “It just is because you haven’t known many men, or it just is because of something else?”

  “Ha, I’ve known many men. Fought with em’ and against em’ all over. I’ve seen the best and worst. Nay, tis somethin’ else.”

  He hesitated before he asked.

  “Is it because he’s … the Darkslayer?”

  “No, he was different long before that.”

  Fogle Boon shifted on the hard ground. Mood’s words and tone offered a great deal of mystery. The way the dwarf spoke, Venir was just as unique as himself. He was beginning to understand that quite possibly, he could learn more from this dwarf than from any other man. Of all the brilliant wizards who had schooled him all of his life, he began to realize that Mood had more wisdom than all of them combined. The Blood Ranger was more than just a burly body that cut down trees in a single stroke. The dwarf was a part of Bish that no human could have ever lived long enough to see for himself. Fogle wanted to learn more from Mood, and if he had to ask questions all night long to do it, he would.

  “So Mood, how long have you known Venir then?”

  “Since he was a boy, about tis tall,” Mood said, holding his hand
up high above his head.

  There was more odd silence. Fogle was used to people offering more to the conversation beyond one-sentence answers. Back home, in the City of Three, the men would never shut up. Each man had a story to tell, a menial, boorish yarn of something astounding and pointless they had achieved that day. Of course, he was no different. He remembered a particular story of his own; he had bragged about how he had mastered a spell in a day that took most magi a week. Or, there was the time when he had defeated a senior classmate with a whipping spell. He never would have known how shallow and vain he was if Venir hadn't come into his life. Now the mere presence of Mood made him realize how pointless all the things he cherished were. He felt ashamed.

  Fogle spoke in a stronger voice now and asked, “Mood, will you tell me, in detail, the circumstances of how you came to know Venir?”

  Mood’s head tilted as he turned to face him.

  “It started in Dwarven Hole. Tis’ there that we breed the dwarven setters, like Chongo. The setters are as ancient as us, going back as far as we know. Chongo was one of a litter of pups, not so much different than da rest. A few months after they’re born we take’em out with us. They're natural hunters, trackers, and swimmers, but they still need trained. They can be hard to break, but that’s why ta Blood Rangers train em’. We can teach em’ things that others can’t.”

  An image the shape of Chongo hung in the air and drifted away. How does he do that? He thought about how Chongo, the massive two-headed dog, had looked when he was being taken back to Dwarven Hole for healing. One of the pooch’s heads had still sagged near the ground. It had been almost lifeless, it’s big brown eyes barely open and its tongue hanging from its mouth. The other head had seemed sad and alone, and the memory saddened Fogle Boon as well. He wondered if one head could survive without the other. Back in Dwarven Hole, Mikkel and Billip had told him that Chongo used to have only one head. For some reason, it had seemed hard to believe. Fogle opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. Mood’s lips were still moving. I'd better not stop him now.