Verbard could feel the heart weakening now as the black javelin kept boring farther into the man’s body. Blood was spilling to the ground in sizzling drops. The pain the brothers inflicted on the man must have been excruciating and unbearable. It made Verbard feel good. He could feel the man dying in his grasp. He is mine! Verbard’s mind squeezed harder, determined to squeeze the heart into a bloody pulp. His own chest began to burn from the effort now as the old wound from the Warfield was flaring up. He needed this man’s heart to stop. He needed the man to die.
Catten walked over and plunged another mystic javelin through the man’s back. Blood erupted from underneath the Darkslayer’s helmet. That should do it, Verbard thought. His own strength was fading. The energy of the spell was not without its limits. He had to hang on just a little longer. Something shuddered beneath his feet, and rocks and debris began to fall down the hill side.
Thoom!
Verbard almost lost his footing as the ground quaked. He still felt the beating heart in his hands. He hung on, sweating profusely and gasping for air.
Thoom!
He watched his brother Catten, who began looking around in wonder. The sound that shook the hillside was getting closer and louder
Thoom! Thoom! Thoom! Thoom!
The sound stopped. Verbard didn’t. Thump-Thump. The Darkslayer’s heart was still beating in his hands, but he didn’t know if the spell was weakening or if it was a man. He watched as Catten floated high off the ground and began taking slow turns in the air. His brother's golden eyes were searching. Whatever the strange source of the sound was, it didn’t have him worried. The Darkslayer was his only concern, and the Darkslayer was almost dead.
Verbard watched his brother rise out of the ravine. His own heart skipped a beat as a massive face appeared in the sky. Verbard could not hide his alarm as a hand the size of a door swatted his brother Catten to the ground like a tiny bird. Above him, standing on the edge of the ravine above, was a giant.
“No!” Verbard hissed. He fought to maintain his focus on the spell. He backed into the hillside, crouching down, hiding from the giant above. How!? The figure was so big he needed time to get a full look. It was a man, thick, hairy and corded, wearing ordinary trousers and a heavy tunic that blended in with the hillside. How could he have missed the giant? Had it been here all along? There was nothing extraordinary about the giant, other than the fact it was more than twice as tall as a man. The giant’s hair was pulled back in many brown braids. Its face was hard and bearded. It wore no armor and had no weapons. It was just bigger than the hillside. Catten had no time to deal with the giant … he had more important things to do. “You’re on your own, Brother.”
The giant was reaching down in the ravine now, trying to catch his brother. Catten was flattened on the ground, rolling over and scrambling to recover. The giant’s monstrous fingers were just a few feet away when Catten let out a blast of lightning. The giant jerked back its hand and howled like a thunderstorm, shaking the branches above. The giant was studying its scorched hand, its face twisted in anger and pain. Its brows crinkled as it tried to clench its inhuman hand that was now red with peeling skin. It bellowed like a hundred ogres gone mad. It also stepped down into the ravine.
Verbard kept up the pressure. His brother would have to battle the giant without him. I must finish this! Still the man’s heart beat in his clutches. Thump-thump. He could not get it to stop. His chest and mind were burning from the effort. His silver eyes were flashes of lightning, and his forehead was dripping with sweat. What would it take to kill this man? Verbard could see the brute lying face down in the ground, blood seeping into the stone. The spiked helmet was cock-eyed on the man’s head, the metal scale armor was seared and red with blood. Die, Human, die! But doubt was beginning to settle in. He thought he might have to try something else. Farther down the ravine, his brother Catten had his hands full. The giant filled the ravine with its gargantuan back, its arms slapping in the air, trying to smash the miniscule underling. Catten was floating high above again, summoning tree roots from the ground to ensnare the giant. Massive roots burst from the ground, growing around the giant’s legs like serpents and dragging it to the earth. It slowed the giant, but Verbard swore the giant’s bellow was a laugh as it tore the roots and trees clear from the ground. Catten launched a series of emerald green missiles into its eyes. It roared now, slinging a tree at the underling. Catten flew upward, now cackling, himself.
Verbard needed his brother to distract the giant a little longer. The heartbeats were becoming weaker. His own chest felt like it was about to collapse, though. Blood trickled from his mouth as his sharp teeth dug into his lip. More, more, more! He summoned everything he had left in him. His grip almost enclosed the white light inside it. Just a few moments more! Come on! Die, Darkslayer! Die! The light inside his palms was gone. The rock hard organ became a sponge in his clawed hands. Thump. The Darkslayer was done.
Chapter 10
Melegal wasn’t accustomed to the feeling of helplessness, that or surprise. As his toes dangled from the floor he could only think of one thing. Escape! It didn’t seem within his ability at the moment. Instead, he was a toddler, in the grips of a man. He didn’t twitch, flail, or kick. He wouldn’t give his adversary the satisfaction. Think or die!
A hard voice spoke in his ear.
“Almen didn’t become the 3rd House of Bone on account of mercy, Detective.”
Melegal could almost feel the man’s lips on his earlobe. He could smell peach cider on his breath.
“I’ve wrenched bigger necks than yours for less. Your results had better be more meaningful the next time. You have potential, Detective, but I am not convinced. Time is running out.”
Melegal couldn’t agree more. How had such a beautiful morning turned so bad? He thought of that savory serving girl and swore if he survived he’d have her again. He thought of Quickster as the blood stopped running to his head. He had spent most of his life avoiding situations such as this, and here he was imprisoned by it, all because of Venir.
“Mercy is something you need to remove from your life if you want to live, Detective. I’ve no time for compassion among my staff. Do you understand?”
He couldn’t breathe, but he could understand. Somehow, he managed to let his blue face nod. He felt another tight squeeze before he was released. He dropped to the floor, but didn’t fall to his knees. He gasped for air, once, but not twice. He said, “No mercy, Lord Almen.” Then he opened the door and walked away.
Melegal ascended the stone steps three at a time. He didn’t notice the smell of the fine breakfast casseroles and coffee. It was something he had gotten accustomed to, but now all he could think of was escape. The kitchen was busy with several hands hard at work, not taking any notice of the thief of Bone. He went on his way, not casting a glance anywhere but ahead. The castle was large, but he padded his way through it like a cat. If other Royals and their ilk crossed his path, he’d find another one. He was determined not to have another conversation with anyone else in the castle this day.
As far as he knew, the castle had one main entrance that everyone used. It was the smart defensive thing to do, but Melegal had come across other entrances. There were always other entrances. He passed some stern-looking sentries as he slipped on his hat. I should have left you on. The Royals and their particular manners were a nuisance. It was just more meaningless etiquette from the vilest of people.
Melegal could see the small portcullis ahead, opening into the streets of the City of Bone. Two more sentries barred his path, but they stepped aside. Buffoons! As he passed them, the morning suns shined brightly in his eyes, and the foul air of the city seemed to cleanse him. The air in the castle had gotten stiff. In ten more steps he disappeared into the city. He needed some wine.
The farther he got from the castle, the better he felt. The sounds of the busy streets and shouting merchants were like music. His uneasiness and fear began to quell. It took some time to get there, and it
seemed to be farther away than ever before, but when he arrived he felt at home. The Drunken Octopus welcomed him with empty tables and an extinguishing fire. A few sour faces at the bar paid him no mind, nor did the others that were slouched over on the tables. A burly fellow in a mottled jerkin was tickling a chubby dirty blonde that sat on his lap. The smell of sour wine and other putrid things made Melegal’s stomach growl.
He found his spot in the corner, back to the wall, with the fireplace on his left. A scrawny woman with a shaven patch of black hair showed up, wiping her greasy fingers on an oversized apron.
“Gruel and wine.”
She tossed two logs from a metal cauldron into the fireplace before she limped away.
The tavern wasn’t quiet; there were snores, creaking floors, and the sound of a happy drunk man and giggling woman, but it gave him some peace. The rock of the fireplace at his side was warming up now, and the fresh tinder began to crackle. It wasn’t long before the serving girl dragged herself back and set down a steaming bowl of gray stew and a bottle of purple wine. He slid over some steel and copper coins. The frown on the girl’s long face almost turned upward before she trudged off. Melegal’s time to sulk had come. The muscles in his back began to ease.
Lord Almen had surprised him. How such a big man had managed to sneak up on him from behind without so much as a sound he could not figure. Melegal rubbed his neck. He could still feel the man’s strong hands crushing his throat, cutting off his air. He took a long drink of wine, then another ... and another. He still could feel the metal of the man’s rings, five in all, on his skin. He tried to picture himself in the room, tried to imagine how Lord Almen had done it. The man was tall, with a medium build, at least two hundred twenty pounds, and like a ghost he had crept up on Melegal, blindsided him, and startled him. Melegal had his talents. He was an excellent thief. However, what Lord Almen had done was beyond him. Magic, it must be. But his instincts told him it was not. Lord Almen was no mere Royal. He ran his mind through the events a hundred times. Extraordinary.
The wine and gruel were beginning to warm his belly and lighten his dour mood. He couldn’t forget the feeling of those hands closing around his neck. The Royals weren’t all fat-bodied wine bags. They were taught skills and talents, beginning in childhood, from the best instructors in Bish. Melegal had witnessed much of that in the castle while he was working as an urchin. The children were drilled every day, each talent drawn from their spoiled and unwilling bodies. Melegal’s spying and curiosity had even learned him a thing or two. So what exactly was Lord Almen, so poised, placid, and discreet? Could he be an assassin? Absolutely, the Royals of the City of Bone kept close quarters with them. I better be more careful what I drink and eat around there.
He shoveled in another mouthful of gruel that was bland, hot, and filling. Another spoonful should do. Melegal fanned out his fingers, giving them a studious look. Hanging around the castle seemed to have fattened him up. His usually slender fingers seemed a tad meaty. Too many biscuits with honey. I must have had two this week. He swallowed another spoonful, washed it down with some wine, and leaned back in his chair. As long as nobody talks to me this next hour, I’ll be fine.
It was his time for meditation, something that was self-taught. His mind had been rattled. It was time to regain his mental composure. He closed his eyes, pulled his cap over his head, and blocked out all sound. He pictured himself in a room with many candles: dozens, hundreds, thousands. They were white, unlit, and in a dark room. The candles were sitting on the ground, encircling him like a pin wheel that spanned out as far as he could see. He pictured himself sitting there in the middle of all these candles and using his mind to light each candle in order, one by one, spinning as he did so.
He breathed quietly through his nose as the candles flared to life, one after the other. The light did not brighten as the candles lit. The darkness stayed the same. He was careful not to light any candles out of order. He made sure they remained lit as he went on to the others, as well. He faltered, noticing a black spot of extinguished candles nearby. He blew out all the candles with a gentle breath and started all over again, one by one, round and round. He didn’t count them. He just lit them until they were all alight, as far as his eyes could see. He hovered over them now, watching them stretch a hundred feet all around. When he was satisfied, he quit.
He opened his eyes and saw the waitress taking away his gruel. The fire beside him was blazing with life. Judging by the light of the two suns, only thirty minutes had passed. He felt better, refocused, and wanting to use his crafty mind to get out of this jam. The Royals would never let him go, not now. He either had to make the best of it, or get out of town. In the meantime, he had to play along, and playing along was actually something he enjoyed.
The Drunken Octopus was one of the most run-down taverns in Bone, but it was one of the most entertaining as well. It was entertaining for a thief anyway, as Melegal watched a variety of Bone dwellers plying their trades. The people in the Octopus were a cut above the common ilk, more brazen and desperate than their neighbors. They tended to live in the tiny apartments that outlined the streets, coming to unwind from a brutal day of hard work. It had merchants with colored clothes with armpits stained in sweat. The wenches were painted like parakeets. The make-up they wore did little to cover their flaws, but in the dark who would notice.
Things got busier the later the day. It was about this time that Melegal had preferred to saunter down from his room and ply his own trade—being nosy. As the room filled to about half capacity he checked for new faces and old. There were regulars who he knew like close friends, but they didn’t know him. Then the others came, to make a shady deal, or succumb to the eager lips of a willing wench. Men and women that didn’t want to be found would come and go. Hard faces and pleasure seekers mingled, swapping services, bribes, inducers, and information. Melegal was amazed at what he came by, just from listening, but nothing caught his interest.
A man and woman, in dusty boots and weathered cloaks, sat a few tables away. Their heads were close, each casting a glance over their shoulders every once in a while. They spoke in low voices, but Melegal was watching their lips, picking up on their words. The woman had short braided hair and a pink split lip, and the man was big-headed and lazy eyed. He could see weapons concealed beneath their clothes, but that was nothing out of the ordinary, as only a fool would come to the Octopus unarmed.
Melegal caught the eye of a wench, half-clad with painted pink toes. She sat down by his side, draped her arm over his, and started rubbing it gently.
“What will it be, Handsome?”
He could smell her perfume, and it was as resistible as pickled eggs. She was fair for a woman, a bit grubby, young, and playful. She showed a pair of splendid legs with skinned up knees under her skirt, but that was about all. He slid a few coins over her way.
“Just drink with me and I’ll let you know what I want as we go.”
“Whatever you say,” she said, scooting closer, twirling her stringy hair and rubbing his leg.
He didn’t mind her proximity, instead he talked and she acted interested. All the while he focused on the man and woman adjacent to him. They were busy being careful of spying eyes and burning ears. The table wench would be a distraction for him as he pretended to laugh at his own jokes. Melegal talked, and she was a natural at playing along. He told her a story about himself and Venir, long ago.
Melegal noted more details from the pair he was spying on. The woman was rugged from long travel or hard work. He supposed she would clean up nice, though. She had delicate fingers, but dirty nails. She was running them over the man’s arm. They drank ale, a pitcher that had been filled twice. She spoke to the man and he grumbled at her words. The man was big, not muscular, but formidable. The man had a big oblong head, saggy cheeks, droopy eyes, and a small chin. The man’s fingers were big and stubby, always rubbing his chin and the back of his head.
They’re nervous over something.
&nbs
p; The pair weren’t any more out of place than anyone else, but Melegal knew they were out of their element. It was interesting.
“What shall I call you tonight, Handsome?” Melegal’s companion said.
He patted her knee and gave it a squeeze.
“Venir will do.” Why not?
“Ooh … I like it, Venir.”
Melegal recommitted to his task. Reading lips in a busy bar wasn’t easy. The couple wasn’t talking so much as waiting. Something told him they had something he needed to know. The woman, whoever she might be, had something to hide. Besides, he needed to bone up on some of his skills. This was how he usually found marks for his skims, and it had been awhile since he had done one. You don’t need to be doing this, Thief. You’ve got bigger things to do. But the other side of him would say, The Bish with it all; you’re dead anyway. Steal some coin!
The wine and the wench were beginning to soften his position. It could put him at risk. He didn’t have any back-up, either. It had been a long enough day already. Maybe I should just go upstairs and call it a night. But night was when he did his best work. He noticed the cloaked woman talking again, and he had a clear shot at her thick sun-dried lips. He saw her saying, “...the platinum and emeralds aren’t worth this.” Then the woman’s round eyes caught his. Melegal shot her a wink, and she didn’t like it. Just being friendly, no need to scowl.
The woman tapped her companion on the forearm and nodded his way. The big man with offset eyes leered over at Melegal. The man ran his hands through his tuft of blonde hair, continuing his glare. Frightening and ugly. Certainly stupid, too.
“You ever seen this pair before?” he said to the wench.
She looked over at them and said, “Nope.”
Melegal fought the urge to look away from the man. He had no reason to. Just a little longer and the man will come unglued. Both the man and the woman were staring back at him now, their faces turning dark. Go ahead, get up and tell me more. The big man did. The man towered over six and a half feet tall. He could see a heavy sword under the man's opened cloak. The woman sat still, poised, hands inside her sleeves. Something’s in there. As the man walked over, he could hear the floor boards groan.
The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge Page 5