The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge

by Craig Halloran

Why do all the work when you don’t have to?

  Chapter 42

  He waited, arms crossed and hunched over the table. A waif for a waitress showed up, offering more wine. It was the one Venir always hated. The warrior had been right, the woman never seemed right, spilling the wine almost every time she tilted the bottle. Melegal shook his head and waved her away. The working class was filling in now, men and women covered in grit and smelling like pig oil. He swore not a one of them was clean, only him, but he didn’t feel clean, rather dirty and wet instead. A man in filthy trousers and a rope belt pitched another log in the fire, staggered, and bumped his table. Melegal snatched his goblet off the table before it spilt any wine.

  “Ss-sorry, Sir, I didn’t see yer table,” the man said with a slur, belching, then stumbling along the floor.

  Nearby, a woman was dancing and singing on a table. Her blouse came loose as she wiggled her skirt in front of the men, hopped down and straddled one. The men let out a raunchy cheer as the woman made her way around the table, kissing them all. Somewhere a banjo played, but it was cut short from shouts and hurled objects of disdain.

  “Get out of here, Troubadour! You don’t want to end up like that last one!”

  The troubadour, older with graying hair and a garish face, tipped his cap, bowed, and exited. It was the oddest of things for Melegal: Luke the lute player was gone, dead as a toad. He didn’t even know where the man was buried: no place for the body, no friend for a funeral. No, the City Watch wouldn’t have come to drag him out, either. There was no justice here. The body was probably dragged off and sold to somebody for disposal. He could only imagine where: the sewers, the cadaver caves, or the everlasting incinerators. Bone’s greatest secrets lay down there. It was another place he dreaded to go, alive anyway.

  The stone fire place was hot on the left side of his face as he rolled his shoulders. A group of men, unlike the usual kind, came in. Brawny and armed with swords, they each donned a brand on their cheeks that had little meaning to Melegal. Thugs. Plenty of hard cases found their way into the Octopus now and again, but not so often. These men, scarred and unpleasant, were determined to find a table, most of which were now full. He ran his hands over his vest and pants. All there.

  One of them grabbed his unpleasant serving girl by the arm.

  “Ale and grog for all of us, Wench,” he said, shoving her away. She struggled to gain her balance before falling to the floor. They all laughed as she crawled away.

  Melegal rubbed his head. Everywhere he went, something agitating followed. I should have locked myself in the room. It wouldn’t be so bad right now if Venir was there. There wasn’t the same kind of order in the Octopus since he hadn’t been around. And what about the woman, Vorla, and the man-boy, Brak? He wondered if he should have done more to help them . If Venir had a son, would he even want to know? Strange boy, stranger father.

  He was so deep in thought that he almost didn’t notice that the gang of thugs now shadowed his table. One man pulled up a chair and sat himself down. He had a meaty face with an unkempt head of black hair, sideburns and a thick moustache. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing two corded forearms and butcher's hands. He licked his lips as he talked.

  “Say, you wouldn’t mind if me and my men took your table now, would you?”

  “I am expecting company, besides, I don’t think you want this table,” he replied, matter-of-factly.

  The man grunted, “Huh, and why is that? Can you talk to tables?”

  The gang of formidable men laughed along with their leader. Each was fingering the pommel of his blade. All eyes were intent on Melegal.

  He let out a slight smile and said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I can.”

  “Really, and what did the table say?’

  “It told me it didn’t like arseholes … you in particular.” Melegal rubbed his hand over the table and patted it, saying, “Now, now table, that’s not very nice to say to an ugly stranger.”

  The man leaned back, his face filling with a dangerous look.

  One. Two. Three. Four. All bigger and tougher than me. The odds have never been better.

  The man’s hand dropped down to his knife.

  “I’ve asked ya nice. The last man that made me ask twice found himself stuck on the end of my blade. I don’t think you want that.”

  Four blades are probably more like it, all in the back I imagine.

  Melegal noticed the other patrons going about their business like he and the men weren’t even there. Nobody was coming to his aid. It was unusual. Even in the Octopus, the regulars tended to look out for their own. Their current disinterest in his predicament could be attributed to one thing, the new stink he had from working for one of the Royal castles. To them, he was better off dead than alive. He was pretty sure about one thing, though. These men don’t need many reasons to kill me. It had been a bad enough day. He thought maybe he should go, but his pride didn’t see it that way. He rubbed the brooch tucked in his vest. Maybe ... Probably not.

  Melegal sat up straight in his chair and edged forward.

  “Let me ask you a question. Have you ever heard of the Warfield?”

  The men looked at one another then back at him. One’s fingers slipped inside his clothes, while another slipped a dagger into his hand.

  “I have. What’s that got to do with anything?” the leader across from him replied, slipping a wide bladed dagger from the sheath. It was stained with blood, the metal workings showing signs of age and rust.

  Melegal looked deeper into the man’s eyes and said, “Have you ever been there? Better yet, have you ever been in a battle there?”

  The leader shifted in his seat, fingers rubbing along the edge of his blade. The others were spreading out now, enclosing the table, blotting out the light.

  “I’ve been there, and I’ve fought and lived,” the thug retorted.

  Melegal saw the man’s eyes flick up to the left before settling back on him. The rest of the thugs cast more glances among themselves. Liar. He’s no soldier, never has been. A killer, maybe.

  “Well you see, there’s something we have in common. I’ve fought there, too. I fought underlings, I did: mages, Badoon, the Vicious and the like. My, you could have filled ten barrels with all the blood we spilled. You ever see underlings bleed? The blood is reddish black, mostly black, though. Slick like oil, not sticky like men’s. So—”

  “He’s lying!” “Look at him, he ain’t fought nothing but hunger all his life.”

  “Just beat him or kill him, Jeb! I wanna sit down! Shut the rat up!”

  Melegal began to stiffen at the remark. How many more times would he be called that today? The seated leader, Jeb, pulled back his shoulders, but his eyes had a wary look now. Melegal’s words were convincing, and Jeb leaned back. Now the tension was real. The thugs, stupid as they may be, were dangerous. They had survived this long on weaker prey and desperate wits. Melegal always knew with distinction when the moment came to run, fight, or die. In this case, for some unusual reason, he was in the mood for a fight. Reason wasn’t going to work on these men today, if any day. They were willing to be wounded or die just to have his table.

  “It’s time for you to move on,” Jeb said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “If you move quick I’ll let you live … too slow, we just cut you down. I don’t see any Warfield warriors to help you out, either. Maybe you’ve been there, but I don’t think you ever fought a single thing. I’ll give you to five.”

  “I’m impressed you can count that high.”

  “Three, then. One!”

  The men pressed closer to the table. Melegal didn’t bat an eye.

  “Two!”

  The calloused hands across from him were white to the knuckle on the hilt of the blade.

  “I challenge you!” Melegal shouted, bolting up from his chair.

  Chapter 43

  He hit something hard, and all of the air burst from his lungs. Something bit into his side. Venir lay there like he had just bee
n thrown from a third-story window. He was now a piece of pavement where there was no road. He didn’t move; he couldn’t, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. There was one thought crystal clear in his mind. I stopped!

  It was dark, and he wasn’t sure if his eyes were opened or closed. He wasn’t sure he wanted to open them if they were closed. What would be there when he did, more mist or something else? He began to shuffle around, still fighting for his breath. The ground was cool, as compared to the cold that had been rushing around him for what seemed to be forever. The feeling in his extremities began to return, pins and needles, the pain reminding his brain he was still alive. He opened his eyes.

  Mist. More mist. He cursed out loud. But, at least he knew he was somewhere. He clutched at his side. There was blood, but the wound wasn’t bad. He felt around his feet and found his knife. He felt the ground; it was packed dirt or clay with loose soil on top, brown maybe. The mist swirled in patterns around his hand as it moved the dust. He could see something; it wasn’t much but it was something, a road maybe.

  Venir craned his neck, closing his eyes. There was a gentle wind brushing over the fine hair on his ears, nothing more. He listened for minutes, desperate for a sound, any sound. Nothing. He felt some excitement as he stood up. The ground beneath him gave him new life. Brool!

  He had forgotten about his war-axe, not that there was much need for the thing. He had lost it before. He ran his hands over his armor, his helm, the girdle and backpack. All there. He got on his hands and knees and began crawling around. It was better than standing, as this way he could see more around him, almost two feet. The mist didn’t seem as thick down here.

  “Ah!”

  He wrapped his hand around the bottom of Brool’s iron-shod handle. He hefted the thing. It was cool, not warm like he was used to. He took off his backpack and opened it up. He pulled out the leather sack, putting the axe inside. It disappeared in the black depths of the bag. He unbuckled the strap from his helmet, pulled it off, looked at it for a moment, and then closed his eyes. Nothing changed. There was only a chronic dampness that hung in the air. It felt good though, the odd wind blowing across his neck. He dropped the helmet inside the sack, and the girdle. He figured the new coolness would feel even better on his wounds without the armor. He unstrapped the sides of the scale mail and slipped it off. It was refreshing. He lay back on the ground, stomach rumbling, but he didn’t mind as he let his limbs thaw.

  As he lay there, he considered doing something he had never done before. He wondered if he could put Mood's dwarven armor in the sack. All these years, he had never tried putting anything else inside out of fear he might lose it or the magical armament.

  “It’s got to end some time.”

  He stuffed the dwarven armor in the sack and let go. He pulled the ties closed, then opened them back up. He reached inside. He pulled out and axe, girdle, and helm, but the dwarven armor was gone.

  “That was stupid,” he said, gripping his hair in his hands.

  He felt bad, ignorant and useless.

  “The Bone with it!”

  He stuffed the rest of his armament back inside the sack and stuffed it in his backpack. He was lost, and if his gear was lost then so be it. What difference did it make? He stuffed his small knife in his sheath and pulled on his backpack.

  “Time to move on.”

  Venir walked and walked, step after step, mile after mile … never hearing or seeing another thing.

  Chapter 44

  “A challenge! Someone’s made a challenge!” A distant patron shouted.

  In moments, the tavern was abuzz. The thugs were forced back as a crowd began to gather around the table. It wasn’t something that Melegal would typically do. He wasn’t even sure why he'd done it, but now it was done.

  Jeb the thug bristled in his seat and then snorted. The rest of his men were glaring at him as well. Now, it was more than bullying a man from his seat, but it could be a costly endeavor as well.

  “I’ll pick the challenge then,” Jeb said.

  “I say we let the tavern pick,” Melegal said, as a raucous cheer filled the room.

  There was nothing like the energy of a challenge, and one so early in the evening was rare. The barkeeps loved this type of business in Bone. In moments, every gambler within a quarter mile would come around. More casks of ale would be tapped, and the wine would flow into thirsty gullets like a river. Coin and more coin: men of business made a lot of money on men like him, which was why the Drunken Octopus put up with him and Venir for so long.

  “Somebody bring the cards!” Shouted a big bald man with mutton chops in a brass-buttoned ruddy red coat.

  “Girls! Where’re my girls! I need em’ all,” the barkeep said. The barkeep, a heavyset man who appeared as dimwitted as a cow, began shoving his way through the crowd. He wore a gray apron; his thinning black hair was combed over his balding head. He looked tired, but moved like a soldier charging up a hill. It was the kind of energy that only greed could build.

  “Out of my way, idiots!” the barkeep said. “You!” He pointed at Melegal. “You called them out, so what’s yer terms!”

  “This table, and the banishment of these men, plus five gold for the trouble,” he said.

  “All of this over a table?” The barkeep’s smoky eyes looked over at Jeb and his men.

  The thugs stood there, hands on hips, big grins on their faces. The barkeep held his hand out and wafer thin woman, older than the wood on the floor, placed a burning cigar between his fingers. It made Melegal think of Mood.

  “Hey Sam, I’ve got the cards!” A man said, pushing his way through the crowd. It was a younger man, brown hair pulled back in a pony tail, with a dish towel draped over his shoulder. He resembled the barkeep, Sam. “Here you go D-D … er … Sam.”

  With a pitiful face, Sam snatched the leather pouch from the younger and even shorter man. Sam, as most all knew in the City of Bone, was what all the barkeepers were called. The barkeep and tavern owners were a guild of their own. Sam, of the Drunken Octopus, had been doing it a long time. Running an establishment such as his was hard work, sometimes dangerous, but very lucrative as well. For the most part, the tavern owners let things be. A natural course always seemed to flow, but tonight, the thugs presented a different challenge. A group of such men could unsettle that balance, and their presence could turn the profits sour. Melegal trusted that Sam was onto this, and not out to get him killed because he now worked for the Royals.

  “Make way! Make way!” Sam said, pushing through the crowd, stepping up on a two-step stage that made a rickety sound. His son, the bus boy, pulled an easel out from under the stage and placed a shelf-like board on it. Sam glared at the squat boy who stood there. The boy caught his eyes and jumped away. Sam stretched his stubby arm high and began waving the leather pouch in the air for all to see.

  “It’s been a while, patrons of Bone! A long time since the deck has been shuffled. A challenge, thugs against a rogue,” he said, pointed the men out.

  The crowd was enamored; Sam’s strong voice was that of a circus master, bright and bold. Melegal could see the eager faces, their curious stares passing from him to the thugs. The smell of sweat began to grow as the entire room, as hot as it was, began to warm up another notch. The familiar sound of exchanging coins tinkled in his ears. He loved that sound of metal touching metal. Melegal had never skimmed, found, or stolen a coin he didn’t like. He fanned himself with his cap and ignored his opponents' pressing stares.

  “Now, take a look—a look at these men. One just as dangerous and brave as the other. They fight for the greatest of things, a cozy spot at the Octopus’s table. The challenger has sat there for many, many years, unmolested like an 80-year-old man. He would rather have his throat cut, face smashed, or ribs pulverized than give up his favorite wenching and sipping spot! A proud one is he, crafty and greedy, too!”

  There was a roar of applause, surprising Melegal. Frowns and worry began to crease into the thugs' faces. Mele
gal knew almost every single face in the crowd, their name, trade and addiction. It was good, good to know that after all, for some reason, the dwellers were behind him. They could have shouted out his name, but didn’t, not that it mattered. It seemed that home-court advantage was on his side. Melegal listened to Sam, who would have full control of the bets. Sam would ham it up and have his pockets filled full by the end of the fight.

  “… And who is this bony, gaunt, unhealthy man going to face? Men of a different breed, of the likes not often seen in here. Look at that man,” Sam said, pointing at Jeb, “… he looks as strong as a bear and has the face of a heartless killer. His companions, one just as fierce as the other, are the kind who run the streets or run you through ...”

  Several voices let out audible gasps, raising a smile above Jeb’s nodding chin.

  “… Their hands are strong from years of swinging iron, no doubt. Look at the scars, badges of honor left from the ones they felled. How I’d hate to be the man foolish enough to challenge any one of them on a night like this …”

  It was true, any man would be a fool to challenge a group such as this. Thugs, which was what they were called, were a sordid lot. They could be anyone from anywhere. A soldier, a mercenary, a brigand, a former City Watchman, or even an outcast member of the thieves guild. For the most part, they were swords for hire, doing the dirty work of local merchants or even the City Watch. They came in small gangs, singling out competition and drubbing them senseless until they moved on. They were guilty of all sorts of things: kidnapping, rape, torture, and mutilation. Strength in numbers and intimidation were their operation; being a pain was their game.

  “… Here we have all the cards. Ten in all. All sorts of challenges and no two alike.”

  Sam pulled the cards from the leather pouch, flashing them one by one in the air. They were as big as his hand, colorful and stiff. He began to shuffle them as the women stepped onto the stage, six in all. They were painted, faces, nails and toes, sheer and silken sashes showing flashes of perfumed skin. The women batted their eyes and blew kisses to the crowd. One was short, like a child, another with hair hanging to the back of her knees. Another’s hair was blonde and frizzy, with the worst mouth and manners in the entire city. They stood alongside Sam, welcoming the cat calls and whistles.