The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge

by Craig Halloran

  It could happen and probably would. He wanted to run, but they would only track him down and kill him. The Darkslayer had to be dead. The Mist was not something one could escape from; even the underlings knew that. He pulled his brother's eyes from his pocket and said, “At least there is something left of you. I don’t think there will be anything left of me.”

  He sat with his robes billowing in the darkness as he made the long awaited journey home, empty handed.

  Chapter 70

  Almen couldn’t help but enjoy — to a mild degree — the amount of pressure he was putting on his newest servant, Melegal. The rogue’s eyes were not as piercing and intelligent as before, instead they drifted and flickered. Melegal’s confidence was being shaken. His frail-looking body moved a bit slower and was a tad hunched over. Breaking in a new man was one of those pleasures that Lord Almen relished.

  Lord Almen could barely hear the man’s footfalls as they made their way down the gallant halls. The pair walked by a few sentries, Melegal a few steps behind as he ignored their nervous eyes. How many had he broken over the years to serve his will? He couldn’t recall, but only the most worthy ones lasted long.

  As they made their way toward the utmost end of the castle, he stopped beside a door. It was nothing extraordinary, a large wooden and brass-hinged door inside of an archway of stone. He pushed on a handle and the door swung inward. A torch was lit at the top of a dark stone stairwell that dropped into the dark. A cool draft of air tickled the fine hairs on his ears. He nodded toward the torch. He noticed Melegal’s hand seemed to tremble when he grabbed it. A nervous little rat now, isn’t he.

  Lord Almen knew much more than he let on. It hadn't been long after Tonio, Oran and McKnight departed that his sources procured more information. Troves of coins and jewelry could buy a man all the information he needed in Bone. Magic was a precious resource, too, however, he preferred to be cheap about it. Grunt henchmen like McKnight, Melegal and even Teku’s services weren’t so hard to come by. Still, they were valuable assets. It just seemed that often, in their line of work, they didn’t last long. Almen was careful not to overdo it on his investments.

  Now, an assassin and a detective were down, and for the time being Melegal would replace both. The rogue was a work in progress, but just as capable as the others, if not more so. There was something that Lord Almen liked about Melegal. He was a survivor, a cunning mind behind hard gray eyes. It was clear that the skinny man preferred using his razor sharp mind over his body. It could make him a formidable ally and adversary. Plus, he was the comrade of Venir, the scourge of the underlings.

  It was a chuckling thought, the day Oran the underling cleric had exposed his thoughts about the warrior. Lord Almen hadn't been able to help but be curious as to who the man was. It had taken some time, but he had found out by courtesy of a chunky City Watchman. It had been in those dungeons, months ago, that his son, Tonio, had demanded to punish a man who had embarrassed him. Lord Almen remembered the rugged brute chained in the dungeon, no more scared of any of them than he would have been in a den of kobold babes. No, the man with the V tatoo was savage, elemental, and frightening. Almen had been tempted to take the man into his service then, but he had respected his son's need for revenge. He had let the opportunity pass, to his regret.

  Now, he had discovered that Venir had been carving his way through Bish and the underlings for quite some time. The tales of the two-headed beast were true; many soldiers had seen the man on the beast before. At the same time, Venir was a link to his betrayal at the gates of Outpost Thirty-One. It had been Almen’s men who betrayed them all to the underlings.

  It had become his goal to see to it that all of the survivors of the fiasco at Outpost Thirty-One were dead. He had decided that it was time to raise the bounty on Venir’s head. When the man had returned to Bone, it hadn't been long before he had tracked the swilling fool down. He had sent his shadow sentries after him, only to see all of them cut down. It had been at that point when Almen decided maybe Venir would serve him better alive. If he did not, he would die. It was a common fate for the pawns of the Royal games. So, he forced the services of Venir's friend, Melegal. His newest detective had no knowledge that he was only a worm to catch the bigger fish.

  Now, what his deranged son had begun, he was left having to finish. Moving the pieces into place was only the beginning of the fun.

  He stood at the bottom of the stairwell now, and a heavy steel door barred the way.

  “Go ahead; knock on it, three times only.”

  Melegal rapped his knuckles on the door. He could see the thief’s face as the torch flickered on his apprehensive expression. The man was ashen. Good, Almen thought. Nothing breaks a man like fear.

  He could hear the latches and bolts being pulled out of place. The sounds of metal hinges rubbing together made an awful racket as the door swung open.

  “You first, Detective.”

  Chapter 71

  The man, Venir, was a mystery to Boon, the long lost wizard.

  “He’s formidable, I’ll give him that,” he said, as he rummaged through a large storage room. A long-legged spider was spinning a web in a nearby corner. The insect was as big as his chest. Boon paid the creature no mind.

  Boon’s alert eyes searched through the piles of arms, armor, clothing, and other gear. He pushed up the sleeves on his blue robes, revealing his corded forearms. The wizard was built more like a lumberjack than a mage. The piles of junk he scoured were over ten feet high. He was making his way to the top of one when he slipped and tumbled to the bottom, crashing over the trove. A smelly breast plate of leather armor was covering his head.

  “Orc plate, disgusting,” he said, tossing it away. “Bloody giants will take anybody, it seems.”

  Boon had grown accustomed to talking to himself over the years. He was a loner and had been so pretty much all of his life. If it weren’t for the spells he spun, he probably would have quit talking altogether. He had discovered when he was young that most people only enjoyed talking about themselves, and that he preferred not to encourage them. Now that he was trapped on the underside of Bish, he missed all of those pathetic conversations. The people that arrived here didn’t last for long, and the giants didn’t have much to say, either, other than complaining to one another about the top side of Bish. He had heard it all. Tossing a dented shield from one pile to another, he grumbled, “Bickering giants, collecting people and discarding their toys. Running them through gauntlets and watching them die. What a pathetic plan, snatching people and tormenting them like wild animals.”

  He renewed his ascent up the pile and began digging around. The giants could have tossed the man’s backpack anywhere. Why was he even bothering? The man was doomed. Certainly a backpack would not save his life. Nothing could. Still, Venir knew his grandson, Fogle, a name he had thought he would never hear again. The warrior had also survived the Mist. All of the others, including him, had been brought to the underside of Bish by giants, against their will. They'd been snatched in broad daylight just as often as in the night. He huffed.

  Then there were the illusional chains he had shackled the man with. Venir had almost ripped free of the spell, and Boon had a headache to prove it. He had almost passed out from maintaining it, but the brute had let go, and not a moment too soon. Venir was stronger than he had realized, unnaturally strong. Boon had shackled powerful creatures before, even a minotaur, but only Venir had come close to snapping his chains.

  “I don’t know too much about you, but I’ve a feeling you have a chance. Now, where is that backpack?”

  He rummaged through plate armor, hauberks, cuirasses, and helms. Ancient clothing that had been deteriorating for ages crumbled over his fingertips. He searched and he searched, but time was running out. He hated to see the man die. He wanted to learn more about his grandson, plus he found the man’s conversation funny.

  “Gotta find something—the giants must be beat!”

  He grabbed a great sword, and c
hucked it away. A helm with three horns, big enough for two heads was kicked down the pile. He was buried to his knees in rust, dried blood and old sweat.

  “My, what if it isn’t here?” He shrugged. “I’ve nothing better to do.”

  BRAAAAAAWWWWNGGG!

  “No!”

  Boon kicked his way down the pile and headed for the door.

  “I don’t see how that backpack could have helped, anyway.”

  It ate at him as he headed down the massive corridor. He wanted to believe in something. There had to be a way back out. If a man can get in, a man can get back out. Still, he wanted to know what was in that backpack.

  “Oh well, there will be plenty of time to look later. Venir … huh … I wonder if I’ll remember his name tomorrow.”

  Chapter 72

  Brak cringed as the two man-urchins rushed him. In a split second he was overwhelmed and screaming for his life. All he could feel was knotty hands driving into his ribs and taking his breath. He was scared. A pair of fists punched him in his jaw. He tasted blood in his mouth as he writhed on his back.

  “Stop! Please, stop it! Please!”

  They didn’t. Instead their blows came faster and harder. He caught glimpses of the faces that assaulted him. The rags that draped over their faces had come loose. Unlike the other man, Leezir, their faces were pitted and scarred. One’s eye drooped, and his teeth were crooked and smelled of rot. The other's face was chewed up with a flat nose full of large blackheads. Both had wiry hair, and lice fell from their jolting heads. He had never seen such ugly men before, a nightmare come to life. It only intensified his panic. He tightened up into a ball and pissed himself.

  “Fight, Brak! Fight or you will DIE!” Leezir was shouting in his ear, while the men continued on without relenting.

  Blow after blow came, but they began to subside. He was coughing now, making it hurt even more as he cried out, “Please STOP! Please, I didn’t do anything! I’m not hungry!”

  Leezir said, “What are you two stopping for? Are you winded? My men tire from fighting a man that doesn’t fight back! Hapless bastards!”

  “He’s hard, Boss. It’s like hitting a bag of sand. Can't we use clubs or something?”

  Brak saw Leezir swing a large white club at the head of a diving man. The other was doubled over, clutching his sides as he backed away.

  “Impressive, Brak. These two men are tired from just beating the slat out of you. Perhaps I shall bring in two more. You two—on your feet!”

  Another pair of man-urchins now stood by the table with the food.

  “Please, don’t let them beat me. I don’t want your food. I just want to leave,” Brak begged, wiping the spit and blood from his mouth.

  He could see Leezir’s face fill with fury. The man got right up in his face and said, “Your father would have ripped these men in two when he was your age. You’re bigger than my men, much bigger than your father back then, too, yet here you lie on the floor like a big baby. You just got the snot beaten from you by two grown men. You can still speak and beg, but you can’t FIGHT!?”

  Brak looked up at him, wiping the blood from his dripping nose. “I don’t want to fight,” he whined, tears running down his face. “Just make them leave me alone … p-p-lease.”

  He was answered with a hard boot in his stomach.

  “I’m tired of hearing you cry like some overgrown toddler! Look at those men, Brak! It was men like them that killed your mother! It was men like them that tried to kill your father! WOULD YOU NOT FIGHT THOSE MEN TO SAVE YOUR MOTHER?”

  He stirred. Holding his stomach, slowly he began to pull himself from the floor.

  “Yes Brak, you have to fight if you want to save yourself or someone else.”

  Brak took in a breath, wincing as he stared down on the man-urchins. They were menacing despite their ragged clothes, black toe nails sticking out from one of their boots. His jaw was sore, and his eyes were beginning to swell. Still, he could not hold back tears as he raised his fists. The men laughed at him.

  Leezir just rubbed his head and said, “Fine. This experiment is over, boys. Get the clubs and beat him until he dies.”

  Brak could only watch in horror as the man-urchins took up the huge clubs. They all pulled the ragged cowls from their heads, revealing their ugly faces. Their eyes were dark and full of cruel and murderous intent. They came at him.

  “Let’s crack his skull,” one said.

  “You take the head; I’ll bust up the rest.”

  “Farewell, Brak. Better to die now than suffer a day longer in Bish. You’re welcome,” Leezir said, heading for the door.

  A sense of abandonment began to renew itself inside him as he watched Leezir go. He turned his watery eyes toward the men with the clubs. He knew they were going to hurt as he backed away, but there was nowhere to go.

  “This is gonna hurt …” one said. “But don’t worry; it won’t be long before we knock you cold. You won’t feel a thing after that.”

  “Except maybe the sound of your skull breaking open and your brains spilling out,” remarked the other.

  Brak’s heart began to race. He didn’t feel a thing now as he just watched the men’s aggressive approach. One was whooshing his club in the air; the other was loose and comfortable, head weaving back and forth. At him they came.

  Brak pulled his arms up as the first one swung at him with a wild blow. The club bounced off the back of his tricep, bringing forth a gasp. He didn’t want more of that. He grabbed the club, drew the man closer, grabbed his arm, and caught a blow to his chest from the other man. He winced, but didn’t let go.

  “Hey, what are you doing? Let go!” the man-urchin cried as Brak squeezed his forearm. Brak didn’t know what he was doing; he just didn’t want to be hit again. His fingers squeezed the man’s scrawny arm, pinching the bone and drawing a cry of pain. As the other club pounded into his back he slung one man into the other.

  Whap!

  Both men fell to the floor. As the pair of men scrambled to their feet, he grabbed one by the hair and the other by the collar. A sickening sound followed …

  Smack! Smack! Smack!

  … as he slammed one face into the other, again and again. He felt the bones in their faces giving in. The man-urchins sagged between his hands, broken and lifeless. The other two came back and brought their full weight upon him, tackling him to the ground. One pinned his arm as the other stomped on his hand. He screamed as he punched the one stomping on his other hand in the gut.

  “Ooomph!” The man fell down, gasping for air.

  He wrapped his arms and legs around the other man and squeezed him hard. He didn’t know what he was doing; he just wanted the fight to stop. The man’s eyes were bulging from their sockets and his face began to purple.

  “S-sstop, can’t breathe—”

  Crack!

  Something hit him hard in the back. It was Leezir, wielding his cudgel, a smile growing behind his black cowl. He said, “That’s enough, Brak! I think you’ve broken the man’s arm, or ribs. Fight’s over … you won! Now eat!”

  He looked around with wary eyes. No one else was moving, except him and Leezir. Fighting now for short draws of air, he regained his feet and staggered over to the table. He looked at Leezir, who gave him a nod. He dove in, savoring every bite despite the tears he couldn't stop shedding. He chewed on.

  Leezir joined him at the table, watching with avid interest.

  “Impressive, I’ll say that. You are strong, Boy, very strong, like your father.” Leezir laid his white ash cudgel on the table and pulled off his cowl. He was pleasant looking compared to the rest, his pale eyes and sandy hair softened the man’s rigid interior. “Just so you know, Brak, I was going to let you die, but you survived. You fared as well as could be expected. So, now that you know what you have to go through to live, it’s time to teach you to fight.”

  Leezir set Brak’s swords on the table. Brak continued to eat, licking the greasy meat from his fingers.

  “Y
ou know how to use these,” Leezir said.

  Brak shrugged. His mother had taught him a few things over the years, but they hadn't practiced much. She had always seemed unhappy when he played with the blades, so he hadn't pushed himself, hating that tight look she made with her face.

  “Brak, you stick with me and you’ll learn. That’s a better offer than most orphans get. It’s perhaps not the kind you are accustomed to, but you’ll have a family,” Leezir said, looking at the groaning figures on the floor, “and that’s better than no family at all.”

  Brak didn’t know if the offer was good or bad, but it sounded good to him. He also didn’t have much of a choice. The truth was he didn’t want to travel alone in the city, or anywhere else, for that matter.

  “Will you feed me?”

  “Yes, you’ll be fed.”

  “I eat a lot,” he said with his mouth full.

  Chapter 73

  Sefron’s pasty face with its triple-chin was the first thing Melegal saw peeking around the door. All of Melegal’s worries were replaced with disgust. As the door widened open, he could see and smell more. The smell of blood, rot, and fear filled his nose. He knew that smell, the scent of torture on the horizon. Blast it! I’m a fool!

  Sefron bowed as Lord Almen walked through the doorway. Melegal followed, avoiding the sneering cleric's gaze. He swore he could feel the man's eyes jamming knives in his back. He tried to moisten his dry throat with a swallow as he scanned the cruel devices that he passed by. Rusting shackles dropped from the ceilings along with assorted blades and whips that hung along the walls. He noticed his hand was clutching at his vest. Stay calm, Melegal. He lowered his hand to his side and felt the comforting bulge of his blade. He took a long silent breath into his nose. Why is he bringing me here? This can’t be the end.

  Lord Almen stopped beside a bloodstained table that held branding irons and screw devices for thumbs and feet. Sefron shuffled alongside the tall Royal, wheezing behind a gap-toothed grin. Both men were staring at Melegal. Sefron reached around the table and grabbed a lash that was hanging on the other side. Melegal heard the door creak shut in the distance, followed by two pairs of booted feet. Two sentries emerged from around a standing stockade, holding a woman up.