“Will they give up the chase?” Fogle said.
“Not likely,” Boon said, intently watching the battle.
“Shouldn’t we try to hide, then? Or cast a spell to send them back? Or … something?”
Boon stayed Fogle with his hand.
Sinkholes opened up in a circle around the battleground. They started small, the size of a horse, and grew. Underling mages appeared in the camp above the sky. Their fingertips glowed with red-hot light. Giants, underlings, and spiders alike were all sinking into the sand. The giants roared. Their arms flailed. Knee deep. Waist deep. Shoulder deep. They sank until they were buried to the neck. The surviving underlings feasted on them.
“We need to go,” Boon said. He rushed over and grabbed the spellbook. “And don’t you ever leave this unattended again.” He thumbed through the pages.
“What are you doing?” Fogle said.
“They know we’re here, Grandson.” His brow furrowed. “I didn’t think any magi were with them. They’ll be on us any moment now.”
“What can I do?” Fogle said.
“Keep an eye out with your familiar while I read.”
Fogle made the connection.
A host of underlings crossed the ground, coming their way. Half a dozen underling magi floated above and behind them. A swarm of spiders came with them. Their hums awakened his ears.
“Those bugs eat the flesh from your bones,” Tarcot said. “You feel every bit of it.”
Fogle’s skin became clammy. His stomach knotted. He didn’t have much left in him. No useful spell in mind. All he could say was, “Hurry, Grandfather, hurry.”
CHAPTER 20
He stood, listless, staring into the current with his arms folded behind his back. His toes dug into the watery sand, and his robes dipped in the waters, which were warm and stagnant. Not refreshing. They smelled a little foul. Sulfuric. He bent over, dipped his hands in the water, and drank. The taste was vile. Bitter. He swallowed the murk, straightened his back, and waited.
Few creatures could drink the waters of the Current without a dire effect. Cave trolls. Some strange fish, creepers … and underlings. Underling palates enjoyed both foul and pleasant. His stomach gurgled. He rubbed it until it stopped.
Good.
He cupped his hands together, filled them again, and drank another mouthful. No effect.
Very good.
He sloshed out of the water onto the bank. The caves were illumined by the green and orange glows of cave bug gel. There were furnishings and decorations. Tables. Vials. Racks and shelves. A network of caves. Some with iron bars and rotten bones. Robes dragging over the sand, he stood and gazed into a long and pewter-trimmed mirror. Black hair to his shoulders. His grey skin with a velvety sheen of hair. His fingernails were black dagger tips, and his teeth more flat than filed. He pulled the skin down from one deep ruby eye and then the other. He sucked his teeth.
“Are you pleased, Sidebor?” a strong voice said.
He closed his eyes and listened to the harmony of the crickets and birds chirping. His feet lifted from the ground, and he glided toward the figure lounging on the couch.
“It’s almost as good as the body I left. Just not two thousand years old.” He opened his eyes and drifted around the room. “But it will do.” His fingers tapped on a huge glass jar with a pickled dwarf’s head. “Such a strange underling that rescued me. An outcast, of all things.”
Scorch stretched his perfectly knit frame over the soft velvety sofa and yawned. He sat up and adjusted the underling-crafted robes that adorned him. Still light-headed and fair, his finely chiseled features were enhanced by the dark garments. He stretched out his arms again and yawned.
“Good. I’m glad you are pleased.”
Sidebor had spent the past year without a body. Scorch had been cautious. Traveled the world. Watching. Hiding. Picking through thoughts. Probing. The almighty Scorch had been shaken. Frustrated. Disheveled for quite some time. Though omnipotent, Scorch behaved like a mortal. Hoarding his power. Waiting for the right time to strike. At what, Sidebor did not know.
“I am pleased. I’d be more pleased if I had an inkling of what you expect me to do with it. I’m indebted, to an extent.”
“Not loyal to a fault,” Scorch said. He reached into a jar full of pickles. Grabbed a hunk of man cheeses off a plate and ate them. He washed it down with a wine called jig. “Did I ever tell you about Morley? Morley Sickle?”
“No,” Sidebor said, guarding his thoughts. It hadn’t taken him long to realize how privy Scorch was to them. That annoyed him to no end. “And I don’t care about him. What I want to know is when we will leave this lair.”
“Do you want fresh air?” Scorch said, grabbing another pickle.
“I want the Underland back.”
Scorch bounced the pickle off his chin.
“Hmmm … is that all you want?”
“It’s a start.” He approached Scorch and poured a glass of jig. “Let us go there. Let me take Master Sinway out. The entire Underland kingdom will be ours.”
Scorch’s blue eyes narrowed.
“It will be mine, Sidebor.” His eyes flashed.
Sidebor bounced off the cave ceiling and plummeted to the ground.
“And a portion to those who are loyal,” Scorch said, picking Sidebor’s face up out of the dirt. “And if I’m to let you regain all your power, I need to be convinced of your loyalty, else I cast your eyes back into the fires.”
Sidebor gathered himself off the ground and dusted off his robes. He’d never sworn loyalty to anyone before, but many had sworn loyalty to him. Loyalty was another word for lies. The wicked never kept their oaths.
“My word is my loyalty,” he said.
“Good,” Scorch said, offering a smile. “And so, as they often said in worlds gone by, ‘It’s time to get busy.’”
***
Master Sinway bathed. The silky waters of the bath were warm, the bodies of the underling women wet and nubile. Their delicate hands eased the tension in his shoulders. Their perfumes enhanced his senses.
“Ah …” he said, nuzzling his head back between the breasts of another beautiful underling woman. All their hair was white, and long. The sheer garments of pink, lime, and azure clung to their bodies. They were the most splendid and beautiful creatures in all the world, until they became pregnant. Sinway blotted centuries of that from his memory. “Excellent.”
The world of Bish was strengthening. Becoming more and more powerful. He felt it. He experienced it. Tasted it. His battle with Scorch had been a moment of colossal survival. The stranger from another world, a place of unlimited power, had almost died. Sinway had almost taken it. He stiffened.
“Relax, Great One,” a woman whispered in his ear. “Relax. We shall fulfill all your needs. Subdue all your fears.”
The underling women called shallas were born seductresses by craft, each and every one an enchantress in her own right. They wrote scrolls, made potions. Created strange makeup and perfumes. Their soft hands were delicate and deadly. The words from their lips soothing and invigorating. They’d brought Sinway much comfort the past few months. He petted one’s hand.
“The Great One is pleased? No? Yes?” she said, batting her golden eyes.
“Silence,” he said, “silence.”
Sinway wasn’t settled. The war above was in good hands. The royals in all the major cities in a greedy collapse. One house after another fell under the spell. Barge after barge whooshed through the Current, loaded with hoards of treasure. Sinway didn’t see the harm in releasing the contents of his vault. I’ll take it all back anyway. In all of his centuries, he’d never seen men so easily bought. They hated each other. Never negotiated. Never dickered. They would kill each other first. It couldn’t have always been that easy, else the underlings would have been bribing the royals all along. What was different? Scorch? Bish? He had to understand what happened. It ate at him.
He rose from the waters. Two shallas dried him.
Another draped him in his robes.
“Master, be at—”
He back-handed her across the cheek so hard she died.
“I said silence.”
In deep thought, he glided away.
CHAPTER 21
On Melegal’s heels, Venir passed through the entryway. The fine hairs on his neck flared. His stomach nodded. He staggered through a curtain. Blinked the dizziness from his eyes.
What in Bish just happened?
He stood inside the bar, just outside the curtain they’d passed through. The creepy little woman draped in black stood in front of him with her skinny arms crossed over her chest. Her hands moved like little spiders, kneading her narrowed shoulders.
“Come,” she said, gliding closer. “Sit, wait on your friend, and live.” She looked over his great shoulder. “Or go back through the curtain and die. The bosses are very careful. The slightest threat to them can be fatal.”
The creepy woman’s words were captivating. Convincing. Venir’s instincts still fired. There was a strange stench in this place. He glared down at her. Her cool expression remained.
“Your stool awaits,” she gestured. She wrapped her slender arm around his and walked him over. “The wait shouldn’t be long. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Venir leaned back and propped his elbow on the bar so he could face the room.
“No thanks.”
The raucous behavior in the Snake Pit did little to calm his battle heat. Sweaty bodies caroused with one another. Throaty chuckles were hurled. Women cackled with screeching laugher. Rank sweat intermingled with cheap perfume. A dwarf and mintaur clocked heads in a corner.
It was the kind of setting Venir normally eased into, but not now. Too many curious eyes drifted toward his great frame, and his fingers itched to hold a weapon. Or at least a shield.
The woman perched herself on the stool next to him and drank from the goblet of port the bartender set down for her. She kept her haunting eyes on him.
“Where are you from, Outlander?”
Another pair of men glided in behind her. Big and rugged. Earrings and scars. Sword belts buckled to their hips.
“I said, ‘Where are you from, Outlander?’”
Venir focused on the crowd. The tone had changed.
“She asked you a question,” said one of the toughs behind her.
Venir ignored him.
Another pair of toughs hemmed in on the other side of him. They didn’t have size, but they had numbers. One of them said to the toughs on the other side of Venir, “Did you say something?”
“I said that this light-haired lout needs to speak to our little Jasper when she speaks to him.” He pushed himself from the bar and rested his meaty fists on his wide hips. “We treat women right in this place.”
Venir’s skin bristled. His already hot blood charged. The entire room nonchalantly focused on him and the surrounding group. He rose to his full height and almost stepped on the speaking man’s toes. The man gulped.
“Are you challenging me?” Venir looked down into his eyes.
“We’ve customs, Stranger. You had best respect them.”
Knives and daggers whisked from sheaths. Murderous stares made his back tingle. Keen blades poised to strike like poisoned fangs among the rancor.
“Are you challenging me … or not?”
The roughneck’s hands fell to his blades. His bearded lip twitched. He glanced at the woman, Jasper, and back at Venir.
“Make it easy and just answer the woman’s question.”
Venir felt the pressing crowd of men, the rank sweat of their bodies building up with tension. He eased closer to the bearded tough and narrowed his blazing eyes.
“Answer my question. Challenge or not … Coward.”
***
Superior numbers. Unknown circumstances. These are a few of my least favorite things.
Melegal stood facing a semi-circle of assorted rogues, cut purses and back stabbers. No matter where in Bish he was, he always knew his kind. And they had the drop on him. Facing one or two was never a problem, so long as he had his cap. Three or more might be.
“I’m not sure about this one,” said a portly halfling garishly clothed as a merchant. “He appears more hapless than the last. And we know what happened to him.”
“Agreed,” said a half orc, eyeing Melegal up and down. He was hairy, barrel-chested, and naked from the waist up. A belt of knives decorated his hips, and his face was a chin-jutted scowl. “Worthless and puny as a tit mouse.” He spat.
A leather-jerkined dwarf with black bushy brows grunted. Another man in a high-perched hat scoffed under his breath. The others eyed him in their own silent fashion, and the room fell quiet. Melegal heard only their easy breathing and the groan under the boards of the half-orc’s feet. It reminded him of a bit of Two-Ten City, but without all the extra stink.
And I thought this was going to be a pleasant place. He made a quick scan of their faces. Now, who is in charge? He tucked his hand inside his trousers. Showed a wry smile.
“He doesn’t seem nervous for one so close to death,” the man in the high hat said. “Not a drop of sweat on him, unlike the others.”
“Perhaps he’s too stupid to fear what most likely is coming,” the halfling said. “But no one’s too stupid to feel the pain that comes before death. Even orcs feel that.”
The comment drew some chuckles, even from the half-orc.
That’s when another man spoke up. Standing like a crane, his words came with ease. “Jaen sends the strangest envoys. Hapless, the lot of them.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Knowing full well we make sport of killing what we don’t like. Doesn’t look like there be much sport of this one. I’m surprised he ever found the tavern on his own.” Another man whispered in his ear. His eyebrows perched. “Oh, you had an escort. He’s probably already dead as well.”
Melegal couldn’t help it.
He huffed a laugh.
“You find your escort’s death amusing?” the high-hatted one said. “I find amusement in that. Perhaps we shall bury this sickly man alive, with his large escort’s corpse on top of him.”
“Agreed.”
“I’d rather see him bleed.”
“Aye. A contest fighting old women, perhaps.”
“Hahahaha…”
Melegal finished his assessment, noting everything from the tops of their heads to the tips of their boots. Small blades were concealed in the rummage of their clothes. Their manners and tongues were polished. Voices strong and confident. Bellies full and paunchy. Quiet sorts that lifted treasure with ginger ease.
Amateurs.
Wouldn’t last ten minutes in Bone.
Not the lot of them together.
I should have moved here a long time ago.
“I’m here to pick up a delivery,” Melegal said. He pulled out the sack Jaen had given him. “And here is Jaen’s payment.”
“He speaks in our midst?” the half orc said, uncrossing his arms. “Without being addressed. An insult!” He whisked out two blades. They flashed between his fingers. “I might as well kill you now.”
“Can we stop with this childish banter?” Melegal said. “It’s been a long day, and I need to move along.” He jingled the sack. “Payment for package.” He winked at the half-orc. “And then I’ll be moving along.”
A growl rose in the half-orc’s throat. The hairs around his iron neck started to rise. His chest heaved.
Melegal remained still. His eyes scanned the others. The pack of rogues weren’t as adept as he, but they still might be dangerous, and he was no brawler.
But he wasn’t going to be treated like a stooge, either.
“Where’s the package?” he said, allowing a gentle bend in his knees. “My patience thins.”
“That’s it!” the half-orc said. His beady green eyes flared. His knotty muscles bulged in his arms. “I’m killing him. Jaen can send another. A woman would be better.” He charged in, daggers wide, poised for striki
ng.
Melegal darted between the half-orc’s arms and punched a thumb-knife into his throat.
“Urk!”
Melegal twisted and escaped the half-orc’s lunging blades, which clattered off the floor.
Clutching at the blood gurgling from its throat, the half-orc fell face-first onto its own daggers.
Melegal made a show of checking his fingers. There wasn’t a drop of blood on them. However, just in case actual danger lurked somewhere in the room, he didn’t risk retrieving his thumb-knife.
Amateurs.
The rest of the rogues’ eyes widened a little. Fingers fumbled for hidden weapons.
“Well done,” the man in the high hat said.
“Aye,” grunted the dwarf.
“Besting that knife-wielding beast was no easy feat,” said the man who looked most like a commoner among them. “But you still have no right to stand among us.”
“I don’t want to stand with you. I just want to do Jaen’s business and leave.” The muscles in his jaws clenched. “I’ve waited long enough. I want to do this now.”
“Easy,” another man said. “We don’t even have your name.”
“And I don’t care to know yours.” He rattled the sack again. “Now, let’s finish this.”
“You need to come with us, then,” the man in the high hat said.
The group formed a single-file line headed toward a door in the back. Melegal stepped over the half-orc corpse and followed along, muscles knotting between his shoulders. Inside the door they went, three ahead of him and three behind. The passage was narrow, and dank with moldy wood. It bent and bent and bent before it opened up into another tavern-like room, similar in layout to the one above. He could hear the faint scuffle of footsteps and scooting chairs above.
Wonders never cease.
Two figures sulked in the shadows of the orange fire that burned beneath the stone mantle. One was big and heavy. Clothes like drapes. The other hooded and ghostly. They shared a bottle of Netherland Port on the table. There was an open chair between them.
The rogues sallied among the stools on the dusty bar, leaving Melegal standing alone. The immense man at the table groaned when he turned. Solemn eyes on his, the heavy man waved him over.
The Darkslayer: Bish and Bone Series Collector's Edition (Books 1-10): Sword and Sorcery Masterpieces Page 25
