The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals

by Craig Halloran

  He gathered his shield as he watched one scurrying away. He cursed as he scanned the area. Somewhere nearby he heard his dogs yelp. He rushed to its aid, finding the shaggy brown pooch ensnared by forest vegetation. Underling magic! He had encountered it before.

  He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. He approached his dog, snagging his boot on the ground, tripping him. He watched smaller roots and grasses reaching upwards like tentacles, encircling his legs like serpents.

  “Bone!” he yelled, tearing at them and twisting vain. The foul foliage had engulfed the dog’s entirety, leaving only a trace of muffled whimpers. His skinned crawled as he felt an evil presence bearing down on him.

  Two dark-robed underlings, armed with small double-shot crossbows, descended towards him from the ravine bank as if on air. He jerked his shield up as the closest one fired at his chest. The bolt ricocheted away, drawing an angry hiss. He heard murmuring echoing somewhere in his helm. Above him he noticed long fingertips pointed his way, glowing red. He had to free himself.

  He sliced at the roots with the edge of his axe. To his surprise, the vines recoiled and began to wither at the blades touch.

  “Chongo!”

  The other suspended magi fired another bolt into the foliage where the dog was engulfed. His dog yelped and fell silent. Venir lost control, charging the airborne assailant and was blasted by a volley of burning red missiles, boring into his flesh. He cried out in agony as the air filled with the stench of his singed skin. The pain served as a catalyst to his rage, he kept going, climbing up the bank, jumping up and catching the cloak of the floating figure. He pulled it to the ground. It chittered, trying to crawl away. Its strength was no match as he crushed his weight into it, bringing a groan.

  Pinning the little figure down by the arms, he smashed his helmeted forehead several times into its gnashing face. Its evil, twisted face burst open like a rotten pumpkin as it died. He fumbled for his axe and turned back towards his dog.

  The remaining underling uttered something. The air seemed to be sucked away in the gap. Shockwaves blew through the trees, bending the saplings, slamming into his body and down his spine as if he were being pummeled by a hundred hammers. He fell to his knees, face dripping blood, unaware of his surroundings, lost. The pain was something he never recalled. His hands and feet were numb, burning, cold and limp.

  Somehow he got up, stumbling towards his pet, falling just close enough to reach the snare with his axes spike. He could see the bonding began to disintegrate as the dog laid prone, panting and bleeding.

  Bringing himself on one knee, he found himself between the dog and the lone underling magi, now hovering twenty paces away. He saw its mouth moving, thick black hair covering its head like a shroud. Raising his powerful arms, Venir slung his axe over his head with a scream. Straight as a spear it sailed, the tip crunching deep into its chest, driving its floating body to the ground. He staggered over to its crumpled body. The spike was wedged deep in its black heart, gemstone green eyes staring blank at the sky.

  He spat the blood from his mouth, wrenched out the axe, and checked for more enemies. Gathering at Chongo’s side he pulled out the wooden bolt from its hindquarters. He tasted the tip and spit. No poison. He couldn’t feel his legs as he lifted the dog in his arms and got a lick in the face as he backtracked up the ravine. The forest was quiet, but he still knew underlings were everywhere. His battered body forged ahead.

  CHAPTER 18

  Trapped behind a massive rock on the steep hillside, Billip felt his neck hairs prickle. He could see the sweat dripping off of Mikkel’s body like rain drops as water trickled down the bank. The forest was quiet other than occasional sounds of the skirmish deep in the ravine. His shoulder ached as he craned his neck, but his comrades ragged breathe hindered his ability to detect approaching assailants. They could be anywhere.

  He had fought underlings over the years, and knew their tactics well, but it did little to quell his terror. Unlike Venir, whose hatred for underlings blazed as pure as the suns, his was still like all other men on Bish. Billip’s hatred for cave dwellers was at times surpassed by his fear of them.

  Glancing at Mikkel, he managed to make out the whites of his eyes. The big man was nodding his head. Billip kept his arrow knocked, bowstring straight, resting his shoulder, while his friend clutched his club.

  Several feet above the forest floor, two cloaked underlings floated undetected in and out among the trees, their clutching hands motioning in the air with intricate patterns. A soft blue glow wavered in their palms.

  Where are they?

  Billip scanned what he could, oblivious to the figures in the trees. He was certain if he could not see them, they could not see him. Not far from his hiding spot, his ears didn’t detect the faint whisper of an underling chanting through its thin black lips. His instincts told him something was going on; he just did not know what.

  The low hum of tiny wings caught his ear and he crouched down as the sound grew. A plague of mosquitoes had found its way among the rocks where they hid. The whining of their buzzing wings increased inside his ears. It seemed as if every mosquito in the ravine began swarming around the men.

  What is going on!?

  The mindless insects consumed the men in a frenzied search for human blood. He could see them, tiny and large, gathered all over Mikkel’s body, who brushed at them in frantic alarm. He could feel them sink their needles in him a hundred times and drink his blood. It had to be magic, his mind reasoned. He choked down the urge to run. He knew they were being flushed out. Don’t panic.

  Tiny welts appeared on his corded forearms as the insects tapped into his veins. Mikkel was covered from head to toe, tormented by the little fiends. Billip tried not to flinch, but his will was tested beyond the limit. He could see Mikkel biting his lip and covering his nose. It was time to act. He mouthed the words to Mikkel.

  Run. Flush them out. Find cover. I’ve got one shot. Go.

  The tortured man turned, facing down the bank. Billip got his bow ready as the large man charged out from behind the rock and down the ravine like a maddened bull. With his eyelids swollen he caught a flash of light blasting into his powerful friend who fell down in a scream.

  There in the trees.

  Down below, he could see the brawler’s silhouette engulfed in a mysterious blue flame, drawing forth a sound of searing skin. Mikkel fell to the forest floor, screaming before rolling out of sight.

  He wondered which fate was worse, the bugs or the fire. Only Mikkel would know now, but he thought he’d prefer the fire. A smell of charred insect bodies and smoldering hair drifted in his nose. He feared his friend might be finished. Billip heard a throaty laughter below. Mikkel appeared, rising to his feet, only to fall backward as a small crossbow bolt struck his belly. He lay in a singed, motionless heap, Skull Basher still in his hand. Billip couldn’t believe it. He scanned the trees, he couldn’t let his friend couldn’t die for nothing.

  He replaced the arrow he had knocked, drawing another from his quiver. It was unique with blood-red feathers, a blue-black shaft and a ruby-like arrowhead. The old warrior who had given him the bow assured him he would know when to use it. That must be now. He knocked the arrow with his mosquito covered hands. He took aim in the trees, scanning back and forth. The arrow tip twinkled as he did so.

  He maintained his poise searching for any sign. Nothing showed of their concealed assailants. His eyes moved with the arrow, left, right, up and down, but the whining flurry of insects piercing his arms, neck, face, and eyelids was distracting him. As he swept up and across the ruby arrow tip flashed.

  He swept it down.

  Nothing.

  Then back up and it flashed again.

  He lined up the tip so that it glowed steady in light. A silhouette began to form in the tree tops. It was an underling floating near the upper branches of a willow tree.

  Got him! Center mass.

  He pulled back the bow string as an excruciating surge of pain du
g into his shoulder, and let the shaft fly.

  Twing! Zip!

  A streak of hot red light punched straight through the sternum of the hovering underling and out of the other side.

  Bulls’ eye!

  The underling came towards him, chittering with rage. Had his missed? No, he knew he hit it, yet it came. He fumbled for another arrow, brushing the ravenous insects away. As the underling began descending towards him, a look of horror crossed his features. The underling began to glow, eyes and mouth catching fire from the inside, and then exploding in a bright red flash. A cloud of black ash filled the air. Billip crouched back down, noticing the mosquitoes losing interest in him as well. He wiped the creatures away, and gathered his thoughts. Got to check on Mikkel!

  He ventured down the ravine, bow ready. Another shadowy figure descended on him from above and he dropped his knocked arrow. He clutched after it as the cloaked underling drifted towards him. He was terrified as he watched it touch the ground and crumple in a sagging pile.

  Billip inched closer and noticed his red feathered arrow lodged deep in its brain. Shivering at the sight, he marveled that the arrow had somehow found two targets from his single shot. Powerful magic indeed. Did the same apply to the bow? He reached for the arrow, noticing that the feathers were now blackened and dry, its magic spent.

  He slid down the ravine and soon came upon Mikkel on the ground; his breathing was shallow and raspy, lips caked with blood. The man groaned as he sat him up. He put his canteen to Mikkel’s lips.

  “How is he?” a hard voice said.

  He turned and saw a startling figure of muscle and metal splashed with gore. Vee?

  “Not good. I haven’t seen him this pale since his wedding. We need to get him away from here.”

  The sounds of battle grew louder all around them. A full scale attack must have begun.

  Venir handed Chongo over to Billip and hefted Mikkel over his shoulder.

  “Agreed—let’s move … they’ll be on us in no time.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The thick webs peeled away as Venir’s axe sliced through them. Gasps of pain escaped labored lips from behind him as they treaded back up the ravine. He was exhausted, body wracked with pain. Holes had burned in the mail that covered his belly, singing his flesh to metal. They reached the bottom outpost wall and entered through the same steel storm drain they had been defending. He locked it down as they headed inside the bowels of the outpost.

  Three stout Royal henchmen in scale armor guarded their path, but moved aside with wary glances. Venir could see debris falling as heavy activities were in force above. He led the way as they traveled upward through the wide tunnel of rock and soil as the sounds of chaos grew. Dim light filtered in at the far end where a steel ladder led twenty feet up through a man-sized hole.

  A lanky figure in pale green terrycloth robes and ankle-strap sandals descended the ladder at a brisk pace, hopping off the final five steps, and rambling towards them. It was a tall man, near seven feet in height, his narrow face light-skinned and boyish beneath short sandy hair. His voice was soothing, somewhat childlike, his light blue eyes showing a wisdom and compassion that was rare on Bish.

  “I knew you guys would be here.”

  “No surprise you know that, Slim?” Venir said.

  Slim was a man that had answers and seemed to know more than most men, despite his youthful appearance.

  “I know you guys, you never miss a party,” Slim said raising his eyebrows. “Mikkel looks bad. What’s been going on?” The boyish man began inspecting the brawler with his fingers, motioning his hands downward.

  Venir lowered Mikkel to the ground and started to take off his helmet.

  “Leave it on, big guy,” Slim gestured. “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

  The young man noticed the archers load.

  “Ah, it’s my favorite pooch … how sad.”

  He laid his long slender fingers over Chongo’s hip.

  “Be still,” the man whispered.

  Venir could see Slim’s face twist in agony for a fleeting moment before returning to normal. He grunted.

  “Ah,” the cleric said with a smile as Chongo licked his face. “That wasn’t so bad, was it boy?” Slim then turned back to the man laid out in the tunnel and said, “Now the big guy. Hold him still, you two.”

  Venir pressed down on Mikkel’s shoulders as he watched the young man work. He couldn’t believe their good fortune. Slim always reminded him of a young Melegal, except more friendly, something the thief resented. Billip helped him pin down the listless man’s powerful arms and legs. Here we go.

  The long limbed man grabbed the shaft of the small bolt lodged in Mikkel’s belly. The iron warrior’s mouth and chin were covered in spit and blood. Slims slender lips muttered a fast cadence of words, and as he spoke, power radiated into his glowing and elongating hands. The bolt blazed in his hand like a furnace poker as he extracted the bolt. The warrior screamed and writhed. The smell of burning flesh filled the tunnel as the charred bolt turned to ash.

  Mikkel groaned, his light eyes flittering open and closed. The cleric placed his hands on the man’s hard belly and gashed thigh. Again the Slim’s face distorted in anguish and he began aging before their widened eyes. The wounds closed and it was over as fast as it begun. Slim gasped for air, his now withered face full of hard lines and cracked teeth. Venir thought Slim looked like the oldest man he’d ever seen.

  “He’ll be okay,” the cleric said in a ragged voice. “He should be able to walk in a minute, but he’s not up for fighting for awhile.” Slim stood up, hunched over, and cracked his skinny neck. “Ah … man, sometimes I hate this.”

  “What’s going on up there, Slim?” he asked, looking at the shaking ceiling above. “They need to know that the underlings are bringing more forces now.”

  “Too late Venir, it’s over. Outpost Thirty-One is already lost. And if we don’t get moving, we’ll be lost, too.”

  He and Billip’s eyes met as Slim continued.

  “You don’t want to go up there. It’s overrun. I’ll fill you in.”

  Slim stretched out his long arms, and Venir watched the older face slowly regain its youthful vigor. The young man now inspected his wounds and began chatting in the quick.

  “Here goes—the brigands stormed the south gate. Three hundred Royal horsemen rode out to battle them, or so we thought, but they just kept on riding, giving the brigands clear access to the outpost. I’m not sure which Royal general it was, but he clearly betrayed the rest. It won’t be long before all of the gates are compromised and we’re up to our elbows in underlings. Now, we’ve got to go back out that way.” Slim pointed his long index finger toward the south grate where they had just entered. “No choice.”

  Venir saw Billip’s dumbfounded look. It was a heck of a story.

  Mikkel groaned and sat up.

  “Man, my stomach hurts. What did you do, Slim?”

  “Saved your life, that’s all. The tummy ache’s a side effect. It’ll go away,” Slim said, patting the man’s charred head.

  “Thanks,” Mikkel muttered as the healer helped him onto his feet.

  “That’s a heck of a haircut, Mikkel!” Billip said with a feint chuckle.

  “What?” The warrior reached for his head, feeling the singed remains of his black hair.

  “It might grow back,” Slim said with a shrug. “… one day. Let’s go.”

  “Wait,” the archer said, tugging the man’s robe. “We need a plan. And I can’t even pull back a bowstring.”

  “Man, what did you guys do out there? And what’s with all the bug bites? That’s gross!” he said with his face drawn, hands on his chest. “You got whipped by a bunch of little underlings? Didn’t you? ” Slim now ran his ginger fingers over the archer’s shoulder, then reached into a pouch and pulled out a small jar and applied a pasty blue salve to the wound.

  Billip’s face lightened up.

  “What’s that amazing stuff?”


  “Pigeon poo.”

  Billip’s face turned sour.

  Slim had a childish grin and said, “Just teasing, it’s a little something I whipped up. I haven’t named it yet. Good thing your wound was only cosmetic. It’s just a little make-up to match your cheeks. You’ll be fine.”

  The chuckles came, but were hollow, none more so than Venir’s. He wasn’t so sure he could get them safely out of there.

  Billip rolled his shoulder, releasing a brief smile, cracking his knuckles. Touching the scar that had already formed over the wound he said, “It’s closed up!”

  The healer slapped his tender shoulder bringing a grimace.

  “And don’t worry about the scar. Get a nice tattoo over it and the ladies will love it, especially the orcen ones.”

  The tunnel was silent for a moment as Venir watched all eyes draw on him. Other than Slim, the bunch looked ragged and beaten. He wanted to collapse, his belly burned and his body ached from head to toe. It seemed there was no other way out. One choice, Fight or flee.

  “Let me take care of you big guy, that’s a nasty mess in your belly.”

  Venir’s voice was harsh.

  “No, let’s go.”

  The cleric stepped out of his way …

  Slim tried to convince the sentries at the outer grate to come along, that remaining would be to their immediate peril. They laughed. They were hard and loyal men and would not abandon their duty. The soldiers made it clear they would rather die than run, wished the men good fortune and turned away. Closing the storm drain behind them, before sealing it shut, one yelled out.