The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals

by Craig Halloran

  All races sweated, but half-ogre sweat distinguished itself above and beyond the rest. You could not smell it from a mile away, but you always wished you had. Once you got too close, it stuck to you. It was best described as a mix of salt, manure and urine. Venir fought the urge to hold his nose as the foul odor began to stir his senses.

  The tunnel opened into an enormous cavern hosting a circular arena. Hundreds of shouting faces were crowded on wooden benches. This was the home of the greatest game on Bish: Pit Battles. Every race on Bish had fought here, except the underlings. Fights inside the Pit were ongoing, twenty-four seven. Many of the spectators were known to stay a week at a time. Many of the spectator’s couldn’t leave, they either owed the Royals too much, or they were addicted to the madness. That madness began creeping into Venir’s bones.

  The Pit itself was a simple setup. It was a six-foot deep and fifty-foot wide circle cut into a stone floor. Thick iron bars were bolted into the lip of the stone circle and rose in a crisscross pattern over ten feet high. Two large grates on opposite ends of the ceiling allowed the contestants to drop down inside. Venir had seen dwarfs and halflings hang from the ceiling bars, legs dangling as they got their fingers smashed before falling to the pit floor. Broken legs and ankles were never a good thing. A man or woman needed every advantage they could find. A cripple stood little chance, but it had been done.

  As he scanned the room it appeared nothing had changed. Venir didn’t have to struggle to remember the rules. They were simple: no weapons other than a single blunt weapon that hung from a chain in the middle of the cage. The weapon varied; it could be a staff, a mace, a flail, or a big wooden club. Whoever got it first would often have the advantage, and once again, dwarves and halflings had a hard time jumping up to reach the weapon, especially with a busted ankle.

  On the other side of the cage, Venir eyed a handful of the Royal’s from Two-Ten City. They were unlike any Royal’s in Bish. The Royals on Bish were pure human, while the Royals in Two-Ten City were humanoid, but little human showed. Long ago, Two-Ten City had been pure human, until it was invaded by a multi-racial horde who usurped the city. They bred with the Royal humans by force, and became Royals themselves. The other Royal families of Bish no longer recognized a Royal from Two-Ten City. They considered them a disgrace and a mockery of humankind, so Two-Ten City was left alone to fend for itself.

  Venir stood along the rim of the cage with his comrades. Mikkel’s lighthearted expression was as grim as he had ever remembered. Even Melegal seemed to be shifting uncomfortably by his side. The battle with Farc from so long ago was never as glorious as it had been portrayed. It had become a classic that had spread throughout the land, taking the shape of legend over the years. Farc was past his prime, and battered from an earlier fight. He just never allowed himself to admit it. A desperate punch saved Venir from a crushed neck and busted Farc’s eye.

  Mikkel nudged him with an elbow. Several more Royals were now perched in their seats high above the pit. Their unpleasant faces were part-orc, some gnoll and ogre. There was some portion of humanity in all of them, maybe an eighth, a quarter, or hopefully half or more. They all were adorned in fashionable attire and gaudy jewels. Most had large eyes, flaring nostrils, rough skin, course hair and iron jaws. They were bigger and more muscular, on average, but mixed orcs sometimes looked very much like their pure human counterparts. It was the orcs that called the shots.

  If there were uncertainty about whether one was more orc than human, the brash orcen personality would usually reveal the more prominent lineage. The more human, the more bearable in all cases, as the orcs were one of the strongest and ugliest races on Bish. Their stupidity was a marvel of its own accord. They all despised humans, and of course denied being any part other than orcen. Still, they tried to imitate humans as best they could. The larger numbers of humans were still tolerated in Two-Ten City. Someone had to keep the books and encourage order.

  Venir turned his gaze inside the pit as a tall, heavy human was dispatching a family of six halflings. The robed pony-tailed man seemed intent on breaking every bone he could in their tiny bodies. His strikes were hard and fast and his movements as fluid as water. The crowd roared at the sounds of the man breaking bones. The crippled halfling family begged for mercy before they were finally dragged up out of the cage. Orcen men tossed their broken bodies down into a cart and they were wheeled down another tunnel. Venir caught Nikkel shuddering at his father’s side. Mikkel was whispering in his son’s ear. He saw Nikkel mouth the words, I’m okay.

  Bad memories began to swim inside Venir’s head now. Melegal’s hand slipped on his shoulder as he said in his ear, “Should I bet on this?”

  Venir nodded.

  “Why not? One of us should enjoy himself.”

  Melegal was already moving away as Venir added, “It’s just my life.”

  Farc approached, with a patch now drawn over his eye, chin jutting in what could have been mistaken for a smile. The ogre leaned down and pointed into Venir’s somber face.

  He spit with rotten breath as he spoke.

  “Tonight Farc finally pay you back! Tonight your eye get smashed for good and other eye.”

  Farc flipped up his patch, revealing his small red pupil and his crushed eye socket.

  “Then you know what it likes for Farc. Son of Farc, bust you good.”

  Mikkel had turned away, covering his nose, but Venir held Farc’s gaze as his blood pumped harder behind his temples.

  “Whatever makes you happy, Farc,” he replied with an icy stare.

  Venir stood with his hands behind his back, staring hard into Farc’s milky eye.

  “Time to get in … and die!” Farc said, breaking off his stare and seating himself where the Royals now sat.

  As the cage was being prepared the room had now filled beyond capacity. The betting had begun. People were craning their necks to get a look at the legend who walloped Farc long ago. On top of the cage, two full-blooded orcs in studded leather armor opened the drop-down gates and beckoned for Venir to come. He strode to the cage, and climbed the bars like an ape until he stood on top.

  The crowd fell silent. The two armored orcs looked at one another and then at him. They were the same two that badmouthed him the last time. Now they nodded and stepped aside. The crowd was full of puzzled looks. He could feel the inhuman Royal’s burning gazes and he shot them all fiery glance. He spit, punched his hand into his fist and hopped down inside. The orcs slammed the cage door shut.

  BANG!

  The crowd erupted with jeers from all over. Venir could feel the power in their blood thirsty voices, but it wasn’t for him. Then the chanting began.

  “Son of Farc! Son of Farc! Son of Farc!”

  The rafters shook with every lung bursting syllable. Venir didn’t remember such cheers the last time. He gritted his teeth and stared down the tunnel. A large head appeared, coming his way through the dim light. The crowd’s roaring became deafening as Son of Farc stepped out into full view. The ogre was pumping his fists high in the air, stirring the frenzied crowd into another high. Being in the cage seemed like the safest place to be as scuffles began to breakout all around.

  Son of Farc was much more ogre than his father. By the looks of things, Son of Farc was all ogre, but for his partial blue eyes. The part-ogre was the biggest Venir had ever seen, standing over seven feet tall and every bit of four hundred pounds. Venir swallowed hard and waited. Farc’s son was more than a chip off the ole block, rather the block itself.

  Son of Farc had coarse black hair all over his half-naked body. His muscles were thick, his heavy brow protruded, and his legs were like solid oak trees. His nostrils flared wide under a fattened nose and his shoulders were as broad as a bull’s. All Son of Farc wore were faded blue pants, tattered at the bottom, with a belt made out of hair. Farc had worn a similar belt, a variety of hair pulled from the heads of the ogres vanquished opponents. Venir tied his long locks back. He had no desire to become a part of the ogre’s
strange trophy.

  Son of Farc reached up, grabbing the upper rim of the cage and bounded to the top. The ogre then shoved the two armored orcs off of the top, opened the drop-down gate and jumped inside. Looking down at Venir, the Son of Farc displayed a smile full of rotting yellow teeth above his jutting jaw. Above, the orcs slammed the gate down and prepared to lower the weapon. But as a morning star was about to be lowered, Farc, from the audience, made them stop, signaling ‘no weapon’ with his fists in the air. The crowd booed and hissed, but then Farc’s roar settled them down. This fight was to be bare knuckles, teeth, knees, elbows, you-got-it you-use-it; just the way it was the last time.

  It was all Venir now. No help, no Brool, no choice. He cast a glance at his friends, they all looked worried. Better off dying doing something.

  He was dripping like a waterfall as he removed his sweat soaked jerkin. He tried to shake the flow of blood into his fingers. He felt numb, lethargic and unprepared, but a twinge of anger was burning somewhere.

  He could hear voices in the crowed shouting about the big V-shaped tattoo on his over muscled back. Vermin, Vulgar, Vile, Villain, the mixed races had screamed, Victorious said another, much to the laughter of the others. A few coins exchanged in favor of the more formidable looking man that had beaten Farc before. The Son of Farc snorted, staring at his sneering father who stood on the balcony above.

  Venir wasn’t the less experienced man Farc had fought years earlier, rather different, weathered and frightening. Venir looked over again at his comrades, all pressed near the cage. Mikkel gave him a puzzled look, while Melegal gave him meager thumbs up.

  The crowd’s voices became a manageable rumble as a grey-bearded dwarf sauntered over to a bronze gong as tall as an ogre. The ancient dwarf stared up at the Royals in the bleachers, hoisting the mallet high above his head. A tall orcen man, leaner than the rest, stood and raised his palms outward in the air. The crowd hushed. A handful of coins clinked onto the bleachers and rattled down. Venir’s eyes locked of Son of Farc’s. There was ice in the ogre’s stare, and fire behind the ice. Venir could feel the rush of blood flowing behind his ears. Die doing something!

  The tall orc’s palms knotted into big fists. Two long hairy thumbs flicked upwards.

  BONG!

  Venir sprang like a panther and punched Son of Farc straight in the nose. The ogre’s head rocked back with a notable crack, and first blood had been drawn. The roar of the crowd was a dull hum in Venir’s pulsating ears.

  Son of Farc was holding his broken nose, furious, swatting his long arms back and forth, and forcing Venir to dodge away. Venir watched as the ogre grinned, smearing the dripping blood with his forearm along his chin. Now, ogre beckoned to the man with his finger. The crowd went wild. Venir’s hand ached and he realized it was going to be a hard and dirty fight.

  The two circled each other and Son of Farc made his move. Son of Farc lunged in low with a powerful right upper cut. Venir ducked inside and pounded a flurry of hard shots into the ogre’s ribs. A man would have dropped like a sack of broken glass, but the ogre shoved him away.

  Son of Farc circled, agile on his massive feet, then lunged once more. Venir dropped to a crouch, punching into the ogre’s belly.

  “Ooph!”

  Venir heard a rush of air burst out above him, and then a massive fist slammed down, glanced off his head and onto his neck and shoulder. Blinded by the shocking blow, Venir dropped to one knee. Two huge fists slammed into his shoulders like hammers, driving Venir to the ground. Pain exploded into his upper body as the crowd leaped to their feet. Venir sat on both knees, waiting as Son of Farc brought his mallet-like fists down again. Venir bolted up, catching both wrists clean and rose up, staring the ogre in the face.

  “You got nothin’, human.” the ogre said with a growl. “You gonna die.”

  Venir pushed the ogre back, its feet sliding backwards in the dirt. Venir’s bull neck was red, blue veins rising along his arms and back. Son of Farc snarled, using his superior weight as leverage, bending Venir back. Venir squeezed the ogre’s wrists and screamed. With a yank he pulled the ogre down and inward, rolled onto his back, planted his feet in the ogre’s belly and launched Son of Farc over his head. Son of Farc slammed into the rocky arena wall.

  Mikkel and Nikkel were jumping into the air as the ogre lay stunned on the floor.

  Venir pounced on the ogre’s back, raining down punches as hard as he could into Son of Farc’s ribs and kidneys. Howling in pain and anger, Son of Farc tore himself away from the vicious onslaught. Venir lost his grip on the ogre’s head of hair, dropped down, crouching to the stone’s floor. He was exhausted, his leg’s felt wobbly and his lungs were bursting.

  Son of Farc stood up before him, tall as a tree, clutching his side and spitting a mouthful of blood. One thing was for sure, Son of Farc was a lot tougher than his father. If Farc had not become overconfident, Venir might not have won that battle. It seemed Farc had certainly prepared his son well for this day.

  Do something or die trying. Venir back rushed in, throwing powerful haymakers and uppercuts into every vulnerable spot on the ogre’s body. The ogre returned in kind, and the apparent mismatch became a clash of titans. In a furious assault, Son of Farc struck, dodged, and countered. Venir was quicker and more precise, but the ogre was taking the pain and keeping up the pressure. Frustration settled on Son of Farc’s bewildered face as Venir’s hammering blows raised knots on his body.

  Venir punched harder and harder, and his hands felt like they were about to break. The ogre’s big arms served well to absorb most of his powerful blows. Son of Farc’s massive fists swung all around as Venir dodged and ducked his head. His quickness and instincts saved him from punches that might have killed a lesser man. Stunned at what they were witnessing, the crowd squealed in delight.

  Battered, bruised, and bloodied, the seconds began to feel like minutes. Venir was on the verge of collapse, his arms as heavy as lead. Son of Farc had worn him down with sheer weight and endless strength. The ogre broke it off and backed away.

  He could see the ogre’s chest heaving while clutching at its sides. Blood was dripping in Venir’s eyes as the ogre’s clawed fingers had ripped open the skin on his skull.

  Son of Farc charged with a thunderous roar. Venir tried to dodge, but was barreled over and crushed into the ground. Something inside of him cracked and he let out a yell of pain.

  From beneath he tried to break free of the big ogre’s grapple and squirm away. The ogre’s powerful grip held him fast. Venir was determined to wrestle his way out. He didn’t hear Mikkel screaming the word, “NO!”

  It was a fatal mistake. There was an old saying in Bish, “Don’t wrestle the ogre, wrestle the bear instead.”

  Outmatched under the ogre’s weight, Venir’s wrestling was fruitless and something was stabbing inside his chest. He was as good a wrestler as any man on Bish—maybe one of the best—but humans weren’t the natural-born wrestlers that ogres were. Venir began countering as he tried in vain to grab ahold of something, or pull away to escape.

  Son of Farc was relentless, countering every move as if he was one step ahead. Venir’s strength was sapped and his blood was dripping to the ground. He got turned with his belly to the ground. Bone! The ogre grabbed his long hair in his hand, jerking Venir’s head back with a painful snap. He cried out. The crowd went wild, screaming for his blood. He could see his friend’s shocked faces, now filled with internal anguish. Nikkel turned his head away.

  Son of Farc wrapped his arms under Venir’s and locked his hands behind Venir’s head. Venir was in a full headlock by the strongest creature he had ever known. He forced his head backward against the growing pressure. The pressure in his neck kept building and his nerves were on fire. He struggled as his chin was bending down into his chest. He was turning red with rage, his veins bulging like purple snakes. Every ounce of his strength exhausted. He waited for the sound of his cracking neck. He wondered if that would be the final sound, or would it be t
he Son of Farc laughing in his ear. Blood streamed out his nose as his eyes rolled up in his head. Better dying ….

  CHAPTER 60

  McKnight couldn’t have been happier when the barged stopped. The dreadful journey that seemed to take an eon came to an end. The sound of rippling water and Tonio’s raspy breath had worn on McKnight like a festering earache. Just when he was contemplating stabbing his own dagger into his ears, they arrived.

  McKnight was never more thankful for the ground below his feet as they climbed out of the barge and into a cave. The cool gritty dirt clutched in his fingers might as well have been gold as he crawled through it. The dark cave winded and twisted and there was light ahead, moonlight. Its orange light burned like sunshine to him. He enhanced his efforts, scraping over the shale and slime, welcoming the illumination.

  The cave opened somewhere in the Outlands, but where exactly Detective McKnight could not be sure. It wasn’t the Underland and that was all that mattered. He studied the moon high above, calculating his position. It offered little comfort, but the terrain told him much more. Vegetation was not so sparse, trees and grass appeared near and more so in the distance. He surmised that they were far from the City of Bone. The detective basked in the light until a shadow blocked out the light.

  “Let’s eat,” Tonio said in a raspy voice.

  It was the first words the man had spoken since they departed. McKnight wanted nothing more than to feed the man his sword. The blank expression on Tonio’s torn face was almost as bad as the twisted grimace of the underling. Both men seemed unnatural to McKnight, but he kept his shudders to himself. He rubbed the pommel of his blade with his hand and watched their every move.