The Darkslayer: Book 05 - Outrage in the Outlands

by Craig Halloran

  “Three!”

  Melegal took a quick glance around. For some reason, he thought Venir would come bursting through the door at any moment, axe high, screaming for the heads of every last Royal.

  “Two!”

  All of Melegal’s hopes fled as Leezir hugged his granddaughter with all his might.

  “One!”

  Twang. Twang. Twang. Twang. Twang. Twang.

  Leezir’s body lurched forward, six arrows piercing his back. Cheers erupted from the small crowd as Leezir’s hand fluttered and he moved no more.

  Jubilee crawled out from beneath him, eyes wide with horror, tears streaming down her face, clutching at her grandfather’s face.

  “Reload, Lads!”

  I can’t watch this! Melegal’s head dipped down at the sound of the wooden shafts scraping along the arrows in the rest of the bows. The sound of the stretching bow strings clenched the muscles in his jaws.

  “One at a time,” the soldier said, “Let’s feather the little Slerg like a goose, shall we?”

  The first young Royal, the one with the boasting mouth, let his arrow fly. Melegal’s grey eyes watched with deep remorse as the arrow seemed to sail across the arena in slow motion and hit the wall above Jubilee's fragile shoulder, sending her running and tripping over Leezir’s corpse. Somehow, she still staggered back to her feet.

  Stay down!

  Twang.

  An arrow narrowly missed her leg as she screamed.

  Amid the rousing cheers and cries, a triumphant and most unnatural sound occurred.

  Melegal’s back straightened as a snake of ice slivered through his spine. The sounds of groaning metal and snapping chains cut through the arena like a lightning strike. Brak, once huddled and forgotten, was in full motion now. His hulking frame was tearing his metal bonds away like cob webbing, and his big face was a raging inferno the likes of which no man had seen before.

  Brak stormed across the arena, slamming into the row stunned young Royals. His blue eyes blazed like a man possessed, and his thickset arms were knotted in fury, hammering at the young men who were awestruck by the raging bull.

  Melegal had seen a similar look on Venir before, but this was different, a frenzied beast out of control. Go, Brak!

  A young Royal's neck was snapped like a branch. Brak bent another one's head back over his shoulder.

  Melegal remained frozen in his seat, aware that the woman, Jarla, remained poised as well, her hands falling to her sword as she scooted forward. Melegal held his fingers tight on his triggers as madness overcame the crowd.

  “NOOOO!” a guest from the stands screamed, his arm stretching out.

  In the arena, two soldiers lay dead, and Brak had his hands filled with their swords, chopping down everything, living, moving or breathing. Big and frightening, he came at them with speed that defied the natural boundaries of man.

  CHOP!

  He cut one soldier in twain.

  SLICE!

  A young Royal's head was severed from his shoulders.

  A durable soldier in chain armor launched an arrow into Brak’s shoulder. He ripped it out, charged, and jabbed it into the soldier's neck.

  Lord Almen was on his feet now, barking orders as his precious Coming of Age game quickly became a Royal blood bath. The servant girls were scrambling up the stands, dragging the distraught Lorda behind them. By the time they reached the top, he’d seen two more Royals felled under Brak’s devastating blows.

  Think, Detective! He scanned the arena for Sefron. The vile cleric was scurrying through a door above, his sagging face agape in terror. Slat! Melegal contemplated his move, if he had one at all. The Royal guests, the softer sort, adorned in fanciful robes and far from prepared for battle, scurried around the arena stubbing their sandaled toes. Lord Almen was the only calm one among them as Brak skewered the last young Royal and hoisted the dead young man high in the air on his sword.

  “Somebody stop him!” Lord Almen cried. He looked back over his shoulder.

  “Detective! Get in there!”

  Almen sneered at Jarla and pointed inside the ring.

  “You get in there as well!”

  Jarla looked at Melegal, and he looked at her. He stood up and made his first step. An impossible thought occurred to him. An urge that felt right, good.

  I’ve had it with these Royals.

  Jarla unsheathed her sword and took another look at him.

  Melegal’s mind glimmered with life, filling his body from head to toe.

  Sleep! Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!

  Jarla’s eyes rolled up in her head as she swooned, her sword clattering on the seats.

  “What is this!” Lord Almen said, reaching for the collapsing woman.

  Everything was in slow motion. Lord Almen’s back turned to him. Melegal grinned from cheek to cheek. Might as well start at the top.

  Stab!

  Lord Almen’s expression was one he’d never forget as he plunged his dagger deep in between the Royal’s ribs.

  “Welcome to my arena,” he said, twisting his blade.

  Lord Almen’s handsome expression paled as he tried to twist free, arms pushing away Melegal’s face. He held Almen tight by his robes and pushed the blade deeper.

  “Urk!”

  Almen’s eyes widened in alarm as fear filled his eyes.

  “You’ll pay for this, Detect …”

  Lord Almen’s eyes rolled up in his head as Melegal lowered him to the floor.

  “But you won’t be around to see that, will you?” he said, head whipping around.

  Whop!

  Brak was in the stands now, arrows jutting from his back and shoulders as he smashed two of Lord Almen’s guests into each other and hurled them over the wall.

  He slipped his dagger from between Almen’s ribs. The man was dead. He couldn’t believe it. I killed him. I actually killed him. Have I gone mad? The memory of Leezir’s eyes flashed in his mind. His cap tingled with alarm.

  Slice!

  He sprung backward as a sword stroke almost cleaved him in half.

  “Murdering coward!” Jarla yelled.

  It seemed his suggestion hadn't worked so well. What a willful woman she must be.

  As Brak continued to hack the Royals down one by one in a maddened frenzy, Melegal dashed up the stairs and down again as more guards and soldiers spilled into the arena from high and low.

  “Bone!”

  Jarla’s steel nipped at his toes as he bounded past her and down into the arena. Ten more able soldiers made their way into the arena and blocked every door. There was no way out for Melegal unless he took out the angry swordswoman coming his way.

  Think!

  CHAPTER 11

  Fogle’s limbs were frozen as he watched the giant’s club descend.

  Poof!

  The giant roared as its club burst into sawdust, and it fought to wipe the plume of grit from its eyes.

  Fogle Boon clutched his chest and frantically began to speak. Something fierce had clamped down on the collar of his robes and was dragging him backward over the sand. He tried to think of a spell, all the while kicking and flailing his arms and legs. Something snorted a gooey mist over his robes. He strained to look behind him. It was Chongo.

  “Quit flapping like a fish, Fogle!” Cass yelled. “I’ve come to aid you. You called for me, didn’t you?”

  “Er … Yes!” he said, gathering his feet.

  “Well, here I am. Now get out of the way, will you!” she said, raising her hands above her head, soft pink lips muttering a quick incantation.

  Fogle jumped out of the way and fell alongside Chongo as the giant clenched its monstrous fists and charged. Cass’s body shimmered and convulsed in a captivating matter as a shadow of life erupted beneath the giant.

  It moaned as it sank waist deep into the quick sand that had been solid ground moments before.

  Impressive!

  The giant’s free hand clawed at the ground, ripping it up like sand as it sunk chest deep into
the dirt. It seemed the last moments of the giant’s life were coming to an end as it sank farther and farther and then stopped when the quick sand began to solidify around its neck.

  “Looks like you got him, Cass! Amazing!”

  The giant’s hand burst from beneath the ground.

  “It won’t hold him forever, Fogle Fool! Do something, before he pulls himself out!”

  Fogle’s hands rummaged through all the belongings inside his robes. He wished Ox the Mintaur was there. He'd always kept things handy.

  “Hurry!” Cass yelled as the giant began pushing itself out of the hole.

  “I don’t have anything!”

  Two stocky black bearded figures charged into the giant's path and began jabbing at its neck with spears.

  “Thank Bish for the Dwarves,” Cass said, sliding from Chongo’s back.

  The giant two-headed dog sped towards the giant, attacking with both heads and four lion-like claws. The giant swatted one dwarf away and sent him spinning over the ground. It snatched the other in its palm.

  Cass was rummaging through Fogle's robes.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Something!” she shot back, producing a vial of luminescent liquid from his robes.

  Chongo yelped as the giant sent the big dog sprawling.

  Cass winded her arm back with the vial.

  “Don’t throw that!”

  It was too late. The vial sailed into the giant’s mouth and disappeared down its maw.

  Cass looked over at Fogle and said, “What was that?”

  The giant jerked upright, eyes bulging as it clutched at its throat.

  “What’s happening?” Cass yelled, stepping backward to Fogle's side.

  The giant went into a fit of spasms, its big mouth gulping for air as it released the dwarf from its grasp. The dwarves and Chongo backed away from the giant as it swung away at everything in its path. Fogle watched with avid fascination. The giant was choking to death.

  It snorted and gurgled as water began spilling from its mouth. Finally, the giant's head pitched forward into the hard ground with a thud. It moved no more.

  Fogle and Cass eased their way over and gazed at the pool of water spilling from its mouth.

  She grabbed him by his arm and asked again, “What was that?”

  “Oh, just about a year’s worth of water rations.”

  She pinched his face in the palm of her hand and said with a glowing smile.

  “I knew that, Fogle.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “TUNDOOR’s GOING TO KILL YOU PESKY DWARVES!”

  Fogle whipped his head around. A giant with bulging muscles from his shins to his neck was inside a dust cloud, swinging a hammer as big as a man.

  “Where in Bish did he come from?” he said, unable to hide the fear quivering in his voice.

  Cass wrapped her arms around his waist and exclaimed, “We’re going to need a lot more water to stop that giant!”

  ***

  Mood had seen many things in his long lifetime on Bish, and the giants were among those, just not giants this big.

  The ground erupted where the giant's hammer came down less than a foot from his feet, knocking him to the ground.

  “I CAN SMELL YOUR FEAR! YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM TUNDOOR! HA! HA! HA!”

  Mood’s boots moved toward the sound of the giant’s bellowing voice. There were only two good ways to fight a giant: from a long distance or right up close. As he made his way through the dust, the ground erupted once again. Mood’s hand axe lashed out, chopping deep in the giant’s hand. He swung again, missing as the giant jerked its injured hand away.

  “ARGH! A nice sting, you fuzzy red mouse, but it will take more than that to stop Tundoor. HA! HA!” the giant said, raising its leg and stomping the ground. “OUCH!”

  Eethum had struck a nasty blow from somewhere nearby. If Eethum was working one side, Mood needed to be working the other. Got to get him to the ground!

  WHOOM!

  WHOOM!

  WHOOM!

  WHOOM!

  Tundoor hammered all over like an angry child. Mood jumped left, right, backward and forward, each leap as painful as the next inside his rattling chest. The hammering moved away from him as he caught a glimpse of the giant’s hairy shin in the dust. He chopped into the giant with all of his might.

  Whack!

  Tundoor jerked his knee up and let out a deafening roar. Mood thought he was listening to the world coming to an end ...

  Whang! In the next moment, he was skipping over the hardened ground. He stopped with a mouthful of grit, two dislocated shoulders, and maybe worse. Everything hurt. The world was rumbling beneath him, and for the first time in three hundred years he felt the urge to retch as his blood trickled down his broken face. He tried to speak, but no words came out.

  Got to get up! Must kill that giant!

  But all he could do was watch the blurry spots in the dusty sky and feel the land-shaking steps getting closer.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Bring me the Dussacks!” Sam the barkeep yelled.

  A hunchbacked woman with wispy white hair teetered into the middle of the room with two knife-like swords hanging in her fragile arms. They clattered on the floor as she turned to walk away.

  “Get the oil, too,” the barkeep ordered, “you old hen, and don’t drop it, either.”

  She teetered away, waving her hand over her head.

  “And a flame as well!”

  Georgio stood within a circle of pressing people, Billip and Mikkel both at his back. Across from him stood Jeb, a stout brute with a neck of iron, his cutthroats behind, eyes and lips full of mockery. He didn’t like them. They weren’t the kind of men who had standards. They were takers: cold, merciless and cowardly. He could feel that in his bones.

  “You can walk away, Georgio. There’s nothing to be gained by this,” Billip said, cracking his knuckles.

  “No, I’m going to fight.”

  “You are not ready! This man, he’s a seasoned beast. He’ll cut you to ribbons. You pick up that Dussack,” Billip squeezed his shoulder, “you’re on your own.”

  Georgio looked down at the blade lying on the floor. It was a wide blade of steel, about thirty inches long with a gentle bend towards the tip. It had a loop for a hilt wrapped in leather that reminded him of half a pair of scissors. It was different, but he’d been training with Mikkel and Billip for a while. How different could one sword be from another?

  Mikkel stepped out into the center, his broad shoulders and muscular back heaving. He pounded his chest with his fist.

  “Take on a man, Jeb! Fight me instead! He’s untrained.”

  Jeb squatted down, plucked his Dussack from the floor, and said, “All knew the risk the moment you stepped in here. The boy can walk away,” he thumbed the edge of the blade, “just leave your purses and go.”

  “Coward!”

  Jeb laughed.

  “Your words are talking any thoughts of mercy from my mind. I suggest you talk some sense into your young friend … or give him a hug before he dies.”

  Mikkel turned and said, “Georgio, this man is a killer. You don’t have to do this.”

  Georgio pushed past Mikkel and picked up the sword.

  A cry of cheers went up.

  “Thatta boy!”

  “Kill him, Jeb, and cut me a lock of that curly hair!” A surly woman cried.

  “Don’t kill him, just punish him,” a harlot said, “I want to pinch those cheeks one time at least.”

  Course laughter erupted as the bar maids bustled, refilling the tankards of ale. It wasn’t often action like this happened so early in the day.

  That’s when Georgio noticed the sullen look on the face of the woman who had drawn the card, Velvet. It as if she was looking at a dead man. Shoulders slumped, he looked away. He didn’t know why he was doing this, but he felt compelled to, as if something inside him was driving him forward. But the words Melegal said had haunted him, Go b
ack to Three and Live. Stay in Bone and die.

  Mikkel put his heavy hands on his shoulders and said, “Stay on the defensive, and wait for an opening. You cut him good, he’ll yield. Be patient, Georgio.” Billip gave him a final squeeze. “You can do it, Georgio!”

  “Aye,” Billip said,” you’ve learned from the best. This man’s a thug. One good cut and he’ll run.”

  “Thanks,” Georgio said, unable to hide the dullness in his voice. He searched for Jeb’s eyes and found them staring back at him. His men were all offering encouragement, pointing and mocking at him. Something about the looks on their faces and the sound of their voices began to charge his blood.

  “Ah!” the barkeep’s voice cut through the noise of the crowd, “our favorite retriever returns.”

  The old woman’s arms quavered as she handed him over a jar and a candle.

  “Come here, young warrior,” the barkeep said, dousing a rag in the oil. “Let me see your blade.”

  Georgio stuck it out. The barkeep coated the blade halfway down with thick oily residue. It had a pungent smell, like the glue used to seal stones.

  “Step back,” he said, holding out the candle.

  “Fire them up, Sam!”

  Sam the barkeep stuck the candle under the blade's tip, igniting the blade.

  Georgio’s eyes widened as he watched the wispy black smoke rise from the orange flames.

  The crowd started chanting as the barkeep did the same to Jeb’s blade.

  “Jeb! Jeb! Jeb! Jeb!”

  “Take your places, men!” the barkeep said, guiding them both to the middle of the circle.

  Georgio looked up into the face of the man leering down on him with a flaming sword in his hand. Fight or die! That’s what Venir would say. He pulled back his shoulders and clenched his teeth.

  “Let’s go over the rules of the Flaming Sword. The Dussack is a cutting weapon, but stabbing is allowed. But you only get one poke.”

  “Aah! Give 'em three pokes, Sam!”

  The barkeep waved the comments off as he allowed his words to arouse the crowd.

  “I’ve seen men slashed to ribbons! I saw a woman whittled down to the bone! No Mercy! A merry old man sliced off his best friend's fingers! Be alert! A woman cut her husband’s neck open! Be wary!”