“Delicious, simply delicious,” Morley Sickle said, nibbling on another morsel of food. It was the finest dining he’d ever had. He’d never imagined there was so much that the tongue could experience. “The bread, the roasted meat and those vegetables that you … er … what did you do to it?”
“Sautéed’,” a prosperous man replied, sitting by his side at an unusually long dining table.
“Yes, yes! Sautéed. Excellent. I’d never known food could be prepared as such before. Marvelous.”
“More wine, My Lord?” a blossoming servant girl asked, with hands and face as delicate as the fine cloth draped over his lap.
Morley licked his teeth and said, “Absolutely,” while reaching over and patting her on the rear. My. A man could really get used to this.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Morley, my friend?” the most dashing man asked from the far side of the table.
It was Scorch. The man who could do anything it seemed, which included making him a Royal.
Morley could feel his face stretching into a smile as wide as a canoe. It must be this wine! He couldn’t contain it, marveling at the excellent dining hall. The chandeliers, each candle lit, hung twelve feet high in the air. The walls were cut limestone, where the most extravagant painted scenes of landscapes and battles were displayed. His wine goblet was pure silver, and his plates a fine porcelain. He never imaged so much wealth in the world. The Royals did well to keep that hidden from the citizens.
“I am, Scorch, but … I don’t think the rest of us are,” he said, sucking down more wine as he eyed the others seated at the table.
“No! Er .. excuse me, no ,ahem, Lord Sickle. It’s just been a busy day, is all,” said one Lord dressed in a tunic and pants as expensive as a suit of armor. On each side of the man, two others were face down in their food, dead. “And, ahem, quite frankly, I’m not accustomed to eating in the presence of the dead.” The Lord’s head lurked back on his neck. “Not with my brothers, anyway.”
“Well,” Scorch said, rising from his chair and tossing his long blond hair over his shoulder, “perhaps they should have known better than to interrupt my friend, Lord Sickle. And,” Scorch twitched his finger on his nose, “I’m not so sure what to make of your tone, Lord Ashlorn. I sense agitation in your tone.”
The satin clad women at the table, five in all, one just as pretty as the next, let out gasps. All except one, quite weathered, almost ancient. She was scraping her spoon on the soup bowl.
Slurp. Scrape. Slurp.
Lord Ashlorn dabbed his forehead on his cloth napkin, shaking his head.
“Forgiveness, Lord Scorch—”
“Lord Sickle is over there,” Scorch nodded. “I’m not a Lord. I’m well above this drivel.”
“Er … yes, forgive me, Lord Sickle. But, I must confess, I am somewhat … uh, “ he eyed his dead brothers, “frightened.”
Morley hiccuped as he waved his wobbling hand at the man. “Oh, phish-posh, Lord Ashlorn. How could I ever be upset with my father-in law? Especially after he’s blessed me with such beau—beautiful brides.” He reached over and patted the trembling arm of the woman on his right. She was young, barely a woman, hair long and black like a sparrow. Her chin was quivering as she closed her eyes. “Hah. Now that’s pretty.”
In the other chair on his right, another woman sat, older, full figured, with a frown as big as a hat. She was Lorda Ashlorn, Lord Ahlorn’s wife. Morley leaned over, puckered his lips and kissed her half on the lips.
“Heh-heh, I kissed her. I haven’t kissed a girl since I was a young man,” he said, licking his lips. “And she was as ugly as a mountain goat.” He tried to kiss her again and slipped from his chair onto the floor. “She kicked like one, too. Heh-heh.”
“SOMEBODY HELP HIM UP!” Scorch ordered, the polish in his voice turned hard as a wetting stone.
Everyone at the table moved, aside from the old woman, whom Scorch resumed helping with her spoon. Morley felt several pairs of hands helping him back up into his seat and dusting off his clothes.
“Thank you,” he said.
Every face was stark, leaving him with an uneasy feeling. Before in life, most people hardly noticed him, now they were all terrified of him. Friendly or not.
“Oh, this is ridiculous. I don’t belong here,” he said, dropping his face into his hands.
“Certainly you do,” Scorch said. “You’ve as a much reason to be here as the rest.”
“Certainly," Lord Ashlorn agreed.
“Absolutely, here, let me rub your shoulders. They must ache after that fall,” his eldest bride said, showing a slight smile.
But Morley, dispatched as he might be, could still feel their uncertainty. Their fear was mixed with loathing and self-preservation. They only did what they did because they had no other choice. It was either that or die. He snorted. He’d not spent much time around many people, but he’d been an avid listener over the years. The Royals in Hohm City, though not as intrusive as the others, still did not hesitate to exert their will. Serves them well.
“What was that, Morley?” Scorch said.
Pickles. Pickles. hic. Pickles.
“Nothing, I just .. I just want to lie down. I think I’m getting sick.”
“Have they poisoned you?” Scorch said. As he did so, all of the knives and forks on the grand table rose up on end.
A collective shiver filled the room. Even Morley, as dull as he senses were, blanched at the sudden height of danger.
“Scorch! Blast you! I’ve no quarrel with them,” he said, watching the forks and knives slowly rise from the table. “Please, put the silverware down. I’ve seen too many die today. I don’t want to see any more.”
Scorch looked at him, blue eyes shining as bright as the sky. “But these people don’t like you, Morley.”
“No, we do like you,” Lorda Ashlorn fell to her knees, “You are excellent, Lord Sickle. Worthy of the most high on highs.” She clutched the silk of his pants and whispered. “Please don’t let him kill us. Please.”
The desperation in the pretty woman’s voice and face sunk Morley’s heart down between his knees. In a matter of hours, Scorch had over taken a castle, wiped out an entire garrison of guards, and delivered unto him everything he could ever hope for: the finest wine, women and clothing a man could find, but in all its splendor he was still not content. All he wanted was peace. Pickles. Pickles. Pickles.
The women trembled and sobbed, huddling close to one another while the knives and forks flashed and spun in the air. Every Royal was wide-eyed with terror when their heads weren’t hunkered down. All accept the leathery old woman, whose satin sleeve now rested in the bowl of soup she scraped, determined to get every last drop in her mouth.
“She's lying, Morley,” Scorch said, his silvery voice as hard as stone. “She wants you to leave. You repulse her. She thinks you are unworthy of the dirt beneath a chair.”
“No,” the Lorda said, rubbing his thighs, “It’s not true, Lord Sickle. I’ve no such inclination. Your will and pleasure are mine. I assure you. I’ll show you.”
“Hah! She’s a convincing one. Aren’t they all?” Scorch said as the knives and forks continued to spin over their heads. “Come now, Morley. You have everything you want now. A beautiful woman grovels on her knees. Your belly is filled, and you’ve drunk wine pressed from mystic vineyards you didn’t even know existed. Yet still, you are unhappy. Why is that? Is it these people?”
“NO!” Morley shouted. “NO! NO! NO!” he slammed his fists on the table. “It’s YOU, SCORCH! Why won’t you leave me alone!” Morley rose to his feet and began tearing off his clothes. He ripped his shirt off. Scorch replaced it with another. He pulled of his shoes and tossed them across the room, only to see them reappear over his toes. “STOP IT! STOP IT!”
“MORLEY!”
The entire castle shook as Scorch rose from the floor, his eyes flashing with anger. All the Royals who lived were scrambling for the doors.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
T
he Royals fell to their knees, begging for mercy, waning at the threshold of the secured doors.
For the first time in his life, Morley felt something overcoming his fear: anger. He didn’t care what Scorch said, what Scorch did. He could not take it anymore.
“Leave me be, Scorch or whoever you are! Be the curse of someone else. Follow these people! Read their thoughts! Leave mine alone! Ulp!”
Morley stood as still as a tree as the whirling knives and forks lowered around his head. The look on Scorch's face was one he had not seen before. Impatient. Dangerous.
“I suppose you would rather die than spend another moment with me; is that it?”
Morley swallowed hard. His sweat dripped into his mouth. Scorch had given him everything he ever wanted, except the power to make his own choice. He couldn’t take it anymore. No life like this was worth living. Not like this. He just wanted his old life back. To be left alone to make his jig. He nodded.
The silverware hummed to life, spinning faster and faster, the circle narrowing around his neck. Morley heard a woman scream. He shut his eyes. Pickles. Pickles. Pickles. Blasted Pickles!
One eye snapped open at the sound of silverware clattering to the ground. The first thing he noticed as he scanned the room was that Scorch was gone. He let out a strange little laugh, like a man whose sanity had returned after a long absence. He opened his mouth to speak. No! Don’t say his name. Don’t even utter it. Don’t even think it again.
Lord Ashlorn was the first to rise back to his feet. Hawking, long-limbed and heavy set the man ambled over, casting quick glances all over the room.
“Is he gone?” the Royal said, placing a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Morley showed a bewildered smile and said, “Yes, I believe so. Ur … Lord Ashlorn, I am sorry for all of the — urk!”
Morley felt a dagger being rammed through his stomach and out his back. His knees weakened as his body slid from the blade, and he crumbled to the ground. He could see his brides, young and old, sneering down on him as if he was an old rabid dog. His lips stammered under his nose as he tried to summon his last gasping word. Scorch. There was no reply, and he died with the taste of blood and pickles in his mouth.
***
Hohm City was such dreary place. Devoid of the suns' brilliant light and the moons' soothing glow thanks to the chronic company of mist and fog. No. It wasn’t something that was going to be missed by Scorch. But Morley Sickle was. Why the man wouldn’t accept all that had been given him, he didn’t understand. It was clear though: the people of Bish were a stubborn lot. They would rather die than change.
Scorch made his way on foot through the marsh until he passed through the great pillars that marked the entrance to the road to the city. Before him, a hot dry land of cracked mud and hard ground awaited for miles in all directions. He'd learned enough about it before, when he traveled to Hohm City. The kind folk he’d traveled with had taught him a lot about the lands in the world of Bish that they knew. Certainly, there had to be a better place than Hohm.
“Where would you like to go?” he asked.
A woman, maybe thirty, with light brown hair down to her wide hips, strutted like a warrior by his side. She’s a gutsy woman, big boned, rough-handed and durable. Perhaps she'll better handle what Morley Sickle could not. Plus, she had a funny way of talking, and Scorch liked that.
“Well, I’ve been south, as far as the settlements beyond dwarven hole. Met my first husband there, but buried him here.” She thumbed the marsh. “Well, not really buried. Just killed him for cheating and dropped his bones in the swamp. He’s a troll’s booger now. Naw, I says we go to the City of Three. I hear it’s really pretty there. That’s where most all the nice things come from anyway.” She tied her hair up in a knot and swung it back over her shoulder. “Of course, you already knew that, didn’t you?”
Scorch smiled.
“Indeed, I did. So, Darlene, do you prefer to walk or ride?”
She set her hands to the hunting knifes at her hips and looked around.
“Well, I don’t see any horses. Do you? Besides, I don’t mind walking. My mother says my father was a dwarf, but I just think she says that cause I’m not very pretty. Besides, with these new boots you got me, I feel like I could walk forever.” She scratched her head. “Can you make horses, too?”
Scorch chuckled.
“I can make anything. I just can’t make you happy.”
“Aw, don’t worry about that.” She spat on the ground. “I’m always happy so long as there's game to be tracked, shot, fetched and skinned. I’m going to feed you like a mountain king. You’ll see. I can shoot a swamp rat cutting through the marsh at fifty yards. I once killed a bobcat with my bare hands. I smashed a boar with a log …”
CHAPTER 30
The City of Bone. Panic. Chaos. Confusion. The Royals were walled up in their castles while the soldiers and Watchmen marched through the streets in heavy armor and heavy hands. The underling strike had shocked the very core of the hardiest citizens in Bone with its effects spreading and long lasting. District 27 wasn’t any different, but the people there, long forgotten, were not in a panic. Instead, they went about their business, rebuilding one block at a time.
Trinos was perched on a bench facing the soothing waters of the fountain. Her platinum hair was brilliant in the light, along with the rest of her as well. The people who served her had worked hard all day long, and now they sat along the busted roads and dipped bread into soup bowls. A little girl, no more than six, was filling a pitcher with water. Her little smile was as warm as the suns as she curtsied towards Trinos and scurried away. It felt good, seeing people get things done, despite themselves. If only more of them would act the same.
“Ahem … Trinos?” said Corrin, taking a seat beside her.
She continued her gaze into the fountain and replied, “Yes.”
“The people, well, they are getting nervous, despite their graces. Frightened, unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” Corrin pulled the cloth coif from his head and held it to his chest. “The Royals are one thing to deal with. But Underlings, well that is quite another. They say they are the most atrocious creatures in all of Bish. Vicious. They eat people as they live!”
The underlings. Yes, they indeed were vicious. After all, she was the one who'd created them for such intents and purposes. Well, they were a loose creation copied from another world. Just a spice to give the boiling pot more flavor. Now it felt odd being among the people witnessing and hearing the testimonies of personal terror. She ran her delicate fingers through her hair then patted Corrin on the knee. The man’s grim face brightened a little as he pulled his narrow shoulders back and offered a toothy smile.
“Corrin, tell the people they’ll always be safe with me. As for the underlings ….” She stopped and cocked her head. Someone close by and coming their way was near death. “Corrin. A man needs aid down Warrow’s street. Lead him and his companions to me.”
Corrin’s heavy lids blinked as he said, “But, we’ve helped enough—”
“Corrin,” she warned, narrowing her eyes.
He nodded.
“As you wish.”
Stubborn man. They all were. But Corrin was faithful. Being a man of notorious ilk left his compassionate side as barren as a burned bee hive. But he kept the people working, much harder than they cared for, but as he reminded them, he was merciful compared to the Royals. Even though he really wasn’t. They were just better fed and not whipped, at least not that she saw.
She rose to her feet and watched down the street. Four men approached her sanctuary: two young , two older including the one who was near death from his wounds. As Corrin led them from the street buildings' shadows and into the courtyard, she got a better look at them. They were a durable group, not attached to anything like the other people, with an amount of unusual pain and suffering carrying on their faces, unlike the rest of the people.
The biggest one, built like a black marble statue, was the first to gl
ance her way. She saw the whites of his eyes as he gawped and stared. She felt him fight the urge to fall to his knees and beg for her hand in marriage. Yet, his concern for his friend prevented him from doing so.
“This one’s wounded,” Corrin said, “very bad. His arm’s almost chopped in two. I’d say he’s pretty much dead already by the look of him. Shall I get a shovel?”
Trinos stepped around the bench and made her way over to the man on the shaggy pony. The wounded man’s clothes were soaked in blood, and the young man behind him strained to hold him up.
“Hold him still,” she said in a soothing voice.
The wiry man moved his head around the back of his comrades to gaze upon her. “I’ll be still,” he sputtered, “so long as you stay right there. But I go where you go.” He gawped and grimaced, continuing his stare as if he’d seen a woman for the first time.
She laid her hand on the wounded man’s bloody shoulder and let her power run its course. The sound of muscles and bones stitching together was sickening. The man lurched up in the saddle. His chin cracked back into the face of the man behind him, but that man held on.
“YEE-OUCH!” the man cried as he gulped for air and blinked a dozen times.
No one said anything. All the men just stood in the courtyard watching her, eyes filled with wonder, lust and amazement. Corrin stepped in front of her.
“Your man is healed. You can all leave now.” He held his hand out. “But, I’ll be needing a contribution … a big one. It’s not every day a man gets brought back from the dead.”
“I-I wasn’t dead,” Billip said, craning his neck to get a better look at Trinos. “I was dreaming, and even in my dreams I’ve seen nothing like you. Will you—”
“Marry me!” Mikkel interjected.
Trinos let out a polite laugh.
“You are a passionate pair, I’ll say that much. But I have other things in mind for the both of you.”
Billip slid from Quickster’s back and started rolling his shoulder.
“My hitch: it’s gone.” He opened and closed his fingers in front of his face. “And I feel stronger, more like when I was young.” He looked at her and said, “Whatever you have in mind, I’m up for it.”
The Darkslayer: Book 05 - Outrage in the Outlands Page 18
