The Darkslayer: Book 05 - Outrage in the Outlands

by Craig Halloran

  The soldier looked down in the pit, up at Verbard, and nodded.

  “Uh … uh … he wears a floppy cap … d-d-d-dark gray … that hangs down over the side of his face. Hair more white than black. A dimple in his narrow chin. Eyes like cold steel. Fingers long and slender, almost like a g—”

  “Master!” Eep hissed, “I know this man of which he speaks. I’ve seen this man before. He’s the man who travels with The Darkslayer.”

  Verbard felt his stomach tighten in a knot.

  “How can you be certain?”

  “It’s him, Master. He’s the one,” Eep wrung his taloned fingers in his hands. “McKnight, the detective, was to dispatch of him that day.”

  Verbard felt his silver eyes begin to twitch inside his head. The mere mention of The Darkslayer was unsettling. After all, the man never perished. He’d only been banished into the Mist.

  “What else can you tell me of this man? How dangerous is he?”

  Eep’s serpent tongue licked out and around his mouth.

  “He’s a pest. Nothing more. Just a man. A stick with flesh and bones. I can hunt him and kill him if you like.” Eep hovered towards the disheveled Royal soldier and chomped his razor sharp teeth down. “I’d like a meal first.”

  Of all the things in Verbard’s life, the only one that gave him an ounce of security was Eep. The heartless horror of Bish brought him as much security as delight. He thought of his brother Catten, 'the wiser of the two,' most had said. He regretted all the times he’d wanted his brother dead. It was one of those things he'd never imagined possible. Now, without him, he found himself lost. Catten'd had focus and purpose. He missed those glaring evil eyes and all of the conspiracies they’d plotted together.

  “Eep, find this Melegal, and you shall have a treat upon your return.”

  “But, you said you’d let me live!” the soldier said, struggling to rise. The two underling soldiers shoved him down.

  “Toss him in the pit,” Verbard ordered, floating away from the edge.

  The man screamed as he was pushed over the edge. Not a moment later, his cries were cut short.

  “Master! I wished to have that one!” Eep screeched.

  “Be silent and fill your charge, Imp,” Verbard said, floating out of the smaller caves. “Contact me when you find him. Not a hair is to come off his head. I want him alive. I want those keys.”

  “Yes, Master, but there is something I must tell you, first,” Eep said.

  “Be gone!”

  The imp’s black wings buzzed with new life. It zipped away and blinked out of sight.

  Verbard looked at his soldiers.

  “Dismissed.” As he watched them go, he muttered like a curse, “The Darkslayer.” Somehow, someway, that impossible man had managed to creep back into his life.

  Making his way back to the shoreline, he watched his commander, Jottenhiem, organizing the small army. The Royals would be better prepared for the next strike, but not for one of this size. Not for one that could overtake and fortify an entire castle. Jottenhiem’s ruby eyes caught his. He waved the commander over.

  “We are ready, Lord Verbard. Master Kierway, I believe, delays our tactics,” Jottenhiem said, sneering.

  “He’ll be back as I’ve ordered, else, as he well knows, he’ll have my Vicious to contend with.” Verbard almost smiled as he said it. With the imp and the Vicious under his full control, even he felt invincible. “Despite his shortcomings, he’s an excellent tactician. He’ll find out which castles will give us the superior advantage.”

  “It shall be a hard fought battle, my Lord. The castles have many soldiers, hundreds in some cases according to Kierway. And how can we be certain he won't set you up for failure?”

  “As it is with all of us, Kierway hates humans vastly more than he hates even me. No, he’ll plan this one right.”

  The thought of overtaking an entire human Castle was both frightening and exhilarating. He couldn’t imagine the humans ever having the audacity to occupy the Underland. That was unthinkable. But, with the Current, the underlings could run endless supplies, and within a solid fortress they could hold out forever. Perhaps this was what Master Sinway had in mind to begin with.

  Verbard continued. “How are our agents performing beneath the streets, Jottenhiem?”

  “Every day we quietly fill their sewers with their own dead. We cornered a small force of men in their own streets and slaughtered the frightened dogs.”

  “Excellent,” Verbard said, stretching out his arms, resuming his feet from his stone throne. “Your efforts are appreciated, Jottenhiem. Enjoy the sanctuary of the caves for now.” He looked to the cave ceiling above. “You might not be seeing them again for awhile.”

  As Jottenhiem saluted and sauntered off, Verbard's clawed fingers fiddled with the Orb of Imbibing. “Such a precious possession.”

  Master, a voice sounded in his head. It was Eep.

  Have you found the human already?

  No Master. Soon, but I fear there is something I must tell you.

  What could it possibly be? If you are so ravenous, have one of those urchins.

  Master, I’ve news I failed to mention earlier.

  And?

  The Darkslayer, Master. He lives.

  Verbard didn’t feel the orb bounce off his toes as it rolled down the stone steps of the throne.

  “NO!”

  CHAPTER 36

  The chamber was illuminated by a single crystal chandelier that glowed with the light of a lone candle. It was Lord Almen’s bedroom. Inside, the Lord of Castle Almen lay still, gray skinned, the gentle rise and fall of his chest the only signs of life. Sefron rubbed his throbbing eye. Now blinded in it, he seethed within. Melegal’s fault.

  “He is strong, Lorda. I’m certain he’ll survive his predicament.” Sefron replaced the warm damp wash cloth on Lord Almen’s head with a cool one. “He needs his rest.”

  Lorda Almen was in charge now. Graceful. Demanding. Demeaning. She did not hold back her revulsion from him. But for now, she needed him, and he needed her.

  “If he dies, you die, Sefron. Are we clear?”

  Sefron couldn’t fight the lump that formed in his throat as he swallowed and replied, “Certainly, Lorda Almen. I’d rather die than live with my failure.” As Lorda turned away, he couldn’t tear his gaze from her legs underneath her garish tunic dress.

  I’d die just to run my fingers along those thighs of yours.

  The Lorda was perfect. Everything a man could desire and then some. For many long years, Sefron had longed for her, spied on her and fantasized of her. The Lorda of all Lordas. There was none like her. She, among the women, was revered and reviled. Most Lordas held true power: Magic. Skill. Poison. Words. Lorda Almen was different. She used nothing to control the wills of men and women but her comeliness ... and cunning.

  She snapped her fingers in his face.

  “Sefron! You ghastly cleric! Pay attention!”

  Sefron shook his head. Her magnificent perfume had unhitched his fantasies again.

  “Yes, ahem, my Lorda.”

  “I need Detective Melegal found and brought to me,” she ordered.

  Biting his lip, he nodded. She had a fancy for the man who he loathed with all his might. Melegal had foiled him. The rat from the streets had managed to snare the Lorda’s attention. Had saved the woman from her own son, so witnesses had said. Sefron never believed any of it, but he’d yet to prove otherwise.

  “As you wish, Lorda,” he said, adjusting the patch over his eye. It ached to do so. “The City Watch is scouring the streets as we speak, and I cannot rule out the possibility that the man, stricken by fear, fled the castle. He should have defended it. Instead, he’s gone.”

  Lorda remained expressionless, stroking her husband’s arm, beautiful eyes in contemplation.

  “No, he would do no such thing. He’s fulfilled all of his charges with the utmost proficiency.” Lorda stared into his eyes. A dangerous intent was there. “If you know someth
ing, you’d be wise to tell me now, Sefron.” She glanced back at the other men in the room. Shadow sentries, presence dulled by their ghost armor, stood eyes forward and at rest. “If I’m given the slightest doubt you’re lying to me, on my word, I’ll have you chopped into bits.”

  “No worries, Lorda. If he lives, I’ll find him. The Watchmen—”

  “The Watchmen are not capable! Slaggards! Over trained thugs is all they are! Hire the Bloodhounds if you must. Just see it done!”

  “The Bloodhounds?”

  Lorda pointed to the nearest Shadow Sentry, then at him.

  “Oh … mercy Lorda—”

  Two quick strides, and the tall warrior walloped him in his saggy gut. Sefron couldn’t breathe as he fell to the floor, but he could still hear.

  “I want that black-haired witch, Jarla, accounted for, too. Dead.”

  Sefron petted the rug that broke his fall as he watched her sensuous legs walk away. So pretty. One good eye is all I need. The two shadow sentries remained as she departed with two others who bowed to her in the hall. After a few more minutes, he clutched at the spread on Lord Almen’s bed and rose back to his feet, wheezing.

  “Shew,” he said, wiping the sweat from his pasty forehead. It hurt to even do that. Thank goodness I can still heal things. He scratched at one of the places were one of Melegal’s many darts had found a new home. Find the rat. Trap the rat. Kill the rat. No lying needed to be done in the 'pursuit of Melegal' department. Lorda Almen wanted him. Kierway wanted him. And Sefron wanted him, too. It wasn’t likely any man could avoid all those clutches for long. But the Bloodhounds? That was a reckless call.

  He dipped a small cup into a bowl of water and whetted Lord Almen’s lips.

  “That’s better. Can’t have you drying out on me.”

  He did it a few more times before setting the cup back down.

  “Bloodhounds,” he whispered. “Of all the stupid ideas. Those cretins will foil everything.”

  The Bloodhounds were a guild of henchmen bounty hunters that every Castle used, from one side of the City of Bone to the other. They were the best at what they did, but the price always ended up higher than the gold you paid them. Lord Almen never dawdled with them. He considered their ilk, “Gormandizing Bastards.” Sefron couldn’t agree more.

  He peeled the bandage back from the wound beneath Lord Almen’s arm. He could have let the man die, and wasn’t fully certain why he hadn't. He’d managed to stop the bleeding, but Lord Almen had lost an awful lot of blood. Still, he hadn’t figured out who had stabbed the man. Melegal had accused Jarla, and it was likely the woman was an assassin. But what about Melegal? Could he have the stones to have done such a thing?

  “Fiddle me,” me muttered, replacing the warm wash cloth on Almen’s head with another cold one. “This will help you rest well as you recover, Lord Almen.” He glanced back at the two stone-faced Shadow Sentries. They looked like they could break him in half just by staring at him. “It helps if you talk to them. Sing him a delightful song, if you like,” he said, waddling out the door holding his finger to his lips, “I won’t tell.” Slat sucking soldiers!

  Down the hall he went, limping and wheezing, carrying one lie on top of the other. It was hard lying to the Lorda, given all of her powerful wiles. But, lacking any witnesses from the torrid massacre that had befallen the victims in the arena, he’d convinced Lorda that Lord Almen had fallen battling the underlings. As for Lord Almen when he awakened? Sefron chuckled. I’ll let the man awaken when I’m ready. But it’s my castle for now.

  CHAPTER 37

  “Wine!” Jarla slammed her fist on the table.

  The young man jumped out of his stool, wiped his hands off on his apron, and blinked at her.

  “Why do you stand and look at me so stupidly, Fish-face?” she asked, carving the tip of her dagger into the table.

  “We’ve no more wine,” he stammered, wringing his hands. “Perhaps—”

  “I’ve never been in a tavern that ran out of wine. Where is it, Stooge?”

  The young man crouched behind his hands.

  “You drank it all … er … what we had left, that is.”

  Jarla slung the nearest wine jug at him, followed by another. The man scurried behind the bar. “Get me something! Else I’m going to carve another hole in your nose!” She slung the last remaining jug, and it slammed into the shelves behind the bar with a crash. “Idiot!”

  Jarla was rattled. She’d faced death before but nothing quite like what had happened the other day in Castle Almen’s arena. Madness. One second, she'd been watching the decimation of the Slergs and in the next, a bullish man exploded in a fit of frenzied rage. Her head ached still from the moment she’d momentarily blacked out. Fighting the sudden urge to sleep, she'd come to, only to see one of the skinniest men she’d ever seen sliding a dagger out from between Lord Almen’s ribs.

  She picked up her goblet and tilted it over her lips, catching the last remaining drops on her tongue. “Where’s my drink, Boy?” She slung the goblet across the room.

  Lord Almen was probably dead. He was one of the few allies she still had. They’d served together long ago as soldiers in the Royal forces. He’d taken her under his wing and then some. They’d learned to use each other for their wants and needs over the years. An alliance of great mutual benefit. He'd been the one who financed her Brigand Army from the outset. She dispatched of many of his enemies, and hers as well. But it had been her deal with the underlings that took it to another level. The demise at Outpost Thirty-One. When she'd come to Almen later, she'd been pleasantly surprised that he hadn't even seemed to mind. She hadn’t figured that one out. But for some reason, he'd always been there when she needed him, until now.

  “Slat!”

  That detective had foiled her and escaped. Out of nowhere, the underlings came. One moment she was fighting for her life, spilling blood of the Royal soldiers, then came the underlings and she was overwhelmed. Something had struck from the air. A glimmering black javelin had sailed into her chest, searing through one end and out the other. She'd blacked out, only to awaken in excruciating pain. Alone but alive. She'd crawled over the dead, the slaughtered, the mutilated, managed to make it to her feet, and stumbled through the corridors.

  The tavern boy interrupted her thoughts.

  “I-I found this,” he said, holding a bottle out with shaking arms.

  “Grog will do.”

  He set it down, pushed his sweaty locks back, and backed away.

  She scanned the room. The fireplace was dead, and the tavern was absent of all people. She liked that. It was only her and the boy, as far as she knew. She pulled the cork out of the bottle with her teeth and drank. It burned all the way down her throat and into her wounded belly. “Ah.”

  She wiped her sleeve across her busted lip and recalled her thoughts. Bleeding from a half dozen wounds and wracked in pain, she'd dragged her sword over marble floors in the halls. The sounds of battle'd been ringing out from all directions. Distancing herself from the sounds, she'd made it to the garrison, into the lower courtyard, and slipped past the abandoned post out into the streets. She took another swig from the bottle.

  “Now what?” she said to herself, tossing her head back.

  She was alone again. Lord Almen had given her comfort, sanctuary and pleasure after she'd sought him out, but now that was gone. She reached inside her cloak, pulled out a key as long as her hand, and set it down on the table. The key was crafted with brass and iron with a rectangular amethyst setting. Lord Almen had given it to her, not a gift, but a charge.

  She twisted a matching ring that was on her finger.

  When the gem twinkled, it meant Lord Almen summoned her. The Key, once entered into any key hole, would take her back to the ancient chamber. At some point, Lord Almen might summon her back into his chambers. But she wasn’t going to wait around.

  CHAPTER 38

  “Why so glum, Young Man? Are you not enjoying the food?” Trinos said, running h
er fingers through his curly hair.

  A rousing sensation raced from his head to his toes. He panted out his words.

  “No. The food's great.” Georgio took a breath. “I just want to find my friend, is all.”

  Trinos set him down on the bench alongside her and patted his knee as she looked him up and down.

  The woman was the most beautiful thing he ever saw. Prettier than Kam even, and he felt wholly inadequate in her audience. Small. Miniscule. Her long platinum hair seemed to cascade over her shoulders like a living waterfall. Her light blue eyes changed from green to gold in the light.

  “Tell me about this friend. What is his name?”

  Georgio swallowed hard as he tried to avert his gaze from the plunging neckline on her perfect chest, but had difficulty doing so.

  Trinos flipped her hair forward, smiling as she repeated,

  “What is his name?”

  “Uh … Venir.”

  “I like that name. It’s a strong one.”

  Georgio’s thoughts shifted back to normal. Excited, as he’d felt for days, he said, “He’s the strongest. The strongest man that ever lived!”

  “Is that so?” Trinos said, crossing her legs and placing her hands on her knees. “Stronger than your comrade Mikkel?”

  “Hah! Venir whipped him once already. He’s beat an ogre with his bare hands, too.”

  She reached over and squeezed his bicep.

  “You look like you’re going to be a strong one, too.”

  “Well, I guess so.” He couldn’t help but smile. “I’m still growing, and I’m already big for my age.”

  “Uh-huh,” she nodded, “So then what do you need your friend Venir for? By the looks of things, you can take care of yourself. And by the sounds of things, he can take care of himself. So why do you think you need him? You seem to be doing just fine without him. I’m certain he’d even be proud of the young man you’re coming to be. I know if I were your friend that I would be.”

  Georgio shook his head a little, scooting back from her. Why did he need Venir? He’d never thought about it that way before. When he looked back up at Trinos, her face was a warm ray of sunshine.