The Darkslayer: Series 2, Box Set #1, Books 1 - 3 (Bish and Bone)

by Craig Halloran

  Thoom…

  The underlings’ heads snapped up. Glittering eyes scanned the horizon.

  Finally! Boon gathered his knees under him as the underlings stepped toward the sound, heads cocking to one side.

  Thoom… Thoom… Thoom…

  Three giants appeared, great arms swinging. As tall as trees they came. Bald and bearded. Each carried a crude weapon in hand. Their thunderous steps created a dust storm.

  The lead underling glanced back at Boon.

  Holding his throat and waving his arm toward the giants, he gathered his feet beneath him, rose up, and started running toward the underling camp, grimacing. Well, he half ran, half limped. Held one hand over the bloody hole the underling had poked into his thigh.

  Tarcot came right after.

  Thoom… Thoom… Thoom…

  The underling soldiers sped by, leaving dust in Boon and Tarcot’s wake. He winked at Tarcot.

  “You’re crazy,” Tarcot said with his underling face, shaking his head.

  After the underlings they went, getting closer and closer to camp. There were grey tents in neat rows, and the wicked faces of the underlings started popping out, hundreds of them. He’d never been so close to so many before without killing any. Dread mixed with anger.

  I’m tempted to take out as many as I can and say, ‘To Bish with the plan.’

  He pushed through the gawking faces of the underlings and settled in behind them. Tarcot stood by his side, eyes scanning around. In moments, they were shoulder to shoulder with underlings, and his skin started to crawl.

  Thoom… Thoom… Thoom…

  The giants came. Their footsteps heavy and determined. Eyes bigger than men’s heads peering at them. The giants were grizzly men. Heavy limbed. Hairy. Precious metal adorned their wrists and fingers. Bones and colorful stones swayed and jangled on their necks. One grabbed a tree, ripped it out of the ground, and slung it toward the camp.

  Some underlings scrambled from its path. Others watched. The tree crashed through a series of tents. Someone in dark metal armor started chittering orders. They dispersed in a cohesive unit. Many shouted into holes in the ground. Sand spiders the size of ponies scurried out. In seconds, hundreds of grey and furry black-clawed underlings gathered on the backs of spiders, forming ranks between the giants and the camp.

  Boon’s heart thundered in his chest. He licked his lips.

  Oh, this is going to be something.

  A sharp whistle sounded. The underling riders surged forward on their eight-legged mounts, gliding over the sand.

  The stride of the giants didn’t break. Their tree-trunk arms were already swinging. Underlings and spiders were flung through the air by the dozens. Crude clubs and axes bludgeoned with devastating impact. Streams of black blood and underling guts were slung through the air.

  Boon laughed.

  A passing underling turned, its citrine eyes narrowing on him. It chittered and pointed toward the fracas.

  Boon and Tarcot remained still.

  It shouted. Other underlings surrounded them. Suddenly, their eyes widened and their faces showed first dismay, and then rage. He heard Tarcot say, “Boon, we are undone.”

  Boon glanced at his hands and Tarcot’s face. The disguise spell was gone. They were themselves among an army of underlings.

  Fogle—Hurry!

  Fogle sat cross-legged on the ground in a knot of concentration. He’d blocked out everything. The thundering footsteps. The shaking ground. The fear of a wandering underling slitting his throat as he read. His wide eyes followed his fingers as they traced the lettering on the spellbook pages. His lips chanted at incredible speeds. The final sound of his last word filled with power, and at last his body felt engorged with power. He snapped the spellbook shut and panted for breath.

  Fogle—Hurry!

  He jumped to his feet. Feeling the urgency in Boon’s thought, he rushed through the brush toward the underling camp. What a sight. Underlings on spiders. Giants pulverizing them. The ground shaking under heavy blows. He had no idea where Boon was. He summoned Inky. Connected the ebony hawk’s vision with his.

  In seconds, he found Boon and Tarcot. Surrounded by a throng of underlings with weapons poised at their necks and backs.

  No!

  He channeled his energy. Brought forth words of power and cast his spell. A black door opened up right behind Fogle. Where it led, he wasn’t sure. He followed Inky’s eyes. The other door hung in the camp twenty paces away from Boon and Tarcot. Underlings converged on it.

  They’ll never make it in there! We’ve only got seconds.

  Fogle charged his hands with power and jumped through.

  Hemmed in by a cluster of underlings, Boon’s eyes made a frantic search for the dimension door.

  Has he even cast it? He moves like an old fool.

  The underlings held them at bay with their blades. Others produced coils and grabbed their wrists.

  Tarcot jerked away. A javelin lanced the back of his arm.

  Boon whispered and summoned power into his hands.

  “Down, Tarcot!”

  The strider flattened on the dirt.

  Boon blasted arcs of energy from this hands.

  Sssraz!

  The throng of underlings skipped over the dirt.

  “Eat sand, fiends!” he said, sending another bright arc into them.

  Sssraz!

  Tarcot snatched up two javelins and hurled them into the underlings, drawing painful cries from their lips. The surprise ended. Another wave of angry underlings rushed in.

  Where is that door!

  Fogle stepped through the other side of the dimension door with his hands blazing.

  Sssraz! Sssraz!

  The arc of energy knocked a path through the throng. The blast sizzled the fur on their bodies. The air filled with painful screams.

  “Boon!” he yelled. “Boon!”

  There was dust and surging underlings everywhere.

  A figure appeared through the mist at a high rate of speed: Tarcot, carrying Boon in two of his four arms. A squad of underlings was right on his heels.

  Fogle waved Tarcot on and stepped to the side. He found a safe angle and sent another blast into the underlings.

  Sssraz!

  Tarcot dashed through the black door. Fogle jumped right in after. Instantly, they emerged back outside their camp a few hundred yards from the scene.

  “Close the door, Grandson!” Boon yelled.

  Three underlings appeared through the door, bright eyes narrowed and wary. The door closed behind them, cutting a forth underling in half.

  Tarcot dropped Boon in the dirt and stepped in their path. He spread his four arms out and spread his fingers wide.

  Boon stood with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. Sweat dripped from his head. He fought to summon any power he had left.

  The underlings attacked.

  The tall and rangy strider struck like a cat. Tarcot wrenched a javelin from one underling and a hand axe from another. With his lower arms, he fended off a jabbing sword and twisted it away as well. Bigger and stronger, Tarcot used his weight and strength to bear down on the wrestling underlings. His low hands choked one. He rammed the javelin through another one’s chest, and the third he stepped on and chopped into.

  Hack! Hack! Hack!

  Blood flew, and the strangled underling gasped its last breath. Tarcot flung its corpse to the ground. The strider stepped over and helped Boon to his feet.

  “Wispy wizard like to dance with death. Another close one. Hah.”

  Boon stepped by Tarcot and watched the battle at the camp.

  “I’m not so sure we’re out of this one.” He looked back at Fogle. “Come, and well done, Grandson.
”

  A battle raged in the distance. The giants were covered in spiders and underlings, like dogs being attacked by a swarm of rats. The valley filled with black blood and death. Weapons of destruction and giant footsteps shook the ground. Underlings were snatched up like rodents. Hurled. Flung. Smashed. Stomped. Spider goo and underling guts squished between giant toes. Fogle could see every bit of it through Inky’s eyes. And every time he watched an underling die, it felt good.

  “You’re feeling it now,” Boon said, “aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “They won’t last another hour,” Fogle said. “But if you summoned the giants, then won’t they come after us?”

  “Not if they’re dead,” Boon said. “My plan was to summon one giant. The underlings could have handled one. But three? That’s unlikely.”

  Fogle shook his head.

  “You want the underlings to win? Why?”

  “So the underlings will start a war with the giants. The giants won’t take their losses so well.”

  It was crazy, bringing the giants to this side of Bish, and yet it made sense. Fogle could live with that for now.

  “What happens when the giants win? Won’t they come after us? Kill us?”

  “Or take us to the Under-Bish,” Boon said, wiping the cut on his cheek.

  “Will they give up the chase?” Fogle said.

  “Not likely,” Boon said, intently watching the battle.

  “Shouldn’t we try to hide, then? Or cast a spell to send them back? Or … something?”

  Boon stayed Fogle with his hand.

  Sinkholes opened up in a circle around the battleground. They started small, the size of a horse, and grew. Underling mages appeared in the camp above the sky. Their fingertips glowed with red-hot light. Giants, underlings, and spiders alike were all sinking into the sand. The giants roared. Their arms flailed. Knee deep. Waist deep. Shoulder deep. They sank until they were buried to the neck. The surviving underlings feasted on them.

  “We need to go,” Boon said. He rushed over and grabbed the spellbook. “And don’t you ever leave this unattended again.” He thumbed through the pages.

  “What are you doing?” Fogle said.

  “They know we’re here, Grandson.” His brow furrowed. “I didn’t think any magi were with them. They’ll be on us any moment now.”

  “What can I do?” Fogle said.

  “Keep an eye out with your familiar while I read.”

  Fogle made the connection.

  A host of underlings crossed the ground, coming their way. Half a dozen underling magi floated above and behind them. A swarm of spiders came with them. Their hums awakened his ears.

  “Those bugs eat the flesh from your bones,” Tarcot said. “You feel every bit of it.”

  Fogle’s skin became clammy. His stomach knotted. He didn’t have much left in him. No useful spell in mind. All he could say was, “Hurry, Grandfather, hurry.”

  Chapter 20

  He stood, listless, staring into the current with his arms folded behind his back. His toes dug into the watery sand, and his robes dipped in the waters, which were warm and stagnant. Not refreshing. They smelled a little foul. Sulfuric. He bent over, dipped his hands in the water, and drank. The taste was vile. Bitter. He swallowed the murk, straightened his back, and waited.

  Few creatures could drink the waters of the Current without a dire effect. Cave trolls. Some strange fish, creepers … and underlings. Underling palates enjoyed both foul and pleasant. His stomach gurgled. He rubbed it until it stopped.

  Good.

  He cupped his hands together, filled them again, and drank another mouthful. No effect.

  Very good.

  He sloshed out of the water onto the bank. The caves were illumined by the green and orange glows of cave bug gel. There were furnishings and decorations. Tables. Vials. Racks and shelves. A network of caves. Some with iron bars and rotten bones. Robes dragging over the sand, he stood and gazed into a long and pewter-trimmed mirror. Black hair to his shoulders. His grey skin with a velvety sheen of hair. His fingernails were black dagger tips, and his teeth more flat than filed. He pulled the skin down from one deep ruby eye and then the other. He sucked his teeth.

  “Are you pleased, Sidebor?” a strong voice said.

  He closed his eyes and listened to the harmony of the crickets and birds chirping. His feet lifted from the ground, and he glided toward the figure lounging on the couch.

  “It’s almost as good as the body I left. Just not two thousand years old.” He opened his eyes and drifted around the room. “But it will do.” His fingers tapped on a huge glass jar with a pickled dwarf’s head. “Such a strange underling that rescued me. An outcast, of all things.”

  Scorch stretched his perfectly knit frame over the soft velvety sofa and yawned. He sat up and adjusted the underling-crafted robes that adorned him. Still light-headed and fair, his finely chiseled features were enhanced by the dark garments. He stretched out his arms again and yawned.

  “Good. I’m glad you are pleased.”

  Sidebor had spent the past year without a body. Scorch had been cautious. Traveled the world. Watching. Hiding. Picking through thoughts. Probing. The almighty Scorch had been shaken. Frustrated. Disheveled for quite some time. Though omnipotent, Scorch behaved like a mortal. Hoarding his power. Waiting for the right time to strike. At what, Sidebor did not know.

  “I am pleased. I’d be more pleased if I had an inkling of what you expect me to do with it. I’m indebted, to an extent.”

  “Not loyal to a fault,” Scorch said. He reached into a jar full of pickles. Grabbed a hunk of man cheeses off a plate and ate them. He washed it down with a wine called jig. “Did I ever tell you about Morley? Morley Sickle?”

  “No,” Sidebor said, guarding his thoughts. It hadn’t taken him long to realize how privy Scorch was to them. That annoyed him to no end. “And I don’t care about him. What I want to know is when we will leave this lair.”

  “Do you want fresh air?” Scorch said, grabbing another pickle.

  “I want the Underland back.”

  Scorch bounced the pickle off his chin.

  “Hmmm … is that all you want?”

  “It’s a start.” He approached Scorch and poured a glass of jig. “Let us go there. Let me take Master Sinway out. The entire Underland kingdom will be ours.”

  Scorch’s blue eyes narrowed.

  “It will be mine, Sidebor.” His eyes flashed.

  Sidebor bounced off the cave ceiling and plummeted to the ground.

  “And a portion to those who are loyal,” Scorch said, picking Sidebor’s face up out of the dirt. “And if I’m to let you regain all your power, I need to be convinced of your loyalty, else I cast your eyes back into the fires.”

  Sidebor gathered himself off the ground and dusted off his robes. He’d never sworn loyalty to anyone before, but many had sworn loyalty to him. Loyalty was another word for lies. The wicked never kept their oaths.

  “My word is my loyalty,” he said.

  “Good,” Scorch said, offering a smile. “And so, as they often said in worlds gone by, ‘It’s time to get busy.’”

  Master Sinway bathed. The silky waters of the bath were warm, the bodies of the underling women wet and nubile. Their delicate hands eased the tension in his shoulders. Their perfumes enhanced his senses.

  “Ah …” he said, nuzzling his head back between the breasts of another beautiful underling woman. All their hair was white, and long. The sheer garments of pink, lime, and azure clung to their bodies. They were the most splendid and beautiful creatures in all the world, until they became pregnant. Sinway blotted centuries of that from his memory. “Excellent.”

  The world of Bish was strengthening. Becoming more and more powe
rful. He felt it. He experienced it. Tasted it. His battle with Scorch had been a moment of colossal survival. The stranger from another world, a place of unlimited power, had almost died. Sinway had almost taken it. He stiffened.

  “Relax, Great One,” a woman whispered in his ear. “Relax. We shall fulfill all your needs. Subdue all your fears.”

  The underling women called shallas were born seductresses by craft, each and every one an enchantress in her own right. They wrote scrolls, made potions. Created strange makeup and perfumes. Their soft hands were delicate and deadly. The words from their lips soothing and invigorating. They’d brought Sinway much comfort the past few months. He petted one’s hand.

  “The Great One is pleased? No? Yes?” she said, batting her golden eyes.

  “Silence,” he said, “silence.”

  Sinway wasn’t settled. The war above was in good hands. The royals in all the major cities in a greedy collapse. One house after another fell under the spell. Barge after barge whooshed through the Current, loaded with hoards of treasure. Sinway didn’t see the harm in releasing the contents of his vault. I’ll take it all back anyway. In all of his centuries, he’d never seen men so easily bought. They hated each other. Never negotiated. Never dickered. They would kill each other first. It couldn’t have always been that easy, else the underlings would have been bribing the royals all along. What was different? Scorch? Bish? He had to understand what happened. It ate at him.

  He rose from the waters. Two shallas dried him. Another draped him in his robes.

  “Master, be at—”

  He back-handed her across the cheek so hard she died.

  “I said silence.”

  In deep thought, he glided away.

  Chapter 21