The Darkslayer: Book 04 - Danger and the Druid

by Craig Halloran

  Venir shuffled away, his large hand slapping away Baltor’s heavy blows before they got too close. The last thing he wanted was more busted ribs among those that were still not fully healed.

  “Come on, Girlie,” Baltor mocked, “take a swing! I won’t bite after your little sting.”

  Venir jumped away as the brute ripped an uppercut through the air. A course of boos followed him, shuffling around the ring.

  Venir paid them no mind. Baltor was a seasoned fighter, quick and powerful. One punch could land him on his back or in his grave. He had to be careful … or not.

  “Fight, you cow sticker!” An orcen hag offered.

  Venir’s dander had risen. Fist clenched, he drew his arm back. Baltor’s wild eyes widened as he rushed in and swung. Venir unloaded with all he had.

  CRACK!

  Baltor stopped dead in his tracks, his nose busted open like a tomato. Time seemed to stop as Venir’s fist retraced its path and came forth like a rod of power.

  CRACK!

  Baltor’s jaw broke.

  The crowd gawped.

  Faces were stupefied.

  Baltor’s arms flailed in a maddened frenzy, slamming into Venir’s body with little effect. Baltor’s punishment had just begun.

  WHOP!

  He lifted Baltor off his toes with a punch to the guts.

  SMACK!

  He felt the bones in the man’s face shatter, followed by the next blow that felled the man like an ox.

  POW!

  He wasn’t finished. His red rage began to consume him. He had a message to send. Baltor kicked and twitched as Venir kneeled down and squeezed the man’s corded neck in one hand.

  “This,” he yelled, “is what happens to bad people! This is what happens to my enemies!”

  Baltor’s face had turned purple, and his eyes bulged from his sockets. Venir didn’t care. The man was a menace. The man was evil. The man must die.

  “Remember who you bet against, fools! I AM VENIR!”

  Baltor’s eyes rolled up inside his head, his last breath spent. Venir rose to his feet.

  “Which one of you cut throats is next?” He said it wiping his sweaty locks from his eyes. “Anyone!”

  None came forward, and most were gone. Venir took in a deep draw of breath as Baltor’s body was dragged away. He looked around at the remaining faces, each face marred with guilt from countless crimes. It was clear his message had been sent, and he was certain someone wanted him gone, someone from his past, perhaps. Or, more underling treachery.

  Hogan shook his head and tossed him a canteen.

  “Did you have to kill him?” Hogan said.

  “No.” Venir took a drink and said, “but he was an evil bastard.”

  Hogan nodded and said, “By Bish Venir, what happened behind the Mist?”

  “Giants, dragons and such, I tell you,” he said, a fierce grin coming to his face.

  Hogan shook his head and walked away.

  The tall man who had run the challenge walked over and unfastened his arm. The skinny man, older, was looking down on him, his pale eyes sparkling with joy.

  “Slim?”

  “It’s been a long time, Venir. Where in Bone have you been? Don’t you know the underlings have taken over? Where are that axe and helmet of yours?”

  Venir was still trying to take it all in. Slim, once youthful and strong, so many years ago, was worn and gray, double if not triple his age. The man’s features were wrinkled, his skin spotted, but his voice was still strong and playful like children frolicking under a spring.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” he replied.

  Adanna had gathered by his side, arms wrapped around his waist, eyes filled with desire and admiration. Venir’s blood was still running hot, but not for her. The mention of underlings, his helm and Brool, had ignited another fire. Something in Slim the Cleric’s voice told him the fun was over. It was time to get back to work.

  “Go get them,” Slim said, his skinny arms pushing him forward.

  Venir bristled.

  “Easy, Venir.” Slim looked him up and down. “How in Bish do you keep getting taller?” Slim asked, unable to hide his astonishment.

  Hogan had returned and grunted, “Aye.”

  “I’m not as tall as you, now am I?” Venir said it looking up a little.

  “Well, not yet anyway. Now tell me; I’ve got to know.”

  Venir shook his head and said, “I don’t know. It just happens.” He felt Adanna’s warm hand playing with his hard belly.

  “I bet I can make him grow some more,” she said.

  “Sheesh Daughter, is that all ye think about?” Hogan said.

  “Only when I’m with him.”

  “STOP!”

  Everyone jumped but Venir at the sound of the loud baritone voice.

  A dozen feet away, an ominous figure blocked the pathway. Wrapped in a brown cloak, his face covered by a cowl, the man stood taller than Slim and broader than Venir.

  Venir’s instincts told him it was the figure he had noticed prowling in the background before the fight.

  “What is it you want, you oversized scavenger?” Venir said.

  The low and throaty voice that responded wasn’t human, more monster than man.

  “I have a message for the one called Venir,” it said, pointing a finger covered in coarse black hair.

  Venir stepped forward saying, “And what might that be?”

  The creature unrolled a parchment of paper and spoke:

  “You survived my first attempt. You and your comrades will not survive the next. Leave now or perish.”

  Venir noticed a look of concern growing on everyone’s faces as they looked at one another.

  “Who’s the coward that sent this message?” Venir asked in agitation.

  Venir watched as a large harry hand pulled the cowl from its face. There was a gasp behind him. Can it be?

  “I’m no coward, Venir.” The big humanoid's knuckles cracked as it crumpled up the parchment and tossed it at Venir’s feet. “You will leave, or your friends will die. I’ll break their backs like you broke my son’s. I’ll rip their arms off and bury them in the muck and mire. I am Farc!” The half ogre pounded his chest. “You have till nightfall.” The ogre snapped his fingers. A small army of orcs, gnolls, and brigands appeared from behind the tents, brandishing steel of all shapes and sizes.

  “And it looks like nightfall has come,” Farc said, following within a rugged snicker.

  CHAPTER 39

  Legs shackled, hands bound and stomach rumbling, Brak sat sulking on the dungeon floor. His stomach, as big as those of two men, let out a part roar, part rumble. It was misery. He couldn’t remember ever being so hungry before.

  The dungeon, vast in size, was superior in facility to his former home with the Slergs, below the city. The stone walls were gray, but dry. The metal bars that housed his cell were clear of rust and debris. Every day, small children, most much younger than he, scrubbed the blood, filth and slat from the floors. They were small and ragged, their faces gaunt, tired and worn. They looked as hungry as him, but fear seemed to propel their skinny little bones with purpose.

  The guards, a handful of them, one just as cruel and intolerant as the next, kicked the children around like aging dogs. Brak would have killed them if he could, but he had no energy. He was dry, his tears gone, his fear replaced by apathy. There had been nothing but hardship for him in the City of Bone. His dreams had brought him to the City. His mother, Vorla, was dead now. Cut down. Thrown on a slab of metal. Dropped in a vat of fire. No more mother. A brand new life of survival and misery had begun.

  Nearby, Leezir the Slerg, the one who had taken him in, snored. The man had no words of comfort. No words at all. The other one, Hagerdon, lay on rotting piles of hay, quivering beneath a pile of rags. Both men had been lashed a few days ago. Brak had watched from his cell as the men were strung up in chains and whipped until the blood ran down their ankles. The guards left only the little girl, Jubil
ee, who wailed like a frightened sheep as her grandfather was whipped again and again till the blood ran between his toes. She was flattened with the hilt of a blade crossing the back of her head, gagged, hauled off into a small metal cage and locked inside. It was the last he had heard from her. He nibbled at the skin on his fingertips. His nails were gone from his stubby hands that looked like they could crush rocks into dust. He tried to sleep, but his hunger pangs had gotten so bad they woke him up, and when he did sleep he didn’t dream. The image of his father, Venir, had faded. It seemed that whatever had endangered his father had won. The chains scraped across the stone as he pulled his knees to his chest. His lids turned heavy, his small chin dipped and he fell asleep.

  ***

  “Detective Melegal,” Sefron said, “let us put our differences aside for the sake of the Almen family. After all, what choice do we have?”

  You death would be my choice.

  Sefron had been both pushy and polite ever since he had been ordered to work with Melegal in setting up the Royal games. He suspected it was only a temporary lapse at best, but Sefron’s efforts, for some strange reason, had come off as sincere.

  “None, it would seem,” he said as they walked down the hall, side by side.

  Melegal was uncomfortable and very cognizant of the stares. A shady stick and a pasty tub of goo. Something for the stupid sentries to gossip about between nose pickings. The plans for the event were in order. Everything was set in stone, and nothing was left to be done, but still Sefron seemed determined to seek him out. The creepy man wanted something from him. What, he couldn’t imagine, but it was important. Ever since Melegal came into service, Sefron’s words and efforts towards him had been nothing less than poisonous. Why had that suddenly changed? Was it something Lord Almen had said or threatened? Was the castle Lord so pleased with his efforts in capturing and annihilating the Slergs?

  Sefron stopped in the hall. Melegal watched the man’s eyes shift back and forth as his snail-like tongue licked over his thin purple lips. It was barely a whisper when the cleric spoke.

  “Detective, you and I have much more in common than I realized. We both serve against our desires.”

  This was new. Melegal never suspected the cleric to have been unhappy with his work. Still, he struggled to keep his hand from his dagger. One blink. One slice. Ah … must I play this game with him!

  “Go on.”

  Sefron hunched over, drawing himself near, wringing his hands together. “There is something I seek. I cannot retrieve it. I cannot find it. A key of sorts. It can free us from the Royal powers. Help me find it.”

  What is this fool blathering about? He shoved in front of Sefron’s desperate gaze.

  “Say no more, Cleric. I’ll not be dabbling with any thoughts of treason,” Melegal said as he turned to walk away.

  He felt Sefron’s fingers on his hand and jerked his arm away. The cleric said, “Remember Detective, it is my word against yours. If you keep this between us I’ll remember. If you don’t, you’ll have regret.”

  “I’ve had many regrets, but seeing your head removed from your flabby shape would not be one of them,” Melegal said, walking on. “I’ll not concern myself with your problems. I have my own. As far as I’m concerned, feel free to find your key and shove it where the suns don’t shine. Just don’t drag me into it or let Lord Almen find out about it.”

  ***

  Sefron watched the Detective disappear around the corner, and a toothy evil grin crossed his face. The seed had been planted. Now all he had to do was wait and watch it grow. Without even knowing it, Melegal would help him find the key. He was certain his spell had worked, as magic had seeped from his limbs and into the marble floor like mist. He rubbed his hands together and recounted his words. There is something I seek. I cannot retrieve it. I cannot find it. A key of sorts. It can free us from the Royal powers. Help me find it. He’d emphasized his words: Seek. Retrieve. Key. The spell was activated with a simple touch. He kissed his finger.

  “Not long, Master. Not long.” He murmured. “As for you, Detective, once it’s delivered you’ll be the first to go.”

  He rubbed his flabby belly, smacking his lips as he waddled towards the kitchen.

  “All of this scheming makes me hungry.”

  CHAPTER 40

  Chongo, once a vibrant, dangerous and playful beast, was now a husk. Both of his massive heads were down, tongues hanging with a grayish tint above his saggy chins. Fogle Boon felt a wave of guilt. In the days since they had returned he had not even come to see the giant two-headed dog. Needless to say, when he entered its stable, things were awkward, as every eye seemed intent on him. Cass was down on her knees, brushing her gentle hand over Chongo’s shedding belly. Fogle noticed the scolding look that she cast his way before whispering soothing words into the dwarven setter’s floppy black ears.

  He started to speak, but was cut off by Mood’s meaty hand. Instead, he crammed himself alongside Mood within the confines of the stuffy stable. The thick-set dwarf, the size of a man, had a sad look behind his bushy red beard. Even within the dim torchlight, Fogle thought he could see watery green eyes behind the red.

  There were others, too. He counted ten dwarven women, adorned in soft grey robes with lavender trim wrapped around their plump bodies. Their sweet round faces had intense looks as they held hands and hummed. Still, the body heat, stuffiness and straw-filled air made him uncomfortable. So did the feeling of death that lingered in the room.

  He focused on Cass. She lay atop Chongo’s back, hugging him with her arms and legs, muttering sounds that were not natural for a human to make. Chongo’s diminished body shuddered; the muscle spasms rippling underneath his thinning hair. Fogle felt a swelling in his throat. It was both heads now, one as pitiful as the other. He had to admit: it wasn’t easy being a witness to another creature's death.

  He sneezed, loud and awful. Everything lurched except Chongo. Cass shot daggers from her eyes.

  “Sorry.” Not good, Imbecile.

  Fogle, once again, felt horribly out of place as he rubbed his sweaty hands on his robes. He wasn’t one to sweat, even when put to task, but it happened at funerals. I hope this isn’t a long ceremony. He didn’t mean it in a bad way, but rather a sad one. He had no desire to be around miserable people.

  He didn’t want to hear their sad stories or wipe any tears. Well, I don’t think dwarves cry, so that’s good news. He didn’t want to be caught crying, either and wondered if it would be rude if he didn’t. He hadn't cried when Ox the Mintaur died, or had he? It seemed like forever ago. He supposed it was only proper that he was present. After all, he had almost died trying to retrieve Cass in an effort to save the dog.

  Cass rolled from Chongo’s back. She had an exhausted look on her face. He hadn't even noticed this when she was up in his room, earlier. He was only thinking about himself these days, it seemed. He leaned back as she extended her hands towards him.

  “What?” he said, more defensive than he intended.

  Her voice was haunting when she said, “We need your magic, Wizard!” Fogle cocked his head and said, “For what?”

  Cass’s beautiful face turned into a pit of anger.

  “To save the dog, you FOOL!”

  He stood there unthinking for a moment. Why would she think that he could save the dog? If that were the case they wouldn’t need her. It was preposterous. He was a wizard, not a healer. He looked at Chongo and chose his next words without thinking.

  “He doesn’t look like he can be saved. Have you not done everything that you can?”

  He felt Mood stir at his side. Cass’s eyes became daggers of ice.

  “Besides—”

  Smack!

  Fogle’s teeth clattered in his jaw. The slap stung. His face flushed red.

  “Idiot Man!” Cass vented. “Do you want me to stick your entrails in your mouth? Did you drag me from my mountains so we could fail? You little wart on a frog's arse!”

  Hands up, Fogle began back
ing away. Mood’s big frame stepped between them.

  “Druid, tell the wizard what you need. No time fer fussin’. Spit it out, Girl!”Cass bit her lip as she pulled at locks of her hair. Fogle realized she indeed cared about the life of Chongo. His concerns were hardly important. The right thing to do was.

  “I’ll help,” he said. “But you never disclosed the conditions which required my presence here.”

  Cass’s hands were clenched at her sides. “I thought Fogle Fool wanted to save the dog, not play splish-splash with dwarven whores.”

  “Hey!” Mood said. “Ain’t no such thing, Druid. Watch yer tongue about me women. Now get on wit it. This pooch is dying. He’s my friend. Ye save him, ta’ both of ya.”

  Fogle’s narrow shoulders sagged as he sighed and said, “Cass, what would you have me do?”

  She stood there, nostrils flaring, tapping her bare foot and biting her lip. She took a deep breath and said, “The dog has one heart, bigger than that of a horse. I hoped for two, but it only has one. It’s poisoned. These underlings, or the albino urchlings, they are poison. The wounds were deep, the blood lost was heavy, but the dwarves did well with that. But the poison, a nasty thing, black and deadly, has made its way to his heart.”

  How do you know that? Fogle kept his mouth shut, however.

  “I can extract the poison, but it will take magic, and mine is limited. I need more strength. I need you, Fogle Boon, to tether with me.”

  “Tether? I’ve not the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

  Cass stiffened. She looked like she was about to explode.

  “Is there nothing but stupidity filled in that enormous head of yours? Lock minds with me. Mind Grumbles, you pompous imbecile!”

  How would she know about Mind Grumbles? He rubbed his chin. Was Cass from the City of Three as well? Still, he was beginning to understand what she wanted, but it wasn’t something he’d ever done with a woman before. He let out a puffy laugh.