The Darkslayer: Book 02 - Blades in the Night

by Craig Halloran

  Water …

  Extracting his canteen from his backpack, Venir gulped down all that was left and chucked it. Then he gathered up his gory axe and shield, ignoring the preoccupied sand spider. He set off, running with a limp toward the Red Clay Forest.

  The trek seemed to take forever under the diminishing suns, but after an hour’s trot, he made it to the edge. He staggered, as deep inside the forest as he could, then collapsed on a thick patch of amber moss beneath leaves of emerald, sage, violet, and red. He passed out.

  *****

  The crackling of a campfire stirred Venir from his slumber. He sat up in a lurch to check his surroundings. Night had fallen in the Red Clay Forest. He was pretty sure he had not made the fire; he could barely recollect reaching the forest’s edge. He had a good idea who’d made it, but he was cautious just the same. Then he noticed Brool, his helmet, and his shield laid out beside him. The rest of his gear rested by his side. It had to be Mood. He knew he was safe. His stomach growled and his head began to hurt.

  Venir leaned back and took a deep breath of the cool night air. The Red Clay Forest was not a place for everyone: it seemed to choose who it liked and who it did not. He, though, had always found safety within its thick trees and shrubs. As its name suggested, the forest was set on red clay soil, and its pathways wound for miles among colorful leaves that were not only green but also gold, red, blue, purple, and even white. Unlike all other plant life on Bish, the leaves in the forest never withered with the seasons. Here, one could travel quick and quiet.

  Some referred to this forest as a magic garden, others a haven of treachery. None really knew if it had a mystic secret or not. What Venir cared about was that underlings in particular steered clear of it, as did most travelers. The forest was not kind to most.

  He grimaced as he stretched for his backpack. Inside, he found a filled canteen. He drank it down gulp after gulp.

  “Ah!” he said.

  He stood up with a groan and peered about. The fire glowed and crackled a few feet away, and its warmth relaxed him. Then smoke from somewhere else began to waft into his nostrils. It was Mood, all right—along with his usual cigar—but where was he? Venir walked beyond the firelight and scanned the black shadows of the forest. He picked up a stone and cocked his arm to throw it.

  “You don’t want to chuck that at me, human,” a familiar voice rumbled ahead.

  “And if I do?” Venir said.

  “You’ll miss.”

  The voice was behind him. Venir whirled and discovered Mood on the other side of the fire.

  “Getting sneaky in your old age, Mood?”

  “Absolutely,” he said, grinning underneath his thick beard.

  The giant red-haired dwarf stepped around the fire and clasped hands with Venir. They stood almost eye to eye, but Mood was a bit shorter and much broader. Like the rest of his kind, Mood boasted blood-red hair and skin. He wore leather woodsman garb in green, brown, and red, and had two giant hand axes strapped in an X across his back. Typical dwarves on Bish stood much shorter than humans, but Mood was one of the Blood Rangers—a rare breed of giant dwarves that protected their kind and others. However, Venir knew that Mood, unlike the rest of the Blood Rangers, did as he wished, and he was allowed that privilege, being their king.

  “So, Venir, what’s bringing you to me forest this time?”

  Mood took a puff of his cigar and aimed a smoke ring over Venir’s head. Mood liked to call the Red Clay Forest his own, although it wasn’t, but it was where Venir had met him long years ago.

  “You’ve bailed me out again, Mood. I was tracking underlings and almost bit the dust. I didn’t think I’d make it here, and if I did, I didn’t think I’d still be alive,” he said, checking his wounds by the fire.

  “Ah, I’ve seen you much worse ’n that. Not so long ago when you came out o’ that marsh, now, that was a sight. You’d have made it on your own if the bugs hadn’t got after you. The creatures told me you were here. I didn’t know it was you, though … just a man, they said. So I thought, what the Bish, I’ll check it out, and there you lay, snoring like a baby! Ho-ho!”

  “I don’t snore!” Venir said, a funny look on his face.

  Mood laughed even harder. “Eh, so what’s goin’ on? How many underlings did you kill? Twelve? Twenty? Fifty?”

  “No,” Venir said, disappointed.

  “Well?” Mood said, tossing another log on the fire.

  “Just six. Two more got away. There were two sand spiders—caught me by surprise.”

  “I thought that never happened when you had that get-up on. You usually surprise them.”

  Mood nodded toward the armaments that turned Venir into a one-man army: the heavy, three-foot round shield of dark gray metal, overlapped with large woven iron bands; the glistening helmet with similar iron banding wrought over the back and neck; and, of course, Brool, which was now stuck spike-first into the ground, with its thick dark oak handle shod with the same iron banding. Venir called it his hand-and-a-half axe. It was a weapon unlike any other. For both Venir and Mood knew that Brool was the Bish’s great equalizer between good and evil.

  Venir grabbed his helmet and axe and said, “I didn’t have the gear on—not at first, at least. Didn’t want to. I always used to do just fine carving up the creepy little rodents with my wits and usual weapons.”

  Mood stepped back. No man hated the underlings more than Mood, Venir knew. And Mood had known Venir a long time, and Venir remained one of a handful of humans the Blood Ranger called friend. Venir could see a concerned look on Mood’s dark face, for Mood had warned him more than once about taking greater risks with the underlings. Sighing, Venir set the axe back down.

  “Do you really think the underlings would hold back if they were tracking you? They sure didn’t last time,” Mood said.

  Venir watched as Mood slammed one of his axes into a nearby stump.

  “No,” Venir finally answered.

  Then they were both quiet. The crickets and the owls seemed to fall silent too. The breeze, the fire, and Mood’s cigar smoke began to soothe Venir’s nerves, making him reflective. He had survived much in the harsh world of Bish, and was the better for it, but of late, things seemed out of place. It had never been normal for him to even ponder such things. Now it seemed common in his thoughts.

  Mood broke the silence as he cracked some branches and tossed them on the fire.

  “The underlings are thick as roaches, nowadays. My brethren and I are hard pressed to keep tabs on ’em. They’re bolder, using daylight more. Of course, you’ve figured that out the hard way. They’re getting ready for a surface war, I think, but not doing it like they used to.”

  “My problem, Mood, is that I used to be able to pick them apart and hunt them on my own terms. But once I put on that armor …” Venir looked over at his armaments. “I can’t stop till I kill them. It just keeps … pushing me. I have to be careful there aren’t a hundred too close to me or else I’ll go after all of them. That’s why I do what I can in the Outlands. There aren’t too many large groups.”

  Venir sat down by the fire.

  “Ah, now, it can’t be that bad, can it?” Mood said.

  Ignoring Mood’s question, Venir shook his head and said, “Besides, I don’t think I’m going be wielding the armaments forever.”

  Mood raised an eyebrow at that, but then went on chewing and puffing on his cigar.

  “Looks like you’re stuck with ’em now,” Mood said. “Stop thinking and keep fighting. I’ve seen a lot o’ things on the battlefield in this world, but never anything that could go through underlings like you do. You’re a strong man and born that way. You can handle it.” Mood pulled Venir back up to his feet. “So make the most of it and kill all the underlings you can. You’ll be happier for it. I know you.”

  “I guess you do,” Venir said. He rubbed his hands together over the fire. “I can’t believe I’m putting all this thought into it. I need to … Eh, I’ll just stick with carving the
m into little chunks of troll food. Just don’t let me get too close to the Underland.”

  The husky dwarf now began carving a chair out of a massive log he’d downed.

  “I’d be glad to help,” Mood said. “Now, how’s Chongo? I assume he’s safe since you didn’t bring him along. I’m also sure he would have smelled ’em out long before you did.”

  “That’s true. And he’s fine. I let him sit this one out. Georgio’s been keeping an eye on him.”

  “Really? And how is the boy? Silly little fella, but he makes me laugh,” Mood said, still chopping away.

  “He seems to be doing okay, given the circumstances. He’s none the worse for wear.”

  Even as he said it, though, Venir felt guilty for having not done a better job protecting Georgio in the Outlands. If only the boy had learned to stay put, things would have turned out better for him.

  “Glad to hear it,” Mood said. “Now, let’s fetch us something to eat. I bet I can catch dinner before you can!”

  “You’re on!”

  At that, the two hulking figures separated and slipped into the deep shadows of the forest.

  CHAPTER 2

  The world of Bish was a secret place, resting deep within the vast, wondrous folds of a cold, dark universe. Its creator was Trinos, who was once a mortal of a similar world. Her kind had discovered the means to travel the stars and gain limitless power. With this power, they now created their own worlds.

  As her kind had spread out across the vastness of space, they found that they were not the only ones: other races, too, had discovered the endless expanse of time and space. They all thrived within the universe, united in their quest to find its purpose, its end. Yet, they could not. Once great and powerful, these beings now seemed to themselves as minuscule as molecules, scattered like stardust among the galaxies and stars—free to do as they pleased, yet feeling trapped within the enormity of space, where the limitlessness of their power often left them bored and restless.

  Still, each had an agreed undertaking to fulfill. Trinos took the charge of monitoring new and old worlds that had been created by beings such as herself. These worlds came and went, never reaching the limitlessness that Trinos and other infinite beings had acquired. Most worlds extinguished over time.

  Many had shown hope and promise, but these were not enough. Sooner or later, all manner of creatures seemed to display self-destructive patterns of behavior. Selfishness, greed, and ambition would outweigh more cohesive, constructive behaviors like love, peace, and joy. At one time, Trinos had also experienced such things as joy, pain and love, but that was long, long ago—now just a fragment of her consciousness.

  The creators of these worlds were often careless in their projects, and they lacked the vision to give their worlds a purpose. Often they would merely abandon them, as they were not permitted to interfere. None, it seemed, could duplicate what their own race had achieved, and the source of their own power remained a mystery to them.

  Trinos, though, had grown rather disenchanted with her charges as she watched these worlds collapse again and again. Those to whom she reported these outcomes seemed not to mind how they fared, one way or the other. It began to frustrate her. In a moment of inspiration, she decided to create her very own world. It would be one that could survive under the harshest of conditions, and bear humanoids, whom she had come to favor.

  It would be a place where magic would supplant technology. Its people would have no desire to understand or care why they were there. Good and evil would be locked in eternal conflict, but a delicate balance would be maintained by a powerful source of magic that would change sides before one conquered the other, and so avoid ultimate destruction. The world would be full of colorful survivors—desperate, greedy, passionate, and fierce. Chronic mayhem and conflict would leave little room for peace among the races, with villainy pitted against heroism, each striving to eliminate the other at all costs.

  Unknown to its inhabitants, the power to keep this world in check would be wielded by only one man, woman, or race at any time. And at this particular moment in time, the magical power lay in the hands of a warrior, a furious juggernaut relentlessly opposed to evil.

  At present, Trinos had little interest in the matter. Over the course of the world’s existence so far, she had been pleased with its results. It had survived. Teetering on the edge of its own self-destruction, it had managed to recover time and again. The world called Bish was rather a marvel, and had remained her secret for quite some time, which pleased her. But nothing lasted forever, for even those with limitless power were not beyond the reach of chance, fate, or chaos.

  And so, upon her most recent return to enjoy the delights of her world, Trinos discovered that another infinite being—Scorch—had come upon her jewel of Bish and tampered with it. Now, the world of Bish was in decline, destined for destruction. She felt the stirring of anger in her once emotionless belly, and she embraced it. It gave her a sense of purpose: to pursue this meddler. But before she gave chase to Scorch, Trinos managed a quick fix to try to staunch the damage by bestowing additional power to the magical equalizer, hoping that this would be enough to check the decline. Then she set off, leaving the world of Bish to deal with its predicament on its own.

  CHAPTER 3

  Below the blazing surface of Bish, Lord Catten sat deep in thought, tapping his index finger into the pewter armrest, now riddled with tiny dents from his black, pointed nail. He was a humanoid, like all other races on Bish, and black robed, but with a covering of light gray rat-like fur over his body. His head hair, eyebrows, lips, and sharp nails were all black, and his teeth gray and pointed.

  He was an underling, archrival of the human race. Their populace terrorized the surface world, although the massive, convoluted caves of the Underland remained their home. His race was matched against the humans in the battle for dominance on Bish. The underlings were more powerful in magic and had superior longevity to all other races, except for the dwarves. The humans, however, had superior numbers and other formidable talents that made them difficult to extinguish. There was nothing he hated more.

  The humans, meanwhile, remained divided among themselves, torn between good and evil in their daily struggle with the harsh elements on Bish. By contrast, the underlings’ fierce hatred for surface dwellers united them. Catten and his kind had one quest: seeking the utter destruction of their enemies. They were cruel, calculating, and merciless, hunting and torturing their victims more for power and pleasure than necessity or survival. Catten himself so delighted in these efforts that it was often a game for him and his kin.

  Underling soldiers came and went across the surface of Bish at all hours of day and night, as orderly as worker ants. They were small in stature, more the size of small human women, and their movements were fluid and lithe, though not graceful. They would watch, observe, and report—then maim and execute helpless inhabitants throughout the land.

  Though daylight did not bother them, they usually struck at night—it was their way. The terror they struck into the hearts of all races was unrivaled, as all the races feared them. Leaving a bloodied trail by dragging corpses, they left horror in their wake, and would often take prisoners deep into their caves, never to be seen again. Sometimes they would leave a mutilated survivor or two with stumps for hands to recount the nightmare to others on the surface, and those demoralizing horror stories had no equal in instilling deeper fear.

  Of late, however, successful underling invasions had been less numerous. It had been years since the underlings had engaged in a full-scale battle on the surface, yet they kept busy plotting and scheming while practicing guerilla-like games. They were still the most dangerous race, but they had become more cautious of their losses and casualties, simply because they did not reproduce as easily as other races. They had to be careful when they struck, for a single miscalculation could wipe out a score of soldiers or more.

  Lord Catten was not enjoying the pressure of tracking the formidable Darkslayer
any more than a mouse would enjoy trying to catch a cat. He simply could not understand why this one man was so hard to kill. He sighed, though his narrow gold eyes remained unblinking over his hawkish nose. The eyes were the feature that most clearly distinguished one underling from another. Their heads could also be a variety of shapes, but it was the uniqueness of their eyes in which they took most pride. Eyes came in all possible shapes, sizes, and any color of the spectrum, and anyone who survived a face-to-face encounter with an underling would never forget the sight.

  Underlings so valued their eyes, in fact, that they would preserve those of their fallen brethren, though what they did with the bodies was uncertain. Their enemies, however, would burn their bodies rather than bury them, lest their magic revive them, as had sometimes been rumored.

  Catten frowned. The battle casualties had been growing for the underlings. Yes, the Royal forces of Bish had gone on the offensive, preparing the villages and small farming towns under their watch. But there was another force that had been steadily racking up a body count of underlings over the years, a force whose deeds alone had rallied the most inept of farmers to fight for their survival.

  The Darkslayer had become the greatest thorn in the side of the powerful underlings, and because of him, their fearsome grip on Bish was weakening. At first, the Darkslayer had been only a pest, but now he had spread the poison of inspiration among their enemies. Catten and his brother, Lord Verbard, had been charged with his elimination, but these two powerful underling magi had been without success so far.

  The two underling brothers were centuries old and stood a full five and a half feet tall, towering over their brethren. But now they sat on their pewter thrones in a cavern filled with objects of their desire, the dark walls glowing with the faint blue hue of the underlight, which derived from magic more ancient the even their knowledge.