He sat down and leaned against the cairn with Brool stuck in the ground at his side. It seemed like he and the axe had been together forever, but it had only been five years. They had survived countless battles, slaughtered multitudes of underlings, and survived. He felt it had all led up to these final battles, that one last clash with the underlings would free him and his friends of his troubles.
Darkness soon accompanied him with only the sound of the wind. He dozed on and off through the night, underlings and giants now tormenting him in dreams. He lay as still as a rock through it all, unflinching. When the light returned again, so did his starvation and pain. All he could do was sulk and wait for the other underling to come for the bait.
Chapter 21
The clouds were streaked like rows of corn, dark gray with seams of blue bleeding through. The air was damp and chill, and the wind was picking up. It was another one of those moments on Bish that was abnormal, filling the air with uncertainty. The storms and tornadoes that had overpowered the lands weeks ago had settled down, but something remained. Something still lingered that couldn’t be explained. Sometimes it was good, and sometimes it was bad.
Verbard looked at his shaking hands. They were small, but big for an underling. Short black fingernails came to sharp points, like the ends of picks. The gray skin was almost translucent beneath the thin layer of soft rat-like fur. They were cold, not the cold from the caves of the Underland, but rather cold from climbing high in the mountains. He rubbed them together and they began to ignite. He could see a warm red glow coming from his hands, a jolt of energy made its way through him, filling him with warmth.
His wheezing stopped, and the aching in his chest had subsided. Pulling his cloak tight around his body, he moved on. A drizzling rain splattered off his cloak, but it was followed by a torrential down pour. He hissed, pulling his cloak tighter around his chest. It never rained in the Underland. Still, there was something refreshing about the sound of the rain pounding into the ground around him, a peace he had never experienced before. It lasted less than a few seconds.
Verbard couldn’t see where he was going as he continued to slosh through the muddied ground with his head hanging down. He fought the need to keep himself dry with a spell. He needed to save all the magic he had for fighting. After another hour of walking, he sat down under a spiny-leafed bone tree. He took note of its white thorns that hung dripping drops of water like venom on his face. How long does this rain go on? There was an ear-splitting crack of thunder nearby. Bright flashes of light were everywhere. I have to keep going. He may be near.
He had left the Darkslayer incapacitated, crawling like a cripple over the ground. The man had proved the most determined and resilient of all foes. Now Verbard was fated to face him alone. He got back up and leaned against the tree with a great feeling of emptiness settling inside of him. His brother, Catten, was gone.
“Brother, of all the times I wished you dead, now was not that time.”
He and Catten had been raised in magic together since birth. There had been centuries of study and daring between the two. It was absurd that one of them should fall at the hands of a human. His head rolled from side to side in his hood. Impossible …
CRACK!
A blast of lightning hit the ground nearby, shaking the ground and knocking him from his feet. He pulled himself up out of the mud.
“Heh-Heh.”
It felt good, like an awakening. He thought of his brother Catten and made his decision to not let him die in vain. He thought of something else. It was possible his brother could be saved, or part of him at least. He would have to survive first, regain some strength and calculate his plans. In the meantime, he’d have to keep walking.
He walked on, oblivious of time, plotting his scheme, unaware of his feet that were now skimming the ground. Another half-hour went by before he realized his toes hadn’t been touching the ground. He chittered a joyous sound that even he had never made before. Feeling the return of his strength, his heart began to beat like that of a horse. The storms and rain began to subside. He felt the power of Bish renewing inside of him in a wave of energy.
“YES!”
Verbard’s doubts began to wash away along with the mud on his cloak. The gleam in his silver eyes had returned along with something else. His everlasting hatred of the Darkslayer ignited inside of him like a forest fire. He floated higher in the air, above the hillsides, through the clouds, where he basked in the rising moonlight. Night had come. In the darkness he would rest, and tomorrow he would see to it the Darkslayer was finished once and for all. If he could retrieve his brother, he could save a part of him. A thought struck him as he basked in the light of the two red moons. It was something he had never considered before.
“Maybe my brother was going about this all wrong. Maybe there is a better way, an easier way,” he said, clasping his fingers behind his back as he walked through the sky. He burst out in a fiendish chitter.
“Vengeance shall be mine!”
Chapter 22
“What!?”
He couldn’t say the word. The City Watchmen's club was wrapped around his throat just below his Adam’s apple. Not this again! The pressure was building in his neck. He could feel his eyes bulging. Melegal watched four rough faces begin to close in. They were big men, callous, and rough as stones. There was little chance anyone was going to intervene on his behalf. His head jerked back as he was lifted from the ground.
“He’s a light one, Boss,” the one choking him said.
“Not much of a fighter by the looks of him, either,” said another.
The red haired leader balled his fist up and drew it back.
“Yep … now lift him up higher so we can all get a shot in. Let’s see how much of a beating he can take before he chokes to death. I bet he dies after the first blow.”
He could hear them chuckling now, loud and obnoxious. Deep inside of him a fit of anger began to climb out. He had taken enough torment in the past day. His gray eyes dimmed. At some point you have to put an end to it. He found the eyes of the red-haired sergeant.
“What are you looking at, you little rat?” the man said, drawing back his fist.
Make it hurt!
Melegal brought the sharp point of his boot in the man’s nose.
Crack!
The watchman cried out, holding the dislodged nose on his face. Blood was oozing between the fingers of the man’s hand..
“Yer gonna get it now, Boy!” one said.
Melegal grabbed the stick around his neck with both hands and used it to kick his legs over his head into his captor’s face.
“Argh!” the man cried out, letting go of his club.
Melegal landed on the ground like a cat, brandishing the club in his hand. He twirled it around a few times and said, “Come and get it, ladies.”
The other two watchmen rushed in, clubs swinging.
Swat! Swat!
Melegal struck each in the hand, their clubs falling to the ground. He whirled and cracked the one that was behind him hard in the head.
“Ow!”
The other two were standing still, rubbing their hands.
“Go ahead, pick up those clubs so I can knot your heads.”
They didn’t move, staring at their boss instead. The man still held his nose in one hand, club brandished in the other.
“Yer gonna be buried for this!”
Melegal felt the blood rushing through him. He felt a tad unglued, ready to battle. It was different, but good.
“Am I now? Will you be the one digging my grave, then?”
The man came rushing in.
“You bet!”
Whack!
Melegal busted him in the knee. The man dropped to one knee.
Whack!
Whack!
He busted the man in his broken nose again and cracked the one behind him as well. The other two guards just watched with gawping faces.
The red-haired leader swung again. Melegal side stepp
ed the swing.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
The man’s club fell from his hand. A knot rose on his head, and his other knee was shattered. He fell to the ground, spitting in pain.
“Get him, you two bastards!”
They reached for their clubs on the ground only to have their heads drummed with Melegal’s flashing black club. They tried to fend off the blows, only to have their arms numbed and wrists busted.
Melegal spun around, counting all of the men who writhed on the ground. There were shouts nearby, and more City Watch were running his way. He stood in the middle of the fray, dusting off his clothes.
No blood, ah, there’s some … good … Bone!
A button was missing on his shirt sleeve. Now he was surrounded by half a dozen more members of the City Watch. One, tall and rangy, with five chevrons of a sergeant, lowered a longsword on him.
“You won’t get out of this alive! Come with us if you want a quicker death. If not, me and all of my men will each chop a piece of you.”
Melegal held out his palm, where a piece of metal glinted in the sun. The watchmen blanched.
“Er … sorry Detective. I didn’t know.”
“You didn’t ask!” Melegal said, waving the brooch of Lord Almen in the man’s face. “Now, have these dogs shackled in the nearest Watch dungeon. I’ll deal with them later, a long time later.” Eh, so much for working under cover. News of the new Almen detective would be all over Bone in an hour.
“Yes Sir!” the sergeant said, stepping away. Melegal could see the fear in his assailants' eyes. The red-haired one still managed a sneer. Melegal slung the club into his nose as he walked by. The surrounding City Watchmen stepped out of his way. He rubbed his brooch on his vest and stashed it. It’s good to be Melegal. He took his time crossing the Royal Roadway without looking behind, and back down the alleyways he went.
The vastness of the City of Bone was not easily explained. It was circular and miles wide. Some of the overlooking apartment buildings were several stories tall, and the castles that overlooked them were much higher. Every year more children, beggars, and thugs crowded the roads and alleyways that streamed away from the castles. More money for the Royals but less food for you. Melegal brushed past a sordid lot of ragged fellows that stood drinking stale ale from buckets. One stepped in his way and found the tip of a dagger at his throat.
“Sorry, Sir … apologies. Not paying attention, that’s all.”
The gang of men stepped back from the narrow road, eyes averted as they began passing the bucket around again. Melegal kept going. Drunken robbers, a disgrace to thievery. He tucked his dagger up under his sleeve and placed a toothpick in his mouth. He turned down one alley, then another, walking like a ghost over the slick cobblestones. The alley seemed to darken as it narrowed. He thought of that assassin that had almost cut him down months ago. It sent a shiver down his spine. Was that man still out there, looking for him? That assassin had all but vanished. It was another unknown. Lord Almen hadn’t mentioned the man, but Melegal suspected Almen had hired that man. Who else? He reached for another dagger at his side and fingered the pommel.
He leapt over a large puddle of muck and dodged a bucket of slop being poured from the windows above. Something splashed on his clothes that smelled like rotten eggs. Mother of Bish! Filthy vermin, if I were Royal I’d hang them all. He kept going, taking out a silk handkerchief, wiping off his cloak, and tossing the rag away. His hands fell to his hidden daggers as another group of men were coming his way. They wore thick woven clothes and carried hammers, saws and big wooden tool boxes. They slowed at the sight of him, pressing closer to the left side of the alley, avoiding his gaze, calloused hands clutching at their tools.
“Gents,” Melegal said as he passed by.
They muttered something and hurried along.
Not everyone’s a thief. Someone has to work.
Loud shouts and cries were coming from up ahead. The pounding of metal on stone and steel was getting louder the farther he went. The alley merged into an open stretch of road filled with hardworking men and women milling about. Whips were snapping in the air followed by a rugged harmony of bellowing voices making demands. Piles of rubble were being carted away in wheel barrows by wiry teenagers and durable women. Their long faces were filled with oily sweat. Melegal frowned. Back breaking work was something he’d always been able to avoid, even as an urchin. His deft hands and sharp mind kept him from the grind. The mere sight of these haggard people made him long for his cozy cot.
Men were churning cement, filling massive urns that were hoisted three stories high. More men awaited them from atop the scaffolding, pulling in the load, with spades and trowels ready. Melegal watched as they spackled in the cement and laid the stones. His mouth began to water. He slipped out of the hot suns and into the shade underneath the scaffolding. His presence didn’t garner any stares. The workers were too miserable to care about trespassers and the slave bosses too eager to punish. Melegal made his way to a small rickety building of wood on the edge of the construction site. He stopped and listened at the open doorway. He stepped inside.
It was a single room, dark and windowless. The furnishings were sparse: a chair and table sat in the corner and a slanted table on the other side. There was a hatch in the floor, open, with a wooden stairs leading down. He felt a rush of cool damp air on his face as he stepped on cat’s paws down into the darkness.
It was black, but there was a tiny glimmer of light far below and the sound of trickling water. He paused at the landing twenty steps down from where he started. Only twenty more to go. He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he re-opened them he could make out the edges of the stairs and the rock-cut walls that surrounded it. He noticed additional light reflecting off the bottle floor, and he could hear the faint sound of voices as well. He made his way down the rotting stairs without squeaking the timber. There was only one way to go, toward the voices and the wavering light. He took ten more steps and stopped. An armed sentry was ahead, armored in leather, with a longsword hanging from his side. The average-sized man was leaning against the wall, talking back and forth with the gruff voices beyond him. Melegal could hear small feet splattering water over the moisture-slickened floor. They were coming his way. He climbed over the rail and hung from beneath the stairs.
A small boy emerged, two full buckets of water pulling down his narrow shoulders.
“Move it, Urchin!” the sentry said.
The slouching silhouette of the boy carried on as his haggard breath labored up every creaking step.
“Hurry up, Boy! You got ten minutes to make it back, or it’s the lash for you!”
The child had made his way up about eight steps when Melegal reached up and tripped him. The water splashed down the stairs, followed by the clonking buckets. Melegal heard the boy let out a desperate sob as the sentry stormed over. Melegal maintained his position of seclusion beneath the steps.
“No you didn’t! No you didn’t!” the angry sentry said.
The boy was trying to brush the water back into the bucket. Melegal’s stomach turned into a knot as he could make out the fear and desperation in the boy’s face. The sentry stomped up the stairs, lash held high. The boy curled up into a ball.
“This is gonna be a lot of lashes, Boy. I don’t even think I can count that high.”
The sentry went up another step. Melegal reached between the stair planks, grabbed the man around the boot and pulled it out from under him. The man yelped, arms flailing in the air before he crashed down the steps. The man groaned as he rolled up, shaking his head. Melegal stooped behind him, dagger ready.
The man said, “What in the B—”
Whack!
Melegal struck him hard in the back of the head with the pommel of his blade. He caught the man as he pitched forward and laid his head down on the steps. The man was out cold, and he swore he felt his skull crack. Good. Above him the boy trembled, eyes still shut. Three sets of boot steps were rushing his way,
with shouts. He tucked two small blades behind his palms and crouched back into the darkness.
Chapter 23
Lefty was kicking in the air as a pair of rough hands hoisted him up by the neck.
“Let him go!” Georgio cried, as two goons pinned his arms behind his back. Another punched him in his face and then in the belly.
“Shut up, Children. If you draw the Watch it’ll be worse for you.”
The man who spoke was bearded and heavyset, not much taller than Georgio. His clothes were colorful and baggy, silk and cotton. His cuffed boots shone as well as the trinkets around his neck and pudgy fingers. The man had a full head of curly light brown hair. His brown eyes were soft, and his countenance was as harmless as a toy merchant's, but his voice sent shivers down Georgio’s spine.
“Let him go—”
Whack!
“Ah, ah, ah,” the man said, pinching Georgio's lips shut. “You don’t want my friends to poke a hole in the halfling now, do you?”
Georgio could see a knife being held underneath Lefty’s belly. He shook his head.
The man patted him on the head saying, “Good, good boy.”
Now the men were holding Lefty upside down and shaking him.
“We can’t find the money, Boss,” one said.
“Eh … well let me take a look.”
The man ran his soft hands all over the dangling halfling, with no results.
The frumpish man who boasted of the Thieves Guild rubbed his chin.
“Hmmm … pretty good.”
He grabbed Lefty by the throat and pinched his Adam's Apple. Lefty squirmed and twisted. The man held out his other hand and caught the coins that flew out of Lefty's mouth. The man forced his finger in Lefty's mouth, turning him green. Another coin popped out.
“Very good, indeed,” he said.
Georgio’s face turned red. There go my biscuits! He’d gotten run over by a cart for nothing now.
The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge Page 10
