Chaos At The Castle (Book Six)

by Craig Halloran

  A doorway, up the steps on the other side of the arena, was open with no one to bar his path.

  Move or die.

  He was darting along the arena wall, concealed for the first twenty steps, when he heard a familiar voice shout out.

  “Seize him!”

  It was Lord Almen pointing and shouting, his face filled with rage.

  Melegal jumped up, grabbed the lip of the wall, and slung himself up.

  Two underlings bolted towards the door, cutting off his path, weapons ready.

  He was too late.

  Bone!

  Two more were closing in from behind. All he had was a club and a sack. Expecting Venir to appear any second, he shook his head.

  Where is that brute?

  Dropping the club, he sat down, laying the sack on his lap.

  CHAPTER 56

  “Mmmph!”

  Tuuth tried to pry his mouth open, but Venir wouldn’t give. Teeth clenched, he fought on.

  “Hold him still!” Tuuth ordered.

  The brigands, stout as they might be, struggled. Each slipping into the mud from his efforts.

  “Blast you, Tuuth! You hold him! I’m not swimming in slat on account of this wretch’s tongue! He’s done for!”

  “Aye!” the other agreed, letting go and crawling out of the slime.

  “You’ll both be in the stockade for a week, maybe longer!”

  “Pah!”

  Still in a headlock, Venir’s nostrils flared.

  Tuuth cranked up the pressure.

  “This isn’t over,” Tuuth said, looking around.

  All the brigands and underlings had abandoned the pit, shouting orders and gathering gear, leaving the two of them all by themselves.

  Tuuth shoved him down in the muck and held him under, waited several seconds, and jerked him back out.

  Venir coughed and spat.

  “Enough of this,” Tuuth said, trolling out of the muck and slinging it from his fingers. “Let the underlings kill you themselves, like everyone else.”

  The ground shook.

  “What?” Tuuth stopped in place, arms out.

  Venir felt it too, but it was of little notice. Sitting in the muck, he was in agony. Reaching down, he plucked one of his dirty and bloody ears from the muck, tossed it aside, and grabbed his shovel. He pushed himself up with it, legs shaking. Wiping the filth from his eyes, he was watching the southern gate, which was rising, when another clamor went up.

  “It’s a giant!”

  Tuuth tucked the underling’s dagger into his belt and looked back. “Don’t go anywhere!”

  He wasn’t. He couldn’t. Even if he could, where would he go? Though tempted to at least climb up out of the muck, he remained in what little cover the pit provided, keeping his eyes transfixed on the slow rise of the southern gate. Hundreds of underling soldiers, dark armor and helms gleaming in the sun, stood ready.

  A moment later, a collective gasp followed.

  There he was.

  Tethered by thick ropes and chains, towering more than three times the height of the underlings, a giant stood. They pulled, poked and prodded him. He was angry and confused, each footstep shaking the ground. Bolts and javelins jutted from his body like briars.

  Venir’s eyes widened.

  It was Barton.

  The young giant growled and yelled. Slung his weight against his captors to no avail. They had him chained by the neck, the arms, and the ankles. Enough chains to forge an armory.

  Venir felt pity. Barton’s expression was tormented. A confused child. Miserable.

  Barton stomped. Rocked and reeled.

  “LET BARTON GO! LET BARTON GO!”

  But the underlings had him under control. They chittered. They laughed.

  Sitting down on the edge of the muck pit, he watched the underlings bind the giant further. Venir recalled his time in the Mist. It had been Barton who freed him. It had been Barton he tricked, and it had been Barton who said he’d come for him―and he had.

  Of all people, he remembered me.

  Of course, it wasn’t Venir he wanted, it was the armament. The toys. Venir wanted them too, but he was certain the armament was gone.

  Barton’s going to be disappointed, if he lives to find out.

  Barton was bound to the exterior wall, a mere ten yards away, but under heavy guard. He yelled and whined, but after several minutes, he fell silent.

  Venir resumed his shoveling. Nothing I can do. Sorry, Barton. Whatever happened was going to happen, and there was nothing he could do. Two more hours he dug. He was dying of thirst.

  “Dwarves!” One of the brigands shouted from the catwalks. “Dwarves!”

  Venir lifted his head up. Stout black-bearded men, shackled, were herded inside like cattle. Some limped. All bled. Hard looks on their grim faces.

  “Who’s in command of this place?” a commanding voice said.

  Mood? He cupped his hand behind his missing ear, peering forward.

  “Come on, rodents! Bring yer leader out!”

  Venir shielded his eyes from the blazing suns with his hand. Mood, bushy and broad, stood over the rest, a green glimmer under his brows.

  The underling commander strutted forward, chest out.

  “Blood Ranger, you have no business here. Not on my mountain. The penalty is death.”

  “Ye’ll release us all, Underling,” Mood said. “We hunt giants, all over Bish, and where they go, we go. Underlings or no. It’s our right. You best let us go, or the entire dwarven world will come for you. Not to mention more giants.”

  An underling cracked a spear over Mood’s head.

  The Blood Ranger didn’t flinch. All he said was, “I’m warning you.”

  “Say all you want, Blood Ranger. You’ll be dead soon, so it doesn’t matter. Bish is ruled by the underlings now, so your threats are of no matter.” The underling commander started to walk away. “Flay them. Flay them all. But save the giant for last.”

  “It’s easier to flay a stone than a dwarf, you fool!” Mood said. “We’ll dull your knives after the first cut.”

  Venir shook his head and resumed his shoveling.

  ***

  “Stay here.”

  Those were the last words Mood had said to Fogle Boon before he’d departed with the Black Beards and headed towards Outpost Thirty One, leaving him alone with Eethum. That had been several hours ago, and at the bottom of the massive hill they waited. He’d been clutching at handfuls of his hair ever since.

  “Eethum, what’s the plan?”

  Solemn as always, the black Blood Ranger replied, “I don’t know.”

  That was the same answer he’d given five times already, and Fogle was tired of it. He had to know, and even though Fogle didn’t question dwarven integrity, he had his doubts.

  “So, am I to understand that we are to stay here forever? And you’re comfortable with that?”

  Eethum eyed the long branch he’d been whittling for hours.

  “He’s the King. I do as he says.” He stuck his knife in a tree stump and admired his work. “Look at that. Straight as a dwarven bolt.” He smiled at Fogle. “I can make a fine spear with it.” He tossed it to Fogle. “Or a Wizard’s walking stick. Ha! Ha!”

  Fogle wanted to crack it over Eethum’s head. He slung it to the ground.

  “We can’t wait here forever, Eethum.”

  “We won’t,” Eethum said, grabbing his knife along with another branch and whittling again.

  Pacing around him, Fogle said, “I’m not a dwarf. I can’t stand here for a hundred years and do nothing, like you.”

  “I’m not doing nothing; I’m carving wood. Just find yourself something to do. Study your spellbook. Always be ready for something.”

  It was easier said than done. Fogle didn’t know what was going on. So he turned his attention back to Inky. His ebony hawk familiar stretched out its black metallic wings. It was ready.

  He glanced over his shoulder at Eethum. The Blood Ranger didn’t pay
him any attention.

  “Alright, I might have to stay here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try and figure out what’s happening.”

  Grabbing Inky, he placed Venir’s hunting knife in its talons. “Give this to Venir if you see him. It will be some time before I can connect with you again.” He tossed the bird in the air. Black wings flapping, it soared into the sky, disappearing into the tree line.

  He turned and faced Eethum.

  The Blood Ranger’s arms were crossed over his chest.

  “What?” Fogle shrugged. “I’m staying here.”

  Eethum shook his head. “There’s at least a thousand underlings out there. Your little bird’s done for.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  Eethum batted an eye at him. “Wizard, have you seen a single bird since we’ve been here?”

  Fogle tucked his chin into his neck. “No.”

  “There’s a reason for that.” Eethum put a finger to his lips, then pointed upward. “Hear that?”

  Fogle cupped his ear. Something hummed in the sky. “I can always bring him back to us.”

  “Don’t do that. You’ll just lead them right to us.”

  “Them?”

  “Stirges. Flocks of them. They destroy every flying creature in sight.”

  “But Inky doesn’t have any blood.”

  “Maybe so, but they don’t know that.”

  CHAPTER 57

  “You should eat something, Corrin.”

  “What?” he said, blinking.

  “Eat,” Haze said, motioning to her mouth. “I heard your stomach growling from over there. You’ve been staring in the fountain for hours. Take a drink already. Or a bath even. Just do something other than sit there.”

  Corrin gaped at the skinny woman. “Don’t you see them?”

  She leaned over and peered in. “What? Fish? Spooks? I don’t see anything except water.”

  He looked back in the fountain. The living images were gone.

  “No!” he said, reaching in the water, shaking his hand. “Where are they?”

  “You’ve lost your wits,” she said, walking away, “but I’ll still get you something to eat. Get some shade at least. The suns probably cooked your noodles.”

  “Aw!” he said, smacking the water. “I’m going to miss it. Trinos!” He looked everywhere. She was nowhere to be found. “Hate it when she does that!”

  Trinos had told him strange things. She spoke of Bish as if it were her own child and the things that worried him would take care of themselves. There was order among the chaos, she’d said. Sanity with the madness. Good where there was evil.

  But, he disagreed. There wasn’t any good in the underlings. He was a hired killer. A murderer. But he took no pleasure in it. The underlings did, and he made it clear to her that despite the Royals’ lust for power and control, the world would be better off without the underlings.

  “No one is ever in control,” she had said. “I have planted many seeds to see to that. But nothing will last forever. I tire. When it ends, it ends.”

  Corrin didn’t understand it one bit. All he knew was people were dying and underlings were living. When it came to the battle for Bish, he wanted in. He buckled on his sword.

  “First, I’m going to fill my belly with food, and then I’m going to fill gray bellies with steel.”

  ***

  Trinos sighed.

  Her world was everything she’d imagined it to be, but worse. It drained her. The people were strong, full of life, bold―but always shadowed in darkness. Peace had come in the past. Only to go and come again.

  Scorch had changed that. Now, peace was a lonely cry from the highest mountain top.

  She walked, her toes drifting over the sand in the Warfield. Of all the places in Bish, it was the one most at peace right now. Hot and barren, both underlings and men had avoided it among the turmoil that had broken out everywhere else.

  Shall I stay? Can I go? Is this what I want?

  She knew she couldn’t go. Not without Scorch. They had both buried most of their power deep in Bish when they arrived. One could not tap it without the other.

  In the meantime, her own power, vast as it might be, had weakened. Bish was feeding on her. Her powers waned. What had been effortless required effort now. She filled her chest with hot air and slowly let it out. Despite the change, she felt as alive as she ever remembered. Emotions, long forgotten, went up and came down.

  Does Scorch feel this as well?

  Should I track him?

  So she walked, toes sinking into the sand, becoming another part of the world she’d created.

  Behind her, two disfigured people followed, covered head to toe in Outland robes, swords hanging from their hips, sandaled but no longer insane.

  CHAPTER 58

  Creed kicked the Vicious in the face. It was a last ditch effort.

  It head-butted him.

  Crack!

  He saw bright spots and stars. He was choking. Sharp claws dug into his neck. His own blood trickled down his chest. He always figured he’d die before he was gray. A match of steel against a younger, stronger opponent like himself. Where he held on with skill and cleverness to the end. But this, to fall in the brutal hands of a monster, was unbearable.

  If I only had my sword again.

  The brute held him by the neck, pushed him up with its long arm like a child, and shook him like a doll.

  Purple-faced, he gulped for air.

  Such a cowardly way to go!

  He kicked at the Vicious again and again, but there was laughter in its evil eyes.

  “Blast you, fiend!” Bloody saliva flew from his mouth.

  Creed felt his body closing down. The light dimmed. The pain subsided.

  This is it, Bish.

  The Vicious released him.

  Creed fell to the ground, coughing and choking.

  Tonio was there. Arms latched around the creature’s neck in a headlock of some sort.

  Crawling through the dirt, Creed searched for a blade―a knife, anything.

  “Perhaps I’ll get in one last swing.”

  ***

  “Mother!” Tonio growled. “You hurt my mother!”

  Strength versus strength. Power versus power. Two titans thrashed with one another. The Vicious, an underling abomination of magic brought to life in humanoid form. Tonio, a dead man revived, raging within like a forest fire.

  He didn’t know what he was or how he came to be. He knew he should be dead but he lived, stitched up by the spiderish arachna-men. Magic gave him life, and nothing could give him death. So he fought. His vengeance unfilled against the yellow-haired Vee-Man.

  The Vicious twisted out of his choking grip and socked him in the face.

  He staggered back.

  The creature pounced on him. It punched and clawed at him, one blow as quick as the other.

  His skin shredded. His bone exposed. Tonio didn’t feel a thing.

  The creature let out an angry howl.

  Tonio punched his fist inside its mouth.

  Its eyes widened. It pushed away.

  Tonio shook the spit from his hand and flashed a split-faced grin. “You can’t hurt me!” He pounded his chest. “Nothing can!”

  The Vicious leapt. Kicked him in the chest. Knocked him to the ground.

  Tonio laughed and rose to his feet. The underling was quick. He matched it blow for blow. He slammed it into the wall.

  It bit off a part of his leg.

  Tonio hoisted it over his head. Slammed it into the ground. Stomped on its chest. It’s head.

  Back and forth they went. Two monsters. Evil. Tireless. No quarter given. No hatred spared.

  ***

  Underlings closed in.

  Melegal’s instincts took over. He reached into the sack, clutching for a weapon. Something. Anything. Bony fingertips stretching. Tingling. He felt something. Cold. Living.

  What is that?

  Smack!

  An underling cracked him over
the head with the pommel of its sword, splitting his vision from two to four.

  Spine like jelly, he slumped over the benches, the sack slipping from his grasp.

  The one underling grabbed him by the leg and dragged him. The other tossed the sack over the rail, into the arena.

  Head bouncing off the benches, Melegal stared at the broken glass dome above. The suns gleamed on the broken glass edges.

  Venir, you lout, where are you?

  ***

  Creed crawled. Huffing. Bleeding. Busted inside and out. A rack of weapons awaited him against the way. And that wasn’t all.

  “I’ll be,” he said.

  His sword lay on the rack. Steel glimmering under the dust. Tonio and the other monster thrashed behind him. Move, Creed! He gathered his feet and stumbled over.

  “I bet Pearl can poke a hole in that thing.”

  He stretched out his fingers and grabbed the hilt.

  “Bone! Ah!” The sharp stabbing pain of broken ribs bit into him. Something fell over his head, blocking his sight.

  What in Bish?

  He tore it off his face and beheld a worn, stitched-up sack of leather.

  Where did this come from?

  His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t eaten in days. A savage instinct overcame him.

  Maybe there’s a loaf or some cheese. I don’t fight well when hungry.

  Ravenous and wild-eyed, he set down his sword and reached inside.

  ***

  Lorda Almen squatted along the wall at the top of the arena, hiding in a doorway, trembling. A boulder the size of a sofa had almost smashed her, and a creature as dark as night had shoved her down. Her home, her castle, had become a den of madness, and it had only just begun.

  “Lorda, get out of there,” Lord Almen cried out, his long arm waving her over.

  Underling soldiers were whisking him away, and two more were coming for her. She shook her head.

  Down on one side of the arena, her son Tonio smashed two underlings together. He attacked the hulking beast that had shoved her, and he was about to break the neck of another. On the other side, Melegal, a man she’d become fond of for some reason, was pinned in by the underlings, awaiting a certain death.

  She tried to catch his eye, but a strong armed underling jerked her off the ground and hissed.