Billy the Barbarian 1
The Heights of Dread
Virgil Knightley
Edlritch Blade
Copyright © 2021 Vrigil Knightley
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
To my writing buddy. Thanks for keeping me inspired.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Join the Revolution!
A Final Plea
Chapter 1
◆◆◆
The grisly spinebear’s fiendishly fearsome paw descended rapidly, glancing the brawny outlander along his exposed chest. The pain was fleeting, if it registered at all. The outlander’s large, muscular frame was marked with the proof of a few successful blows, but he did not bend in pain, nor did he groan in agony. His eyes were resolutely locked on his desperate bestial foe with both fury and focus as a crimson horizon loomed overhead, and lances of oranges and pinks spilled outward from the blaze of a setting sun that heralded an equally vivid starlit sky.
As bad as the warrior might have looked to the onlookers in the dusty arena crowd, the spinebear was perceptibly worse off. A hand ax was lodged in the massive creature’s throat, so all the barbarian needed to do now was buy time—yet time wasn’t cheap. The spinebear seemed to act not in rage or in self-preservation, but in retribution—a complex drive for a seemingly mindless beast, the outlander reflected. It still attacked spitefully, though its movements were growing increasingly ragged, its breaths shallower and more frantic with each passing second. The look in its eyes transitioned slowly from frustration to resignation, and then within the space of time in which the barbarian had performed a few more agile cartwheels and deft dodges, avoiding taking yet another blow from the beast, it was over. The demonic fiend slumped against the sandy floor of the stone-hewn arena, dead from the loss of its brackish blood. The thudding sound had an air of finality to it, and the presiding crowd of religious figures murmured restlessly at the development.
The High Priest of Sulkeia sat grimly in a crowd of displeased onlookers. He wore an expression marked with irritation, uttering vulgar words his gods would surely hold against him. This exhibition was intended to be a human sacrifice offered in the honor of their gods, specifically dedicated to uphold their chief god. It was not meant to be the brutal slaughter of a trained and well-detained demon, but an exultation of Amar’nak, the Lord of Life and Death for all those who live in Thune. The shame of this loss would follow Xarna for several moons until the Skarrak, the Night of Repentance, allowed him to purify himself. This would surely be seen by his underlings and peers alike as a weighty shame, meaning his expected penance would be great indeed. He might even lose one of his daughters over this.
The air was thick with the gasps, grunts, and groans of holy men who raucously protested at the outcome, throwing up their hands with disdainful indignance. One such man stood and pointed a finger of judgment in the High Priest’s direction. “Will Amar’nak indeed be denied his sustenance tonight, Xarna?”
Xarna narrowed his eyes at the man confronting him. He fumed at the impudence of his subordinate, snarling in spite of himself, his ire plainly visible. He spoke no words to the complainer, instead pivoting his attention back to the musclebound warrior bleeding in the pit below.
“Outlander scum! You dare to deny the wishes of our god? You have sinned grievously against us, but I am willing to show a measure of mercy.”
The outlander’s heavy breathing had ceased. He had already recovered his stamina from the fight. He stood, practically naked, covered in fresh scratches and gashes from the just-concluded skirmish. The only garments he wore were a pair of wrapped combat sandals on his feet and a flimsy loincloth that failed to obscure very much at all. He stared up at the High Priest, an indecipherable look on his face.
“Sorry, what’s up?” he answered, adjusting the thick frames of his unfashionable black glasses. “It’s a little hard to hear you down here, dude.”
The High Priest of Amar’nak in Sulkeia would not suffer the insult of this man’s alien colloquialisms. His nostrils flared at the sound of the man’s savage voice. “Your arrogance shall be punished,” he growled. “And to think I was going to proposition you with the honor of eviscerating yourself for our Lord here and now, to save you the horror and shame of your ultimate defeat.”
“Ah,” the outlander said, his improvised bowl cut blowing in the breeze. “I would’ve said no anyway, so no worries.”
“Very well,” shouted Xarna. He grinned, baring ritualistically sharpened teeth that made the barbarian’s stomach turn. “Yikes, bro,” said the outlander. “Get your grill looked at or something.”
The High Priest raised one arm in the air, high above his head as he accepted a glass of blood wine from a bare-breasted serving girl wearing only a thin white loincloth. “I will make a wager with you, barbarian. If my champion loses this battle, I will sacrifice myself in your stead.”
“No need for that, padre,” said the warrior in the pit. “We’re chill.”
“And yet the gods must feed!” heckled another priest from the restless crowd. Others joined in the cries, jeering and hissing at the barbarian, hurling slurs and curses upon him—slurs and curses which he didn’t recognize.
“I don’t really believe in God, personally, but I respect your faith,” he shouted up at them, flashing a warm smile and a beefy thumbs up, a gesture of approval from his world.
Xarna’s impatience had reached its limit. “Enough!” he shouted, magic in his voice, amplifying the force and magnitude of his words to the extent where the other priests covered their ears and instinctively bowed their heads in deference. They knew what it meant when their High Priest used the Holy Voice. The time for mischief and banter was done. Now was the time for blood. “Are you prepared to die, barbarian?” he belted over the arena, loud enough even for those outside the grounds to hear.
The outlander shrugged, scratching his head. He was preoccupied with an uneven spot he’d just noticed in his haircut. His only anxiety was for it to be corrected before others bore it witness. When his shrug elicited no response from the onlooking throng, he exaggerated the gesture so he could be confident it was noticed by all. “I’m basically down for whatever,” he said with a friendly wave and a winsome grin.
“Open all the gates!” cried the High Priest in the throes of incensed rage.
The barbarian strolled over to the body of the spinebear and dislodged his ax from its throat. He then proceeded to rip out two of its straighter spines and fixed them to the makeshift belt that upheld his loincloth.
This time three beasts entered the arena from the North, South, and West gates all at once. At the start of the battle, the barbarian had come through a trap door
in the center of the floor, where a prison-like cell waited below, and the spinebear, now deceased, had come through the East gate. On his left and right, there were, in total, two ravenous wolves with horns resembling those of a ram. They prowled toward him, baying and drooling, occasionally weaving this way and that to thwart his tracking of their movements. His posture as he faced them showed that they didn’t intimidate him much at all compared to the massive demon he had just slain.
But the third creature was far more impressive. A gray-skinned troll with a wrinkled, mottled hide and a single yellow eye looked down on the barbarian. He noted that the ax wielded by the monster was about his size, almost six feet long. The blade was hefty and well-sharpened, but it showed signs of use, age, and mistreatment that had spread over many years. The hideous troll readied a strike just as the two wolves pounced. The barbarian rolled between the lengthy legs of the troll, skirting the attack, but one of the horned wolves managed to nip his ankle in the process. However, that same wolf promptly had its head severed—the barbarian moved out of the way of the troll’s oncoming attack and the wolf took his place in time to receive the its powerful battle-ax in his stead. The men in the crowd groaned and shouted in frustration, like disorderly spectators at a sports game.
The barbarian, having just rolled through the open legs of the portly troll, looked back over his shoulder and propelled the spines hooked to his his hip in a single swift motion. They shot like darts and landed firmly in the neck of the troll but didn’t dig in as deep as the outlander dared hope. Troll hide was far too rugged for a simple spike, he made a mental note. Still, it was enough of a pain to rattle the troll and cause the audience to gasp in a brief fit of anxiety.
The muscled warrior spun to face the surviving wolf demon now that the greater foe was distracted and facing the wrong way. The wolf lurched toward him, and the barbarian knelt down to receive its assault at eye level, swinging his hand ax with both mighty knuckles wrapped around its base. All his strength was put into the strike, and it sang a satisfying crunch when it impacted with the horned wolf’s sides, splitting bone and spurting blood. The horned fiend yelped and hit the sandy floor, presently joining its kin in death.
The troll had turned around by that point, its face furrowed with wrath and scorn as it readied another risky strike at the barbarian. Dodging easily, he exploited the opening left by the troll’s aimless attack. He buried his ax in the creature’s arm, cleaving through meat and bone, but it wasn’t enough. To further complicate matters, his ax was also stuck, and he was forced to abandon it.
The troll grunted in amusement at the apparent misfortune of his opponent, but the barbarian showed no signs of panic. He merely gritted his teeth, now unarmed, and prepared for another attack from the troll.
The attack came, this time more measured and cautious. The troll clearly felt that time was on its side now, with the ax of the barbarian lodged in its bicep and unable to easily be retrieved. The barbarian, for his part, gave little sign of worry. He dodged each heavy blow and forced the troll to give chase around the arena. The High Priest Xarna squirmed as he began to realize the outlander’s tactics. He was trying to tire the troll out.
Dodge and run. Dodge and run. Dodge and run. The stamina of the barbarian was unerring, relentless. But the troll’s breathing began to grow heavier and its movements more ragged and careless. Seeing his opportunity, the dark-haired barbarian stopped in his tracks and turned to face the troll. It charged him, desperate to close the gap and have its giant ax make purchase into the outlander’s flesh. It swung. It missed. The barbarian leaped through the air, flipping onto the shoulders of the troll with an aerial somersault that should have been impossible for a warrior of his size—of any size. He balanced deftly and reached downward, pulling the two spines from the back of the troll’s neck.
With a guttural cry, the troll dropped its ax and reached up, grabbing the barbarian and holding him in front of its face. “Now you die!” shouted the troll in a raspy, low voice that was inhuman and cruel. The barbarian felt its acrid breath upon him and winced in displeasure.
Furthermore, the barbarian took issue with the troll’s conclusion. The monster had made a fatal error in holding him by the waist. The warrior’s two hands were free, so as the troll started to attempt to rip the barbarian in half, he had found himself in the perfect position for a counterattack.
The outlander extended his arms outward, plunging the two spines into the troll, shoving them as deep into its brain as he could as they speared through his single yellow eye. Before the troll could even scream, it was dead. It crumbled to its knees and then slumped sideways onto the arena floor. The barbarian stood up and smiled at the howling spectators.
The High Priest Xarna felt his gut wrench with the weight of his oath. The gods must feed, but his beasts had failed. Sure, he could have the barbarian killed by his guards, but the shame would be even greater then. There was only one way to retain his honor.
“Look, the High Priest is going to speak!” one man said, pointing at his religious figurehead as he stood up, raising a silencing hand. But Xarna didn’t speak. He grabbed a dagger from the hip of his own bodyguard, plunging it deep into his sternum and twisting. He sank to his knees, blood spilling out of his mouth as he leaked guts and gore onto the arena’s sandstone benches. His followers fell silent as they observed this new spectacle with a variety of expressions.
After a moment that seemed to last an eternity, another man stood up—a man who had been sitting next to Xarna the entire time.
“All hail High Priest Gartos!” a man shouted.
“Hail!” the crowd echoed.
The man who was Gartos, the new High Priest, gestured for his fellows to be silent. They complied unflinchingly and immediately. “Great was Xarna, who died with honor.”
“Great was Xarna. May he rest,” the crowd said in unison.
“But now we owe the debt of his word to the barbarian below. Tell me, young outlander, what is your name, so that we might celebrate your victory?”
“Oh, me?” the barbarian asked, loud enough for the crowd to hear. “I’m Billy. Do you have someone who can fix my haircut?”
Chapter 2
◆◆◆
Night had fallen, and the barbarian known as Billy found himself sitting alone at a rounded cedar table in a dimly lit tavern. The walls and floors were assembled from cheaply sourced materials—wood, mud, and stone—and there were few windows to speak of. As a result, the room stank of smoked meat, melted candles, and the combined stinks and odors of the dregs of society that patronized the establishment.
Billy was alone but far from unnoticed. He sat, hunched in the corner—a man of immense physicality. At six feet and two inches, the barbarian towered over just about everyone else in the room, and the volume and definition of his muscles were wildly uncommon, to say the least. He attracted many looks as he drank his mead and broke his bread, but he returned none of them. He would be gone by dawn; those were the terms he agreed to with the High Priest Gartos.
A man burst through the door, slamming it against the wall with such a clatter that the entire room turned to observe him as he walked up to the tavern keeper to request a table. He wore a villainous look on a shabby, grizzled face. The man was not large—not in comparison to Billy, anyway, but he dripped with authority and self-confidence. Soon he laid eyes on Billy, to the barbarian’s chagrin, and moseyed over to sit across the table from him, apparently abandoning his request to the proprietor for accommodation.
“Evenin’, lad,” the man said. He was missing several teeth, a thumb, and an eye—and the wounds seemed freshly healed. His skin was well-bronzed and worn from countless days spent under a tyrannical sun, though he couldn’t have been over fifty. His face bore many minor scars and a thick curly mustache that grayed at the roots. His hair was trimmed short, almost a crew cut. His one remaining eye was brown like filth, and murder was there in that eye. That eye had watched its hands do horrendous things. “My, you
’re a big one, aren’t ya?” he said.
Billy smiled politely at the unnerving man, looking up from his humble meal of stale bread and dried meat. “How’s it goin’, dude? Need something?” he asked with an air of polite but disinterested civility.
The man scoffed and turned, shouting toward the tavern keeper. “Griswold, get a load of this boy!” he shouted. Without waiting for a response, he turned back to Billy. “As a matter of fact, lad, you seem a very helpful sort of stranger to a man like me,” he said, nodding at Billy’s bloodied hand-ax.
“I’m not sticking around,” Billy responded quickly. “I’ve been asked to leave by sunrise.”
“Asked to leave?” the man repeated, feigning concern and curiosity as he leaned an elbow against the musty table. “By whom, pray tell?”
“The dudes at the arena near the port,” Billy said, then cracking his jaw on a piece of stale bread. He already missed pizza.
“Xarna’s lot?” he asked. “My boy, they’re ruling class dogs. They won’t bother to pursue you. You needn’t worry about them.”
“Xarna’s dead,” he replied curtly. “And I don’t like to break promises.”
The man shook his head and smacked the table. “I can respect that. No matter! I’ve got an out-of-town job in mind anyway. You looking for coin, lad?”
Billy considered his empty satchel and his lack of supplies. He needed to make money somewhere, and there was really only one kind of thing he was good at in this body, as far as he could tell. If this vagrant was about to offer the sort of job he thought he might, then was the young outlander really in a position to refuse? He needed to eat something, after all. He swallowed a piece of crusty bread and crossed his arms, really taking in the sight of the man for the first time. “What d’you got in mind?”
Billy the Barbarian 1: The Heights of Dread: An Isekai Sword and Sorcery Harem Lit Adventure Fantasy! Page 1
