The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals (10 page)

Reaching the bottom of the ravine Billip disengaged the creature. His arm felt like lead and his shoulder burned. He sucked in a deep breath. Exhaustion and frustration beset him as the emerald-eyed underling raised its shield triumph. A shadow raised behind the unsuspecting creature, drawing a grin on his face. A studded club smashed down on its skull, erasing its wicked grin, shattering all of its teeth. It fell over dead in a pile of its own ooze.

Mikkel was almost laughing as he wiped the gore on the grass.

“It’s about time you started fighting like a man, Billip! I didn’t even know you had a sword, let alone use it.”

Billip struggled to spit out his words but said, “They’re everywhere, and regrouping for another attack. We have to get away. Where’s Vee?”

The big man shrugged. Billip could make out the bloody bandage on the man’s leg. Their bleeding would hobble them in a further fight.

Billip trudged up the bank as fast as he could, pulling Mikkel over the slippery spots. He could hear more chittering nearby. Wherever Venir was, he was on his own now. He wouldn’t wait around like a crippled calf to see when he might return. He recovered his bow as they reached a small outcropping of mossy boulders, where they hid.

He could see the walls of web billowing at their backs. He turned cold.
Nasty.
This spot would have to do. But it gave better cover, so for the moment they were safe. He checked his wound. A nasty sliver of meat was taken off of his right shoulder. His leather armor saved it.

Maybe armor isn’t so bad.

His jerkin sleeve was soaked to the cuff. Both men patched each other’s wounds, staunching the bleeding the best that they could. Billip’s heart thundered in his temples as he listened for the next wave of comers. As the howl of distant battle reached his ears he wondered if they would see Venir or anyone else ever again.

Venir had forgotten the wounded man he left behind. He was hunting now, and his comrades weren’t his concern, his enemies were. Gripping the oak shaft with white knuckles, he felt invincible. The helmet heightened his awareness. He had questions, why hadn’t they seen him, but that could wait. He moved on with caution, over the creek and through the dense foliage.

He wasn’t alone: Chongo had found his side. The pair had tracked underlings together for years, and now they both had heightened senses to serve them. The dog stopped, ears perked up. He hunched down. He saw the silhouettes of underlings coming up the mouth of the ravine.
Keep coming vermin!

Bloodlust stirred inside him and his compulsion to kill them was overwhelming. He could smell their oily stench, almost burning in his nostrils. His hatred of these foul creatures that had destroyed his life so many years ago began to boil over. The helmet amplified his senses as the eyelets burned blacker than the night sky. He no longer cared what happened to him, only what happened to them.

Destroy them!

Thought and magic intertwined into a focal point and down the ravine he bounded. Rushing their flank never occurred to him, not even an ambush as he did the others. He padded over the wet stones and braced himself along their path.

He counted six underling warriors moving up the gorge. Some of them crept in a staggered column, while the others covered the ravine banks to the left and right. Their faint multi-colored eyes glinted as their heads moved, left and right. He heard their low chittering commands escaping their narrow lips.

In place of physical battle prowess, underlings preferred to trap and outnumber their opponents. Their magic, combined with their cunning and callousness, made them a formidable force and difficult to kill. Their warriors were as big as an average human woman, bigger and stronger than ordinary underlings. Their bodies were hard from decades of battle that gave them strength that belied their smaller size.

Several footfalls away the foremost underling stopped and gave signal. Venir watched them turn still and almost disappear. He could see them clutching their curved blades, waiting to pounce. Like a four-legged ghost Chongo padded down the path. He followed, like a wraith, watching their gleaming eyes focused on the lone dog. Could they really not see him?

The underling in the front, donned in chainmail, hissed at the growling dog.
It’s not even looking my way,
Venir thought. His body was bursting, the axe white hot in his grip. He let out a blood curdling yell.

“
RRRAH!
”

Venir sheared the bewildered underlings head from its shoulders. The others stared in astonishment as he appeared from the darkness and descended on them like an angry Minotaur. His appetite for blood was not satisfied as he pressed his attack even deeper into the brood like a steel tornado. Yelling like berserker and chopping like a lumberjack, he came down on the next two underlings, hacking their small shields into splinters and mutilating them with splattering swings.

As they rushed in, his anger rose. Hurling his shield, he caught one in the ankle. A serious of cuts and stabs drew his blood before he battled them away. The iron shod of his great axe shattered an underling’s chin, and another fared still worse as he jabbed the long axe tip into its throat. He tore out the spike, ripping its neck open.

He was ready for an entire hoard, his mind one step ahead and his body responding in kind. He watched in slow motion as another underling charged towards him, a curved sword in each hand. He leapt right over the bewildered creature, swinging his axe deep into its gaping maw, splitting its face before he descended to the ground. The blood from his gory axe dripped on the ground as he waited for more attackers.
Where are they?
He could feel them.

He gathered his shield as he watched one scurrying away. He cursed as he scanned the area. Somewhere nearby he heard his dogs yelp. He rushed to its aid, finding the shaggy brown pooch ensnared by forest vegetation.
Underling magic!
He had encountered it before.

He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. He approached his dog, snagging his boot on the ground, tripping him. He watched smaller roots and grasses reaching upwards like tentacles, encircling his legs like serpents.

“Bone!” he yelled, tearing at them and twisting vain. The foul foliage had engulfed the dog’s entirety, leaving only a trace of muffled whimpers. His skinned crawled as he felt an evil presence bearing down on him.

Two dark-robed underlings, armed with small double-shot crossbows, descended towards him from the ravine bank as if on air. He jerked his shield up as the closest one fired at his chest. The bolt ricocheted away, drawing an angry hiss. He heard murmuring echoing somewhere in his helm. Above him he noticed long fingertips pointed his way, glowing red. He had to free himself.

He sliced at the roots with the edge of his axe. To his surprise, the vines recoiled and began to wither at the blades touch.

“Chongo!”

The other suspended magi fired another bolt into the foliage where the dog was engulfed. His dog yelped and fell silent. Venir lost control, charging the airborne assailant and was blasted by a volley of burning red missiles, boring into his flesh. He cried out in agony as the air filled with the stench of his singed skin. The pain served as a catalyst to his rage, he kept going, climbing up the bank, jumping up and catching the cloak of the floating figure. He pulled it to the ground. It chittered, trying to crawl away. Its strength was no match as he crushed his weight into it, bringing a groan.

Pinning the little figure down by the arms, he smashed his helmeted forehead several times into its gnashing face. Its evil, twisted face burst open like a rotten pumpkin as it died. He fumbled for his axe and turned back towards his dog.

The remaining underling uttered something. The air seemed to be sucked away in the gap. Shockwaves blew through the trees, bending the saplings, slamming into his body and down his spine as if he were being pummeled by a hundred hammers. He fell to his knees, face dripping blood, unaware of his surroundings, lost. The pain was something he never recalled. His hands and feet were numb, burning, cold and limp.

Somehow he got up, stumbling towards his pet, falling just close enough to reach the snare with his axes spike. He could see the bonding began to disintegrate as the dog laid prone, panting and bleeding.

Bringing himself on one knee, he found himself between the dog and the lone underling magi, now hovering twenty paces away. He saw its mouth moving, thick black hair covering its head like a shroud. Raising his powerful arms, Venir slung his axe over his head with a scream. Straight as a spear it sailed, the tip crunching deep into its chest, driving its floating body to the ground. He staggered over to its crumpled body. The spike was wedged deep in its black heart, gemstone green eyes staring blank at the sky.

He spat the blood from his mouth, wrenched out the axe, and checked for more enemies. Gathering at Chongo’s side he pulled out the wooden bolt from its hindquarters. He tasted the tip and spit.
No poison.
He couldn’t feel his legs as he lifted the dog in his arms and got a lick in the face as he backtracked up the ravine. The forest was quiet, but he still knew underlings were everywhere. His battered body forged ahead.

Trapped behind a massive rock on the steep hillside, Billip felt his neck hairs prickle. He could see the sweat dripping off of Mikkel’s body like rain drops as water trickled down the bank. The forest was quiet other than occasional sounds of the skirmish deep in the ravine. His shoulder ached as he craned his neck, but his comrades ragged breathe hindered his ability to detect approaching assailants.
They could be anywhere
.

He had fought underlings over the years, and knew their tactics well, but it did little to quell his terror. Unlike Venir, whose hatred for underlings blazed as pure as the suns, his was still like all other men on Bish. Billip’s hatred for cave dwellers was at times surpassed by his fear of them.

Glancing at Mikkel, he managed to make out the whites of his eyes. The big man was nodding his head. Billip kept his arrow knocked, bowstring straight, resting his shoulder, while his friend clutched his club.

Several feet above the forest floor, two cloaked underlings floated undetected in and out among the trees, their clutching hands motioning in the air with intricate patterns. A soft blue glow wavered in their palms.

Where are they?

Billip scanned what he could, oblivious to the figures in the trees. He was certain if he could not see them, they could not see him. Not far from his hiding spot, his ears didn’t detect the faint whisper of an underling chanting through its thin black lips. His instincts told him something was going on; he just did not know what.

The low hum of tiny wings caught his ear and he crouched down as the sound grew. A plague of mosquitoes had found its way among the rocks where they hid. The whining of their buzzing wings increased inside his ears. It seemed as if every mosquito in the ravine began swarming around the men.

What is going on!?

The mindless insects consumed the men in a frenzied search for human blood. He could see them, tiny and large, gathered all over Mikkel’s body, who brushed at them in frantic alarm. He could feel them sink their needles in him a hundred times and drink his blood. It had to be magic, his mind reasoned. He choked down the urge to run. He knew they were being flushed out.
Don’t panic.

Tiny welts appeared on his corded forearms as the insects tapped into his veins. Mikkel was covered from head to toe, tormented by the little fiends. Billip tried not to flinch, but his will was tested beyond the limit. He could see Mikkel biting his lip and covering his nose. It was time to act. He mouthed the words to Mikkel.

Run. Flush them out. Find cover. I’ve got one shot. Go.

The tortured man turned, facing down the bank. Billip got his bow ready as the large man charged out from behind the rock and down the ravine like a maddened bull. With his eyelids swollen he caught a flash of light blasting into his powerful friend who fell down in a scream.

There in the trees.

Down below, he could see the brawler’s silhouette engulfed in a mysterious blue flame, drawing forth a sound of searing skin. Mikkel fell to the forest floor, screaming before rolling out of sight.

He wondered which fate was worse, the bugs or the fire. Only Mikkel would know now, but he thought he’d prefer the fire. A smell of charred insect bodies and smoldering hair drifted in his nose. He feared his friend might be finished. Billip heard a throaty laughter below. Mikkel appeared, rising to his feet, only to fall backward as a small crossbow bolt struck his belly. He lay in a singed, motionless heap, Skull Basher still in his hand. Billip couldn’t believe it. He scanned the trees, he couldn’t let his friend couldn’t die for nothing.

He replaced the arrow he had knocked, drawing another from his quiver. It was unique with blood-red feathers, a blue-black shaft and a ruby-like arrowhead. The old warrior who had given him the bow assured him he would know when to use it.
That must be now.
He knocked the arrow with his mosquito covered hands. He took aim in the trees, scanning back and forth. The arrow tip twinkled as he did so.

He maintained his poise searching for any sign. Nothing showed of their concealed assailants. His eyes moved with the arrow, left, right, up and down, but the whining flurry of insects piercing his arms, neck, face, and eyelids was distracting him. As he swept up and across the ruby arrow tip flashed.

He swept it down.

Nothing.