The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals (15 page)

The pair of royal men both towered over the guards and looked to be father and son. He knew one of them well enough and his nose ached at the sight. Their rich clothing bore the insignia’s of upper-class Royals and their appearance in the dungeon seemed misplaced. He shifted in his shackles, head down and eyes up.

“You’ve been brought in for assault of a Royal and theft,” the warden continued, “and threatening a city guard. What do you say to that scum?”

It was preposterous now. One lie would come after the next. It was their kind’s way.
I should have killed him.
He knew it was best to remain silent, but silence was not his forte’.

A sharp backhand slapped into the Tonio’s frothing face. Venir laughed out loud. Silenced and dejected, Tonio looked away, holding his lip. Venir stuck out his tongue, making a funny
“phlllyt
” sound, though it pained him to do so. He might lose his tongue for it, but he couldn’t resist.
You
g
otta keep a sense of humor, even on the worst days.

Tonio stormed from the room, wailing obscenities.

As the young Royal was out of shouting distance the father spoke. The city guards kept their eyes downcast like fearful children about to be stricken. Whoever the man was, he had great command of his subjects. An uneasy feeling crept over Venir. He realized he had crossed the wrong people. His vacation in the City of Bone was over.

“What a waste of a man. I could have used a brute like you. If you were one of us you might not be left in the rot. See to it he doesn’t regain his strength. I like seeing them die at their worst, not their best.”

The Royal father turned and walked away, leaving Venir with a sinking feeling.

“Unless you’re lucky enough to die within a week,” the warden told him, “you’ll be calling this dungeon home for most of your life. You won’t get a trial, you’ll just have your decrepit body hanged or quartered. I‘d like to see a big fellow like you pulled apart. Now that’d be something I’d pay for. You messed with the wrong people. They’ve got the money and power to make you pay. You should know that.”

The guards left him hanging alone in his cell crushed by his thoughts.
War games
. It was something he avoided over the years, now he was caught in the middle. He knew he was a pawn, no more or less, to die at their whim.

He had taken his own games too far. The Outlands were dangerous abroad, a face to face element, but the belly of Bone was just as bad. Now he was there, the same place he crawled out of years ago. He had been charged with lesser charges before; intoxication, damage to public property, provocative speeches, or skimming, but not by a Royal. His shenanigan’s roused little fervor and cost no more than a few days in a dingy hole. Now someone had it in for him, and his future in the City of Bone was uncertain, if not all of Bish.

The Royals were the elite rulers of the city and lesser men had no rights over them. If a Royal accused you, you were guilty. You were either indebted with impossible fines, killed, or spent years—decades, even—in the dungeons to rot. Many opted for suicide, which sometimes passed the burden onto any family to finish suffering their fate. The best way to thrive in Bone was by steering clear of the Royals or doing as they said. It was slavery without saying so.

As bad as that seemed, it was easy to avoid such troubles, because the Royals were a fragment of the wretched population. One could lay low on a frivolous encounter as the twisting city offered many places to hide. The common faces were easy to forget.

In addition, the City Watch was incapable of enforcing all the ludicrous accusations of the Royals. There was too much crime and not enough manpower. The City Watch and Royals had enemies that didn’t like them either, and did not fear to strike back. Several areas were not even patrolled, and these were the areas Venir would frequent. He was safe in the dark local areas, and he knew that the guards there only pursued criminals after a major offense. And anyway, major crimes were more lucrative for the city guards. His petty ones were not.

So why was he captured, shackled and left to perish in the rot? After some hard thinking and remembering his encounter with Tonio several days ago, it dawned on him. The Royal warrior’s ego was bigger than his own.
All of this over a fair bet.
There was no honor in it, but Royals only had honor among their own.

As he hung in the gloom his own faults became clear. He ignored his friend’s warnings and didn’t play by their own rules. Booze and ego intertwined into a bad mixer of his poor judgment and lust. Ah, but that fire-topped red head was worth the shot. Still, his actions were a no-no in their business. A rich, smart, and vengeful man could just pay a spotter to alert him when a foe was around. No more than an urchin or decrepit geezer seeking a goblet of wine would track a man for a mile around.

He should have known this little warrior would have it in for him, but even he was cocky and stupid. Unlike most people in the City of Bone, he never felt in danger there. Not since he was a boy. He was too weathered by his ventures in the Outlands, a hardened soldier, and he had seen horrors the common people had never heard of. Besides, dark grog can make a red-blooded man feel invincible, and in his case, it worked most of the time. Only one thing made him feel mightier.
Brool …
his war-axe
.

So here he was in a dank gray cell, hanging in chains, feeling hungry, foolish, and hung-over. A slow hour had passed before he heard a scratchy voice reveal itself from a pile of rags adjacent to his cell.

“Hey … Vee. What’s up?”

It was Melegal, huddled in a heap of cloth that began to take shape. He was not surprised, but glad to see the man. He had long gotten over his amazement of the rogue’s way of appearing out of nowhere.

“Nothing, just hanging,” he replied in a sour voice.

Melegal explained that as soon as he’d found out he was in the dungeon, he had himself arrested for calling a City Watchman a “big, ugly, cow-loving orc-face”. Now, the rogue had already escaped his first cell and managed to sneak into the dungeon he now occupied. Melegal wanted to make sure he got out of jail; he needed him around for protection and profits. This was the surviving nature of their relationship, and it worked well for both men.

The thief had been raised from birth in the City of Bone and knew its history well. Venir had met with him in one of many orphanages he wound up in not long after his family was slaughtered. Venir hit it off with Melegal, though most did not. The orphanage offered the adventuresome boys few comforts or choices. Their days were filled with hard labor performed beneath the castles of the great city. Months would sometimes pass before he ever caught a glimpse of sunlight.

Many hopeless and pain-filled years passed for him, but Melegal always hung by his side. Days went by without food and he watched many others die without hope. Others disappeared. Out of all the children he had come to know, Melegal would have been the last he picked to survive. He did what he could, and the scrawny crumb snatcher did the same for him. He and the thief grew bold enough to escape and live on their own in the City of Bone. Once they found freedom, they never looked back. The past was best forgotten.

The pair managed just fine despite their young age. But, over time Melegal branched out to test his own skills, while he, who had been born in the Outlands, was drawn to the barren lands where he felt best. It wasn’t long after the takeover of Outpost Thirty-One that Melegal had come back to settle again in Bone. Venir spent his time in many lands and cities, but much of the time he came back to Bone. This had been going on for the past five years.

He looked across at Melegal, thinking how funny it was that this gaunt man always looked the same. The thief’s face was neither welcoming nor threatening. His steel gray eyes drew a savory woman now and then. The man had a smile, but hid that for the fairer sex. His half-shaven face, salt and pepper hair and dimpled chin gave the man an older appearance. As far as he knew they were about the same age, but neither knew how old that was. The rogue was still wearing loose fitting drab clothes and had on an odd black cloth hat. It hung like a wet leaf down the right side of his head. Why it was so special to his friend, he did not know.

Their friendship was sparked in the orphanage, the day some bullies snatched a similar hat from Melegal. He whipped the bullies that same day and took back the hat. He did not know why he did it, but he was beaten for it. Good deeds were punished. The raw-boned boy was at his side ever since.

Men always hated Melegal’s hat, but women of late, for some reason, loved to play and comment on it. He never understood the importance of the hat, but found it funny when his friend explained that it made him look ‘distinguished’.

Melegal could pick locks, pockets, and traps with ease. He could squeeze like a contortionist into crevices and through bars. He was unnoticeable by day and invisible in the dark, and he just loved to steal and skim. The man was born to it. He was born to blow it all too. They shared the same passion for grog, ale, and women and neither had anything to show for it. It almost bothered him.

“So, do you want me to get you out of this one,” asked Melegal, unlocking his cell and walking in, “… shall I sneak you out again? Maybe I’ll unchain you ... stupid.”

“Just get me some food and drink, Melegal.”

“Oh no,” the thief added, wagging his finger. “They clearly stated you’re not to eat for two days. Sorry, but rules are rules here in the palisades.”

Not this again.
He knew the thief was mad at him for his blunder, because it would cost them business while he wasn’t on the streets. He was Melegal’s bodyguard, so to speak. In turn, the thief felt he had to come to jail to protect him and
maybe
help him escape.

The thief was cleaning his nails with a thin blade while leaning against the wall. He knew his friend wanted him to admit his mistake. Melegal always played these games, but had never got him to acknowledge any mistake. And the thief was always too impatient to pass on the next business transaction. The man wanted to regain his lost profits. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them the man had disappeared. He grunted and closed his eyes again. He heard nothing.
Where was he?

The minutes seemed like hours. A sound of footfalls caught his slumbering ears. He cracked his eyes open, expecting to see his friend. Instead, two familiar guards entered, one carrying a whip in a coarse hand.

The dungeon warden looked at him with big, cruel, fish eyes. The chubby recruit fidgeted with his neck collar, eye’s wide like a child at the first day of school.

The recruit gave a nod, sticking his chest out a bit further, looking over the warden’s shoulder. It was a bonding moment between student and teacher. Venir almost laughed, but his head hurt too much.

The two guards unlocked, unchained, and half-dragged him to a blood stained block in the back of the little dungeon. His limbs were stiff and aching, his head still full of bad medicine. They clamped his wrists with metal cuffs and attached them to a pair of hanging chains. Each chain was thick, two feet long and attached to a thick steel ring mounted on the ceiling ten feet above.

“Spread yer legs!” said the torturer in his ear.

The man’s foul breath reeked of tobacco juice and decaying teeth. The warden kicked his legs into a wide straddle, while the recruit shackled them to similar rings on the floor. His predicament was getting worse and the cavalry didn’t seem to be coming his way.
Where is that thief?