The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals (17 page)

Side by side before a thick pool of blood, two robed figures contemplated a recent project. One rubbed his hands together as the other nodded his head. Unlike common underling soldiers, each radiated great mystic power. The pair wore dark robes laced and inlaid with intricate patterns that gave off a faint silver glow.

Only their hands and heads protruded as they floated above the damp cave floor. Their thick black hair was short and wiry above the ears. Like all underlings, their physical frames were humanoid and lither than their hated human rivals. Their ashen skin was covered with a fine, silky fur like that of rats. Their hands ended in long, thick black nails filed into points. Only their eyes and faces distinguished one underling from another. Their eyes could be any color on Bish, and their heads could be round or thin, large or small. But they all had an evil countenance and gray teeth.

“What a work of art!”

His silver eyes were narrow as he surveyed dozens of deep lacerations and scalpel-like wounds on three humans shackled to the wet cavern wall.

“Master Sinway will like this one.”

“It’s one of our best yet, Verbard,” the taller of the two agreed, his golden eyes sparkling while gazing at the humans.

The men hung limp, but the underlight revealed their expanding chests. The unfortunate prisoner’s figures were misshapen, bloodied and mangled. Their bodies were somehow sustained beyond death, twisted and torn on the whimsy of the underlings.

Lord Verbard held out his index finger and with a quick hiss his finger ignited into a red hot glow. The underling ran its nail over the fresh blood on the leg of the middle human. The man’s hairs began to curl away and stink. The underling jabbed his burning finger nail into the man’s flesh, ripping a deep laceration on the thigh.

The man’s howl was muffled, his lips partly sewn shut. The underling cackled, boring further and hitting the bone. The helpless man’s sewn lips were trickling more blood as he writhed in pain.

Catten’s gold eyes were molten with anger. All five of his nails glowed red hot as he tore out the flesh of the man’s thigh in a single stroke. Blood poured from the gaping hole in the man’s leg, dripping into a pool on the ground. The man squirmed and shook as the underlings’ hot hand cauterized the wound closed. The scent of burnt flesh and hair brought small grin to the underlings face. The man’s head slumped into his chest.

“Are you going to sleep on me? Verbard, we cannot allow him to sleep again. It’s the ninth time today. I will not be treated like this by my guests.”

Venir awoke to the sound of pounding rain. He was in the little apartment he shared with Melegal during his stays in the City of Bone. On the top floor of a dingy four-storey apartment building, it was adequate for the two full-grown men to live in comfort within the miserable city. The candles mounted on the walls were unlit, but a lantern glowed, and there was a hint of light at the small window where the rain splattered the glass pane. Another empty cot was by his side, a satin pillow was fluffed and the blankets folded in perfect squares. A woodstove was burning as the smell of fresh coffee filled his nostrils. A metal carafe of Melegal’s best was percolating on the stove.

He yawned as he watched his roommate’s rigorous routine of calisthenics taking place on the floor. The thief was in a hand stand, doing push-ups.

Venir got up and went to the water basin beside the woodstove and rinsed his face. He sucked in some water from a pitcher, washing out his cottonmouth, and spit into a large metal pipe between the woodstove and the basin. The indoor waste shoot was the reason they had chosen the top apartment. That way they would not have to listen to any other occupants spit, wash, and urinate from the spouts above, down into the nasty sewers below.

Indoor plumbing was one of the marvels of the City of Bone, rumored to be the only city with such advancements. In truth, this ancient city was almost the only one with buildings over three stories high. The humans that claimed they built the City of Bone often bragged of being the most advanced race on the world of Bish. They enjoyed their comforts. But, over the centuries, even they had forgotten most of what they had done, or who had done it and why. For the City of Bone had been tore down more than once in its long life and rebuilt, only to be rebuilt on the bones of its dead. That was how it had acquired its current name. And, chances are, it would fall again.

He stretched alongside his roommate and began duplicating the routine calisthenics. It was an agonizing thirty minutes, but he wasn’t about to let the thief do things he couldn’t. He just sweated like a pig, while the thief’s forehead was dry as a bone. Melegal hopped up and poured some coffee. He stayed on the floor, struggling to put his legs behind his head. He grunted and pulled. He used to do it all the time years ago. He got it.

Melegal stirred his coffee while watching him with fascination. Venir’s massive muscles bulged with every movement. Thick cords of sinew twisted like hammered iron. He took a deep breath and stood like a statue for a full minute with every muscle in his body flexed. He looked like a great oak whose roots and branches were about to burst free. The strange move helped him relax.

“Mmmm … it’s that time again it seems. Besides, after that last run-in, I’d better be going. Are you gonna come this time, or chicken out again?”

He managed a smile, but the truth was he felt cooped up. He couldn’t tear his mind from the underlings. The things they did to people. The shredded faces haunting his thoughts and dreams. The longer he stayed inside, the more people died.

Melegal frowned.

“After all that money we just made, would I rush off and risk dying again? You get me into one life-threatening mess after another. It’s insane! You’re insane. I like the easy life inside the walls.”

“Ah, bullslat. You get bored outta your mind when I’m gone. You just sit in here and widdle away. You like it on the edge with me. And I always keep you safe, you know that.”

“Vee, every time you leave, you comeback with less. Sometimes you act uncivilized, out of control. Maybe if you stayed longer you could unwind. You are tighter than a bowstring these days.”

The words stung, but he knew his friend was right. He had to drink himself into a slumber when he was home. His nerves fired at every odd noise and his mind was in a constant race for battle. The women, sex, and alcohol, as enjoyable as they may be, were just distractions.
Fleeting and foolish
. He had a problem that he couldn’t control, unless he was out there.

He got up and pulled the large, worn leather sack from underneath his cot. He tossed it to the bed with a
clank
. He had a flickering memory of Jarla, her beautiful scowling face from years ago. He hunted her, but never found her, as the underlings got in the way.

“Pulling out the artillery,” the thief said in a dour tone. “So you are getting ready to go.”

Melegal was all eyes as he reached inside it and pulled out the shield. It was a simple design, a grid of worn iron bands welded over a body of dark gray metal unknown anywhere in Bish. He had no idea what metal it was. The shield appeared grim and heavy, but he flipped it around with ease. It fit his powerful frame like a glove. He had stopped countless life threatening blades and arrows with it, but it didn’t have a single notch.

Then he pulled out a colossal battle axe and whispered in a loving tone.

“
Brool
.”

Melegal grimaced.

“You would have a name for the nasty thing.”

“All good friends have names!” he said, swinging the axe like a toy. The feel of the weathered shaft felt like an extension to his hands. Its warmth filled him with vitality. He couldn’t help but grin.

Brool was a four-foot long, double-bladed battle axe, with an iron-shod dark oak handle. A serrated spike at the top made the weapon almost five feet in length. It was long enough to impale a man. The blades shimmered like the shield as he began whirling it around his body like black lightning. The tip and edges were just a hair from destroying the interior of the room.

Melegal followed the fluid movements with a silent shudder.

Brool was an odd design for a weapon; bigger than a battle axe, yet smaller than a great war axe. It looked unwieldy, awkward and heavy. He liked to call it a hand-and-a-half axe. There was no other like it on all the world of Bish. He fought one-handed with it, a feat in itself, but he could deal out even more damage two-handed. It was a terrible thing to face Brool in his hands.

“So, why have you decided to head out this time? Is there another brood of orcen princesses you’re trying to rescue?”

“Hah,” he said, chopping in the air, “… there’s word of some trouble in the southern provinces that’s moving north. They’re getting aggressive out there. The Royal soldiers have their hands full watching Outpost Thirty-One. I can make good coin on underling heads, assuming they pay before they perish this time. The caravan officials say the carnage along the trails is increasing.” Venir was sweating now as he put down his weapon, and fetched the final object out of the bag.

“
Helm
.”

He placed the burnished gray helmet over his great skull, buckling the leather chinstrap. The helmet was banded with iron like the shield, with another sinister spike on top like Brool’s, only smaller. It covered everything above the nose, including the eyelets.

He was a menacing sight and eeriness settled over the small apartment. Here was the figure that the outlanders—the farmers and villagers—all hailed as the Darkslayer.

“They’re always causing trouble, little monsters,” he retorted. “I hate ’em. The smaller farms seem to be suffering, and the villagers don’t stand a chance. There’s lots of people showing up dead or disappearing. It’s a shame. The Royals could care less about the people that feed them.”

He kissed Brool on the blade and began shoving the armaments back into the sack. The thought of leaving the city put a spring in his step. He needed something he could sink his blade into. He felt like a caged animal inside of Bone’s mighty walls. He used to enjoy it here, but he had changed. His purpose was out there now, so he thought.