The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals (31 page)

It was late evening before Venir and Melegal sauntered down the cobbled steps leading them to a balcony that surveyed all below. He inhaled the smells of exotic smoke and long-brewed ale. It gave him a welcoming burst of virility. Melegal stood along his side, rubbing his eager hands together, his eyes glinting at the roughshod faces below.

Venir bustled past scornful faces as he made his way to the main floor below. The smell of mead and grog was so strong he could taste it on his watering tongue. Testosterone blinded his manners as he created a path through the crowded bar. The common orcs, often pushy and brash, stayed clear of the man who stood taller and broader than even them. He thought of Mood, thankful of that last sliver of snake meat that melted in his mouth. His aches and pains began to wash away.

Melegal cruised, flanking his side. The thief cooed with the scanty bar girls and dispensed winks, kisses, and nods as he went. A curious kind of music filled the main tavern, mingling with the sounds of laughter, anger, and triumph. Venir rocked his shoulders with the rhythm as he shoved into a spot along a waxy blackened bar.

Unlike the taverns in the City of Bone, the Beaten Boar’s Bum had few fully human occupants. There were plenty of part-humans, but the full-blooded ones stood out like flowers among the thorns. Also absent were the expensive perfumes and beautiful ladies in elaborate silks and colorful make-up. There was nothing to hide in Two-Ten City, and the miscellaneous folks were proud of that. Appearances weren’t as important as coin.

The room was weathered, yet maintained. The tables, chairs and wooden mugs seemed as well-worn and hardy as the heavy planked floors. Torches lit the room on all sides, their orange flames casting shadows onto the mishmash of faces as they laughed, drank, smiled, cursed, and even wept. Despite the plethora of torches it was not hard to find enough privacy to commit a scrupulous act or two. The room was live and engaging. No judgment was to be found here among Bish’s unwanted. It provided a respite for its occupants from the harsh realities they all faced, whether due to shame, ugliness, or their crimes. It was a tavern that didn’t know a stranger even though it was full of them, coming and going just like the light. And tonight, Venir had returned to a scene he had once thrived, but had to leave behind.

Venir felt memories swelling up inside him that he hadn’t anticipated. The room and its ambience made him feel as if he had stepped back in time. He felt like the younger man he had been before he became the Darkslayer. He thought back to other nights like this and about what had happened before he acquired Brool and the rest. In those times he had lived so free, as a soldier, a mercenary, a scout, and even a brigand.

Best of all were the days when he had lived for the hunt, as his reputation as a tracker and killer of underlings and beasts preceded him. He had been vibrant, whispering words in jeweled ears that drove the ladies in the taverns wild. Things had never been the same since. Venir had buried the flickers that longed for those days, but tonight it hit him like a great slap in the face. So much had happened since he last left this place. Two-Ten City may have been the last place he remembered truly having any fun.

He watched Melegal talking up two formidable part-orcen soldiers along the bar, their grim faces turning upward at the words of the thief’s uncanny jokes. A soothing expression crossed his face as he recalled some of his daring, foolish, and even childish adventures with the thief. It seemed as if they had come from nothing, only to have the whole world of Bish at their very feet. But she had changed it all. A woman, an inhuman woman some would say, whose exploits he had heard about in Two-Ten City one sweltering night. It was with more than a mere glance that Jarla had caught his eye. Friendships like his and Melegal’s were put to the test, and changed forever. A familiar voice jostled him away from the unwanted thoughts.

“Hey, Vee, it’s the same band!” Melegal said, nudging him with a knobby elbow.

Twin orc men with large noses were strumming tall bases, one with three strings and one with four; a halfling man banged a tambourine and danced; while a bald and beardless dwarf was playing a lengthy cone-shaped flute. It seemed as if the band had never changed, never left the stage since the day they were last here, many years ago. Venir had snapped up out of his daze. It was time to unwind.

Venir’s booming voice cut through the room like a cymbal, causing heads to turn.

“The Bone if it isn’t!”

Venir was tapping his hands on the bar, trying to catch the eye of the barkeep. It felt like it had been days since he had a drink of anything and his throat felt as dry as sand. The barkeep was at the far end of the bar that ran the full length of the tavern’s floor. Venir could see the barkeep’s big bald head, keeping his back turned on him. The barkeep hadn’t so much as glanced his way.

Parts of the tavern fell silent as the band still played, but the bartender stayed leaned over the bar, continuing his conversation.

Venir shouted, “Hey! Are you deaf? If you don’t give me some drinks I’m gonna come back there and get them myself.”

Venir hopped onto the bar counter. Bewildered folks snatched their drinks and vacated their bar stools. The barkeep stood straight up, head towering above the rest, muscles thick and supple under his apron. As Venir opened his mouth again he saw a small cask of ale hurling across the counter like a missile. Off-balance and unable to dodge it, Venir caught it fully in his chest, and was sent tumbling off the end of the bar with a resounding crash.

The tavern jumped and fell silent, but the band still played. Melegal stood alone at the bar, eyes down on his friend on the floor. People were murmuring and craning their necks, peeking back and forth between the floor and the bartender.

“If I catch it, it’s free!” Venir said with a roar as he bounced up, hoisting the keg over his head, flashing a smile. The crowd stared and shouted out in astonishment.

“You better not have spilled any, you big jerk, or I’d a busted yer tail … Venir!” the big black man said with a broad, white-toothed smile.

The man reached Venir’s end of the bar in a few strides, leapt the bar in a single bound, and snagged the keg of ale.

“What on Bish brings you back to this rat hole?” The big man said, lowering the keg on the bar as another man, frail as a fiddle, tapped it. “I didn’t think you could leave the pretty women of Bone behind!”

The ragged and motley crowd of humanoids, shifted around, as whispers of Venir’s name began to spread between their lips. Venir and Mikkel faced one another, both standing tall and proud, like men among babes. Venir slapped and clasped the bartender’s shoulder.

“By Bish! It’s from my grandfather’s grandfather and it’s older than his tavern, you know that!” Mikkel was clutching his head and squeezed his eyes shut as he said, “Why do you torture me with her memory?”

“Now you’re talking, she was that big when I kicked her out. Now let’s drink the best stuff ever.” Mikkel snatched the barrel off the bar saying, “Nikkel! Get us some mugs and tumblers and a bottle of grog. Today I drink with old friends!”

The three men took a separate table near the bar and each pulled up a chair. The young black boy with blue eyes brought over the grog and mugs. It was clear to Venir who the boy’s father was, although Mikkel wasn’t sporting an afro anymore.

“Anyway, to answer your question, let’s just say some simple skimming turned ugly and we’re trying to avoid any further Royal trouble.”

The slender thief took a solid slug of his second mug of delicious mead. Mikkel nodded, his blue eyes looking upward as he rubbed his silvery chin.

“So we thought we’d lay low awhile until this situation clears,” Venir piped up, scarfing down the pitcher of ale. He was plenty happy in present company, and didn’t feel a bit worried at the moment. The gratifying taste of Mikkel’s mead seemed to shave the past ten years off of his life.

The Broken Boar’s Bum was alive and kicking, and he began to unwind. He ate and drank like a Royal as they all talked far into the morning. Each had a story that marveled the other. But none could tell a story like Venir as one tale after another rolled off his drunken lips. The middling women, swooning at his words, became more tempting by the hour.

It took some time before Venir ran out of words and fell asleep at the table, alongside the rest. The day had passed from dawn and back and into the dusk before he stirred. After a belly full of steak, eggs, red potatoes and biscuits, Venir’s tongue was back up to speed. Stoking more stories with mead and grog, Venir continued to have one of the best times he had in years. It was good to be alive for a change. However, peaceful moments on Bish never lasted long.

There were many kinds of silence on Bish. There were silent nights, silent shadows, silent terrors, silent murders, and silent suffering. But this silence, the silence that fell now, was perhaps the most unnerving and unpleasant of them all. The band, the band of the Broken Boar’s Bum had fallen silent. The rest of the occupants gawped as if a spreading doom had crept upon the tavern. All were quiet, wide-eyed, and unmoving, as a menacing bulk overshadowed the room. All living creatures in the tavern were transfixed, hairs standing on end, except for one. Venir carried on as ever, finishing off another pitcher of mead.

He was sharing a compelling misadventure to the boy, Nikkel, whose head had turned away. He continued his rambling as loud and offensive as ever. Seldom was such talk even noticed in a place such as this. But when all went quiet his audience became as stiff as a wrought iron. Something about this voice seemed out of line, inappropriate. He hardly noticed his friend’s words.

He looked up and saw one of the biggest humanoids he had even seen. Much broader and far taller than himself, a rare half-ogre man loomed over him, arms crossed over a hairy, muscled chest. It was peering down at Venir through what appeared to be only one good eye. The ogre had thick black and brown hair, brown eyes and some canine teeth. There was little facial hair, and his arms and legs were covered with coarse black hair. This one in particular stood nearly seven feet tall, and must have weighed well over four hundred pounds. He seemed older than Venir.

“Ah … it’s Farc,” Venir slurred, peering up through one eye, trying to keep things from looking twice as bad. “I gather you haven’t taken a bath since I last saw you. You smell like crap!”

Farc sounded like ten voices in one.

“Venir—close mouth! Listen while Farc talk,” the glowering half-ogre said. “Farc not forget you smashing eye! Farc pay you back! Farc pay you now!”

Gasps filled the room, and those who had actually been around at the time the two had clashed before scattered to spread the news.

Venir slouched back in his chair and said, “And how do you plan to do that?” he said in a rising voice. “I crippled your career, Farc. And even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to fight me again, ’cause then your other eye will be useless, too!”