The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals (35 page)

Eep began leading the small, miserable party south, playing question-and-answer with Oran and McKnight, while Tonio strode slack jawed at the rear. McKnight found the conversation with the imp as intimidating as fascinating.

“Two humans and a donkey, you say, entered Two-Ten City?” repeated McKnight. “Did this donkey seem capable of killing Tonio? Was it a rare, killer donkey, perhaps, distinguishable from a normal donkey?” He couldn’t help himself as his indifference for the spoiled Royal seemed to grow with every step.

Eep eked out a few more details. It left McKnight with little to go on, except that the people they sought
might
be in Two-Ten City. Hundreds of other humanoids traveled in and out of that city each day. He was not confident that they could find the right people, and time was pressing—he wanted this over with.

“All of that imp blather and that is all you have. Eep thinks he saw them enter Two-Ten City. Certainly the powerful underlings rely on better resources that this.”

Of course, a visit to the city wouldn’t be too bad about now. Afterall, they made the best mead in all of Bish.

Oran’s glassy black eyes twinkled in the moonlight.

“I shall send Eep ahead to find who he is talking about. I have a spell that allows us all to see what he sees. This will have to do. It would have helped if Tonio could have given a better description than just,
Vee-man
. Go, Eep!”

In a violent buzz, the imp blinked out of sight. McKnight’s spine tingled.
I should have been a magi.

“Now, McKnight, I need your word that you will not interfere with my spell casting.”

“My word, underling. Anything to get this over with.”

Oran stepped away and he closed his eyes. McKnight felt the air thicken as the underling muttered an incantation under his breath. Several minutes passed, and then his spell began to take form. Colors began to explode before his eyes, sparkling, fading, swirling, and popping in and out like the crackling of hot embers in a fireplace. McKnight was enthralled; he would be much more mindful of Oran’s abilities from now on.

Then the collage of colors began to take on a shape in the air before him, forming an oval boundary enclosing a black space. A blurry picture formed from what seemed to be inside of the imp’s single eye. Then the barrier of the eye vanished, and in its place, everything the imp could see, they could see. He heard Tonio mumble, “Wuh.”

McKnight was high above trees and hills, then streaking towards the ground below. He was hovering above a city where he could see the people coming and going. Then, through the city he zipped, viewing sight after sight in an instant.

Flashing before his eyes were humanoids of all kinds doing all sorts of things—much of which seemed indecent or inhumane. In just a few moments he had toured most of the city. A lump formed in his throat. Now his gaze passed straight through beasts and buildings, and after many moments the images began to slow and settle. McKnight felt a wave of nausea. The image settled inside an old tavern that appeared deserted, except for a band of misfits playing music.

McKnight was looking down a stairwell and into a corridor that opened into a wide arena. He knew this place.
The Pit.
All types of humanoids were gathered and whooping it up. It was odd to watch such a thriving sight and not hear a sound.
Is this how the deaf feel?. Pity.
McKnight tried to read the lips of those he saw.
Farc?
The people were chanting, but not one face rang a bell. Then his blood turned cold. He recognized Melegal.
What’s that little rat doing here? It looks like he’s having a bad time. Must be losing money. Good.

“Nice try, Oran,” McKnight said in a disgruntled voice as the spell began fade and the image paled.

The fading picture went toward the inside of an iron cage. A large, hairy ogre had an overgrown man locked up, forcing his neck down. A big V-shaped tattoo was visible on the man’s back.

“Vee-man!” screamed Tonio, diving straight through the image and into a tree with a tremendous
thud.

The spell fizzled out with a flash. Oran let out a heavy sigh.

“Like I was saying, Oran, nice job!” McKnight said as he began to chuckle. “Bone of a good job! I think we’ve found who we’re looking for. And it would appear that this Vee-man is practically dead already.”

With relief, McKnight could see his mission nearing its end. But there was another thing.
Melegal! Why isn’t that worm dead?

It was not the choking hold of Son of Farc that was to be Venir’s final memory. It was the blackness, the sinking into unconscious in his last gasping moments of desperation. Venir’s colleagues, Mikkel, Nikkel, and Melegal, all cried out in horror. He felt his rigid body start to turn slack. An odd silence began to settle on the battle arena as the excitement in the air changed from a blasphemous hostility to a collective shiver. All awaited for the sound of the Son of Farc snapping Venir’s neck. Everyone’s faces began fading to black and the roaring sounds were muted.

Son of Farc yelled in his ear. The ogre was straining, bending the iron muscles in thick neck. If Venir was still fighting, he didn’t know what with. He was oblivious to the crowd that was holding their breath. Something was stirring deep inside him. A black suffocating hole opened up in his mind. Sounds of chittering underlings filled his ears. Evil. Mocking. Laughing.

His life was rushing past his eyes, the moments of promise destroyed by the masses of underlings. They killed family, friends, innocent men and beasts. He recoiled. Images of Chongo, fish, Georgio, and silver flashed in his mind, and a volcano began to rise inside him.

Son of Farc now wrapped his mighty arms around his head. The ogre was preparing to apply his final spine-shattering twist to Venir’s neck. The breathless crowd was wild-eyed. The Royals of Two-Ten were on their feet. At any second that resounding crack of thunder would come. Had they just not heard it? They peered deeper into the caged arena, lips pursed, knees bent and arms half raised. And then the crowd saw it, as Venir’s body flexed and stiffened. He growled in rage as his white eyes snapped open. The crowd went into an uncontrollable frenzy.

Venir’s work on Bish wasn’t finished.

NO!

He remembered the most hated and despised moment in his violent life; the day that the innocent boy was supposed to die in a ditch; and the rage that had come upon him. And now that rage, an unforeseen creation of the underlings was triggered along with something else. A spark ignited inside him, his blood coursed through his veins like liquid lightning. From the inside out, he grew.

Venir lurched up, his bloodshot eyes rolling up in his head, his face turning purple. As the crowd looked on, fear and excitement surged through every one of them. Venir fought himself into a sitting position. Son of Farc had his hairy forearm cranked up around his neck.

“NO!” Venir spat.

He began to shake in unfettered fury, his rage and bloodlust blocking all rational action. Only his instinct to survive was thinking and that kind of thought meant destroying whatever he saw. Glancing elbows began hammering into the half-ogre’s ribs. Son of Farc’s grip began to slip. Bellowing in objection the ogre kept trying to squeeze the life out of him. The pressure was unrelenting, but Venir wouldn’t give way. He felt the ogre’s wind beginning to wane. The Darkslayer sensed it.

The name rang out as the crowd throughout the arena began to turn on their own champion. The human hater’s faces turned to outrage at the impossible turn of events.

He was on his knees now, struggling back to his feet. Son of Farc was draped over his back, dead weight trying to force him to the ground. Venir continued his rise; leg’s shaking from the effort. Every muscle on Son of Farc was straining as Venir’s corded muscles knotted all over his body. Son of Farc shouted in defiance, but Venir surged on.

Venir’s legs sprung upward. He charged toward the stone wall of the arena, dragging the clinging half-ogre with him. Ducking in an instant, he slammed the man-beast’s head full into the hard rock. The thrust jarred the ogre, chips of stone cracking to the floor. A nasty gash opened on the ogre’s head and blood gushed over his face and hairy arms.

Venir drug the stunned ogre toward the other side of the arena, repeating the same tactic with another tremendous effort. He felt Son of Farc’s grip slip away. Venir backed away from his opponent, fists clenched, feeling ten feet tall.

The crowd was split and fights began to breakout all around the arena. None was more shocked than the elder Farc. In disbelief, he waded unnoticed through the fracas toward the arena. Inside the cage, an enraged man was about to give the Farc family their just due. Farc looked determined to not see that happen.

Son of Farc rose back to his feet. The two giant warriors charged each other. Son of Farc tried to pound his body back down, but Venir didn’t feel a thing. The Darkslayer would have none of it. He was far too quick for the sluggish ogre to land a solid hit. Venir’s energized punches were like mallets driving spikes through the ogre’s body. Son of Farc was groaning under every blow.

Venir could not hear the crescendo of the crowd, but he could smell the blood of the ogre as it began spitting it up. The ogre’s rock-hard ribs began to snap and crack like twigs and as his energy was all but dissipated. Then Son of Farc’s leg’s wobbled; his head rolling on his slumped shoulders as he fell. Venir sensed the kill and went for it.

Smash!

Venir’s head was rocked from behind by the big fist of the once mighty Farc himself. Venir reeled from the blow and fell, rolling backward. He leapt back onto his feet. The ogre father now stood between him and the ogre son.

Son of Farc, in a heap behind his father, was struggling to regain his feet. The movement seized the instincts of the Darkslayer. His prey was alive still, not dead. He charged and leapt into the massive body of Farc, crushing his last good eye socket with a devastating haymaker and then shattering his jaw with a knockout. Farc fell face first into the bloodstained stone floor.

Son of Farc’s face turned into a pit of fire as he gazed upon his fallen father. He charged Venir, attempting to bowl him over once more, but Venir didn’t care. He braced himself and latched onto the ogre’s large head and neck, locked on and squeezed so hard that the ogre made a noticeable choking sound.

Venir squeezed, turning the ogre’s head purple. He wasn’t letting go. Son of Farc’s legs kicked and his body twisted, but to no avail. Venir had full control of the ogre this time. Son of Farc dropped to his knees. The crowd watched as the remorseless man cranked it up, squeezing with all of his might. His muscles were popping out all over from his sweat and blood soaked body.

No one imagined that he could possibly choke the ogre out, for it had never been known to happen, nor did it. Instead, something else that had never happened … happened. As Son of Farc roared, his voice was cut off.

CRACK!

His neck broke in the arms of the berserk human warrior. It was a sound no one had ever heard before at the Pit. So far as anyone remembered, an ogre’s back had never been broken.

It was over. A huge silence overcame the stunned crowd. Before their eyes, the man who had pulled off the improbable five years earlier had, this day, pulled off the impossible. When the cage was opened again and Venir climbed out, a frenzied chant erupted.

“VEE! … VEE! … VEE!”

Halflings were fast. To have survived on Bish with such feeble bodies, there had to be magic in the feet of the halfling race. So the people would say. No matter how dire their situation, somehow halflings managed to move fast enough to survive their fate.

But other than being quick and hardy, halflings were considered little more than occasional inconvenience. They were amusing little people who traveled with caravans or in small nomadic packs, fetching supplies as needed. Often, they would not leave a person alone until they had traded whatever it was they had, for whatever it was they wanted. People would take what they neither wanted, nor needed just to see them gone. It was as if halflings could talk people into letting themselves be robbed. Yet, there was much more to these little people.

Georgio was bored. He missed the city, the sights, sounds and the mouth watering food. His parents wouldn’t pay him for his chores like Venir did. Then again there weren’t any biscuits or fruity pie for him to buy with his tiny coins either. He huffed as he walked along a creek bank after abandoning his usual chores. The tall reeds of grass and patches of woods gave him the privacy he needed. The small village was a nuisance of nosy old women and smelly old men.

Heedless of his parents’ warnings, he found time to play. He was deep in his own fantasy in the forest, imitating his hero, Venir the Darkslayer. Equipped with his own hand axe, Georgio tossed it with surprising accuracy into a tree, when suddenly he heard a rustle. He turned just as a little blonde head slammed into his chest and knocked him to the ground.