The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals (41 page)

“This is yours Georgio,” Venir said.

The boy’s jaw dropped as he stared at the sword. It was magnificent and gleaming with tiny jewels around the hilt. Georgio’s hand latched on the hilt, yanking it from the ground.

“You bet. It’s one of the finest swords I’ve come by. I couldn’t believe it didn’t break against my shield. It came down with great force on every blow, but there isn’t a nick on it.” Georgio ran his pudgy fingers along the shiny blade, slicing his skin.

“Ow!” he said, but no blood surfaced.

Venir gave the boy a funny look and continued on.

”It’s big, but it’s light. Those Royals must have one mighty good weaponsmith. It’s a keeper, Georgio. You take good care of it and I’m sure it’ll take care of you.”

“I know. We aren’t out of the thicket yet, Me. Mood says that many more underlings are about. Further north than us, which is odd? No one knows why, but we can only hope they don’t get too close before I get you home.”

Melegal wanted to throttle something. Underlings and who knew what else might pop up on this misadventure. No chest of treasure to be found and no new coins to spend. He lost their money betting on Son of Farc in the Pit, against Venir. His friend cost him. He would never tell Venir that though. He knew better than to ever bet against his comrade again. He slung his saddle back on his pony.

“Well, if anyone’s still looking for us, I’d rather take my chances back in Bone. I’ll die in the comforts of my home. I just hope that there are no witnesses left to bother me … er … us there.”

Melegal swung his leg over Quickster’s saddle.

“So get me back. I need a hot bath and so do you. Look at you, letting your dog lick the muck off you. It’s disgusting!”

The two suns, distant orange beacons, blazed over the Outlands, making the ground hazy to the naked eye. The sparse brown vegetation yielded little for the humanoid appetite. Enormous green cacti, bone trees, fire bushes, red toads, leather lizards, palm trees, and occasional sunflowers, somehow survived without an oasis. Water in any form was hard to come by here.

This particular section of the Outlands was southwest of the Great Forest of Bish and northeast of Dwarven Hole. It was the most dangerous place in the whole of this barren land, maybe all of Bish. It had been home to more battles, wars, and acts of terror than any other place in the world. This dry and dusty area had come to be known as—The Warfield.

The Warfield was a flat piece of rock and desert that lay like a torched graveyard in the center of Bish’s the Outlands. The small villages nearest the Warfield still maintained a respectable distance. It was inhospitable for occupancy or commerce, and no place for children or adults to play. It endeared its trespassers with chronic sweat and pain.

The Warfield was always the hottest and most humid spot on Bish at any time of the day. Only the toughest creatures occupied it. It was also the place where the chest beating of the races began and ended. For no skirmish, battle, or war was worth recalling that did not take place at the Warfield. As with so many other things in Bish, no one knew or cared why they battled in that place; they simply did. It was where true warriors came to earn their badges of honor and horror.

For centuries, the Warfield had been devouring the remains, weapons and armor of the greatest warriors and wizards that ever lived. All surviving traces of these events dissipated in the hard and bitter land and were forgotten. No one ever cared to visit the final resting place of the Warfield’s fallen heroes and villains, there was no graveyard, only rust turned to dust. It was as loathsome a place there could be, where tempers would flare, and best friends could become bitter enemies. The survivors of the battles that broke out never returned for the fallen; they took whatever they could and left the rest to the impossible climate.

There were survivors, though; many had survived battles at the Warfield, and some became renowned throughout the land. The toughest of each and every race were Warfield veterans and their names were revered among their kin.

Some had survived more than once, whether twice or even a dozen times, and were no doubt the toughest men and women on Bish. One would know it at a glance, sometimes, for the Warfield always left its mark, a mark on their persona that was indescribable yet always discernible. Some boasted of their excursions, while others kept silent about their personal triumphs and tragedies. It was the quiet ones that always seemed to revisit their restless war demons in the hope of putting them to rest forever.

One man and one woman returned, they had never been able to erase their demons, and so they remained. Unfit for society, they were the Nameless Two, clothed in sandy white robes from head to toe, sandaled and insane.

They lived in a cave behind a rocky crag on a gargantuan hill in the Warfield. With nothing left to live for, these tormented veterans practiced nothing but fighting for survival. Each was tempering their skills into perfect Warfield warriors. They were known as nothing more than ghosts, and they showed up whenever they chose and fought whoever they wished. Often they killed without mercy those to disabled to make it home after a battle.

Today, the Nameless Two stood outside on their craggy stoop high above their cave. A strange event was unfolding in the distance. An underling Badoon Brigade had ventured into the Warfield and now blocked the passage northwards it seemed. A squadron of Blood Rangers appeared from the western horizon.

The Nameless Two saw this distant event from a powerful mystic source they had harnessed deep within their cave. The strange magic left them all-knowing of the occurrences in the Warfield. It gave them vision for miles all around. It was this secret that had allowed them to survive for so long, and a secret they would never risk losing to another. It came at a price, but they were willing to pay.

Venir led the way north towards the lower rim of the Outlands. He could feel Melegal glowering at his back. Georgio and Lefty sat scrunched behind the thief, atop the pony with uncomfortable looks on their faces.

“Why are we heading north again, and not back through the Red Clay Forest? I have absolutely no desire to try to pass through the Warfield,” Melegal said.

“I know you’ll go in and I want nothing to do with that dreadful place. And I’ve heard enough of your stupid bar room squalor to know that you’ll never pass up the chance of another story to brag about. And if even half the crap you say is true, it’s more than enough reason to know that the Warfield’s clearly no place I ever want to be. So
I
am heading west to the Red Clay Forest, with or without you. I’ll take my own chances.”

Georgio and Lefty were nodding. Everyone knew about the Warfield, the place of
fight
or
die
. Venir got a good look at the boy’s faces as they scooted closer on the thief’s saddle. Melegal’s elbow gave Georgio a sharp nudge.

“Whatcha think, Mood?” Venir said.

“I smell a trap,” Mood replied cautiously. “If it ain’t, I’m a halfling’s uncle. The creature’s say someone is there, waitin’ on someone. I can sense it too. Chances are that someone’s you. I feel north is not safe.”

Venir was ready to go it alone. He couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. If he sensed underlings he might be gone anyway. If he left his friends, they might perish without his aid.

“I’m afraid so, Lefty,” Venir answered, “those
are
the ones. To get home we’re gonna have to try and slip by.”

It was one thing for Venir to get by, the armament provided for that, but not his friends. Underlings had their ways of finding a needle in a haystack.

The hot winds seemed to ebb and flow. Venir sensed it wasn’t natural. Silence had fallen on the party as they traveled while he contemplated what might be their next—and possibly final—move. Venir could handle underlings, but this time it was different. This time it was not him hunting for them, but rather them hunting him.

Melegal broke the silence.

“Well, I don’t care. I’m going back through the Red Clay Forest, with or without the rest of you. Whatever’s looking for
you
probably isn’t looking for
us
.”

Venir turned to face the thief whose head now hung low.

“Melegal, we’re not splitting up now! They know enough about where we are. If you want to get home alive, stick with us. And that means
all
of you!”

With a gruff command Venir nudged Chongo forward, and Mood followed. Melegal hesitated in his saddle. Then he sighed and spurred Quickster ahead. The ever-growing dread seemed to befall on them all.

Mood trotted up to Venir.

“Wait. Let’s head west towards my dwarven kin. We can maybe avoid these underlings that way. Or at worst, perhaps, I can slip our friends around the underlings and back home. Whatcha say?”

Venir didn’t like the idea. Underlings were thick in the Outlands below Dwarven Hole. Still, anything was better than trying pass through the Warfield. It was a place that oft times drew him in like a fly to honey.

He tried to sound positive.

“That’s as good a plan as we’ve got, I guess. I hate to drag ’em into all this. You’ll have to look out for them in case I can’t.”

Venir looked into the sky, the white clouds rushed overhead, streaked with grey. He had never seen that before. He fingered the chin straps on his helmet. Mood gave him a wary look. He donned his helmet. No sense in getting caught off guard. He saw Mood’s bushy face cocked at him. He nodded back. He felt fine, and then took it off. He’d give it another go later.

“Just don’t go any further north, and let’s see what happens when it happens,” the dwarf said with a wink, puffing on his cigar. Its mellow smoke filtered back, bringing warm smiles to the faces of the boys. Melegal’s hands were busy fanning it away.

Verbard and Catten were in the midst of a long meditation on the edge of the Red Clay Forest when Verbard said, “I sense the Darkslayer might be on to us, brother Catten. Shall we wait, or shall we depart for the Warfield?”

“Oh, I say we have waited enough. If the man were headed this way, we’d have been alerted to it by now.”

Catten didn’t sound disappointed however.

“It has been such a long time since I witnessed a lengthy battle. And a Vicious-led Badoon Brigade does promise a salivating new amusement.”

He licked his lips, gold eyes flashing in anticipation. Catten was clenching his fists, eyes flickering with power.

“I would think the risk worth taking, brother. I don’t know about you, but I feel our day has come to finish off the Darkslayer. I am not boasting when I say that I feel more powerful than ever?”

Verbard’s silver eyes shone with elation

“Quite so, I feel just the same. I feel ready for anything.”

Verbard glanced at the piles of smoking ash at their feet. Their spells had been more effective than he anticipated. And now he realized his brother felt the same. It was quite the natural high.

Both of the underling lords longed to remove Master Sinway at some time during their lengthy existence, but neither could hope to achieve it without the other. Though, they never spoke of it, each brother plotted to wrest the rule of the underlings from Master Sinway. But for now, first things first. Verbard gave his brother a nod; each uttered an underling syllable, and both sailed high in the air towards the Warfield in the west.

*****

One lone forest magi had tucked himself deep in the brush. He had avoided the devastation Catten and Verbard had wrought on his brethren. It was a good day to be late, and live. Still, he witnessed the whole thing, cringing like a babe. He had never realized such raw power existed in Bish. He dared a glance as he watched them depart like ghosts into the sky and out of sight. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he felt relief.