The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals (43 page)

Doom was upon all of the fighting giants of Dwarven Hole; they were cornered and overpowered with the arrival of the underling lords. The remaining eleven Blood Rangers circled their women and fought valiantly. The underlings attacked them at all points with spells, bolts, arrows, and swords. The intensity was indescribable.

The long-bearded Blood Rangers began singing in thunderous voices in complete defiance of the siege now befalling them. Chopping axes carved deep into underling bone as more heavy bolts impaled underlings left and right. The sheer numbers of underling hunters and the superior magic of their underling lords began overwhelming the brave fighters. The dwarves sang as they bled from a hundred wounds. Magic rocked the ground beneath their boots, as tiny poisoned bolts stuck in their arms and faces. Again and again the Blood Rangers rose, regardless that they were weakened by the second,

Their wonderful working women shouted encouragement and stayed within their men’s protective circle, casting spells of healing, strength, and vitality to help get them through each and every critical second. The Blood Rangers held their own as their blood and sweat formed pools on the rugged ground of the Warfield ….

Elsewhere, from their crag not far away, the Nameless Two saw it all, and the battle they were witnessing was a beautiful thing to them; so beautiful that it spurred them to thoughts of action. But the two troublesome underling lords caused them to hesitate ….

Verbard looked around. The dwarfs were surrounded by the underling hoard, mangled underling bodies littered the ground, but the Vicious pressed the Badoon forward. The rest of the Warfield was barren, plain and abandoned.

“But I would have expected the Darkslayer to be here by now. I can’t bear the thought that he might have avoided us, yet it may be so. Now, let us go and see what lies inside that crag.”

Catten nodded, and like two wraiths they sailed through the air towards the rocky hill in the distance. Verbard felt drawn towards the powerful source of magic inside the out-of-the-way landmark. It looked like a mountain, but was merely a rocky hill with a large cave mouth yawning wide open.

Inside Verbard noted very little, but his glance showed the primitive comforts of occupancy. Catten was strolling around the room, hands out, golden eyes alert. Verbard paced about trying to find something, but the source of power was unrevealed. He stepped out of the cave mouth and looked out in wonder.

“Brother, come quick! Do you see what I see?”

By his side, Catten let out an excited hiss.

“I see it all, my brother. This is new, completely fascinating. I can see the whole area for miles just as plain as the nose on your face. Stunning!”

Verbard sucked in his breath as he too could see every detail of the events far away. He saw everything above, below and behind the mountain that he stood. From over a mile away he could clearly see the angered face of a dwarf, chopping a Badoon down where he stood.

“Those stubborn dwarfs are still fighting and the Vicious have still not acted,” Verbard said.

Catten’s eyes flashed with rage.

“This whole thing should be over by now. I hate to think that we might have to go back to clean up when we could be enjoying the victory from here.”

“Perhaps we can do what we must from here, if need be, brother,” Verbard said, the corners of his mouth turning up. “It’s certainly worth a try.”

“Ooh … a good idea, indeed. Let’s wait and see what happens first. The suns will be setting soon and I like doing such things at night rather than in blazing sunlight.”

Verbard watched in silence. Just as he and his brother planned, the Darkslayer came towards the trap. He had never relished the thought of possibly having to battle the scourge of the underlings himself, but he’d never felt so robust before. Verbard felt his brother stiffen at his side. Their hatred ran deep for this human who had managed to slay hundreds, possibly thousands, of underlings over the years to their great embarrassment.

The toll had grown high over the years. The stories they had heard and the variety of descriptions of the man had never seemed believable until now. But as the Darkslayer approached, the more eager he felt to bury the man once and for all.

“No, we slow him down, smother him, or burn him alive with all means at our disposal. I am sure the Vicious can handle what is left. After which we walk down there, skin him, and take his head from his shoulders and march it to the Underland on a pike!”

Verbard nodded. He stepped back and summoned forth energy. It grew inside him, something powerful and delicious, begging to be set free. He wanted to hold the intoxicating feeling a bit longer, the magic felt so good. Catten stood before him; his face a mask of concentration and limitless power. There was nothing to fear, nothing left but the urge to destroy one lone man. Verbard felt supreme, capable of leveling a city with the wave of his hand.

His silver eyes became saucers, staring at their target closing the distance, barreling towards the Vicious and dwarves. Powerful energy surged between both of them now, unified in their thoughts of destroying the Darkslayer. It felt like it would take little more than a single word to wipe out the whole lot of them.

In the world of Bish none cared about how or why things happened as they did. Things were as they were, and none gave this a single thought. The Blood Ranger’s did not question why they were on the edge of obliteration. Instead, they fought on.

The underling warriors gave no thought to why they were defeating the dwarfs when they had never done so in battles past. There were no such scores on Bish. Trinos made it so, but Scorch had caused an imbalance, which Trinos had to correct.

There had always been an equalizer for good and evil on Bish, and as the battle between these two forces swung back and forth over decades, centuries, and millennia, the score remained the same—until Scorch decided to tilt the odds in a different favor. Although Trinos had now changed it back, Bish would never be the same. And to get things back on course, the equalizer of Bish had work to do, whether he knew it or not.

Venir ran over the terrain with the speed of a galloping horse. He could not comprehend how he had moved so far so fast, but it was beyond him to slow his pace. His body no longer seemed his own. He had the strength and stamina of ten men in one. He was not the wind, but a gale. Not a river, but a waterfall. Not the rain, but a storm. His mind was a maelstrom of anger and violence.

The spiked helm was strapped to his clenched jaw and the eyelets burned like black fire. A streak of blackness filtered through the air behind him. His tattered clothing, grimy pants and bloodied boots, whistled through the wind. With white knuckles he gripped Brool in his right hand, while his iron-banded shield was tucked into his side. He could see them now, tiny little specks in the near distant Warfield, home of the fallen. He smelled them, he heard them, he loathed them … he wanted to annihilate them.

He paid no notice the two brutish heads with pointed ears and long claws barking orders at the mass of battle ahead. The creatures were of the likes he had never seen before. Their backs were turned, and they screeched an awful sound as he ran past. The Vicious ran like lions on all fours, fanged mouths gnashing as his heals; but, he was only concerned with the embattled throng of underlings ahead.

The two underling predators were fast enough to catch any human in seconds, yet they could not close in on Venir. They were close enough to see the wide V-shaped tattoo that stretched across his expansive back. Their cries were impassioned from behind, but Venir was a human juggernaut now that would not slow.

He felt a hunger now, his meal just steps away. The underling’s dark bodies were a synchronized mass of skill, armor and steel. A singing Blood Ranger hurled two underlings over his head as stabbing weapons pierced his belly, doubling him down.

Venir ran roughshod into the backs of the Badoon ranks. Brool carved out a path of mangled little figures. It was intoxicating as he sunk the axe into the shocked bodies of the underling soldiers. The front lines of the Blood Rangers lay just ahead. With every stride he became quicker and his body stronger. Dark bodies were falling in piles at his feet. Limbs were severed, bones shattered and throats punctured.

Venir leapt high in the air roaring his battle cry. He crashed like a great boulder, crushing two or three beneath him, while slamming into others with his shield. The front ranks of the underlings faltered as the Blood Rangers let out a cheer. Venir rolled across the hard dusty ground and sprang to his feet. Instantly Brool became a whirling razor-edge of death. The Darkslayer had arrived and the underlings howled with their weapons raised in alarm.

All pairs of the underling’s colored eyes set on Venir. They looked like children with sharp toys pointed at him. They chittered back and forth and more cries came for the rear. In an instant the mass swarmed him. Venir swept Brool into the first onslaught; the Blood Rangers anchored his sides. Within moments the red-black blood of the underlings began spreading like pools of spilled oil.

Limbs fell and heads rolled at the fury of the Darkslayer’s corded arm. The underlings trampled over one another, live or dead. Heavy dwarven blades cleaved into their bodies as they surged toward the man they hated beyond reason. Venir felt a few stinging blows as they fell mutilated at his feet. Brool’s sweeping twin blades were as fast as a pair of short swords, weaving back and forth, striking like a snake. Venir and his axe were one. An underling leaped out of the fray, latching itself onto his shield. A dwarven hand axe chopped into its back.

The Vicious were far from the melee, screaming orders to their single minded ranks. Not a single head turned, not a single order was obeyed. The fine-tuned Badoon Brigade was little more than a frenzied hoard. The ensuing chaos resembled rats in a whirlpool; the more they struggled and thrashed, the more useless their attacks. On they came and down they went.

Venir’s body seemed to move with a mind of its own. His own conscious seemed to hover in his mind, watching another’s work unfold. Elation tingled his spine. Wrath was rushing through his blood. Revenge was hot, not cold. He was a mass of muscle and mayhem, steel and stone. He split the face of an emerald eyed underling. He was strong. He punctured the beating heart of another. He was invincible. He was outnumbered ten to one. Hah!

The surrounding Blood Rangers, inspired, exhausted and bleeding, did not hesitate to take hold of the new advantage. Heavy crossbow bolts rocked out again, penetrating the heads of underling warriors with unfailing accuracy. The Blood Rangers’ green and brown garb was now soaked red and black, their beards dripping blood. Their hand axes chopped from all angles, slowing the underling pressure toward the Darkslayer.

Still the Badoon Brigade’s numbers were overwhelming. The Blood Rangers heavy wounds took a toll on their valiant efforts. The underlings were only falling one by one now, rather than in heaps. The Darkslayer had pushed himself towards the middle and was now being swamped by a renewed surge that came upon him.

Venir swung high and low, in large arcing circles at such speed that the Badoon underlings hesitated. One ventured inside the arcing perimeter as Brool came back and chopped its leg out from under it. Venir swiped his axe forward and backward in an unpredictable rhythm. The underlings darted back and forth, stabbing away.

Venir felt a burning slash in his legs. He cried out as he crushed the underlings head with the edge of his shield. Another nipped in and out, only to have the tip of Brool’s spike tear out its knee. Poisoned bolts from underling crossbows zinged over his head. Venir could feel them from behind, looking for an opening on his back. Venir felt his boundless energy begin to subside. His arms began to feel like anchors. His raging mind began to become his own.

One moment Venir seemed to be slaughtering at will, and the next moment there were none within striking distance. He watched as his remaining foes rushed away. He looked around, gasping for air.

Two black hulking creatures, as tall as a man, were circling him now. They had a fluid gate, flawless physiques, and fingers clutching open and closed like daggers. The Vicious were like nothing he had ever seen before. The invincible sensation was vanquished from his spine. Only courage remained.

He stood, covered from helm to toe in baking gore. His eyes shone like boiling blue water. The blackened steel of Brool glinted as he swung it like a sickle back and forth. His body and mind were pushed passed their limits, and every wound he had festered and ached.
Keep moving.
His hatred of the underlings would not allow him to stop, and his helm, axe, and shield would not relent.