The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals (5 page)

“Come,” she whispered, lips brushing his ear. Taking his eager hand in hers, she led him back further into her tent ….

His growing relationship with the queen began to bear fruit on his men. They were given a decent tent within the camp and were supplied with better rations. Venir and Jarla were not often together, but it was clear that she favored him over all others. As time passed he felt her bringing him in deeper, but she hinted little about her plans for the brigand army.

His friends still urged him to leave, but he would have none of it, despite the numerous arguments. The brigand camp was rotten; no amenities could make it any better, and they wanted to go, regardless of his assurances. Every day he told them they would soon depart, but the weeks still passed. Mikkel had trouble looking him in the eye and Billip had little to say.

The woman was calling the shots, whether he admitted it or not. She made both his friends uncomfortable as they stayed busy when she was around. Venir had never met a woman like her, but they were not beguiled like him, despite her impressive looks. He considered himself a good judge of character, and it was against his normal cunning to take up so tight with a woman of any kind. He should have seen that she was not the company to keep, but he did not, he only saw what he wanted. He wanted her.

Somehow the band of men managed to work through it all, despite the intrusive and unpleasant woman. Before long they were in it thicker than thieves, moving along trails and raiding merchant caravans that ran commerce south to north. The brigand army and its queen’s reputation had been spreading, and the merchants began bringing along more men-at-arms on their travels. It was not enough as the misfit army continued to grow. Still, the brigand army was forced to plan better, and the merchant trains became more difficult to sniff out.

Jarla was a brilliant bandit. She planned her raids using resources and preparations unrivaled by the best war generals on Bish. Venir learned much from her and was impressed by her knowledge of the field. He had spent many years soldiering in Bish, but few soldiers were her equal. She would locate the caravans and exploit their weaknesses with uncanny precision. He could not work out how she did it. He asked many questions, but often he was cut short.

She charged into every melee that came their way on her large dapple-grey steed named Nightmare. Nightmare was a lightly armored warhorse and a force unto herself. He watched the horse trample bodies under powerful hooves that crushed bones to dust. Jarla fought with both spiked battle axes on horseback as if on her own feet. The carnage she wrought was a spectacle to any observer, but to Venir it was an inspiration. Even he could not match Jarla’s body count in battle, but he was the only one to come close.

She complemented his fighting skills and so his acceptance among her ranks grew. He was not comfortable with the bloodlust of the brigands, for it seemed unwarranted. Billip and Mikkel kept their distance from the fray; instead they relied on their wits and their range weapons. No one complained, as they were the best shots among the brigands. He knew they pulled back when they could, as well did he. It was a risk.

Over the passing months the army had great success and had grown to over five hundred strong. Jarla’s leadership and battle skills allowed her to control the various races of her army well. She was challenged by one of her commanders, a powerful gnoll or noted repute. She cut him down in a fight to the death. Her victory was quick, her leadership unquestioned.

Venir had the pleasure of watching her dress for battle. She had her own sequence for putting everything on and taking it off. He watched, eyes intent, as she put on her iron-toed boots, and a sleeveless white cotton shirt, followed by her bronze chainmail dress. The sight of the magnificent warrior woman never failed to capture him.

She would grab a large, stitched up leather sack, kneel down, and pull out an iron-banded bracer for her left arm, followed by another for her right arm. She reached in with her left hand, pulling out the first spiked battle axe, and followed with the right. The axes drew his attention, as compelling as her. They did not stand out as extraordinary, but they were special in design, each about three feet in length. Their dark steel blades and serrated spikes seemed forged from an unfamiliar metal, and their thick oaken handles were shod with hammered iron. Having set them at her sides, she pulled out the helmet, a similar design and material as the axe and bracers, with a small iron spike on top. She was a sight to behold, like two separate women in one.

When she returned from battle the blood was gone from her armament. It retained its dim shine and without a nick or notch on the blades. She rubbed them down, never sharpening, then would kneel down, and put them back in the leather sack. Right first and left last, and toss it beside her bed with a
clank
. He noticed the sack never clanked except when she did that, and it never appeared big enough to hold all its contents.
Is it magic?
He wanted to ask, but never did. He was just enjoying being there, and he knew she would tell him if there was anything she wanted him to know. Those comments never game. The pit in his gut still festered, but he ignored it.

Venir’s reassurance left him no comfort. Billip pushed for departure every time his comrade came around. His young friend didn’t know the ways of the world as he did … or women. The brigand queen had a smile that could crack a rock, and he swore she had a tail, but somehow concealed it. He jammed an arrow in the ground as he strung and unstrung his bow.
Stupid boy.

Stupid, but brave and loyal as well, and Billip knew he had no fiercer friend than the tall shouldered ranger. The pay of a few silver coins a week, plus some of the additional booty from their raids appealed his greedy nature, but the company he kept failed to grow.
A bunch of animals.
Every day he felt his own humanity begin to slip away and he might have been beginning to like it.
Why am I here?
He missed the Orc’s Elbow and Mikkel’s mead.

He eyed the swaying figures near the fringe of the camp. It was deserters of the brigand army that had been chased down and hung. Those humanoids rotted in the wind, tongue’s swollen and dry, carrying the stench of decay.
No thanks.
He had to talk Venir into leaving.

Mikkel’s overbearing hatred of the kobolds had expanded to include the gnolls and orcs as well. He watched as the big man clutched his studded club and squeezed it in his hands. His arms were thick with cords, like black pythons, as he banged his glimmering skullcap, muttering obscenities. Even Billip, who didn’t really hate anything but losing, found fires burning against these other races and men as well.

The two men passed their time finding ways to wound or kill the kobolds, during the raids, without being noticed. He and the big man used quivers other than their own. This had become a contest between him and Mikkel. Mikkel would then argue that his marksmanship was superior to his, which was not true, impressive though it was. The sight of a screaming kobold impaled to a tree by one of those heavy crossbow bolts made great target practice for him, as he shot from horseback.
This isn’t so bad.
Mikkel took his own sort of pride in it; while the rest did not care enough about the kobolds to suspect foul play.

Mikkel was squatting by the fire, roasting a kobolds toe.

“You’ve got to get us out of here Billip,” Mikkel said in disgust. “Venir’s lost his mind over that woman. She scares the slat out of me!”

Billip wasn’t listening, but contemplating. Their exploits had garnered them respect among many of their fellow human brigands, but Billip still felt that Jarla’s longest-standing fighters still held too much close to the chest. He had heard the snickers of gnolls and orcen commanders when their backs were turned, and it was more prevalent when Venir was around. His gut told him something was not right, and it was in his nosey nature to find out what it was.

He looked at his friend as he said, “I hope you aren’t going to eat that.”

The basher just shrugged, let out a hollow chuckle, and tossed the burnt toe away. Chongo sniffed it, walked back over and lay back down with a yawn.

Mikkel said, “Chongo, get your master out of here.” The dog’s ears perked up and flatted back down with a human-like sigh ….

It was early in the morning when Billip began to snoop around. The cloudless sky left the campground pitch black, except for the flicker from dozens of burning campfire embers. Any mercenaries who were not sleeping were drinking and not paying much attention to anything else. Boredom was the most dangerous element in the brigand camp, but the commanders kept it under control with swift and painful punishment. Billip scuffed himself up and sauntered through the camp, offering slurred tidings and shuffling along.

His goal was to reach the center of the camp where Jarla’s tent was surrounded by the four smaller tents of her commanders. As far as he knew, only she and Venir occupied her tent most nights, but Venir did not always get the comfort of her quarters. He chuckled at the thought of his pouting friend being kicked out from one of Jarla’s searing moods.

Billip spent several nights within range of these tents, watching the commanders—gnoll, human, and orc—come and go. They would meet late evening or early morning at one of the four tents, and Jarla would attend from time to time, but always without Venir.
If he’d gained her trust he’d be in by now.
Like a night owl, he would watch the armored guards, with spears, standing at both the entrance and the rear of each commander’s tent. During the meetings one was stationed at each side of the tent.

Late one evening he watched Venir stroll into her tent, and not long afterwards the army commanders gathered, one at a time, in the tent behind Jarla’s. It seemed sudden and uncharacteristic, and in their haste they had not doubled the guards, leaving the right and left sides unguarded. Billip saw an opportunity. Nervousness set in, turning his hands clammy.
What are they doing?
It was his only opening after days of recon and he had to take it. Being a gambler, he did.

The red moon was casting a shadow over the right side of the tent, leaving it pitch black, even to his keen eyes. He crept into its shadow and lay flat on his back. His heart was pounding in his temples so that he could hear almost nothing else. He took slow breaths until he began to focus to listen in. He watched small groups of dark clouds pass over, as tiny insects began to crawl over his warm body and sweat dripped over his brow, burning his eyes.
Get on with it fools.
He fought the urge to pee.

The orc guarding the front of the tent stepped into view and mumbled something in orcen.

Slat!

Thereafter, the other orc guarding the rear stepped around. He closed his eyes, lest the whites of his give him away. He listened. They were whispering in orcen, but not moving any closer. If they saw him, he would have to run and try to blend in elsewhere.

They’ll interrogate the whole camp. We’ll be first!

He heard the foot of the guard in front, crunch over the grass. Another step came his way, followed by another. The one in the rear continued his chat, stepping further from the tent corner. Regret flooded through Billip’s mind.

I should have gotten out of this camp long ago!

He felt his heart was thumping so hard that he was certain the guards would hear it.

Get ready!

He thought about where he would run first and waited for the alarm to sound at any moment.

Then another loud orcen voice sounded from within the tent; someone was on his way out. The guards trotted back to their posts and he overheard the front guard being reprimanded. In defense, the guard pointed out to his commander that the tent was not properly secured with the additional guards at the sides. That only complicated Billip’s problem, for now the commander took it upon himself to check both sides, peering with intent around the corners. After many long seconds, Billip squinted, raising his head just a few inches. He thought he saw the commander shrug and walk back into the tent. No one seemed to be dispatched to find more guards.

Yes!

Despite his better judgment he chose to wait it out, chancing that there was little likelihood of anyone coming in his direction again. Inside the tent, the meeting was heating up. It was being conducted in human tongue, but he did not hear Jarla’s voice. The doggish voice of a gnoll was in control. Billip pulled his hair behind his ear, after flicking a mosquito from his nose. The tones were low, but he could still hear through the thick canvas of the tent. Excitement was rising in the voices of the commanders, followed by cruel laughter. He heard something he could never have anticipated. The ambition and evil plans of Jarla and her commanders … and it did not bode well for humans. He learned something else was behind the army’s exploits that he found incomprehensible.

Oh no!

The meeting began to unwind; the savvy scout had no time to waste. He rolled out of the tents shadow and made his way back to the campsite.

It can’t be!

“Mikkel …” he whispered, poking the snoring man in the ribs, “Wake up!”

Mikkel sat up as if he’d been shot, his black bearded face groggy and perturbed. Chongo stirred at his side, greeting him with a few licks.

“You’d better have a good reason, Billip. I was dreaming of my woman and those dreams don’t come often in this stinkin’ camp. What’s going on?”

“Listen to me; we’re in danger.”

“Me? Why’s Me in danger?”

“Not
Mee-legal
. You—me, and especially Venir. Now get your gear ready and don’t make it obvious.”

The big man shook his head as he rolled out of his army blanket. Billip watched as Mikkel fumbled around the tent and pulled on his boots. He began cracking his thick knuckles in a chronic cadence. Mikkel’s large hands clamped down on his and then continued rounding up his gear.