The Darkslayer: Chaos at the Castle (Book 6) (45 page)

Creed clipped Kierway’s shoulder. Red-black blood was spilled.

Kierway snarled
and cut at his belly.

Creed
sprung backward ten feet.

“Did you feel that,
Underling?”

Kierway’s eyes were molten.

Creed noticed something. An awareness.  A second sight.
Go with it, Creed. Go with it!

Steel crashed against steel like an armory caught in a tornado.
Back and forth they went. Blood was let. Sweat dripped. Attack. React. Anticipate.

Creed’s
mind, body, and blades were one. His skill and instincts melded together.  He turned. He changed. From a swordsman into a fearless fighting machine.

Slice!

Kierway ducked and countered.

Chop!
Slice!

The underling’s blade
ripped into Creed’s shoulder.

He drove his pommel in
to the underling’s chin.

Kierway stuffed his knee in
Creed’s gut.

Steel flashed again. A pair of tireless storms trying to wipe out one another.

Duck!

Jump!

Parry!

Strike! Strike! Strike!

Creed didn’t know if it was him commanding his body or The Cowl, but he was doing things he’d never done before. The underling’s strikes came, precise and fatal, but they missed their mark, time and again. He bled. He fought. He learned.

“Such improvement, Human.
” Kierway said, “Unexpected. Impressive.”

Master Kierway’s hardened face lather
ed. His thin coat of fur showed a sheen.

Creed
’s own chest was heaving. He’d never fought so long. So hard. Pressed. Possessed. He fought on.
Kill the underling!

Seconds passed that felt like minutes
. Sparks of hot metal flew in the air.

Clip!

He caught Kierway below the knee cap.

Clip!

And under his left sword arm
. His blades cut armor like bread.

“What manner of man are you that fights like many
?” Kierway said, breaking off his attack, wiping the blood from his lips. The underling lowered his blade and stuck one in the ground. “A parlay, perhaps?”

Creed opened his mouth to speak.

Whish! Whish! Whish!

The underling
’s knives flicked through the air.

Creed battled one away, then two, catching the third in his chest. 

“Now that’s just dirty! Who’s the coward now, Underling?” Creed plucked it out and slung it back.

Kierway ducked under it and laughed.

“Such words have no meaning to our kind. Your time to die has come, Human.”

Chest burning, Creed shrugged is broad shoulders and stood tall in the face of his enemy. He might not have much time left to live
, but he still felt like fighting.
Make the most of it!

Kierway
’s swords came at his neck and thigh.

Bu
t Creed had seen them coming two steps ago. Lunging forward, he punched his right sword through Kierway’s side.

Bang!

He head butted Kierway in the face, breaking his nose.

Kierway hissed, tearing himself away a
nd clutching at his bloody side, copper eyes wide as saucers.

“Impossible!” he said, eyeing Creed as if he were someone else.

“Nothing’s impossible!”

Creed charged
. Inspired. He spun. He swung.

Kierway’s
swords were ready.

Creed shattered
both of the underling’s blades with his first blow.

Slice!

Kierway’s head popped from his shoulders with the second blow. Blood sprayed. The underling fell.

Creed
clutched at his chest and fell to his knees, sucking for breath and spitting blood.

“Now that was some glorious fighting
. If I can only live to tell the ladies about it.”

CHAPTER
65

It was strange, standing alongside one of the most powerful women in the City of Bone,
having her huddle in his arms.

If
we had a soft bed and a secure room, I bet I could teach her a thing or two.

In
little more than a stitch of clothing and without even a weapon in hand, Melegal prepared for his last stand.

“They won’t kill you
, Lorda,” he said, pushing her between the wall and his back. “But I don’t think they’ll spare me.”

“True,” she said, her nails wrapped around his belly “but I may be able to convince them otherwise.”

The idea had promise, but sooner or later, the odds of surviving were bound to catch up with him.
Cats have many lives, but perhaps rats have more.

“I appreciate that,
” he said, “but you don’t need to risk yourself. No one lives forever. Save yourself.”

“How noble, Detective. You have a charming tongue. I wish we had more time.”

Melegal’s ears perked up, and Lorda Almen gasped.

T
wo underling soldiers came closer, black hair braided and old gold hoops in one’s ears. One scraped his hand-axe along the wall, and the other let out an unfriendly chitter.

Melegal
’s grip tightened over Lorda’s hand as the other pair closed in. Dark faced and armored in leather, there was something evil about them. Something sinister. Melegal never meddled in the affairs of underlings; he let Venir The Darkslayer handle that. The stories he heard and the things he had seen were more than enough to keep him away from the twisted breed.

Lorda
pressed her soft lips into his back. “Sorry, Detective.” She stepped into the clear.

The underlings stopped.

She pointed at Melegal. “I am the Lorda of this castle, and this man is my servant. No harm should come to me or him, Underlings.” She had a convincing way of speaking. “Seize him if you must, but don’t you dare lay a hand on me.”

The nearest underling, red eyes glimmering, lowered his weapon, walked over and back handed her in the face.

“Silence, Human.”

Lorda fell to the ground, gaping, rubbing her reddened cheek.

Another underling lowered a spear at Melegal’s belly.

Melegal
crept back into the wall, the spear tip nicking his exposed belly.

“This man will die, a painful death,” the underling
said, “but you, Woman, your death will look like an accident.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she
said, shocked. “My husband is in good standing with your Lords. They’ll punish you for this.”

“No,” the underling said
.  He pinched her face in his hand. “Human life has no meaning to us. No use to us. They’ll be rid of you soon enough.”

“You overstep you
r bounds, Black Swine.  You’ve no order to kill or harm me, just him,” her eyes flicked to Melegal, “… maybe?”

The longer they talk, the longer I live.
His stomach groaned. A shadow darted between the walls.
What was that?

“Put a hole in the noisy one’s stomach.”

Chop!

An underling’s skull was sp
lit open.

Slice!

The head of another underling leapt from its shoulders, freeing Lorda.

Melegal twisted
. The spear tip jabbed at his center. 

Slice!

The underling spear-wielder lost both hands from forearm to finger.

Melegal turned.

Taller than him the battle-splattered warrior stood, eyes glowing a pale green through a dark cowl. Melegal blinked, thinking of Venir, but his man was different. Agile and swift. Quick and merciless. The face was obscured somehow. But he was certain it was Creed.

The last underling charged Lorda Almen, cutting at her throat.

Melegal dove for her, but he was too far away.

In one long stride,
Creed cut the underling off and ripped his sword across its belly, spilling its bowels.

Creed
sheathed his swords and clutched his chest. Reaching down, he lifted Lorda back to her feet.

“Who are you?” she said
. Her fingers grazed his broad chest. “You’re wounded.”

“Aye, but it’s
already getting better.” He bowed a little. “I’m Creed the Bloodhound, Lorda.”

“No,” Melegal said, getting back up, “that’s not what you are, not right now.”
He craned his neck. “And more soldiers are coming.” Melegal grabbed her arm. “Anything left in the arena?”

“
Just the dead.”

“
Good,” Melegal said. “That’ll be our way to sanctuary then. Come on.”

Through the entrance, down the steps and over the wall they
’d gone when Melegal’s keen eye caught something in the rack of weapons.

“I’ll be,” he said
. He rummaged through the rack, strapping his swords, the Sisters, around his waist and finding something else. “Yes!” He grabbed his dart launchers and snapped them on. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Lorda said, trying to help.

“My cap.”

“I’ll bu
y you all the caps you want,” she said, running her finger over his ear.

“No,” he said, looking at her. “Have you seen it? Do you remember—”

“Yes, I remember. Last I saw it, well,” she picked at her lip and shrugged. “It was in my husband’s throne room, under heavy guard.”

That bothered Melegal. Had they discovered the secret
of his cap? Why else would they guard it?
Must get it back.

“And the
Keys?” he said.

“
Same place.”

“How many did you see?”

“Five, I think. But Kierway had one.”

Finishing the last buckle on his dart-launchers
, he searched the headless body of Kierway. Nothing. “Are you sure he had a Key on him?”

“I’m certain.”

His neck snapped to the last spot he’d seen Jarla. She was gone.

“Slat! The witch has it!”

“What’s so special about those Keys?” Lorda asked, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

The question struck him. There was little reason to believe that Lorda knew anything about the
Keys. Lord Almen was a man of many secrets. As for the Keys, the easy way out of this was gone. He had no idea which Key went where, or what they all did. Did they need a door from the chamber or could they be used elsewhere instead?

“Did you notice the gemstone in it?”

Lorda’s perfectly plucked eyebrows scrunched down.

“Sapphire, I believe,” she said
. “I only caught a single glimpse of it.”

I didn’t matter. It wasn’t the one Melegal had used anyway.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

Creed was whirling his blades around his body in
a marvelous fashion.

“Astounding,” he said, “I cannot tell if
it’s the blades or me.” He extended the keen edges outward, eyeing them. “I don’t prefer hand guards.”
Swish!
“But these are so flexible.”

“And how
about that… cowl… on your head?” Melegal started.

Creed slipped his blades into their sheath
s. He didn’t move. Instead, he stood still, cocking his head back and forth.

“Are you coming?” Melegal said. “Or are you waiting for more underlings to arrive
?”

“There
are so many,” Creed said. “I can feel them running through the halls. Their hearts beat in my ears.” He cast a dark foreboding glance at Melegal, and his voice changed a little. “I can kill them.” His body tensed. “I can kill them all.”

“No,” Melegal said, “if you could do that, they’d be dead already.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I know. Now
…” He tossed Creed the sack. “You’ll need that.” He jammed two fingers down his throat.

“Ew, Detective, what are you doing?” Lorda asked. “Are you ill?”

Melegal spit a metal gob into his palm and rubbed the spit off.  He flashed the light of his coin in their eyes and grinned.

“
Follow me.”

***

“You’re resourceful, Detective. I’ll give you that,” Creed said. The man was chewing on jerky and flipping his coin of light. “This is the best jerky I’ve ever tasted.”

“You don’t have to call me detective, Creed. Melegal will do
.” He was sifting through a trunk in what used to be one of Sefron’s hidden rooms. “Or not.”