The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals Read online

  THE DARKSLAYER, VOLUME ONE

  By Craig Halloran

  Copyright © 2010 by Craig Halloran #TXU 1-611-058

  Amazon Edition

  TWO-TEN BOOK PRESS

  P.O. Box 4215, Charleston, WV 25364

  www.twotenbookpress.com

  ISBN Paperback: 978-0-578-05661-6

  ISBN eBook: 978-0-982-77990-3

  eBook Version 2

  THE DARKSLAYER is a registered trademark, #77670850

  www.thedarkslayer.com

  Illustrations by Ernie Chan

  www.erniechan.com

  Publishers Note

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  THE DARKSLAYER

  VOLUME ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  Venir waded in the cool silver stream, checking the trout snares he had set at the end of the previous day. His long straw hair was pulled back into a ponytail that hung to shoulder length. A fisherman since birth, the twelve year old fished like a man of thirty. He wore only a pair of brown leather pants and high leather boots, as he sloshed into the water.

  His gritty fingers gathered fishing line from a large pouch along his belt. He cut the line with a very long hunting knife that hung by his side. It had been his grandfather’s and he wore it with pride. His young muscles were fluid and supple as he moved the trout out of the traps, into nets, and into sacks for transport. It was hard work, but it had its rewards, for some of the fish he brought home were grilled or baked into delicious meals. He swore he could smell it cooking now. He had never missed such a feast.

  With a smile, he hefted two large half-filled sacks over his back and whistled an ancient song of cheer. He heard a dog barking. What now? From somewhere upstream, his dog was agitated and coming towards him. He wasn’t worried as he wandered up to find out what was upsetting his pet, Chongo.

  The large reddish brown dog appeared along the stream bank, barking at something floating down the rippling waters. He set down his sacks with a grunt and waded into the water to try to catch it.

  “It’s just a stick Chongo! Quit barking,” he said in an irritated voice.

  He had to check it out or else his pooch would follow it to the mouth of the river, miles away. He remembered the last time they took a long trip down stream together. He almost never made it back, he’d almost drowned. His family thought he would never fish again, but the incident only enhanced his resolve.

  Peering upstream, he noticed some darkening of the water. Slowly it started flowing past him, becoming thicker, darker, and reddish. He focused on the object floating towards him as Chongo was splashing in the water and barking nearby. He grabbed it when came within reach, and then gasped in horror. It was a leg, a human leg, or so it appeared, pale and clammy like a fish belly. He slung it on the other side of the stream as far away as he could. The dog was howling now, wanting to fetch it, but recoiled from crossing the now reddening water.

  He tried to gather his thoughts, but only numbness and confusion set in. Something unnatural crawled inside him. The very innocence of his being was shaken as the water that surrounded him became something else. The once refreshing stream that had fed him all his life had filled with blood and he ran out of it screaming in a panic. The young fisherman, Venir, tingled from head to toe in the knowledge that something awful was amiss.

  “Chongo, come. We have to get home!” he yelled, as they sprinted back toward the village.

  It was not long before he heard the sounds: shrieks and wails from ahead gripped him with fear, but his legs pumped faster and faster. His imagination was paralyzed in terror. Billows of thick smoke began to burn his nostrils and water his eyes as he approached his home. The paths became more distinct and his pace made the wind whistle in his ears. All he could hear were screams of agony and terror. His stomach was turning and tears streaked down his face. He wiped them from his eyes and forged ahead.

  Chongo burst toward the center of the village, barking. Venir’s burning blue eyes lit up. Furry, black and grey, hawk-nosed humanoids were running wild through his village with bloodied weapons and human body parts. They were smaller in size and frame than men, but he knew what they were. He didn’t know how he knew, but these were underlings. Venir had heard enough terrible stories about Bish’s Underland to know what to expect at the sight of an underling. Hearing about the foul menace at campfires was nothing compared to seeing them in action and it was an overwhelming thing.

  He froze, trying to comprehend the black and bloody madness surrounding him. Women, children, men, friends, and family were dead, dying, bleeding or crying. They ran all about in desperation, trying to evade their pursuers only to be cut down. The villagers had been overwhelmed; their weapons little match for the underlings magic and steel. Many lay in bloodied heaps on the ground.

  Venir was frozen amid the chaos surrounding him. Something was coming his way. He gripped the hilt of his ancient knife. An underling hunter rushed direct in his path and screamed in his face. The underlings face was covered with thin fur and blood, baring sharpened gray teeth, raising an odd shaped dagger before him. Venir struck as his hunting knife tore out the throat of the surprised underling, who gurgled into a pool of dark blood.

  Venir was in motion, running, screaming and slashing at the wild horde. He felt his long blade sink deep into flesh and bone, hearing howls of pain and fury. The adrenaline that had surged through him from fear now fueled something else as he punched holes into the bodies of his enemies. In the confusion, many underlings backed away, staring back and forth with uncertainty. Amid the smoke, fire, and chaos, the underling hunters faced the wild slashing boy, and a couple of them were felled by his anger.

  The seasoned underling hunters barked out commands, surrounding him. He squared up to three underlings in his path, swinging and stabbing with all of his heart. They parried his attacks, toying with him, chittering in mockery, awaiting their moment. They wore black armor and cloaks, brandishing weapons of all sorts, staring at him with scintillating eyes of everlasting evil. Venir fought on, determined to spill their blood. But as quick as it had started, it ended as several poisoned darts were shot into his exposed body. His body burned inside and his limbs were numb. He was cold and stiff as he fell backward onto the ground.

  Before his frozen gaze he saw sneering faces of underlings passing by. He heard himself being dragged across the bloodied grass. He could hear their mocking; smell their sweat and dark blood. They did painful things to him, but he felt no fear of them. His smoldering will protected him from utter despair. The moments became like hours, tortuous and dragging as he heard sounds of shovels digging in the ground. One shovelful at a time punched into the dirt nearby, a sound that ground into his brain like a chisel. What happened to his family and Chongo? He did not know. It was time to cry, but no tears came. Mom? Dad? Where are you?

  He lay on his side with his back to the sound of the shovel. His unblinking eyes could see other paralyzed and bloodied bodies of his people. He knew them all by name. All were now lost, without a tomorrow, their fate in the hands of the most evil beings on the world of Bish. Mable, a girl he had been fond of all his life, laid helpless, bruised
, broken and her clothes in shreds. Her unmoving eyes showed no desire to live, for only death could now bring her peace. Something flared inside him as he flinched despite his invisible cocoon.

  His subtle movement was caught by a digging underling hunter nearby. The underling was shirtless, narrow shoulders knotted in muscle, blackened and filthy. It stopped digging. It was one of the few underlings left behind when the raiding party cleared out. The wiry little humanoid came forward, kneeled down and peered at him. Its breath was as foul as waste. It studied the numerous poison darts in his haggard young body and jammed some deeper in his skin. He felt it, like a burning nail and his mind screamed.

  It crouched again before him, shovel at its side, and looked into his eyes with study. He saw the depth of distain in its glowering orange eyes. Venir’s fire burned stronger still. The foul smell of the underling repulsed him, and the underling’s insidious, mocking chatter disgusted him. But he could do nothing, absolutely nothing and deep inside it enraged him. As the underling started to move away he twitched again. He could feel his fingers tingle. The underling stepped back and hissed. It raised its shovel over his head. He expected his skull would be crushed any second and he thought of his family. But then the digger stopped, put down the shovel, and walked out of sight.

  He was grabbed by his feet and turned around. He was able to see many more of the bodies of his people. The underling walked back into his line of sight, shovel in hand and sneered. Raising the shovel over its head, it began bashing his people with the shovel. They all died before his eyes, one by one, in a heartless and cruel moment of twisted triumph. His heart cried out, bursting in his chest, burning with fire, and as it all came to an end, a single tear ran down his grimy cheek. The underling chittered with laughter, laid the bloody shovel down before Venir’s eyes and dragged him away. As he passed, he could see dozens of bodies, buried head first in the ground, with only their legs sticking out. Buried alive? No! No! No! He was pitched face first into a man-sized ditch.

  In a final, tortuous twist of fate, the dirt hole, a personal grave, was being filled in, shovelful by shovelful. Each heap of dirt brought him closer and closer to his very last moment on Bish. Soon the light was no more as he was finally covered and laid to rest, not hopeless but angry. The blackness suffocated him, but his rage burned bright until the end. Yet without oxygen, all fires go out, and the young hunter from the village of Throhm blacked out ….

  He heard something. A popping and cracking sounded from somewhere. He felt grit in his eyes and struggled to wipe it out. He was laying on rugged ground. A blurry image of a man with bushy hair squatted by the fire with a slab of meat roasting on a spit. Venir tried to move towards the fire, but he only managed to let out a low groan. The stocky figure turned his way as something blocked his view and licked his face. He wasn’t sure what it was. He heard a deep unfamiliar voice rumble in his ears.

  “Yer gawn bee fine boy.”

  Venir shivered.

  CHAPTER 2

  Over ten seasons passed in Venir’s life and despite the tragedy during his boyhood in the village of Throhm his spirit was never broken. His freedom among the forests and dry lands kept a grim smile on his face most of the time. His blonde hair, bright blue eyes, deep tan, and handsome face gave the women in all provinces plenty to talk about. His exploits and willingness to recount them left an impression on all he came upon. Unlike most mercenaries, Venir did not expect much in return from those who benefited from his deeds; a good meal and a comfortable place to sleep was more than enough to satisfy him. And so, with trial, he earned people’s trust, a rare quality on Bish ….

  Where the thick forest’s ended and the harsh grit of the Outlands met, the young outlander had settled in at Two-Ten City. Inside the falling city—an unimpressive tavern called the Orc’s Elbow—he was carrying on with his colleagues. It was an unusual oaken tavern with a grimy gray-brown exterior, in a two-story building with few support walls. It had the appearance that the second story would tumble down at any moment.

  Despite its name, no orcs were to be found inside. The tavern’s previous owner, a full orc, had wagered the Orcs Elbow on the fight between Venir and another. The orcen man lost. Since then, not a single orc had re-entered it. Venir had been comrades with the new owner, Billip, ever since ….

  “So Billip, what’s the wager tonight?” he said, as he sat his body on a groaning stool. The man behind the bar sent a fresh mug of mead sliding his way.

  “Ah, wouldn’t you like in on the action! Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve got ten good gold against Melegal. The dirty donkey of his will be mine, if he can’t throw a bulls-eye—blindfolded—from ten paces.”

  Billip cracked his knuckles, grinning with greed. Also sitting at the bar, a lean figure in loose fitting clothes looked up and rolled his eyes. Billip glared at the skinny man. Billip fidgeted and his dark eyes always seemed to be calculating odds under his mop of short black hair. Nothing appeared extraordinary about his stout, wiry frame or his weathered skin as he moved with fluid purpose about the bar. The tavern owner was a tireless tracker and an unrivaled archer, and as loyal a man as could be found on Bish. Older than Venir, Billip had much experience as a soldier, a trader, and a gambler, which was what might have led to him to live in Two-Ten City in the first place.

  The scout kept his private thoughts to himself and never confirmed it, but Venir suspected that Billip had got in over his head somewhere along the line. The security of this undesirable multi-humanoid city was as good a place to hide as any.

  The other man at the bar, Melegal, pulled his sleeves up along his bony wrists, adjusted his floppy hat, and sucked the froth from his mead. Billip dug around under bar and produced a blackened cloth. Venir sat on a barstool and sipped his mead, smirking at the scene. Melegal pushed himself away from the bar, walked over to Billip and stood as still as a crane. Billip strapped the thick black cloth around the man’s narrow head and stepped back. Melegal the rogue then placed his own mug on top of his head. Not a slosh of the rim filled glass spilled over.

  Melegal now stood blindfolded, on an ‘X’, as the barkeeper then walked over by the adjacent wall. Billip outlined a large gold talent with a piece of white chalk. Venir could see the blinded man’s ear bend as the raunchy tavern’s dwellers were aroused and closing in. Melegal stiffened, but Venir cleared his throat a few times and the thief’s body turned slack. Being blindfolded wasn’t something one normally did in treacherous taverns, but the gold made it worth the risk. Venir bristled in his chair and the audience regressed their crowding. They all had enemies, and no one was ever safe, especially in Two-Ten City.

  “Okay, Me, let me remind you of the rules. You can’t spill a drop off your head, and your hit has to be inside the mark,” he rapped his knuckle on the spot, “… not touching it. Not even close to touching it!”

  Melegal smirked and drew a short flat throwing dagger from inside of his shirt. The betting crowd quieted to a hush. Then, with a flick of his wrist, Melegal’s dagger sliced the air and landed with a heavy thunk, dead center as Billip jerked away his calloused fingers.

  “I didn’t say go, yet!”

  Venir was laughing out loud. He couldn’t remember the last time he did so. When the others got over their amazement they began laughing, too. Billip snatched the dagger out of the wall and threw it into the floor.

  “You wait until I say go—and you don’t get to use your own dagger! That’s cheating and you didn’t let me finish the rules. Don’t move!” Billip said as he scurried away with a furrowed brow.

  Melegal waited, hands on hips, sighing while his challenger hunted, crashed and cursed from back inside the kitchen. The barkeeper returned with a thin row of white teeth and placed an object in the Melegal’s waiting hand. This should be good, Venir thought, leaning back on the bar.

  The blindfolded man ran his delicate fingers over the object and twirled it around with a scowl. Venir could see the mug on the man’s head sloshing around, but not spilling. He
took another drink as he heard Melegal say, “Are you expecting me to throw a wood-handled steak knife into that wall?”

  “Yep,” Billip answered with cheer.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope. House rules. My house. My rules.”

  “It doesn’t even have a point. Its round on the end,” Melegal said, fingering the edge. “I’m surprised you didn’t give me a spoon. This is ridiculous.”

  “Too bad. Double or nothing. No—triple! Make your throw or give me your mule—plus ten gold!”

  Venir covered his mouth as he saw Melegal stiffen at the remark. The two challengers burst into a flurry of unpleasant words. Billip’s trying to get inside his head. There had been a hot issue between the two for sometime over the pack animal called Quickster. The two argued for five minutes over the issue of true ownership. He watched the agitated men, wondering who would swing first and as quick as it started it was over. Both men’s lips were turned tight and all the while Melegal never spilt a drop of his mead. Billip looked over at him and shrugged. Nice try. Someone else from the crowd told them to shut up and get it over with or they would all leave. The two men then got back to business.

  “Wait until I say go,” Billip said.

  “I’m waiting,” the thief replied.

  Billip paced about, checking the blindfold until he was satisfied. The room was tingling with anticipation. The crowd was shuffling coins between their eager hands. Billip the barkeeper raised his arms and voice.

  “Okay—Go!”

  The knife flicked out of the man’s hand like a snake’s tongue and lodged itself inside the circle. The knife handle hung down at an angle. Even with the velocity of that near-impossible throw, Melegal still had not spilt a drop.