The Darkslayer: Book 01 - Wrath of the Royals Page 11

  He stared at the man’s smoky eyes, sniffed the intoxicating liquor, pausing before he drained it. He licked his teeth and smacked his lips. Something didn’t seem quite right, but the grog tasted fine.

  “That was good,” he said, grinning. “How about another? Make it two!”

  It wasn’t long before he was feeling at home and more rain soaked patrons sauntered in, leaving burning looks on his back. He sat at the bar, hunched like a yeti on a stool. A fine red-head struck up a conversation at his side. She was voluptuous, smelling like a dozen different flowers, with the mouth of an ornery troubadour. He captivated her with his story from the night before. Her painted eyes were inviting as she twirled a lock of his hair and straddled one long leg over his.

  She whispered in his ear, jostling his manhood.

  “I wish I could have been there to see it.”

  They shared a few more rounds and Sam offered him another drink. She tried to pull his arm away.

  “Haven’t you had enough? I don’t want you do pass out on me?”

  Venir laughed.

  “There’s no chance of that,” he said, ogling her.

  He turned to the other patrons and toasted her, roaring his drunken thanks and describing her comely body in a booming voice that all could hear. Then he shot back the grog and slammed the tumbler down. There was a low, wicked chuckle from somewhere in the room.

  The grog had tasted different this time, he noticed—more bitter and intoxicating. The face of the captivating woman before him began to stretch in many directions. His body began to shiver and the floor wobbled. He heard her voice, but couldn’t understand her words. He thought he heard laughter coming from her perfect red lips. His brows buckled as he growled, clutching at the bar, hanging on for his life. Then floor smashed him full in the face. He didn’t feel a thing.

  CHAPTER 23

  A single candle-lit lantern illuminated a damp dungeon cell below the restless City of Bone. Rats the size of cats scurried about on the moldy stone floors, feasting on any leftover scraps or excrement that would fill them. The leftover bones of long past occupants were crunched and consumed with rabid jaws.

  A lone man chained to the wall of the cell was snoring, his deep rumblings keeping the hungry rats at bay from his dangling toes. Long, stringy locks of sweaty blonde hair hung over his battered face. Dirty, ragged clothes still covered most of his beaten body. He had slept through every blow, disturbing the dungeon guards. They decided to hang him in his cell until he came around while assuring one another that he had felt something.

  The guards did not realize the significance of this man, nor did they care. The slumbering man seemed at peace, as if his conscience was clear, oblivious of any crimes he had committed. He was not some upstart citizen that crossed the wrong path, instead a killer. Not of the common sort that struck the blind in the night, or kidnapped women and babes. He was more than that. He was a killer that had survived endless years with cold deference. Peril was his bedfellow. Venir was his name.

  He didn’t realize he had been serving the greater good of Bish for quite some time. He was the one the underlings called the scourge of their kind. He had decimated their ranks, time and again. They wanted dead him, a kingdom for his head. Now the outland butcher was shackled by another set of enemies for other reasons. The underlings did not realize their thorn was little more than a common man who hung helpless at the mercy of softer opponents. No, the name of Venir meant nothing to the underlings, for they called this human by a different name. With great hatred and reverence, they called him the Darkslayer.

  CHAPTER 24

  He awoke disoriented, chained, and hanging from a wall in a small, smelly cell. An angry grunt aggravated the throbbing in his head. His hands were numb as they bled within the tight shackles on his thick wrists. His sudden snort jostled an unkempt, heavyset guard that was leaning against the wall, asleep in his chair. The young guard rubbed his eyes and tilted all four legs back to the stony floor. The guard scratched his unshaven chin and looked through the bars at him.

  “Finally got yer hide didn’t they, tough guy?” the guard said, spitting tobacco through the cell bars falling short of his swelling feet.

  Venir uttered a faint laugh, drawing a perturbed look from the guard’s pimply face. The guard unlocked the cell, swung back its barred door, strode up to him and spat thick dark tobacco juice full in his face.

  “What d’ya think of that, tough guy?”

  “I think,” he replied in a hardened voice, “you’ll be the first to die.”

  The guard slammed his fat fist straight into his stomach.

  “Ah!”

  The guard winced, shaking his wrist. The guard gave him an uncertain look, stepped out of the cell, and locked it shut. Holding his wrist, the man skittered out of sight where a heavy door opened and closed in the distance.

  Venir checked out his dreary surroundings. Bone! Dungeon floors were like a second home to him. They were all the same no matter where you were. They were foul, and slick with centuries old muck and grime. It was not something he ever got used to, but he had been in worse. The chubby city guard was the same as the rest. The young rookie was fresh meat and he had no desire to kill him, just punish him.

  As black juice ran down his chin, onto his chest, he tugged at his chains. He inspected the chains that bound him. They were rusted, made for a lesser man. The cell door looked like its better days passed decades ago. A solid kick would take it from the hinges. He had barreled through thicker steel when he had too.

  Why was he here? He traced the last steps he recalled. The Chimera. A cherry headed woman with an unrivaled plunging neckline and soft milky thighs was there. A faint smile crossed his cracked lips. The grog, syrupy, biting and divine had turned his belly sour. Drugged? Poisoned? He wanted to figure it out. He thought to wrench the chains from the wall and walk out. He was drained and sluggish and his eyes ached as they opened and closed. It wasn’t in him.

  Patience was the better plan, but he had doubts. One could never trust the City Watch, controlled by the Royal brethren. They would slit a woman’s throat with little more than a word, he had seen it before. If he was drugged, he wanted to know who and why. He was ticked off and embarrassed to have been duped by himself at the tavern.

  To make matters worse, his nose was aching and the rest of his body throbbed under his skin. But it could have been worse: nothing felt broken, not even a rib. He was lucky all he had was a headache and not a cracked skull. He had tasted steel toed boots before. Who would have gone to all this the trouble over him? It must have been the Royals and he had crossed their turf once too often.

  He drifted into sleep only to awaken to biting pain and discomfort as he shifted in his shackles. The next few hours were agonizing as they passed. He dozed off, heavy in dreams when the sound several footsteps disturbed his sleep. His mind seemed to trudge through the mud, eyes cracking open to see what was about to befall him.

  Four figures strode into full view at the cell door: the chubby guard that spat on him, a rugged-faced man marked as a warden, a tall familiar brown-haired man, and an older, elegant and powerful-looking man. Royals. His blood began to stir.

  The pair of royal men both towered over the guards and looked to be father and son. He knew one of them well enough and his nose ached at the sight. Their rich clothing bore the insignia’s of upper-class Royals and their appearance in the dungeon seemed misplaced. He shifted in his shackles, head down and eyes up.

  The ugly warden with a rough voice spoke first.

  “It hasn’t taken you long to wind up here again, I see.”

  Venir didn’t reply, but was all ears.

  “You’ve been brought in for assault of a Royal and theft,” the warden continued, “and threatening a city guard. What do you say to that scum?”

  “It’s crap.”

  Venir’s voice was dry and cracked.

  “I’m here because I beat that loudmouthed little braggart in a fair challenge. I emb
arrassed him and all of his little brood.”

  Tonio’s face reddened with fury, gripping the hilt of his longsword.

  “That’s not true!”

  A strong hand held his grip in place.

  “Father he tried to cheat me. I broke his nose for it. Look!”

  Venir winced at the lies.

  “Did you tell your daddy how much money you lost, boy? It was quite a bit, I recall!”

  Tonio was shaking with rage.

  “Lying crook! You attacked me from behind and stole my money!”

  It was preposterous now. One lie would come after the next. It was their kind’s way. I should have killed him. He knew it was best to remain silent, but silence was not his forte’.

  “You mean your father’s money? And how would you have seen me attacking you from behind?” he said, almost laughing now.

  “He’s a liar, dad! He didn’t beat me! He’s a thief! Open the door! Open it!”

  The young man was losing control.

  “I’ll tear this vermin to pieces! You scum! You’ll rot in this cell or die by my sword!”

  A sharp backhand slapped into the Tonio’s frothing face. Venir laughed out loud. Silenced and dejected, Tonio looked away, holding his lip. Venir stuck out his tongue, making a funny “phlllyt” sound, though it pained him to do so. He might lose his tongue for it, but he couldn’t resist. You gotta keep a sense of humor, even on the worst days.

  Tonio stormed from the room, wailing obscenities.

  As the young Royal was out of shouting distance the father spoke. The city guards kept their eyes downcast like fearful children about to be stricken. Whoever the man was, he had great command of his subjects. An uneasy feeling crept over Venir. He realized he had crossed the wrong people. His vacation in the City of Bone was over.

  The older Royal’s words seemed to control the air with the power of a strong breeze.

  “No food and ten lashes a day, until I return.”

  Before the man left, he turned, casting a sharp glance his way.

  “What a waste of a man. I could have used a brute like you. If you were one of us you might not be left in the rot. See to it he doesn’t regain his strength. I like seeing them die at their worst, not their best.”

  The Royal father turned and walked away, leaving Venir with a sinking feeling.

  “Unless you’re lucky enough to die within a week,” the warden told him, “you’ll be calling this dungeon home for most of your life. You won’t get a trial, you’ll just have your decrepit body hanged or quartered. I‘d like to see a big fellow like you pulled apart. Now that’d be something I’d pay for. You messed with the wrong people. They’ve got the money and power to make you pay. You should know that.”

  “I can leave when I choose,” Venir said, but his words were not convincing. “Nobody can do anything about it.”

  The warden laughed.

  “Yeah, right! Run all you want , they’ll catch you. The Royal’s always get their man. War games and your less than a pawn.”

  The guards left him hanging alone in his cell crushed by his thoughts. War games. It was something he avoided over the years, now he was caught in the middle. He knew he was a pawn, no more or less, to die at their whim.

  He had taken his own games too far. The Outlands were dangerous abroad, a face to face element, but the belly of Bone was just as bad. Now he was there, the same place he crawled out of years ago. He had been charged with lesser charges before; intoxication, damage to public property, provocative speeches, or skimming, but not by a Royal. His shenanigan’s roused little fervor and cost no more than a few days in a dingy hole. Now someone had it in for him, and his future in the City of Bone was uncertain, if not all of Bish.

  The Royals were the elite rulers of the city and lesser men had no rights over them. If a Royal accused you, you were guilty. You were either indebted with impossible fines, killed, or spent years—decades, even—in the dungeons to rot. Many opted for suicide, which sometimes passed the burden onto any family to finish suffering their fate. The best way to thrive in Bone was by steering clear of the Royals or doing as they said. It was slavery without saying so.

  As bad as that seemed, it was easy to avoid such troubles, because the Royals were a fragment of the wretched population. One could lay low on a frivolous encounter as the twisting city offered many places to hide. The common faces were easy to forget.

  In addition, the City Watch was incapable of enforcing all the ludicrous accusations of the Royals. There was too much crime and not enough manpower. The City Watch and Royals had enemies that didn’t like them either, and did not fear to strike back. Several areas were not even patrolled, and these were the areas Venir would frequent. He was safe in the dark local areas, and he knew that the guards there only pursued criminals after a major offense. And anyway, major crimes were more lucrative for the city guards. His petty ones were not.

  So why was he captured, shackled and left to perish in the rot? After some hard thinking and remembering his encounter with Tonio several days ago, it dawned on him. The Royal warrior’s ego was bigger than his own. All of this over a fair bet. There was no honor in it, but Royals only had honor among their own.

  As he hung in the gloom his own faults became clear. He ignored his friend’s warnings and didn’t play by their own rules. Booze and ego intertwined into a bad mixer of his poor judgment and lust. Ah, but that fire-topped red head was worth the shot. Still, his actions were a no-no in their business. A rich, smart, and vengeful man could just pay a spotter to alert him when a foe was around. No more than an urchin or decrepit geezer seeking a goblet of wine would track a man for a mile around.

  He should have known this little warrior would have it in for him, but even he was cocky and stupid. Unlike most people in the City of Bone, he never felt in danger there. Not since he was a boy. He was too weathered by his ventures in the Outlands, a hardened soldier, and he had seen horrors the common people had never heard of. Besides, dark grog can make a red-blooded man feel invincible, and in his case, it worked most of the time. Only one thing made him feel mightier. Brool … his war-axe.

  So here he was in a dank gray cell, hanging in chains, feeling hungry, foolish, and hung-over. A slow hour had passed before he heard a scratchy voice reveal itself from a pile of rags adjacent to his cell.

  “Hey … Vee. What’s up?”

  It was Melegal, huddled in a heap of cloth that began to take shape. He was not surprised, but glad to see the man. He had long gotten over his amazement of the rogue’s way of appearing out of nowhere.

  “Nothing, just hanging,” he replied in a sour voice.

  Melegal explained that as soon as he’d found out he was in the dungeon, he had himself arrested for calling a City Watchman a “big, ugly, cow-loving orc-face”. Now, the rogue had already escaped his first cell and managed to sneak into the dungeon he now occupied. Melegal wanted to make sure he got out of jail; he needed him around for protection and profits. This was the surviving nature of their relationship, and it worked well for both men.

  The thief had been raised from birth in the City of Bone and knew its history well. Venir had met with him in one of many orphanages he wound up in not long after his family was slaughtered. Venir hit it off with Melegal, though most did not. The orphanage offered the adventuresome boys few comforts or choices. Their days were filled with hard labor performed beneath the castles of the great city. Months would sometimes pass before he ever caught a glimpse of sunlight.

  Many hopeless and pain-filled years passed for him, but Melegal always hung by his side. Days went by without food and he watched many others die without hope. Others disappeared. Out of all the children he had come to know, Melegal would have been the last he picked to survive. He did what he could, and the scrawny crumb snatcher did the same for him. He and the thief grew bold enough to escape and live on their own in the City of Bone. Once they found freedom, they never looked back. The past was best forgotten.

  The p
air managed just fine despite their young age. But, over time Melegal branched out to test his own skills, while he, who had been born in the Outlands, was drawn to the barren lands where he felt best. It wasn’t long after the takeover of Outpost Thirty-One that Melegal had come back to settle again in Bone. Venir spent his time in many lands and cities, but much of the time he came back to Bone. This had been going on for the past five years.

  He looked across at Melegal, thinking how funny it was that this gaunt man always looked the same. The thief’s face was neither welcoming nor threatening. His steel gray eyes drew a savory woman now and then. The man had a smile, but hid that for the fairer sex. His half-shaven face, salt and pepper hair and dimpled chin gave the man an older appearance. As far as he knew they were about the same age, but neither knew how old that was. The rogue was still wearing loose fitting drab clothes and had on an odd black cloth hat. It hung like a wet leaf down the right side of his head. Why it was so special to his friend, he did not know.

  Their friendship was sparked in the orphanage, the day some bullies snatched a similar hat from Melegal. He whipped the bullies that same day and took back the hat. He did not know why he did it, but he was beaten for it. Good deeds were punished. The raw-boned boy was at his side ever since.

  Men always hated Melegal’s hat, but women of late, for some reason, loved to play and comment on it. He never understood the importance of the hat, but found it funny when his friend explained that it made him look ‘distinguished’.