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

  Melegal could pick locks, pockets, and traps with ease. He could squeeze like a contortionist into crevices and through bars. He was unnoticeable by day and invisible in the dark, and he just loved to steal and skim. The man was born to it. He was born to blow it all too. They shared the same passion for grog, ale, and women and neither had anything to show for it. It almost bothered him.

  “So, do you want me to get you out of this one,” asked Melegal, unlocking his cell and walking in, “… shall I sneak you out again? Maybe I’ll unchain you ... stupid.”

  “Just get me some food and drink, Melegal.”

  “Oh no,” the thief added, wagging his finger. “They clearly stated you’re not to eat for two days. Sorry, but rules are rules here in the palisades.”

  Not this again. He knew the thief was mad at him for his blunder, because it would cost them business while he wasn’t on the streets. He was Melegal’s bodyguard, so to speak. In turn, the thief felt he had to come to jail to protect him and maybe help him escape.

  The thief was cleaning his nails with a thin blade while leaning against the wall. He knew his friend wanted him to admit his mistake. Melegal always played these games, but had never got him to acknowledge any mistake. And the thief was always too impatient to pass on the next business transaction. The man wanted to regain his lost profits. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them the man had disappeared. He grunted and closed his eyes again. He heard nothing. Where was he?

  The minutes seemed like hours. A sound of footfalls caught his slumbering ears. He cracked his eyes open, expecting to see his friend. Instead, two familiar guards entered, one carrying a whip in a coarse hand.

  The dungeon warden looked at him with big, cruel, fish eyes. The chubby recruit fidgeted with his neck collar, eye’s wide like a child at the first day of school.

  “On yer feet, dirt!” the warden said with a snarl. “Time for yer beating.”

  “I’m sorry trout face, but I can’t,” he said, twitching his feet.

  “Ew … that will cost ya an extra ten, smart aleck. I’m gonna enjoy this,” said the warden with a sinister gap-toothed smile.

  The recruit gave a nod, sticking his chest out a bit further, looking over the warden’s shoulder. It was a bonding moment between student and teacher. Venir almost laughed, but his head hurt too much.

  The two guards unlocked, unchained, and half-dragged him to a blood stained block in the back of the little dungeon. His limbs were stiff and aching, his head still full of bad medicine. They clamped his wrists with metal cuffs and attached them to a pair of hanging chains. Each chain was thick, two feet long and attached to a thick steel ring mounted on the ceiling ten feet above.

  “Spread yer legs!” said the torturer in his ear.

  The man’s foul breath reeked of tobacco juice and decaying teeth. The warden kicked his legs into a wide straddle, while the recruit shackled them to similar rings on the floor. His predicament was getting worse and the cavalry didn’t seem to be coming his way. Where is that thief?

  Venir looked like a big X. He hoped somewhere in the dungeon the thief was hid, but there was no sign as he strained his head around. The warden punched him in the jaw, rocking back his head as he closed his eyes and grimaced. He heard the recruit checking his chains as the warden went over the steps.

  “One, two, three, whip!”

  Venir heard a sharp crack. There was no pain, but sweat began to glisten on his head.

  “That’s how you do it boy. What you learned in training has no meaning here? Go ahead, give my lash a go.”

  The warden passed it over to the eager recruit’s hands.

  Crack!

  The warden rubbed his chin saying, “Not bad boy. Not bad at all.”

  Venir was uneasy now. Where’s that thief? He was certain that the guards were ready to start whipping.

  “Tell you what, I’ll do the first fifteen,” said the ugly torturer, holding out his hand, “and you finish the last five. Well … maybe seven. It’ll be good training for you. Now, pay attention. You don’t have to hit hard to make it hurt. Just watch the ol’ expert, I’ve done it thousand times.”

  The warden snapped the whip with a crack that cut through the stale air. The recruit nodded, wide-eyed, as the warden reached to rip off Venir’s shirt.

  Suddenly, the door burst open.

  Finally!

  Tonio strode in, and pushed in front of the two guards. The Royal was consumed with rage and began spitting obscenities in his face.

  Not Melegal. Not good!

  He mustered enough strength to roll his eyes at the belligerent man.

  “Hand over the whip!” Tonio screamed at the warden.

  “Don’t you give me orders!” the warden said in a growl. “That’s my job.”

  Tonio was incensed, rolling up on the man’s toes and sneering down on him.

  “Oh—so you don’t mind losing favor with a high-ranking Royal, do you?” The warden started to stammer, but a hard slap across the cheek stopped him. “I could have you killed, and you know it!”

  The grizzled warden stood his ground, looking for a moment like he might turn the whip on the Royal brat. But Tonio hissed in his ear.

  “If you even think of using that whip on me, I’ll flay the skin off your back, your families, while the fat farm boy over there digs your grave to dump you in.”

  The warden held Tonio’s gaze while fire burned in both men’s eyes. But the veteran of the dungeon was no match for a trained young warrior like Tonio. At last, the warden handed over the whip. Venir was beginning to awaken as the thought of impending pain was on its way.

  “Remove his shirt!” Tonio ordered the recruit who looked at the warden.

  “Do as he says,” the warden said, with a quick nod.

  “I’m gonna scar every inch of his filthy back,” Tonio said, strutting around the room cracking the whip, “and make him scream for mercy! I may even bust his nose again!”

  The chubby recruit ripped his cotton jerkin down to the waist in a few tugs. The recruit stumbled back, staring at Venir in confusion. Imprinted between his knotted shoulders, over the bullish muscles of his scarred back was a large black ‘V’.

  Tonio cracked the whip.

  “Let me flay that stupid tattoo off your back, dog!”

  Venir was subdued, head drooped, yet his breathing was growing heavier, and the room seemed to darken as something bustled in the torch light. Unnoticed, his eyes appraised the rusty shackles around his ankles. Gotta do this before he tears the skin off my back. He had been whipped before and never got used to it. If he could avoid it, he would, but his body wasn’t responding to his commands fast enough. No woman was worth a whipping. Redheads.

  Tonio drew back the whip. The rookie guard took a long step back while the warden grinned. The air was hot with fresh anticipation.

  The whip came down in the middle of the tattoo spanning his expansive back.

  Crack!

  Venir had no control over the snarl that ripped from his parched lips. His corded arms were as taunt as steel as he wrenched the metal loop out of the stone ceiling. He twisted his legs from the rusting shackles on the floor. A loud ringing followed as he ripped the chain clean from the weathered wrist cuff. A full two feet of heavy chain now hung in his clutched palm like a snake of steel. His eyes were blazing, his face wild with fury. .

  Tonio shuffled back alongside the stunned warden. On a foolish instinct, the grim warden charged him.

  Crunch!

  Venir shattered the man’s jaw with his fist, dropping him to the cobbled floor. The warden was out cold. He turned on Tonio with hot vengeance in his eyes. The Royal dropped the whip and went for his sword. It was half out of its sheath when the thick chain smote his hand, breaking bone. Tonio screamed, cursing and clutching his wrist.

  Venir’s face was pure contempt. Tonio grabbed for the whip with his other hand, but Venir whipped the chain across Tonio’s shoulders, imprinting a memory of pain that wo
uld last the young warrior his lifetime.

  With a face full of agony, the tough Royal stood straight up, one fist raised as the other dropped at his side. It was the first time Tonio took a full look at him. This was not the warrior from the City of Three that he had faced in the Chimera. Venir was a different being, over six feet of corded brawn, scars, anger, with shoulders hulking like a legendary Minotaur. The iron-blue eyes held no mercy and the jaw of granite had no words. He appeared almost inhuman, filled with doom and fury, but endowed with some primal ability to survive and punish all of his enemies.

  “You’re nothing but a street dog!” Tonio cried, too arrogant to acknowledge the danger. “That’s all you’ll ever be!”

  Venir twisted the chain off of his right cuff and tossed it to the floor. He closed in on the defiant royal, who punched him in the jaw with a hard smack that drew blood. He spat it out, blocked the next punch, and countered with a right uppercut to the belly, lifting the man off of his feet.

  “Ooomph!”

  Tonio fell to his knees, winded, but groaned up again. Venir then let it out, shattering the man’s ribs with hammer-like blows, dropping the man to the floor like a bag of sand.

  Somehow Tonio struggled back to his feet. The man tried to spit out a curse, but only produced bloodied spittle that ran down his scabbed chin. Venir blackened the man’s eye, broke his nose, and shattered the loudmouth jaw with a mallet of a punch. Tonio was out cold, his face bleeding on the cobblestone floor.

  Venir was breathing heavy as he eyed his surroundings. He noticed the trembling recruit holding out a ring of keys with his eyes shut. He knocked him out with a single blow, then scooped up the keys

  Despite all of the violence, only a minute had passed since the whip crossed his bleeding back. The constant rumblings from the streets above had muffled the chaos from those who might have been close enough to hear. Guards would be coming soon, he was certain. He scanned for Melegal. He was gone, and only a small red apple was left behind in his cell. With the keys and the apple, he slipped out of the old dungeon.

  It was dusk outside the small compound as he made his way deep into the worst part of the city. He had snatched a cloak from a merchant stand and pulled it over. He headed back to his stomping ground, the Drunken Octopus. Melegal sat back in the corner, by a stone fireplace, with food, grog and ale ready.

  Venir wasn’t feeling happy.

  “What happened to you? I got whipped—blast you thief!”

  He grabbed a loaf of bread and stuffed it in his jaw, washing it down with pitcher of ale.

  The thief tilted his head and matter-of-factly said, “You had it coming—buffoon.”

  He would have split another man for it, but not his friend. He nodded as he wiped his mouth and sat down.

  “So I did.”

  Not much was said as his hunger surpassed his anger while he stuffed bites of cheese and meat in his face.

  “Coffee!” he yelled, hitting the table.

  The gray one sipped at his wine.

  “So, the new guard seemed to recognize you.”

  He shrugged.

  “He didn’t look familiar. I may have met him sometime, somewhere on the outskirts of the city. There are still normal people out there, you know. Where do you think all this food comes from?” He waggled a chicken bone in his friends face.

  “Smarter than he looked, taking a shot on the jaw to save his job. It might even get him a promotion.”

  Venir gave the thief a funny look. How did Melegal get back there so fast? He let it go.

  “It was either that or die.”

  “Oh, I know how you farm boys stick together. You wouldn’t do that.”

  “Sure.” His once snarling lips now began to form a relaxed smile. “You could at least have stolen the whip!”

  “Oh, I thought you pig stickers enjoyed that sort of thing. Why end your fun? Besides, I thought you were looking a little homesick.”

  “You’re sick in the head, Melegal,” he said, losing his smile.

  “Well, who’d notice better than you,” the thief retorted.

  He chuckled as his friend poured more wine. A scrawny waitress with short clipped hair brought over a pot of coffee and poured him a cup, spilling it on the table. He scowled at her and she scowled back before walking away.

  “I hate her. She always spills something.”

  “Well Vee, you’ll live. She looks better than the orcs of Two-Ten.”

  “Not much prettier though.”

  “Hah. She’s not that bad. Just a dirty little waif … she’ll come around.”

  Venir didn’t say a word, but the coffee was good.

  Melegal continued, “I’m getting curious. You’ve changed since I last crossed the Outlands with you, and you spend so much time out there these days. One day I might even follow you there again.” The thief began cleaning his nails. “People around here talk about you, you know.”

  Venir half smiled.

  “You wouldn’t want to go back. There are no easy pickings in the Outlands. You know that. Still, it would be good to have you along again.”

  “I hear stories, you know. Most of the good ones mention the Darkslayer. Do you ever come across the Darkslayer?”

  “Don’t start.”

  The thief leaned back in his chair. It had been almost five years since Melegal had left Bone. The Outlands and the thief didn’t mix well. No comfort or companionship. It was the city life for the rogue and Melegal wanted no part of the underlings either.

  Venir hated to leave, but the Outlands drew him back. The underlings beckoned him. He was the Darkslayer and he relished in that role. He liked the stories people told about him, truth or lie, good or bad. His secret was safe with the thief, because the Darkslayer didn’t play inside the City of Bone. He still kept many things from the thief and the years had changed him indeed ….

  Venir broke the awkward silence.

  “Quit patronizing me and drink some grog, girlie boy!”

  The morning came and the small suns burned bright again. The pair talked little, ate and drank much. The blazing surfaces of the Outlands were calling for Venir and he could think of nothing else. The underlings were waiting on him. Crawled inside dank caves, buried in foul marshes, they dug in and he was beginning to lose sleep over it

  CHAPTER 25

  Southwest of the City of Bone was the Underland, home of the underlings. It was a catacomb of caves that began in a vast mountain range and went down as far as the mountains were high. No human or any other race could confirm that though. Yet, it was true. Aside from the underlings, only a few people of Bish knew much about the Underland. Not many would dare to venture into the belly below those breathtaking mountains whose icecaps were miles high.

  Those who went in, not of their own freewill, didn’t come out; the countless captives never escaped, but were sometimes released. Their ghoulish tales had helped fuel the fabled fear of the underlings. The horrors they spoke of swept through the lands of Bish like the wind itself. Hence, no one ventured near the mouths of the Underland.

  For underlings, the Underland could be reached through a network of cave entrances, large and small. The entrances sat like open mouths at the base of the nameless mountains. There were stories of monsters, treasure and lost cities in those mountains, but only the icy winds knew for sure. The underlings kept the daring adventurers at bay. Whatever lived in the mountains stayed there, and everyone preferred it that way.

  The caves that led down into the Underland were steep grades, dropping away from the light that disappeared with every step. No guards could be found at any of them, for there was no need. Anyone other than an underling fool enough to enter would be lost, if not ensnared.

  The black walls were slick and shiny when illuminated and the dripping water sometimes echoed and created endless streams through the dark caverns. The black tunnels contained no light or life, but, if one ventured deep enough, a faint blue glow would begin to outline the subterranean walls. This
was called the underlight, and its source was said to be the magic from deep below Bish itself.

  The true source came from the powerful underling magi’s that ruled the Underland. The underlight had arisen from ancient spells cast millenniums ago, and even the underlings did not have record of who was responsible. This day, deep beneath the mountains, the underlight illuminated a disturbing scene.

  Side by side before a thick pool of blood, two robed figures contemplated a recent project. One rubbed his hands together as the other nodded his head. Unlike common underling soldiers, each radiated great mystic power. The pair wore dark robes laced and inlaid with intricate patterns that gave off a faint silver glow.

  Only their hands and heads protruded as they floated above the damp cave floor. Their thick black hair was short and wiry above the ears. Like all underlings, their physical frames were humanoid and lither than their hated human rivals. Their ashen skin was covered with a fine, silky fur like that of rats. Their hands ended in long, thick black nails filed into points. Only their eyes and faces distinguished one underling from another. Their eyes could be any color on Bish, and their heads could be round or thin, large or small. But they all had an evil countenance and gray teeth.

  “What a work of art!”

  His silver eyes were narrow as he surveyed dozens of deep lacerations and scalpel-like wounds on three humans shackled to the wet cavern wall.

  “Master Sinway will like this one.”

  “It’s one of our best yet, Verbard,” the taller of the two agreed, his golden eyes sparkling while gazing at the humans.