The Darkslayer: Book 05 - Outrage in the Outlands Page 2

  He heard one of the Royal youths speak up and say to the onlookers, “Don’t worry, my Lords. I’ll cut out his tongue and feed it to him. Then he’ll not complain about being hungry anymore!” The young warrior ran over and cracked him across the skull with a wooden sword.

  Brak’s head exploded with white lights. Pain filled his eyes. Yet, his hunger was the worst feeling of all. He looked at the faces of the laughing men and women. Compassionless. Cold. The young man that swatted him pumped his fists in the air to a chorus of praise and jubilation. Brak didn’t even wipe the blood that ran down into his eyes. How much more would he have to suffer before he died?

  “Get up!” The sentries said, jerking him to his feet.

  Lord Almen stood up, raised his arms, and said, “I think we’ve had enough enjoyment from the mute, er, former mute,” he bowed, “but the time has come to let the Coming of Age games begin. We’ve all been there, when were young, oh so many decades ago that seem like yesterday.”

  “For you maybe, Lord Almen, you old Griffon!” one of his colleagues offered, hoisting his goblet in the air, then sucking it down.

  “Ah … but my locks don’t share the same gray as yours, Reginald, you son of a Slerg's milk maid.”

  Laughter

  “But now the time has come for the next generation of our Brood to earn their stripes, and who the better to earn them against than some of our former allies turned enemies, the sacrificial Slergs.”

  Boos

  “The Slergs, each and every one save these four, are no more. The House of Almen has seen to that. Now, the time has come to see them pay for all of their betrayals. First,” he emphasized, “there will be death!”

  The men with decorative weaponry rattled their scabbards.

  “Second will come their much overdue deaths!”

  Brak could see their faces bearing down on him and the Slergs like they were nothing more than sheep being slaughtered for a feast. He clutched at his groaning belly. He just wanted it all to be over with. He just wished he could see his mother, Vorla, one last time.

  “You!” Lord Almen pointed at Hagerdon. “Step forward. You’ll be the first to suffer and die, Hagerdon.”

  The guards shoved the Slerg fighter forward and pulled the rest of them back against the wall. Jubilee’s sobbing started up again.

  Hagerdon, busted up with drying blood on his filthy clothes, spoke up.

  “Why don’t you come down here and give me an honorable death yourself, Lord Almen. I’ll even leave my back open for your slat eating—urk!”

  The sentry yanked the collar on his neck. The Slerg fighter jerked away.

  “Assassin!” Hagerdon slipped away. “Sending children to do what you don’t have the guts to do yourself. I challenge, blade for blade, until the bitter end!”

  Brak never realized that laughter could be so annoying. He’d often laughed at his mother’s stories during his short fourteen years of life and at other recountings on the farms, and he was pretty sure that laughter wasn’t to sound like this. It disturbed him.

  Lord Almen, in the meantime, remained poised, hand folded across his lap, a smile forming on the corner of his lips.

  “I’ll tell you what, Hagerdon Slerg. I’ll grant part of your wish. We’ll begin this contest not with wood, but with steel.” He looked over at the sentries and the young men and pointed. “Give those three blades.” Then he tossed something into the arena that Hagerdon snatched out of the air.

  A wooden sword. A short one at that, carved as a complete replica of a real one. The Slerg fighter’s chin bobbed up and down as he studied his useless blade and shrugged, “Better than I expected. May you burn in the furnace soon, Lord Almen,” he said, making an offensive gesture as the three young Royals surrounded him. Brak held his stomach and cringed.

  The young Royals wore leather cuirasses, short over their well-defined stomach muscles, round bucklers strapped to their sinewy arms and light swords Brak believed were called rapiers. Each sword gleamed along its ornate hilt. These were all studded with gems and pearls. The young Royals cut the blades through the air with sharp swish-swish-swish sounds as Hagerdon shuffled in his chains, head whipping back and forth. The Slerg fighter, taller and broader than his opponents, looked over-matched by comparison in his tattered clothes and wooden sword, but he had the look of a seasoned fighter in his hard eyes, which watched them look back and forth at one another.

  “Come on, Boys,” he growled, “haven’t you ever fought a living man before?”

  “Do as you’ve been taught!” one of the Royal trainers ordered. “You’ve done this before, now make this man bleed!”

  The tallest of the three thrust his rapier forward and darted back again. Then the next followed suit, then the other, each blade coming inches from Hagerdon's belly as he shuffled away. Brak watched their every move. He’d seen these moves before.

  Step. Lunge. Retreat. Step. Lunge. Retreat. Step. Lunge. Retreat.

  Hagerdon dodged the tip of one blade and smacked away another, just in time to twist, parry and dodge out of harm’s way.

  “Is that all you little slats have?” he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “I’ve seen dogs handle blades better than that.”

  “Press! Faster!” the trainer ordered.

  Step. Lunge. Retreat. Step. Lunge. Retreat. Step. Lunge. Retreat.

  They were getting faster. Their blades were getting closer, cutting and poking at his unprotected body. For the first time, Brak was seeing what Hagerdon had taught him about how a sword can easily whittle down an unarmed man. Sword versus no sword strategy. Run. But the Slerg fighter had nowhere to run.

  The small crowd began cheering in eager anticipation of the first drop of Slerg blood being spilt. Hagerdon was gasping for air, chains rattling and clanking, a most desperate sound. Brak knew the heavy chains were wearing him down. It was just a matter of time. Fighting the urge to watch the inevitable, he nonetheless watched on, feeling like the room was about to explode at any moment.

  Step. Lunge. Retreat. Step. Lunge. Retreat. Slice!

  The arena erupted in a chorus of cheers as one Royal tore a sliver from Hagerdon’s shoulder.

  “You got first blood, Boy!” one man cried.

  “Finish him!” another said.

  The trainer yelled over them all, saying, “Keep up the pace! Don’t stop!”

  Hagerdon was grimacing underneath his thick head of hair, ducking, dodging and parrying in a more desperate fashion now. His fluidity had become stiff, and his efforts in vain. Brak stood solemnly as he watched the man quickly being whittled down without a fight.

  Slice! Lunge. Retreat. Step. Lunge. Retreat. Step. Lunge. Retreat.

  There was a roar of applause when the Slerg fighter began to bleed from half a dozen wounds. Blood was dripping from his chin to his belly. Brak couldn’t help but wonder if this was the kind of death that awaited him. Not only would he die with an empty stomach, it would have a bloody hole in it, too.

  Step. Lunge. Retreat.

  Whack! Whack! Whack!

  Hagerdon burst in a tornado of blood and tattered clothes, cracking one Royal with his wooden sword so hard he broke his sword arm, drawing a howling cry. For a split second, everyone froze but Hagerdon. He tore the buckler away from one man and whacked the throat of another. Two other young Royals were down on their knees as the Slerg fighter twisted the rapier away from the third and stabbed him in the knee.

  “Stop him!” everyone seemed to shout at the same time, but Hagerdon kept on going.

  One of the young Royals reached after him and had his fingers sliced off. The trainer pulled his sword from his sheath just in time to try and parry Hagerdon from skewing his heart, but he was too late and fell to his knees wide eyed while the Slerg ripped his blade free. A little blood became a lot as he spilled into the dirt and Hagerdon charged towards his nearest opponent.

  Churk!

  Hagerdon’s eyes widened like moons. A spear burst through his chest. One of the sentries
from the stands had hurled the deadly weapon into Hagerdon’s back. Brak was face to face with the man as it happened. The rapier clattered to the ground as he fell to his knees and said through blood soaked lips, “That’s how you go out, Brak.”

  Brak shook within his shackles. He filled with horror as he watched the remaining young Royals came over and take their turns at hacking the dying many down. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the warm blood splattering his face while he clutched his groaning belly.

  CHAPTER 3

  Albino urchlings. Venir had only seen them once before. That had been the last time he saw Chongo, and it seemed like ages ago. He’d moved on. He hunted the ones that would have him dead, as did his comrade and his best friend. Now there were ten of them. Teeth gnashing, claws barred, ready to rip him to shreds. The translucent white little brutes were nothing more than muscles, fangs and claws as sharp as razors charging at him full speed and leaving behind them a trail of dust.

  Venir was red hot with rage. Muscle, steel and magic intertwined and forged the ultimate fighting machine. Brool was singing in his grip, pulsating with power. The eyelets on his helm oozed with a mystic radiance as he crossed the dusty parallel. Man, monster and mayhem met in the middle.

  Venir’s bulging arms chopped into the face of the first screaming urchling, dropping it like a bloody stone. The smaller creatures ducked and rolled away from the deadly arcs of Brool’s sting. Venir could feel their rage and fear intermingle as he plunged his spike into another one's chest. Two!

  Something else lurks nearby, the helm warned.

  Slat! There’s more! Another urchling jumped on his shield, its fangs biting into the rim. Two more clawed and nipped at his feet like starving hounds.

  Chop! Chop!

  They hungered no more, twitching in their own blood.

  A heap of them piled on top of him, tearing into his back and biting into his legs. The scale mail saved him from being ripped to shreds as they tried to pull him to the ground and feast.

  “NO!”

  He pierced the skull of the one hanging on his shield and slung it to the dirt. Five! The little monsters were strong! They latched onto his knees and squeezed him while two more assailed him, howling with bloodlust. He couldn’t let these underlings stop him from getting in the larger fight with the Royal Riders.

  “Fiends!”

  With one urchling hanging on his arm, he hacked into the chest of another. With his shield arm, he grabbed the one hanging from his arm by the neck, squeezed, and pulled it off him. It clawed and scratched like an oversized angry rat in Venir’s arms. He reversed his grip on Brool and began stabbing the two that wrestled and gnawed at his knees.

  Scrunch! Scrunch!

  Eight!

  The tongue of the one in his clutches was juttering from its mouth in an awful hiss as Venir crushed its throat and dropped it to the ground. One still hung on his back, trying to rip the scale mail from his body. The air shimmered around him. All the hairs on his body stood up. Venir whipped his head around. Where is it? He looked up in time to see the underling hovering ten feet above him, hands pointing downward on him, radiating with power. Move! It was too late.

  Venir balled up on the ground, back up, head down.

  CHA —KAOW!

  It felt like lightning was shooting through his nose as everything around him exploded in white hot light.

  ***

  Slim the beetle buzzed through the effort to coordinate the chaos of an underling army that was under attack. His charge: to find and lead to safety two women who had been taken prisoner by underling hunters. As his black and gold wings buzzed through the air, none of the multicolored eyes that gleamed with evil paid him any mind. He soared over their heads, searching for the prisoners.

  The camp, a series of dark grey tents lined up row by row, proved to be a bigger search area than he expected, and it was even more challenging when you were the size of a beetle.

  If I were an underling, where would I hide two humans?

  As the sounds of battle clashed nearby and the giant sized spiders were making their way back, he noticed every underling was moving except for a handful of guards. Armed with serrated spears and adorned in black leather armor, three underling warriors with eyes like hard sapphires chittered back and forth with one another. Behind them was a large pit with a wooden grate dropped over the top of it. Slim flew over the underlings' heads, dropped to the ground on the other side of the pit, and crawled inside.

  His insect senses were aroused at the scent of waste in the air, and his instincts told him he was hungry. I’m craving excrement. I’m not a dung beetle. Just a beetle. He crawled down the dirt wall, his black shell with olive and white color blending in as he went farther and farther down. The pit was deeper than he expected, and he noticed hand and footholds dug into the dirt on the other side. What purpose did the underlings have for keeping the women alive? For the most part, anytime underlings came into contract with humans, or any other race, they left them for dead.

  Making his way to the bottom, he let his antennas start feeling around. He could see the light coming from the top of the cage, but the shadows below left everything pitch black. He sensed vibrations of movement in the area, and sounds vibrated through his butt and into his head. He couldn’t tell if the women were in there or not, but something was. There was only one way to find out.

  Here goes.

  His shell started cracking. His body expanded, warbled and returned to normal. Slim arched his back and stretched his long limbs. “Ah … that’s better.” He peered through the darkness where two huddled figures shivered.

  “Adanna?” he said. “Is that you? It’s me, Slim,” he said, squatting down and touching a woman’s leg.

  She flinched.

  As his eyes adjusted, her form took on a more distinct shape. Both of the women’s figures became more defined, but there was something unnatural in the air. Slim shuffled back, hands out as an overwhelming sense of evil lurked within the pit. As his heart began pounding in his chest, he mumbled a protection spell. The suffocating shadow of the unknown retreated as Slim stepped forward, summoning more magic, and a soft glow erupted in the palm of his hand.

  The two women, Adanna and her mother, trembled as they held on to one another for their dear lives. They were bound together with silky cords, like webs that spiders shoot and something else. That’s when he heard a sucking sound, and Adanna let out a heavy sob. The mother’s body lurched. That’s when Slim noticed red eyes glimmering along the walls and on the women’s bodies. Dozens of them popped open all at once. Spiders, bigger than his hands like tarantulas, began to detach themselves from the women and scurry towards him. Oh my!

  He glanced above. The day's light looked like it was a mile off. He looked down as a spider sped his way, and he stomped it under his sandal. The pit erupted with a sound like squealing rats as the tiny horde of spiders darted at him. Above, the underlings chittered, gemstone eyes peering downward, the soft glow of his hand giving him away.

  “Not good,” he said, stomping each and every spider he could into the ground. The blood sucking spiders bit into his ankles. “Ow! Dratted bugs!” There was no sense in holding back; the underlings knew he was in there. “Enough!” He summoned more energy into his hands, and both burst aglow in white hot fire. The spiders burst into char as he grabbed, crushed or swatted them away. “How many of these things are there!”

  They burned. They fried. They died. One palmful at a time. He burned the webs away from Adanna and her mother and shook them both. The mother was dead. An empty feeling overcame Slim, and Adanna sobbed as he wiped her nose with his robes. “Come on. I have to get you out of here.” The buxom woman didn’t move, quivering. People on Bish, no matter how hard they were, were never prepared for what the underlings had to offer.

  He looked her over. Wounds, dozens of spider bites, covered her in red welts from head to toe. They weren’t poisonous, but they fed off her blood. Some spiders were like mosquito
es, and others ate flesh like rodents. A few dozen spiders could easily kill a man as big as Venir if you didn’t kill them first. He cupped Adanna's face in his palms and muttered under his breath. He felt his skin tighten as he fed his life force into her, sealing her wounds and charging her blood. He sagged to the ground.

  “Slim?” she said, reaching down and hugging his lanky bones. “Are you all right?” she said, pulling him up to his feet.

  He leaned on her and said, “I’ll be fine in a moment.” He looked up through the pit at where the underlings had removed the grate. “But I’m not so sure we have that long to wait.”

  They came. Two sand spiders as big as large dogs, tan with white ringed tails, scurried into the pit and cast a blanket of webbing above them. There was no way out now.

  Adanna squeezed her arms around Slim’s waist, looked up, and screamed just as the new spiders made their descent.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Fidderbay! Fidderbay! Fidderbay!” Fogle Boon chanted as the giant foot stomped him into the ground. His face smashed into the rock and dirt. His body shuddered under the weight as it squished and contracted but did not bust. His bones didn’t crack, and his skull wasn’t crushed. The magic spell had worked. Fidderbay was an odd spell, made more for trick and fun than anything else, something he’d mastered as a young boy when they played games at school. The Fidderbay spell made you and your attachments soft and porous like a sponge. Still, he could feel the giant’s foot trying to grind him into dust. Think and Live!

  He shifted onto his back, and the giant lifted his boot up. The giant cocked its head as it stared down on him, eyes full of confusion. Fogle tried to yell for Cass, but his mouth felt like it was filled with cotton. The spell rendered any other incantations impossible, but it didn’t last very long. The giant raised its club over its head and swung down with all its power. Please keep working.

  Wham!

  The giant struck him full in the chest. All of his blood rushed to his head, fingers and toes, stretching his skin to the limits. It fell like a geyser was trying to burst through his skull, and his eyes bulged from the sockets. His brain screamed, but his body remained intact, retaking its natural shape. Fogle was panting as he started to pat down his chest. I live.