The Darkslayer: Book 03 - Underling Revenge Page 21

  Jeb stood half-naked, pumping his short powerful arms in the air. He was meat, muscle and hard bone, with a block jaw and a broad chest of thick hair. He looked more like a grappler than a brawler, but his biceps suggested he had thrown a thousand punches or two. It was clear that the man had been trained in combat sometime in his life. Some ugly white scars were bald under his hairy chest, and a long white gash ran across his shoulder and neck. There was a brand on his arm, a symbol of certain fighters. This man had fought in Two-Ten City before, in the Pit. Great.

  The coins were singing in Jeb’s favor. The women began to catcall Jeb now as they hung on his gang's arms, squealing with delight. Jeb punched the air a bit as one of the men rubbed his shoulders. Sam tossed the iron gauntlets over to one of the other men. Jeb shoved his hands inside and punched his fist into his hand. The chainmail made a rattling sound, like tiny bones breaking. The man took a swig of grog, swished it around his mouth and swallowed.

  Melegal pulled off his vest and shirt in a single motion and handed them over to Haze. His pants looked too large on him now, as the belt that held them up was tight around his waist. He felt cold as every eye in the room looked upon him. You could see his bones where there was no muscle, only tendon. He was pale and chicken-chested, his stomach sunken in from the looks of starvation. There wasn’t a single hair on his chest, only scars, some small, others large. His elbows were knobby, as were his shoulders. His hair seemed longer than it had before, as if it was the only living thing on his body. When he moved, a thin, tested layer of muscle rippled underneath his pathetic skin. When he felt Haze’s hand run along one of the scars on his back, he fought the need to twist away.

  “Somebody feed the man before he fights!”

  “Don’t let the wafer die hungry, too!”

  The room was an eruption of laughter. Even Sam, always business-like, seemed amused. Velvet the whore had wrapped her arms around one of the thugs, a mocking smile on her lips. He snatched the gauntlets that were coming his way from the air and slipped them on. Their warm and heavy metal bit into his skin. They had been made for a bigger and heavier man. He squeezed his hand inside; his bony hand could do little inside the slack. The old leather within was tattered and dry. He squeezed his fingers into a fist, open and closed. His palms began to perspire and stick to the leather. Loosen up. You can do this.

  Sam spoke up, “It’s almost that time! Just one more thing to do!”

  Sam walked over and patted Jeb down. Melegal knew the man had no other weapons, but he looked covertly for other things: poison, powder, acid, or anything else the man could put on his gloves. Sam was careful, keeping the men away, his own men-for-hire anchoring the corners. Jeb was lathered up now, 210-pounds of meat and muscle. It was clear that Jeb liked his chances. Melegal listened to the betting. The odds ranged from 10-1 to 3-1 in Jeb’s favor. Time was another factor taken in consideration, too. How long did they think Melegal could last? Still, Melegal had his fans, too. Many had seen the things he had pulled off before.

  Sis walked up to him and whispered harsh words in his ear.

  “Don’t be losing the gold you owe us for the sword, Skinny.”

  “Don’t be stupid and bet the sword,” he retorted.

  Sis nodded with her jaw jutted out, taking a slug of her ale and said, “Don’t worry about the sword. And just so you know, I’m bettin’ against yah. I hope that man tears ya to pieces.”

  Haze pulled Sis away saying, “Will you shut up. Your courage-building never works.”

  Sis shrugged. “Whose tryin to build any courage? Heh-heh.”

  By this time Sam had walked over and begun to pat him down.

  “Don’t hurt em’ Sam!”

  “Yeah, we can’t win our money if you knock him out before the fight is over!”

  “Somebody feed the man!”

  “If he lives, I’ll buy him a meal with my winnings!”

  Sam said as he patted him down, “Take your hat off, Skinny Man.”

  “Ah,” someone cried, “let him keep the hat; it’ll hold his brains in.”

  “No hat,” Sam said.

  Oh great. Melegal slid it off and stuffed it in his pants pocket.

  “That’ll do,” Sam said.

  Look’s like I’m gonna have to do this all by myself.

  The Drunken Octopus was at an all-time high it seemed, making the sound that Melegal had come to adore so much over the years. A bunch of sots watching others suffer at the end of their miserable day. They all were sure they’d be winners tonight. The capacity level crowd was rumbling, shouting and jeering for the fight to begin. Men and women were standing on the bar top, chairs and tables, shoving one another and spilling more ale. A jug of wine sailed across the room and shattered against the wall.

  “IRON GLOVES!”

  “IRON GLOVES!”

  They chanted, shaking the chandeliers.

  Sam’s pudgy face was dripping with sweat now as he wiped his face on his apron and shouted, “LET THE FIGHT BEGIN ON MY SIGNAL!”

  The room quieted to a violent rustle.

  Melegal squared off on Jeb, iron fists hanging at his sides, just a body length away. The thug stood a couple inches taller, sneering down at him.

  “ONE!”

  The air in the room tightened.

  “TWO!”

  Jeb drew his knotted arms back. Melegal lifted his gloves before his face. Make it quick.

  “THREE!”

  Chapter 47

  The sub-level of the City of Three was unique. Unlike the sewers filled with rats and waste in the City of Bone, it was another network unto itself. It spanned only a fraction of the city above, and was only forty feet down, but there another world opened. The best and the worst of people lived, thrived, and failed there, just as well as in the world above. It was called The Nest, and Gillem Longfingers was headed there.

  Gillem had cut his way through the City of Three and headed through the alley door where Lefty had escaped days earlier. It was pitch black as soon as he closed the door behind him. He was down the steps in moments and standing on a wooden platform that floated on water. A faint green light was near. A small lantern with the tiniest beacon glowed at the end of a roughly hewn gondola-like craft. The waters surrounding the craft reflected the dim light with a yellowish hue. The tiny boat rocked as Gillem slipped inside. He began rowing two small oars, whisking the craft away.

  He had a hundred things playing inside his active mind. Foremost in his thoughts was the halfling boy, Lefty, his latest charge. It was good to be around one of his own kind, especially one with such potential. Gillem had mentored halflings before, but none of them had ever exceeded his expectations. Still, when it came to stealing, they were much better than humans, and the other races, for that matter.

  The underground river flowed in a variety of directions. The channels were split by man-made docks that hovered on buoys over the water. Taking the wrong channel could be dangerous if not fatal. The inhabitants of The Nest wanted it this way: unsafe for visitors and favorable to privacy of the highest degree.

  Gillem looked up where a myriad of shiny stones winked in and out like stars in the night. Someone had put them there long ago, when the city was built above and the waterways were designed to filter into the city below. As these shiny stones guided him to The Nest, he was reminded of his childhood, night fishing on a canoe, looking into the starry sky. It made him feel old, though, and so did being around Lefty. He saw a lot of what he used to be in the boy. He frowned. Too bad for him.

  The sound of creaking pipes and flowing water could be heard from above. The waters from the three massive waterfalls outside of the city all flowed through channels and enormous pipes underneath the city. It was here that the water was pumped up into the public fountains and reservoirs. The shiny stones above were placed along the copper pipes and girders that supported the streets. Gillem understood their meaning and layout, even though it was dwarven. The lights were maps and signs, making it easy for workers
to find their way back and forth without any light. Still, the making of it all was a marvel he would never fully understand.

  Gillem rowed through a stone archway, one of dozens that interlocked the channels. More light began to welcome him from the opposite end. It took about two dozen strokes before he was through. His back began to ache from the effort, something that had never happened before.

  “Oh my, a back ache?”

  He wanted to rub it, but that could wait. He was home. He turned the craft around to face the underground port city so he could gaze at it. The city was a row of waterfront buildings running along a monstrous boardwalk. Tiny boats like his were docked all around it, many much bigger, but most were as small as his. Torches were burning along the boardwalk, and light filled the glass panes from the dingy buildings in the background. It had been more than thirty years ago, the first time he had come down here as a young man. It hadn't been Palos that brought him, but rather Palzor the father. The first time he saw it he was far from fascinated, filled with dread instead.

  He sighed, shook his head, and rowed on until he pulled into a slip, tied the boat off, and hopped up on the dock. It wasn’t long before familiar voices were coming his way.

  “Aye, Gillem!” one man said.

  “Gillem! I’m buying; my gal had twins above!” another commented.

  “You gonna be at the games tonight!”

  He waved and nodded, offering the usual handshakes and smiles.

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  There were just over five thousand people down here, and he was pretty sure he knew them all by name. They all knew his. He was a lieutenant under Palzor, and one didn’t become that without making a name for himself. As he strolled onto the boardwalk he was greeted by more enthusiastic nods and glances. He reached in his vest pocket and pulled out his pipe. A mintaur, a bit taller than he, walked over with a small pouch and a slender burning stick. Gillem reached inside the pouch and pinched the moist tobacco between his fingers. He sniffed it and took a moment to let the rich aroma fill his nose. He stuffed it into his pipe, put the flaming stick to it, sucked in, puffed at the smoke, and nodded to the mintaur. The ram-faced man bumped elbows with him and walked on. Several pipe-smoking dwarves who were fishing along the docks tipped their hats to him as he went by.

  He cut down an alley, noting the gigantic chimney-like construction that was the center of The Nest. Small tufts of smoke were billowing out of the stack as it plunged upward into the darkness. He crossed another street into another alley. The traffic of people began to thicken. The Nest wasn’t just full of thieves. No, many other things happened beneath the City of Three. The mintaurs and dwarves were a big part of the city’s construction force. They worked hand in hand, day and night, keeping the belly of the infrastructure in order.

  Men were still a ruling lot, and not a one could be trusted above, but down in The Nest, the thieves’ code prevailed. Violating the code down here could mean a quick and easy death, but everything above was fair game. There was a brotherhood at The Nest, one hundred rogues strong, of all races, from all across the lands of Bish. If you came of your own free will, you were safer here than anywhere. But, it wasn’t the kind of place where just anyone would want to stay. Gillem had taken over a decade to get used to it, and some days, like today, his discomfort and paranoia returned. He popped every knuckle on his long fingers as he stood outside of Palos’s home. Poor boy; poor little Lefty.

  Chapter 48

  “I’ve never heard a man cry so much before, have you?”

  The City Watchman shook his head saying, “No, I don’t think I’ve even heard a woman cry that much.”

  There were three of them in all, hardy men of the City Watch. They had been all but dragged into the cramped alley by the distraught locals. It was places like this they tended to ignore, but seeing how it bordered on the district lines, they felt an obligation. The sound of the wailing man was disturbing, and on gentle feet they headed down the alley to investigate. The wails would come and go, like that of a wounded bear, loud and raw. Each carrying a watchman’s club in hand, they headed deeper down the lane. The buzz of flies caught their ears. When they reached the end, there it was, a litter of dead men. They had all seen wounded and dead men before, but nothing like this. The sight turned their veins to ice. Each body looked to have been chopped in half a dozen times. One man’s face was sheared off between the skull and eyes. Another man’s leg had been cut off. There was blood everywhere. One man’s entrails had been ripped from his body and strewn from one wall to another. Two of the City Watchmen retched.

  Not far away was the wailing man, with wet blood coating him from head to toe. A dead woman was cradled in his arms, and a gory sword lay on the ground behind him. All the watch could do was look at one another dumbfoundedly as they eyed the man. For twenty minutes no one said anything, and then the investigation began.

  “So now what?”

  “Eh … grab that crossbow over there and cover that man.”

  One of the watchmen did so, eyes never leaving the sobbing form of Brak. The man-boy wasn’t paying them any mind.

  “These dead are thieves, Sergeant. I can tell by their clothes. Look at this arm,” the man said, as he held up the entire appendage. He was the only watchman that hadn’t retched. He seemed more enamored by the scene than disgusted.

  “Will you put that thing down? I can see they’re thieves.”

  “Well, I say the less thieves the bet—”

  “MAAAAAAHHHHHH!” Brak moaned.

  All of the watchmen jumped, one of them plugging his fingers in his ears. A small crowd of people had gathered behind them. The crowd's confidence seemed to build as they began to fill the alley with speculating voices.

  “You!” the sergeant said, pointing at a local. One man pointed to his chest. “Yes, you. Go to the nearest station and tell them we need a carrion wagon. Move!” The man disappeared. “As for the rest of you, you better be gone before the wagon comes, or I’ll arrest you.” He pulled out his watch stick and added, “Or beat the tar from you!”

  “Shoot that moaning murderer!” one shouted back.

  “Yeah!” the crowd added, bunching into a small mob.

  “Turn the crossbow on them,” the sergeant said.

  “Hey, we didn’t kill no one. He did!” one man pointed towards Brak.

  The sergeant added, “How do I know that? For all I know you are behind the whole thing. How could one man kill five? Huh? Can you tell me that? He musta had some help, wouldn’t you say? You look awfully suspicious to me. Come over here. I’ve got some questioning to do. How about we take you down to the dungeons and wring the truth out of you?”

  The sergeant smiled as the little mob quickly dispersed. He walked over to the moaning man, whose entire face was streaked with tears. Brak looked like his mind was only on one thing, his dead mother. The sergeant pushed the gory sword farther away with his foot. Brak paid it no mind, only sobbing and rocking his mother.

  “He’s wounded,” the sergeant said over his shoulder, “look at the bolt sticking out of him.”

  The other watchmen nodded with a look of awe.

  “So, what do we do, Boss?”

  The sergeant looked at Brak and at the corpses, as well as all around the alley.

  He shook his head and said, “Looks like these two strangers were getting robbed. The woman fought and died. It looks like self-defense. Maybe if I can get the man to talk he can tell us what’s going on.”

  “But Boss, he couldn’t have killed five armed men, could he?”

  “You ever been to war?”

  “No,” one said.

  “Me either,” said the other.

  “Well, I have. I saw a man kill ten before, saved my life and many others. He fought like a wild beast. It was the scariest thing I ever saw, and he was on my side. Sometimes things snap in a man and he goes berserk, twists into something else, completely unimaginable. Seems to me this big fella here went berserk.”r />
  “Want us to grab these weapons?”

  “Get em’ all, and check their pockets, too. Might be we have an early payday.”

  Brak was oblivious to the men around him, the lancing pain in his shoulder, and his dripping wounds. All he knew was his mah didn’t move; her frozen eyes stared at the darkening sky. He had been with her every single day of his life, fourteen years, and now she was gone, and he was lost and alone. Why he cried and moaned he didn’t know, because he had never done it before. Now, more than ever he wanted to go home, take her home, back to the country. Maybe she could come back to life there.

  He clutched her body and wiped her hair from her face, smearing it with his blood. He began wiping her face with his cloak, but it did little good. He pulled her close again and a pouch fell from her hand. He picked it up.

  “Boss, did you see that?” one of the men nearby said.

  “Yeah, I saw it. Get the crossbow ready.”

  It was the first time Brak paid the men any mind at all. They looked old, ugly, and dangerous, much like the ones that had killed Vorla. His heart began to race again. He pulled her closer, and then he noticed their uniforms, like on the guards that had helped his mah, and he settled down a bit. One of the guards, bigger and older than the others, sheathed his sword.

  “Man? It’s gonna cost you to bury this mess. Give us the purse and I can make it all go away.”

  Brak sat in silence, rocking his mother. The words he heard, but didn’t comprehend.

  “Trust us, Man. We can make this easy or make it hard.”

  Why was the guard calling him a man? Why did people always call him names that he wasn’t? His mah had told him he was different, but most of the time he didn’t understand what she meant. He had become a man suddenly, without the opportunity to grow up. Man-child.