The Darkslayer: Book 05 - Outrage in the Outlands Page 23

  “I don’t need him.” He felt his heart stiffen in his chest. “I miss him. You see, he’s my best friend. He’s my hero.”

  ***

  Trinos felt her heart tug inside her chest. Since she’d inhabited her world, she’d found little of the qualities she’d find to be noble: love, loyalty, friendship. It was a hard world, filled with as much good as evil, but the good ones, the defenders of right, had trouble showing it. This young person, not yet fully a man, still blossomed with all the things right in the world.

  “Georgio, this Venir, I hope he knows how fortunate he is to have a friend like you. You are a true friend, and I’m grateful to know you.”

  “Me?” Georgio said, looking at her funny.

  She laughed and said, “Yes, you. Your loyalty blinds you from all the other circumstances, and that is a good thing. It can be a dangerous one, as well.”

  “Why?” he said, grabbing a baked biscuit and stuffing it into his mouth.

  “You don’t want to be loyal to a fault. If Venir were to do bad things, would you still follow after him?”

  “Phmpf … Venir would never do anything bad. But Melegal would. Now, he’s bad news. All he does is pick on me, but I’m almost as big as him now,” he smacked his fist into his hand, “and I’m going to get him good.”

  Georgio was a breath of fresh air compared to the rest of her crew. He was naïve, yet weathered. His round face was beginning to chisel, and the handsome ruggedness of a man was beginning to show. He combed his fingers back through the long locks of curly brown hair and dusted the crumbs from his chest. Noting his grubby but otherwise perfect complexion, something puzzled her. He was different. Vastly so from the others.

  Reaching over, she dug her nails into his wrist, drawing blood.

  “Ow!” he cried. “What did you do that for?”

  Holding his arm tight she watched the minor wound instantly heal up.

  “I apologize, Georgio, but my curiosity got the best of me. Forgive me.”

  “Ah … sure thing. It wasn’t nothing anyway. I’ve had my fingers cut off and even had my throat sliced open, too.”

  Trinos slapped her hand over her chest and said, “That’s awful. When was this?”

  He shrugged.

  “No so long ago. I was shorter and chubbier back then, but Venir took care of all that. Melegal too, though I hate to admit it.”

  “What did they do?” she asked.

  “Venir has a mystic sack, and inside it he keeps his battle axe that he calls Brool. He went after that underling thing … some black monster … and chopped it to bits and pieces. Chongo ate what was left of it.”

  “Who’s Chongo?”

  “That’s Venir’s giant two-headed dog. Anyway, Melegal chopped up Detective McKnight into chunks and fed him to the hogs.”

  Trinos formed a bitter face. What a horrible thing for a child to go through. Was this her intention when she created Bish? All of this suffering for her entertainment? It all seemed quite dreadful when standing on the ground, where it occurred.

  “You don’t look well, Trinos. Here, have a drink,” he said, holding a jug forth.

  “No, I’ll be just fine, Georgio.”

  But she wasn’t. Guilt. She felt it stronger than any other emotion she’d felt before. Something knotted in her stomach. Compassion and mercy were one thing. You could act and feel good about yourself. But guilt was an entirely different monster to wrangle. Perhaps it’s a good thing, knowing how they feel.

  Georgio tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Trinos, I’m well. I heal. I’ve been through some bad things, real bad, but I’m better for it now. This is Bish, Lady. The land of fight or die. And like my friend Venir says, “Every day you live is another day to make the underlings die.” He shook his fist at the ground. “And I’m going to kill underlings, like my friend, because they’re the source of all the problems in this world.”

  His strong words not only brought her comfort but relief as well. Perhaps that is why I’ve made it so tough. Something else he’d mentioned seemed familiar. “You mentioned a sack, Georgio. Tell me more about it.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The fast ride into the pass was cut abruptly short by treacherous terrain that was difficult to navigate. Fogle cursed. At this pace, there was no way he’d be able to catch up to Cass and Chongo. All he could do now was hope they’d come back, and come back soon. The fragile muscles behind his narrow shoulders knotted up again when he saw Boon opening his mouth to speak.

  “Haste is the mother of destruction in a situation like this. We need to be careful,” the old man said, swatting a fly from his nose. “There are narrow passes like this all throughout the valley. Havens for underlings and other recreant life.”

  Fogle didn’t turn, focusing on what was ahead instead. Cass was gone, and Chongo was the one that was supposed to be leading them to Venir. If Mood were here, this would not have happened.

  “On a better note,” Boon continued, “Barton will provide much protection. The smaller creatures, even underlings, are fearful of the giants. Their odor scares them. Not because it smells …

  It does smell.

  “… but rather because they are unfamiliar with it. That’s why dwarves are such good giant hunters. They can smell them.”

  Fogle brought his pony to a halt and twisted his back around, glaring at his grandfather.

  “Then why didn’t the dwarves sniff them out before the attack?”

  “They were down wind, as were Barton and I. But they were close, so very close to our path. It’s a good thing you came along, or I’d have been back to the Under-Bish.”

  “The dwarves are dead!” Fogle snapped.

  “And the giants are, too. The dwarven people couldn’t be happier. There’s nothing they enjoy celebrating better than giant soup,” Boon smiled, patting his belly. “Makes me hungry to think about it!”

  “WHAT?” Barton said, shoving his way through the trees. “WHO EATS GIANT SOUP?”

  “Just a joke, Barton. Nothing to get excited about,” Boon said a bit nervously, then turned back towards Fogle with a wink, saying, “Oops.”

  Barton the giant was strange. Harmless like a child, yet threatening as an angry bull at the same time. Fogle had seen what giants could do to a fully grown dwarf. He’d eyed this smaller giant's powerful hands. They could crush him like a squirrel. Still, he pitied the creature. It’s large head was stooped over, and the skin was mangled over its eye, keeping it closed, and the jaw was askew. Barton was discarded. Alone.

  “BARTON want to find Venir. Barton wants to find his toys, Hee. Hee.” the giant said, pulling bushes from the ground and tearing out trees.

  “Will you tell him to stop doing that? We don’t need the entire valley to know we’re here. And what is he talking about now? Toys?”

  “Eh,” Boon twisted at his beard, “seems that your friend tricked Barton in order to escape from The Mist.”

  “And?”

  “Well, Barton’s upset. It seems that Venir was supposed to leave him the contents of the sack, but failed to do so.”

  “And?”

  Boon looked over his shoulder. Barton’s back was to them as he chewed on a blue-berry Dackle Bush. “So Barton wants to kill him.”

  “What?” Fogle was aghast. “Why in Bish are you helping him?”

  Boon put is fingers to his lips.

  “Ssh. Ssh. Ssh. Don’t fret it. I’m sure he won’t follow through. Just don’t mention Venir's name around him. It upsets him.”

  “What do we do when we find him?”

  “If we find him.” Boon corrected.

  Clenching his teeth, Fogle dropped his head in his hand. He wanted to take out his spellbook and slap Boon in the face. Idiot!

  “Don’t worry, Grandson. If we find him …”

  Fogle shot him a look.

  “When we find him, I’m sure I’ll have figured out something.”

  “Just come on,” Fogle said, digging his heels into the ribs of th
e pony.

  He’d tried to look for signs of where Chongo and Cass had passed. After all, he should have picked up a thing or two from Mood. There was nothing, though. The dirt, rock, trees and bushes that went up one side of the pass and down the other all looked the same to Fogle. The problem was, he couldn’t find his way back, despite all the wreckage Barton had created. Come back, Woman!

  Because the pass seemed to narrow the deeper they traveled, he muttered an incantation under his breath. A feeling of security enveloped him, easing his mind, but it did little to shield him from the hot suns as he sweltered in his own sweat. He jerked.

  Something twirled by his head, a radiant swirl of orange energy that buzzed through the treetops, up one side of the pass and down the other before it disappeared around the next bend. He stopped, looking back at Boon.

  “What was that?” Fogle asked, frowning.

  “A scout.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Sort of. It’s good for finding underlings, that is.”

  Barton was standing behind Boon and his pony, scratching his bald head.

  “Where did the pretty light go?”

  Boon bent his head backward, looking up into Barton’s face. “Keep your eye up in the sky, Barton, and you’ll see another pretty light … possibly.”

  Fogle lifted his chin upward. There was nothing but blue skies for miles all around. But his mind began racing through the pages of his spellbook. The Scout. What was that incantation from?

  Turning his attention back to Boon, he asked, “What does the Scout do?”

  Boon’s left eyebrow was cocked as he gazed into the sky, his wizened face unable to hide his concentration.

  Fogle felt the air around him begin to prickle, and his mouth was suddenly dry.

  “I don't see anything,” Barton said, in his slow way of speaking.

  “Ah … Yes!” Boon exclaimed.

  “What are you doing?” Fogle said.

  But Boon was no longer there. Instead, the feeble old man sat tall in the saddle, tanned and sinewy arms raised high in the air. Eyes shut, brows buckled, he pulled his elbows down, then shot his fists back up and shouted in a voice of thunder:

  “STRIKE!”

  Fogle had both hands gripping the saddle when Boon’s voice carried down the pass. Above, it sounded as if the sky had split open. The air thinned around him, and the ponies stomped and nickered.

  What has he done!

  A black slit opened up in the blue sky, and a roaring tower of flame emerged, striking the distant ground of the pass. Beautiful and terrifying, the orange-yellow-red torrent of flame came down upon the land like a powerful waterfall.

  Fogle shielded his eyes with his hands. He could feel the heat on his knuckles and through his robes. As quickly as it had started, it stopped. He took a breath.

  Beside him, Boon’s eyes were glowing with energy, burning with new life and an old hatred. Pure intensity.

  “Let’s go, Fogle,” Boon demanded, snapping the reins on his pony, “there will be survivors. There’re always survivors, but not for long. Prepare for battle, Grandson. Yah!”

  CHAPTER 40

  He knew someone was coming, but that hardly mattered now. Venir, for all his efforts, was immobilized. He fought it, though. Move or die racing through his mind. The cocoon of caterpillars writhing in his stomach did not fade, nor did the shrieking sound of the mushrooms subside, either. Venir dug the mud from his eyelets in the helm as he crawled on his hands and knees up the hillside. It was miserable, the sound, the sweat, everything. Bish proved once again to be full of surprises.

  What am I doing?

  Straining with tremendous effort, he rose to his knees, leaned forward, and stepped slowly up the hillside. The mushrooms screamed louder and louder with every hard fought step as his mind began to dizzy from the maddening sound.

  He screamed, but not even his own voice could be heard. He might have jammed Brool’s spike in his ear if it were possible. His tortured mind had a better idea. He tore his helmet off and threw it to the ground.

  REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

  The sound amplified. He’d expected the opposite. BAD IDEA! He fell to his knees, fingers in his ears, Brool slipping from his grasp as he kicked and writhed on the ground.

  REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

  The blue veins rose in his forearms as he clutched for the helm. Fighting the madness, his fingers clawed at the dirt, getting him closer, inch by inch, when he swore he heard a chitter. They were here. The deep instincts of his mind spoke to him a warning.

  Underlings!

  A pair of underlings appeared, eyes glinting like blue sapphires. Hunters. Armed with small curved swords, metal bucklers, and wearing odd helmets, they scanned the forest. Venir got his fingers around the chinstrap of his helm and dragged it towards himself. That’s when the first underling's eyes locked on his. The underling hit his comrade in the arm, who in turn hissed, raised his sword and charged.

  Venir’s fingers were numb when he realized he didn’t have Brool in hand. The deafening sound sapped the strength from his arms and legs. The first underling was on him, sword high and chopping downward. Venir ran the helm's spike into its chest, bowling the smaller humanoid over. The other's blade hit him hard but glanced off his scale mail. Fighting through the dizzying blackness that was trying to overcome him, Venir grabbed the creature by the leg and jerked it down to the ground. The underling bit his hand, kicked him in the face, and twisted and writhed in his grasp. Venir’s grip slipped.

  REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

  Everything was fuzzy when both the underlings pounced on him, claws digging into his arms and face. Venir grabbed whatever he could, holding on for his life. His strength was fading. He reached back and caught the lip of something in his fingers. The underling’s helmet. He ripped it off.

  The underling jolted to its feet, fanged mouth wide open, clawed fingers inside its ears. It was screaming, but there was no sound other than the high pitched …

  REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

  Black blood trickled from the underling's nose as it fell to the ground and pitched forward, face first.

  Somehow, Venir jammed his bloodied helm back down on his head and secured the strap under his chin. The high pitched wail was dulled, but far from no longer being annoying. Brool! Where was his axe? Certainly more would be coming.

  REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE—

  It stopped. The screeching stopped. Venir felt the weight of the world vacating his broad shoulders, aside from the ringing in his ears. He retched. Then retched again.

  “SonuvaBish … that was nasty!”

  Venir picked Brool back up and skewered the unconscious underling. Ripping the spike free, he put as much distance between him and those mushrooms as he could. Finding a cleft along a pile of moss-laden boulders, he tucked himself inside, gasped for breath, and took a long swig from his canteen. Better lay low awhile. He smashed a large mosquito that landed on his cheek and flicked it to the ground.

  The underlings. Certainly, the hillside would be crawling with them by now. At any second, he expected to hear the angry mutterings of at least a score of underlings searching for him. Where are they? A drop of underling blood dripped from the helm onto his toe. One minute passed. Another drop fell. Two minutes passed. Something’s wrong.

  He closed his eyes. The forest smelled like a rotting log, and even the bugs in the air were thinned. He heard something. The sounds of dogs. And voices. It can’t be! Human voices? But it was.

  “Come on, men,” he heard a gruff voice say from the bottom of the ravine. Dogs were sniffing and snorting, paws rustling the dry ground.

  “What about the shriekers?” one man asked.

  “No need to worry. These are old ones. My, pretty big, too. No wonder that shrieking was so bloody loud. Huh … dead now. Look at this …”

  Venir slid out from the rocks, c
raning his neck forward.

  “… see, they’re dead now. Once they blow, they blow until they're dead. Haha. And so you’ll be as well.”

  Another voice from the small party said, “A comrade got too close to one of those once. A littler one that is. He said that blasted thing turned his guts into worms and his ears ring to this day. Well, he’s dead now, so I don’t assume he can hear anything, I suppose.”

  Venir heard the jangling of weapons and boot steps stomping over the dirt. Whoever they were, they weren’t trying to hide from anything or anyone. There must have been five of them at most. What on in Bish were men doing outside of Outpost Thirty-One? And where were the underlings?

  “Hah,” one said, his voice higher than the others, “we got two dead over here.”

  “Underlings?”

  “Come take a look for yourself.”

  Venir eased his way back down the hill and bunched himself over a rocky outcropping.

  “I’ll be!”

  “Aye!”

  “I’m taking their eyes!”

  “Fools!” the one that sounded like a leader said, “They’ll have our heads. Slat! This is trouble. Nothing but trouble. It’s been bad enough up here, but at least it’s quiet and the food's hot. Now this.” Venir saw a man’s arm chop down a sapling with his sword. “Slat on it! They’ll have our heads!”

  Venir crept farther down the rock edge as the man below smashed the sapling down under his boot. He got a view of the men, who were less than thirty yards below. Royal soldiers? It can’t be! They were in full view now. He could even see the royal insignia on some of their shoulders. Bone if it isn’t.

  The leader wore a crested metal helmet, a full shirt of chainmail, bracers on his arms, and steel worked shin and thigh guards strapped to his legs. A bastard sword hung in his grip. He was a sizable man, Venir noted, when another one stepped along his side. Sweet mother of Bish!

  The second man was bigger, taller than Venir and heavier, thick thewed and iron-jawed. A thought of Farc entered his mind at the sight of the man's bald crown rimmed with thick black hair, wearing a leather cuirass that bulged some at the gut. Venir noted the pair of long swords strapped at his sides and the thick course black hairs on his arms. A part orc with Royals? What madness is this?