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

  The colorful banners of the Royal houses of Bish flapped above the massive wooden walls of an ancient fort. Outpost Thirty-One was one of a kind, the only structure in Bish built from the massive trees of the Great Forest. Yet these trees had not been cut down. Their rock hard dark woods were rare, fallen specimens, carried by giants long ago. It was a gift to the good men of that time.

  Such was the story passed down over the centuries. None knew if it was true, but none cared, for such was the way of most men, self-centered, cold, and focused on the now. The fort complex sat high on a forested hilltop in the southern lands of Bish. It was a perfect square with outer walls twenty feet high. The gates in the opposite corners of each wall faced north, south, east, and west, from which straight, gravel-filled roads ran. They were busy roads, a strategic foothold that maintained order in this region and protected the commercial trade routes. All of the subordinate forts scattered throughout the south were commanded from here.

  In the burning midday haze the fort appeared like a majestic castle, blending in with its surroundings, among the distant hilltops that gazed upon it. Many uninvited eyes stared at Outpost Thirty-One, for the outpost was subject of their siege. The underlings and the brigand army had cut off all the roads and laid waste for miles around. All human communication throughout the southern lands of Bish was cut off. Many would have agreed that the Royals had it coming, but when it came to an underling assault on the upper world, the selfish human race was Bish’s one and only hope.

  Jarla’s brigand army was busy taunting the confined Royals soldiers, sending kobolds close to the southern gate to deposit mutilated corpses, heads and body parts of soldiers for all to see. The tiny horned humanoids cowered behind small wooden shields, but occasionally an arrow from a vengeful archer would pierce their small bodies, adding to the stinking heap of flesh and flies that lay baking in the sun.

  Deeper south in the forest was the large beige tent that quartered Jarla, the Brigand Queen. Alone inside, she was studying maps and battlefield notes. Her beautiful face, now scarred and twisted from a fate she was unprepared for, was drawn in a tight frown. Unlike most women on Bish, she was a born warrior. She stood taller than most men, with strong shoulders and sinewy arms from years of battle. Her jet black hair was tied back, revealing deep blue eyes over her tanned face and scarred cheekbones. She took a deep breath and exhaled, bit her thin red lips, and flung the table over. Everything she had planned for years was about to unfold, yet her gut told her something was wrong. She cursed, spat, and drained a glass of wine. Venir!

  He had escaped her camp, slaughtered her commanders, and evaded the bounty for him by the underlings. Her alliance with the underlings had never been on solid ground, now it was falling apart. She wanted to break the alliance and disappear. She felt her grip loosening not long after the young warrior slipped from her side. She spit at the thought of his cocky grin. But, worse still, he had taken her precious, powerful weapon, or they had taken him? For the first time in years she felt vulnerable, rather than invincible.

  Nevertheless, she was not ready to abandon her loyal brigand army, who had taken her in when others would not. As for the underlings, they were her best vehicle to take revenge on the Royals who had ripped her life asunder. She had once been one of them, a Royal household member and a rare soldier, rising to become a trusted leader. She clenched her teeth; how naïve she had been not to see it coming. Men were men, after all, and Royal men were the worst. They took what they wanted, willing or not, and made it their own. She too had been taken, against her will, and she had never been the same. She wiped her dry eyes and sneered. Her hatred burned like a hot iron. It would have to do.

  She was on the cusp of extracting her revenge. Outpost Thirty-One would fall. But then what? She sensed in her gut that Venir would come for her. With the mystic arsenal in his grip there wasn’t much she could do to stop him. She only hoped she would live long enough to see the outpost burn to the ground. She was almost certain the underlings would ensure it.

  She stepped outside into the suns burning light, walked up a rocky hill and grabbed a spy glass from a kneeling orcen sentry. She peered at the great outpost, taking mental note of the defense arrangements underway. The outpost should have been taken by now. She knew Venir was in there, it left her uneasy. They tried to catch up with the man, but could not. He and his comrades were far fleeter than her cumbersome army.

  She slung the spyglass at the orc, returned inside her tent, and called for her commanders. They discussed how the siege may take weeks or months now, thanks to Venir’s warning. She had to remind them that she had people on the inside of the outpost as well. They snickered. Her reckoning had come.

  CHAPTER 14

  Infinity was not always the best place to be. Although it was considered heavenly, it was sometimes quite hellish. Anything imaginable was at your disposal, yet it was boring. Trinos was complaining to herself again, and seemed to enjoy it. At least it kept her entertained.

  Trinos was a being, from a created race, that had achieved its greatest potential. Her race had been created by some other infinite being, like her, millenniums ago. How long that was exactly didn’t matter, because time was infinite. What mattered was that Trinos belonged to a race of overachievers. As wonderful as that sounded, her life had become a mundane grind, leaving her to contemplate the sanity of her cosmic thoughts.

  There had once been a time, so very long ago, when Trinos’s life was filled with joy, sorrow, adventure, and love. But all of her dreams had come true once her race learned the greatest secret of the cosmic expanse itself. And this discovery had allowed her race to become immortal.

  It was thrilling at first, having the time and the power to do whatever she wished. But now, she sometimes thought it might have been better to have died. Those Trinos loved had drifted away to explore their own newfound capabilities and responsibilities. Like them, she could do or create anything at will, anywhere in the vast space. So could the rest. Everything was simple … all too easy.

  To keep beings like Trinos from overrunning the universe like power mad children there were rules. The infinite ones had all agreed to a set of endless tasks that kept them occupied. Some had to make new worlds and others had to destroy them. The majority tried to discover what had created their own universe. Despite their ability to do and create anything at all in their universe, they still could not find the end of it. It just kept going.

  Trinos had the task of evaluating the worlds created by the many other infinite beings. She would watch the worlds begin and end. Different races would be born to these new worlds, all created by the hand of various supreme beings. But try as they may, the infinite beings just kept making the same types of worlds over and over and over again.

  It was always the same scenario. A new world was made, new races gained knowledge, made fire, made weapons, went to war, struggled for survival, fought alien invaders, and then destroyed themselves or were exterminated by others.

  On occasion, maybe one race in thousands would evolve into the omnipotent status her kind. Trinos had seen this happen a few times and it gave her a tingle to welcome the newcomers to the expanse. It was short lived as she went back to watch the other worlds destroy themselves. War, famine and disease would finished them all off.

  In some cases, the infinite creators didn’t even build worlds that could last long at all. It was always much the same. Trinos had become aware that, in the grand scheme of things, her monitoring was pointless.

  Trinos always reported her findings to the world creator, who would ignore them and simply make another world. Yet it remained Trinos’ job to watch after them still. Sometimes, just to pass the time and try to get a taste of life, Trinos would show up on one of the created worlds. But it made no difference what she did; she had become redundant.

  One time, Trinos was busy evaluating a new world in small corner their universe. It was blue and beautiful. She had visited and could feel that this race had the potential to be
come infinite. It was a rare treat, indeed, and Trinos felt something almost like excitement, if such a thing were ever again possible.

  The beings of this world were by far the most promising and colorful Trinos had seen in eons. They made great strides in technology, medicine and science in short spans of time. One of the cultures of that world had become a melting pot of all of its greatest minds and races. They showed so much promise.

  Trinos had begun to enjoy the enthusiastic characteristics of the world’s people. It seemed to her that when they worked together they were unstoppable. Maybe they would make it. Maybe Trinos would not always be so bored in infinity. But her moment of hope was brief. They were not going to make it after all. The prominent young race had too much success early. They lost their creativity as technology and convenience led them to self-indulgence and internal strife. They who had overcome so much now began fighting among themselves. Their pride and greed was to be their world’s undoing.

  It became clear to Trinos that it would not be long before they were all gone. But they still had some time. Unfortunately, as much as Trinos liked this world, she could not interfere. It just wasn’t allowed. Such a shame. It made her restlessness grow. None of these worlds ever lasted long.

  Of course, not every world could achieve infinite status. But why did they always have to become extinct? Couldn’t some of these worlds remain in an interesting state forever? Why did all of the infinite and knowledgeable beings keep creating such short-lived worlds?

  Trinos pondered these annoying thoughts. She had endured enough. There had to be something, somehow, to look forward to. Yet every time she went back to check on a promising race, they were gone.

  Inspiration struck. Trinos would build her own world in her infinity. She would build a world that would remain locked in strife and survival every minute, always. She would build a world that could keep her eternally entertained. It would be one that would always be there for her to come back to. A child that never grew old.

  Trinos took great care to plan her new creation. She selected the unique characteristics of that shiny blue world she was so fond of, and then added in some of the otherworldly races as well. Survival was of the utmost importance when developing their genetic codes. There were millions of details to attend to. The basic laws of their universe would apply. The laws of alignment, good and evil, were to be in place. Races would only achieve an archaic form of technology. That would prevent them from ever leaving the world. The study of science would be replaced by the study of magic. Life spans would be abnormal. Humanoids would rule. A powerful mystic equalizer would be in place to prevent either good or evil from achieving full supremacy. No evolution.

  It would be a brutal world, one that would run the gauntlet of emotions every second. Man would rule beast. Monsters would cause mayhem. Heroes would be born with great willpower, and villains with unparalleled greed.

  These people would like it here, thought Trinos. And she would like it there.

  Trinos tucked her little world away, deep in the expanse within their universe, in the hopes that no would find it. Then, after many moments in infinity, Trinos gave birth to her new world. She called it Bish.

  CHAPTER 15

  A small group of scouts were still outside the northern walls of Outpost Thirty-One. The three men were outlanders of repute, even among the Royal soldiers that had dealt with them over the years. It was no coincidence that they were the ones that gave the troublesome news of the underling invasion.

  Dusk had settled over the thick green forest that surrounded the outpost. All around the fort were steep ravines that served to drain the heavy rains. They also created vulnerable points where foes could creep undetected right up to the fort. Deep within a ravine, the three men crouched with eyes and ears intent on finding any comers. Skirmishes had been breaking out around the fort, day and night. Shouts of pain and terror, blended with the sound of battle, came and went as the thick foliage muffled the noise. It was difficult to tell who was winning, but the trio sensed that it was only a matter of time before the fort was stormed.

  They had already encountered three underlings earlier and five the night before, but the foul creatures were no match for Billip’s deadly arrows. He possessed a special short bow and arrows that were a gift from an old Royal soldier in the fort. The man’s son, who was to inherit them, perished at the hands of the brigand army. It was clear to Venir that Billip relished the rare quality. The archer made good use of the power and accuracy, grinning each time he dropped an underling with an arrow straight between the eyes or clean through the heart. His comments to the archer irked Mikkel, who cared little for his friend’s success, who wanted the first crack at the underlings himself.

  “Come on, Vee,” urged Mikkel in his deep voice, loading his heavy crossbow. “Let me take the first shot. He can’t shoot better than me and Bolt Thrower.”

  Venir had witnessed Mikkel’s long bolts impaling two underlings at a time. The problem was that once fired there was no time to reload. Mikkel would charge like a bull into the fray with the massive studded club he called Skull Basher. Mikkel was the only man with less patience than him when it came to fighting.

  The archer cracked his knuckles and chuckled, always calm amid chaos. Indeed, the only one cooler was Melegal, but the thief cared little for venturing in the Outlands too long. That man was more disposed to the comforts of the city.

  Smaller than his comrades, but hardy and weathered, Billip twisted his goatee with calloused fingers.

  “You can’t hit one to my five, Mikkel—you know that.”

  “I don’t need to!” the man jumped in his face, club high. “I fight like a man. Skull Basher will take ten to your five any day—you know it!”

  “Yer an idiot,” Billip retorted.

  Venir stepped between them.

  “Do we have to do this every time?”

  “Yes!” they both insisted.

  Venir shook his head.

  “Mikkel, you know the drill. Billip sets them up, we flank them.”

  “And if he misses? I get hit with one of his arrows!”

  “That’s never happened,” Billip replied in irritation.

  “It almost did.”

  Billip jumped in his face.

  “It almost didn’t! It wasn’t my arrow and you didn’t get hit! That was three years ago! Let it go!”

  Mikkel kissed his club and pointed his sausage-sized finger at the much smaller man.

  “It better not happen. If it does, you better hope it kills us … or me and Skull Basher are gonna smash you.”

  Billip rolled his eyes and walked away.

  Their bickering was part of the preparation for combat. The competition between them kept them focused. It’s what Venir wanted and the two racked up body counts faster as a team than alone, though neither would ever admit it. He loved their spirit and looked to them as older brothers, but they were comfortable with his lead because he had instincts they lacked. The fearsome threesome had become a force to reckon with over the years, but their notoriety was not always well received. They were sometimes considered common bandits as each had his own needs to satisfy.

  The men had exited out from the storm drain, and were once again headed down into the plunging gulch. They navigated the rugged terrain like mountain cats. No leaf rustled in the inert heat. Sweat stung their eyes as they men tried to suppress even the sound of their own breath. Even Chongo’s pants were undetectable.

  Venir watched as Billip and Chongo broke off toward the far side of the ravine, communicating back and forth with hand signals and soft tapping on leather chest plates. The dog’s ears perked up at the sound of those signals and responded in accord. They took their positions, waiting minute after minute in the thickets. Venir would glance back from time to time, only to see thick sweat dripping from Mikkel’s silent face. He contacted Billip.

  Nothing, the archers white hands signaled back.

  Venir’s gut told him they needed another acc
urate volley tonight, things were just too quiet this time out. His mind began to wander ….

  He felt and urgent tap on his shoulder. He looked forward. In the dimness he almost didn’t notice the bowman’s urgent signaling. Underlings were coming and Billip was trying to make out how many.

  “What’s up, Vee?” a deep voice asked behind his ear.

  “We have company.”

  A white grin flashed in the darkness.

  “How many?”

  Venir shrugged his heavy shoulders as the blood of battle began to pump through his veins. His stomach started to knot and his mouth became dry. He clutched his axe and waited.

  Five, was signaled.

  He acknowledged and readied himself. Mikkel leaned his club against a tree, taking up position with his heavy crossbow. Venir checked the buckles on his chainmail shirt and lifted his newly acquired shield. He was amazed at its lightness, despite the heavy metal banding and engraving. He studied his great axe and smiled. Its oak shaft was warm in his hands, almost living.

  Only a few days ago he had acquired the magic weapon. He had given little thought to how it now came to be in his hands. The large leather sack it came from was a mystery. When Jarla withdrew the bag’s armaments it contained two smaller axes, a lighter helmet, and metal arm bracers. Yet to him, it yielded the large helmet, shield, and the war axe unlike anything he ever imagined. He remembered the moment she was about to kill him. He smiled a tad. The shock and fury he saw on her face when the mystic arsenal came to his aid. Grasping the weapon, he almost laughed as he felt the power surge through his hands.

  Someone tapped him again, snapping him out of his thoughts. The count was now ten.