WRATH OF THE ROYALS

THE DARKSLAYER
BOOK 1
THE DARKSLAYER: Wrath of the Royals (Book 1)
By Craig Halloran

Copyright © 2010 by Craig Halloran #TXU 1-611-058
Smashwords Edition

TWO-TEN BOOK PRESS
P.O. Box 4215, Charleston, WV 25364
ISBN eBook: 978-0-982-77990-3
THE DARKSLAYER is a registered trademark, #77670850
http://www.thedarkslayer.net

Cover Illustration by Duncan Long
Interior Illustrations by Ernie Chan

Edited January 2013 by 
Cherise Kelley

Publishers Note
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recorded, photocopied, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
WRATH OF THE ROYALS
THE DARKSLAYER
BOOK 1



PROLOGUE 


The City of Bone was home to the wildest, wickedest, and most ruthless men and women on the world of Bish. Many factors were at the root of the city’s problems. Its human inhabitants were an undeniable mess. It was the largest city of the world, housing over two hundred thousand citizens. They were kept under control by intimidation, torture, and death. 
The Royals kept order with unjust trials, public hangings, and several forms of public humiliation. Despite their best efforts, things were often tumultuous and out of control. The massive city, filled with unrivaled temptation, was too much for its feeble-minded citizens to handle. A very good man could lose his sense of well-being as quickly as blowing out a candle, while his remaining goodness drifted away forever like a wisp of smoke. 
It was a dreaded place that the common man and woman preferred over the simpler life in the unprotected lands, beyond the great city’s walls. The crowded streets were filled with liars, trollops, murderers, thieves, slavers, smugglers and evil incarnate. 
It boasted all of the world’s greatest dangers, according to those who had never been beyond its great walls. According to the citizens, nothing outside of its walls could ever be worse. They assumed that living in the great city made them tough enough to survive anywhere else. By their own unmerited account, a day in the unfair city was like a month in the dangerous Outlands or beyond. Of course, the majority of the people were poor, decrepit, desperate, and with nothing better to do than gripe about their pitiful circumstances. And yet, the City of Bone was the star city of the not-so-splendid world of Bish. 
In truth, the City of Bone was tame. The many races of Bish lived in other cities with the same problems. The City of Bone meant no more to the rest of the world than the world meant to it. The other cities didn’t care about much at all. They were all selfish, in some shape or form, and every one of them had their own survival to be concerned about. 
On Bish, there were two main things to worry about: the overbearing humans and the ever evil underlings. The underlings did not live in cities above the ground; instead, they lived in the underworld: majestic caves below Bish’s blazing surface. Underlings were a purely evil race, whereas humans and other races, for the most part, contained a healthy mix of both good and bad. 
The underlings hated humans more than any other race on Bish. Humans always had the greater population, but the underlings had the greater lifespan. The underlings were patient, and they were accustomed to all-out war. At this time in particular, the underlings had lost patience, not with all humans, but with one. A lone human had been causing irreparable damage to the underling population for the past several years. Now, the surface-dwelling pest was in the wonderfully wicked City of Bone. He was the one that the underlings, as well as many others on Bish, called The Darkslayer.



CHAPTER 1


Two scarlet moons cast shadows on the city structures, adding a strange hue to the colorful flowers and curtains in the apartment windows above. It was one of those rare nights, almost pleasant. The alleys seemed less putrid and the puddles of urine far fewer than usual. Tonight, the screams of pleasure and laughter outweighed the cries of terror that filled every night in the City of Bone. It was a hot and dry evening, and many strolled along the sidewalks as the brilliant banners of the Royal housing districts billowed. A brawny warrior strutted through the streets with a broad grin on his face. Brushing back the locks of his blond hair, revealing his hard blue eyes, he belted out an alarming tune, startling the passersby. His name was Venir, a hunter of the Outlands returned to the city to unwind. It’s good to be back in Bone. The foul city had raised him, albeit in a callous manner, and its harsh elements were little more than entertainment to him. He needed to reconnect with the human population, enjoy some good grog and playful debauchery. The deaths of underlings could wait … but how long? Every trip to the city became shorter and ventures in the Outlands longer. 
At his side, a slender man called Melegal matched him stride for stride, not making a sound. The two had been together a long time—though not always—in the city they recognized as home. The skinny man jostled by a basking couple, tipped his cap, and hurried alongside the bigger man, eyeing a small brooch of gold in his palm. 
“Heh heh,” the rogue laughed, pinning the jewelry to his vest. Venir looked up at the pair, who had stepped beneath a sign. A foul beast was colored on the placard that read, The Chimera. 
“What do you think?” Venir asked, nodding to Melegal. 
“Not the kind of place for our ilk. Remember the last time we dawdled with those Royals?” Venir slapped the man on the back and smiled, “Ah, as you always say, ‘The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward. Come on. I’m sure the ale’s just fine.” Melegal scowled, saying, “Royals don’t like being cheated. They’re vengeful.”
“Does anybody?” Venir said, leading them inside and taking a table.  The Chimera was more than just another tavern of the middle districts. It was well-known for the low-key discretion of the young upper class. Many such young men and women often enjoyed a seedier sort of lifestyle, away from the proper manners of higher society. The sweet, expensive perfume that filled the air came from the gorgeous, sweaty bodies of the most beautiful and expensive women in the town. It was a den where many liked to sow their Royal oats from time to time, and have fun at the expense of the common folk. 
The Royal class had two types of men: the good and the bad. The good ones would never be caught in the Chimera. The bad ones never seemed to leave. They carried on without shame whenever, wherever and with whoever they wished. None held them accountable for the indecent acts they committed. 
“Do as they say or die in the dungeons,” the poor storekeepers would say. 
“Do as they say or disappear,” the commoners would warn. 
It made their stomachs turn, but Venir and Melegal could not have cared less what anyone had to say. They had been this way since their childhood.
Venir blended in the best he could, staying seated, but his size and voice drew many stares. His eyes met with Melegal’s, whose chin dipped a tad as he savored a goblet of wine. Still, the atmosphere was accommodating, and his spirits raised high into the night. He gambled with nubile girls in scant clothing of the finest cloth. He told tales of his exploits while rolling the rocks. “It’s true! It’s true!” Melegal would confirm every convincing word, causing some women to swoon. When Venir finished throwing back some dark grog and clonked it on the table, an odd silence fell. A brash young warrior, strapping and tall, tossed a leather gauntlet on the table and sneered down on Venir. 
Here we go. 
He bore the mark of a higher Royal house, clothes of the finest craft, and the chin of a nobleman. Venir stared up and listened to what the younger man had to say.
“My, what have we here? A Royal from the City of Three?”
“Your big ears have served you well,” Venir said, forcing a smile. “Are you here to welcome me? In Three, we have the courtesy to offer a bottle of wine or a pitcher of ale.”
“The only thing big in this tavern is your mouth, and it would bode you well to close it.” Melegal eyed Venir and gave a slight shake of his head. Something about the young man irrigated Venir, and he could not let it go. “A challenge, perhaps?”
“Hah!” The Royal said, dropping his fists onto his hips, head craning around. “I tell you what, Warrior, for the honor of the City of Bone, I accept your challenge!”
A cry of cheers rang out, jostling the entire tavern.
Venir saw Melegal give him a disappointed side nod.
The gathering crowd dragged tables and chairs from the center floor and surrounded the two challengers. 
Melegal scooted along Venir's side and said, “You are an idiot. This is not the skim I envisioned, but a contest between a young and old bull.” “I’m not an old bull,” Venir said, taking a drink as he rose to his feet.
“Just make it quick,” Melegal muttered, sighing.
The crowd roared as Venir squared off against the leering Royal. The clinks of coins shuffled among their hands. The bar maids were pushed and pulled, back and forth, as the crowd demanded their thirsty gullets filled. 
Venir’s voice was like thunder. 
“So what will it be, Boy?”
The challenger stared hard in his eyes, replying in a demanding tone. 
“I challenge you to the Quick Fence!” 
Throaty roars of excitement jeered the two men on.
The quick fence was one of many common tavern displays of skill and bravado. Such challenges were a long-standing tradition in the City of Bone and beyond. Younger men often challenged one another to impress a woman or shame a friend. The greatest dangers a man would face in such bouts were bruised bones, an empty purse or busted pride. 
A heavy-set man in a bartender’s apron, smoking a cigar, with tattooed forearms and a pitted face, strode between the two men. He carried a chest-high, heavy, wrought-iron candle stand and set it between them on the planks.
A tiny woman with silver hair squeezed through the crowd and stuck a long, thick, white candle on the stand's spike, then disappeared. The barkeep took the big cigar hanging from his mouth and ignited the wick. He placed the cigar back in his mouth and wiped his meaty hands on the sides of his apron. Venir placed himself a sword’s length from the candle. 
The barkeep raised his arms, bringing a hush into the room as he flipped up his hands. He blew a thick ring of yellow smoke into the air. “Best of three!” 
Venir squared off on the man before him. 
“What’s your name, Boy?” 
Venir saw the anger flash in the young man’s pretentious eyes. He wanted to knock the scowl off the Royal's face. Something about the young man didn’t sit well with him. 
“Don’t call me Boy, Three-born! You’ll never forget who I am when this is over! I’ll carve my name, Tonio, into your hide.” 
The Royal stepped back, placing his hand on the bejeweled hilt of his longsword. He could see the white of the challenger’s knuckles gripping the hilt as the man’s feet shuffled into position.   
Venir rubbed his calloused hands over the grip of his hefty broadsword. He could hear the women whispering in excited voices, stating their preferences, either the handsome rock of a man or the captivating Royal. He could hear some of their colorful fantasies and fought back a welcoming smile. “I hope you’ve got a lot of coin , Old Man. Judging by those clothes, I’d say you don’t,” The Royal drew snickers from the crowd. 
Venir didn’t move. 
“I’ll have plenty after this.” 
Things began to simmer in his gut. The face of the spoiled man before him reminded him of so many of his transgressors from before. He focused on the candle’s burning light. 
The barkeep shouted. “Go!” 
Venir yanked his sword from the scabbard, swinging hard as the candle fell onto the floor. 
The Royal pumped his arms and blade up high. 
In unison, the crowd chanted, 
“Tonio! Tonio!” 
Tonio the Royal thrust his sword in the air. 
Venir handed his sword over to the barkeep, who eyed it, wiped the blade down, and returned it back to him. He slammed his weapon back in the sheath with a grunt. 
Melegal was almost smiling as he pressed the betting odds with the excited crowd. The barkeep wiped the waxy residue off of Tonio’s blade and handed it back. 
“One for the Royal—Tonio!” 
It drew another raucous cheer from the crowd. 
Tonio pounded his chest and sucked in several quick breaths as he waited for the next signal. 
Venir eyed the Royal as the candle was replaced. 
Pretty good. 
He rubbed his hilt again and closed his stance in a bit farther. 
The crowd quieted as the barkeep raised his hand. 
Quick. Quick. Quick.
“Go!” 
Blades licked out faster than the alcohol-glazed eyes could see. 
The top of the burning candlestick fell to the floor. The crowd looked about, muttering about who had won. Many voices spoke up for the local favorite. 
“Tonio!” 
“He won!” 
“I saw it!” 
“Me, too!” 
Even Venir wasn’t for certain. 
“Hold! Hold!” 
The barkeep shouted at the top of his lungs, forcing back the eager crowd. 
“I must check the blades!” 
The contestants surrendered their blades, one at a time. The barkeep first inspected the sword of Tonio with a keen, smoke-reddened eye, wiped it down, and returned it to the somber-faced young warrior. 
Venir watched as the barkeep’s fingernail revealed a small residue of white candle wax at the tip of his blade. Yes! 
“The warrior from the City of Three is the victor!” declared the barkeep. 
The crowd booed and hissed. More shouts of encouragement came to the aid of Tonio. 
“You can do it, Tonio!” 
Venir received a couple of pats on the back, as well as insults such as “son of a trollop” and “inbred cattle molester”. He thought he had heard them all, but had not. He felt an odd sense of pride. 
While the barkeep replaced the last candle, Melegal placed more bets. The rogue's hands and lips worked the gamblers like a master magician. Slender fingers flashed up and down, beckoning for more. Venir could see that icy glimmer in his friend’s eyes. It was one of those nights. He prepared for the final round. Focus. Focus. 
Tonio spit in his direction. 
“Luck! I haven’t been beaten in two years, and I’m not about to end my streak to some cretin like you. I’m the best, and you won’t ever beat me again.” 
Venir glowered back. Something about the Royal went under his skin, into the bone. Win or not, he wanted to chop the young man’s head off. One slice. “For Bone!” the Royal shouted to his mouthy cadre decorated in pompous clothes. 
“Bone—Bone—Bone …” they chanted. 
Venir eyed the flame. Tonio gripped his blade as the sweat began to bead on the man’s creaseless forehead. The smoke and sweat smothered the tavern air. The barkeep stepped back and raised his arms high as the chants subsided. 
“GO!” 
Shing!
The thick white candle-top hit the floor, still burning. 
Tonio looked at the candle with his jaw on the floor. The crowd gasped, many rubbing their eyes. The Royal’s sword was half drawn from its sheath. Venir waited for the young warrior’s eyes to meet his. I've still got it.
He stood there with his thick arms crossed over his broad chest, smirking. 
“Looks like you lost your streak—Boy!” 
He wanted to laugh, but held it back. 
“Keep practicing! You can only get better!” he said, turning away. 
Tonio was shaking with rage, shaking his sword until his brethren dragged him away, kicking and screaming. 
“Cheater!” 
Venir paid him no mind as he headed back to his table. 
Melegal was collecting money from several scowling faces as the wary barkeep gave him a dumb look, gathered the candle stand, and walked away. It wasn’t long before the crowd went back to their drinking and swindling, while Tonio and his ilk slunk further away. Venir sat down before a fresh mug of ale, grinning from ear to ear. 
“Pretty good, huh Melegal,” he said with a wink.
“Did you have to draw that fast?” 
“Ah … he’s a cocky one, even for a Royal. He needed a lesson. Who knows, maybe it’ll do him some good,” he said, gulping from his mug and wiping the froth on his sleeve. 
The thief shook his head. 
“I doubt it. Not those Royal types; they’re all rotten to the core!” 
Venir knew it was true. The Royals were a vengeful bunch. But so was he.
“Yep, so why pass up an opportunity like that? Nothing like a little fun at their expense. They’ve had plenty at ours.” 
The thief’s face only darkened. 
“Uh … anyway, how’d we do?” Venir said.
“Better than usual. These guys have deeper pockets than the crowds we’re used to. Let’s get a couple of drinks and then get out of here. I’m leery of these Royals and the City Watch.”

***

Melegal hunkered down as the tavern got smokier and the evening wore on. Venir’s brash behavior made it clear he wasn’t ready to leave. The ladies were very courteous to big winners. Even Melegal’s stiff expression began to soften as painted nails ran through his hair. Ah, even the brute can be right about some things. 
The tavern was full of drunkenness, raunchy jokes and coarse laughter. Arguments, broken pottery, and the occasional whiff of vomit wafted in the air. He watched the beefy bouncers escort debilitated men outside by the scruffs of their necks, adding a solid kick in the pants that sent them reeling in the dirt. Only the Royals were exempt from such treatment. 
Still, Melegal worried. As Venir relished the plush palm of the comely confines, he became loud and rowdy. Venir bought escorted women drinks, recited piss-poor poetry, offered flirtatious words, and even bought a drink for a thirsty-looking dog. Most didn’t mind his bold behavior, but others began to grumble. He’s going to find a knife in his throat. Still, free drinks make many friends no matter where you are, as long as the gold lasts. Venir had the remaining dwellers' attention as Melegal slunk farther from the table and fingered his recently acquired coins. The muscles in his back became taut as he noticed the younger Royals had further isolated themselves from the crowd. Their heads were down and staring over Venir’s way, using venomous whispers. The Royals of Bone never took losing very well, even worse to an outsider. He motioned Venir’s way, Time to go. 
As a beauty twirled her finger in his ear, the big man frowned and shook his head. 
He’ll never learn. So be it; I’m going. As Melegal got up, two voluptuous ladies in short silk dresses pressed their full bodies into his wanton face. They whispered discreet pleasures in the rogue’s ears that raised goose bumps on his arms. Oh my! 
Venir was just as titillated by the small throng of women offering their irresistible wares. His mind was paralyzed as the more favorable contestants sat on his lap. 
One moment Melegal's skinny legs couldn’t find the exit fast enough. In the next, his instincts beckoned for him to stay. Why can’t all of Bone’s women smell and look so amazing?  Overwhelmed by the women’s arousing splendor, he soaked it in. The Royals were the furthest thing from his thoughts when those thoughts were interrupted.


CHAPTER 2


A small pack of young men stormed towards his table, and the women scurried suspiciously away.
“Where are you women going?” Venir said it as if he’d been woken from a dream. 
The intoxicating women were gone and replaced by a pack of pampered bullies. 
“What now, ladies?” 
One Royal with shifty eyes spoke. 
“Tonio, challenge him to a real man’s game! The strength test!” 
The words of a new challenge energized the deadened crowd. Unintelligible shouts of encouragement rang out from all corners, shaking the crystals that dangled from the chandeliers. 
“What do you say,?” Tonio asked Venir. “Care to put your coin on a true challenge, Three-born?” 
Venir looked over at Melegal, who was shaking his head, his slender smile turned upside down. Venir felt good, loose, up for anything. And his pride wouldn’t let him back down from a man like Tonio. He swung his arm over the back of his chair and teetered back on two legs.
“I don’t know, Boy,” he slurred, “I’d be afraid I might end another one of your streaks!” 
“Ooh!” the growing throng laughed along.
Tonio tore off his shirt, revealing a sleeveless leather jerkin with gleaming studs. 
“Let’s see what you say after you eat the floor—Mongrel!” 
Venir staggered up, pointing and winking at one of Tonio’s friends. 
“Let’s go then, you double-cur-eating son of a mid-wife!” he said with a smile.
But no one laughed. Instead, the charged up crowd began placing bets. 
Melegal struggled to keep up with the bets. Still, the reluctant thief was salivating as his gray eyes gleamed with silver. 
The roars rose to a deafening crescendo as Venir and Tonio squared off. The Royal was a towering athlete, with powerful shoulders and iron-cut arms. The younger man’s chestnut eyes glared down into Venir’s. Renewed agitation began to stir inside him. How many Royal faces like this one had tormented him many years ago? His humorous side was replaced by something else.
Venir wore a heavy hooded smock with white wolf-fur shoulders, typical of a man from the City of Three. The unique garment made his shoulders appear inhuman in size as his broad frame stood like an anvil abreast the Royal. He could hear the onlookers sizing up the pair of giants, and many coins shuffled in Tonio’s favor. 
Tonio was almost spitting as he thumped his chest. 
“I’m taking you down. No one’s ever beaten me at this!” 
The barkeep stepped between the two large bodies and spoke loudly. 
“No kicking, biting, head butting, or tripping! Your hands must be locked on the other’s upper arms at all times. Whoever forces his opponent on his back first—wins!” 
An audible gasp filled the room as Venir removed his hooded smock. He wore a dark sleeveless jerkin that exposed his hulking arms. 
“Great Bish!” someone said. 
The bets began to shift again. Tonio’s friends looked around at one another. 
“Take up your positions!” 
Venir saw Tonio's surprised look when he clamped his large hands onto Venir's unyielding biceps. He felt Tonio squeeze hard into his scarred arms. A look of uncertainty filled Tonio’s face. He locked onto Tonio’s smooth and sinewy arms, gripping right below the biceps, and held them tight. He could hear Melegal taking more bets. His blue eyes blazed into the man. 
“Are you ready?” the barkeep shouted. 
He nodded as Tonio stared at him in anticipation. 
“Last chance to save your gold, Boy.” 
“Never!”
“We’ll see, then!” 
The barkeep shouted.
“GO!”
Venir pulled his arms in a terrific upward tug, drawing Tonio in close. In the next instant, he was being shoved back, boots digging for footing on the planks below. The young man was every bit as strong as he appeared to be. 
“Blast!” Venir murmured as he fought for his balance.
The crowd whooped and hollered at the thrilling sight of the two men going head to head. 
Venir was being twisted and jerked, back and forth, like a stubborn child. Tonio moved with speed, balance, and power. He was proving to be a difficult match. Venir’s mind was slowed and groggy, but he held on. 
He’s good. Bone!  
He was shuffling back and forth as the two danced like bears, knocking over tables and chairs. The crowd filled his ears like thundering horses. He was in a lull, his body trying to awaken as he battled to shove the aggressive man back. One slip, and he would be on his back. 
Venir was slammed backward into the bar. 
The crowd let out a triumphant roar. 
The young warrior’s comrades, full of fire and liquor, chanted obscenities at his back. The Royal of Bone was good, very good, and the crowd knew that. 
Venir looked up at his opponent, just in time to see the man spit snot in his face. His blood bristled. Enough! The time for the charade was up as his head began to clear. He took the offensive, his large hands squeezing hard, choking the blood flow in Tonio’s arms. Tonio gasped as Venir half-jerked the young warrior’s arms out of their sockets. Tonio was biting his lip as Venir squeezed deeper. 
The younger warrior tried to pull away. 
“No!” 
“Yes—Boy!” 
A rivalry between the two men developed. The Royal fought back with skill and natural athleticism. Venir felt hatred grow between the two as they tossed back and forth. Venir was awake now, the droll of alcohol flushed out in battle. He felt the strength in the Royal’s limbs fighting back as his renewed. The crowd was going wild. 
The match was taking longer than he had anticipated. What started out as a simple skim for extra gold was now a full-fledged battle. He could feel the man’s labored breaths on his neck, while his own lungs were beginning to burn. He short-stepped the man back and forth, but Tonio fought on, bumping his head under his chest and trying to wrench his arms from his shoulders. 
“Had enough,” Venir snorted, “Boy!” 
The Royal's forehead walloped him in the nose, watering his eyes. Blood trickled down Venir’s face, its redness covering his chin and dripping to the floor. The sight of blood drove the men and women into such a frenzy that the head barkeep stood atop the bar waving a large oaken club in his hand. 
Venir growled and snarled; half-man, half-bull, and all warrior. Enough was enough. With arms locked on Tonio like a vice, he drew the young man in close. 
“Down you go!”
“Never!” Tonio cried out.
Venir crossed up Tonio’s arms and pulled him in tight, turned his hip under the man, and lifted Tonio’s entire body over his own head. He slammed the Royal into the hard oaken floor.
CRACK! 
The air exploded from Tonio’s mouth and he laid out cold. 
Silence filled the room. 
The crowd gawped at him, and some cheered. It was a contest that would be remembered for a long time in the Chimera. Venir wiped his hair from his face, sucking for breath, as he looked down as his opponent.
Tonio was limp, yet breathing. As they lifted Tonio from the floor, Venir noticed it was the planks on the floor that had cracked, not the warrior’s back. 
Too bad.
Venir watched them go, holding to his nose a rag that a patron handed him. He was exhausted and had a headache. He sat back down and watched his friend retrieve their winnings from many hapless faces. The crumpled heap of his opponent disappeared with his companions out the back of the Chimera. For some reason, he wished he had killed the man. 
Melegal sat down beside him.
“Want me to fix that?” He pointed at his nose. 
“Huh? Oh, no, I wouldn’t want you to get dirty,” Venir replied.
Venir pinched is hands over his nose, and with a nasty crunch, he shoved it back into place. Tears were streaking down his eyes. 
“Is it straight?” 
“Straight enough … like it matters.”

***

It was well into the morning now as Melegal and Venir sat in the tavern, which had begun to clear out. A couple of ladies had made their way back to the table, and Venir was beginning to act like his old self. Quick to act, but slow to learn. Melegal patted the tiny purse of coins concealed along his thigh. 
“By Bone, Venir,” Melegal said, “it almost looked like you weren’t in control of that whole bout. It could have cost me.”
“You mean, us, don’t you?”
Melegal shrugged. “You’ve already spent your share.” He saw those blue eyes glower on him as Melegal motioned to the women in the nooks of Venir's arms. 
Venir then smiled, squeezing the ladies as he tossed his head back and said, “Ha! That Royal surprised me, is all I can say. I have a broken nose to show for it. But don’t worry, I won’t be so careless next time.” Now it was Melegal’s turn to laugh. 
“You said that last time.” 
“No I didn’t.” 
“I’m certain you did. But memories often escape that thick skull of yours.”
“Don’t worry, Warrior,” said one of the buxom honey-blonde women who hung on Venir’s bruised arms. “We’ll take care of you.” 
“Let’s get out of here, then,” Venir said, rising from the table. 
Melegal grabbed his woman by the hand and followed.
Into the empty streets they went as Venir belted out a rousing tune. 
“Shush, Fool, you’ve made enough noise down here tonight. The City Watch will be all over us.”
If Venir heard, he didn’t show it, as on and on he went. 
Somewhere in the shadows, eyes watched them go, following every staggered step. The Royal games had just begun.


CHAPTER 3


Days later, the heavy rains washed the stagnant filth back into the sewers of the city. People filled the streets with buckets and soap, storing fresh water and washing off weeks of the sandy grime that caked them. Rain was a rare blessing in the city centered in the Outlands, and baths were not a commodity of the impoverished. 
Sheets of the warm drops drenched Venir, whose pride had cost him a broken nose a few nights ago. Dark, wet and drunk, he sloshed through the flooding streets, a jug of wine nuzzled in the nook of his arm, singing a warrior's song. People shuffled away. He belched and bustled past them, saying, “Get out of the way!”. 
Venir was on his own, doing what he wanted: escaping the pursuits of the Outland world. He wanted to live another wild night like his last. Women, song, drink and dance—the best his remaining coins could buy. He smiled as rain dripped over the chiseled features of his face. There was more amusement to be found. 
Hours earlier, Melegal had opted out of a return to the Chimera. The rogue had little influence in talking him out of it. His mind was set. He would go back and win the crowd once more with his tales of glory. 
"Have at it," the thief had said as he stormed away. 
Pah! Venir didn’t need a babysitter if he was only going among the city bred children.
He whistled a tune he had heard somewhere earlier in the dreary day. He hoped to bump into some of those people he thought he’d impressed a few nights earlier. Venir no longer wore the special hooded smock from the City of Three. The significance of that never entered his inebriated mind. 
Now, he looked like nothing more than an oversized commoner in the garb of a layman. His mind was on more of that premium dark grog, and maybe a bottle for the road. His dry mouth began to water despite the soaking rain. Maybe someone would want to buy him a bottle, he thought, laughing out loud. He wouldn’t stay too long. He would bump elbows and soon be out of there, without any trouble. It’s the least I could do. 
Dripping wet and wearing a tattered brown cloak and muddied boots, he stomped inside, oblivious to the glares. He couldn’t have been more out of place if he had a dead cat strapped to his head. It was early; the tavern was quiet, and only a handful of commendable types and others filled the room. Frowns looked up from their food, then down again, muttering amongst themselves. He went up to the bar, sat down on a stool, and barked out a greeting. 
“A fine evening! A bottle of grog, if you will,” he said, dropping his coins on the bar.
The same pock-marked barkeep from nights earlier nodded, pouring the grog in a polished rock-cut tumbler that he placed on the bar. Venir took it in his hand, sipped it, nodded at the cigar-smoking barkeep, and drained it. 
“Ah!” he said, clonking the empty tumbler back on the surface. Behind him, another patron scurried into the back, head looking back and forth. The barkeep nodded as the patron slipped away. Venir paid the gesture little mind, only watching the man’s meaty forearms pour more dark amber fluid into his cup. 
“Thanks, ” he muttered, tossing the man another coin. 
“No problem,” the barkeep replied, sweat beading his brow. 
Venir stared at the man’s smoky eyes and sniffed the intoxicating liquor, pausing before he drained it. He licked his teeth and smacked his lips. Something didn’t seem quite right, but the grog tasted fine. 
“That was good,” he said, grinning. “How about another? Make it two!”
It wasn’t long before he was feeling at home. More rain-soaked patrons sauntered in, leaving burning looks on his broad back as he welcomed them. Satisfied, Venir sat at the bar, hunched like a yeti, when he caught a fine red head eyeing him. Smiling, she came over as he gestured for her. She was voluptuous, smelling like a dozen different flowers, with the mouth of an ornery troubadour. He captivated her with his story from a few nights before. Her painted eyes were inviting as she twirled a lock of his hair and straddled one long leg over his. 
She whispered in his ear, jostling his manhood.
“I wish I could have been there to see it.” 
They shared a few more rounds, and the barkeep offered him another drink. She tried to pull his arm away. 
“Perhaps you should slow down. I want your company all night. Another round might put you down.” 
Venir laughed. 
“There’s no chance of that,” he said, ogling her. 
He turned to the other patrons and toasted her, roaring his drunken thanks and describing her comely body in a booming voice that all could hear. Then he shot back the grog and slammed the tumbler down. There was a low, wicked chuckle from somewhere in the room. 
The grog had tasted different this time—more bitter and intoxicating. The face of the captivating woman before him began to stretch in many directions. 
“What is happening?” he exclaimed, arms stretching out towards the woman’s contorted face.
His body shivered and the floor wobbled. He heard her voice, but couldn’t understand her words. He thought he heard laughter coming from her perfect red lips. His brows buckled as he growled, clutching at the bar, hanging on for his life. Then the floor smashed him full in the face. He didn’t feel a thing. 


CHAPTER 4 


A single candle-lit lantern illuminated a damp dungeon cell below the restless City of Bone. Rats the size of cats scurried about on the moldy stone floors, feasting on any leftover scraps or excrement that would fill them. The leftover bones of long-past occupants were crunched and consumed with rabid jaws. 
A lone man chained to the wall of the cell was snoring, his deep rumblings keeping the hungry rats at bay from his dangling toes. Long, stringy locks of sweaty blond hair hung over his battered face. Dirty, ragged clothes still covered most of his beaten body. He had slept through every blow, leaving his tormentors uneasy. They had decided to hang him in his cell until he came around, while assuring one another that he had felt something. 
The guards did not realize the significance of this man, nor did they care. The slumbering man seemed at peace, as if his conscience was clear, oblivious to any crimes he had committed. He was not some upstart citizen that crossed the wrong path. He was a killer, but not of the common sort that struck the blind in the night, or kidnapped women and babes. He was more than that. He was a killer who had survived endless years with cold deference. Peril was his bedfellow. Venir was his name. He didn’t realize he had been serving the greater good of Bish for quite some time. He was the one the underlings called the scourge of their kind. He had decimated their ranks, time and again. They wanted him dead, a kingdom for his head. Now, the Outland butcher was shackled by another set of enemies, for other reasons. The underlings did not realize their thorn was little more than a common man who hung helpless at the mercy of softer opponents. No, the name of Venir meant nothing to the underlings, for they called this human by a different name. With great hatred and reverence, they called him The Darkslayer.


CHAPTER 5


He awoke disoriented, chained, and hanging by his arms in the middle of a small, smelly cell. An angry grunt aggravated the throbbing in his head. His hands were numb, and they bled within the tight shackles on his thick wrists. His sudden snort jostled an unkempt, heavyset guard who was leaning against the wall, asleep in his chair. The young guard rubbed his eyes and tilted all four legs back to the stony floor, then scratched his unshaven chin and looked through the bars at him. 
“Finally got yer hide didn’t they, Thug?” The guard spit tobacco through the cell bars, but it fell short of his swelling feet. 
Venir uttered a faint laugh, drawing a perturbed look from the guard’s pimply face. The guard unlocked the cell, swung back its barred door, strode up to him, and spat thick dark tobacco juice full in his face. 
“What d’ya think of that?” 
“I think,” he replied in a threatening voice, “you’ll be the first to die.” 
The guard slammed his fat fist straight into his stomach. 
“Ow! Blast it!” 
The guard winced, shaking his wrist and giving him an uncertain look, and then stepped out of the cell, locking it shut. Holding his wrist, the man skittered out of sight, where a heavy door opened and closed in the distance. 
Venir checked out his dreary surroundings. Bone! Dungeon floors were like a second home to him. They were all the same, no matter where you were: foul, and slick with centuries old muck and grime. It was not something he ever got used to, but he had been in worse. The chubby city guard was the same as the rest, fresh meat, trained to punish or kill. 
As black spittle ran down his chin onto his chest, he tugged at his chains. They were rusted, made for a lesser man. The cell door looked like its better days passed decades ago. A solid kick would take it from the hinges. He had barreled through thicker steel when he had to. Why was he here? He traced the last steps he recalled. The Chimera. A cherry headed woman with an unrivaled plunging neckline and soft milky thighs was there. A faint smile crossed his cracked lips. The grog—syrupy, biting and divine—had turned his belly sour. Drugged? Poisoned? He wanted to figure it out. He thought of wrenching the chains from the walls and walking out, but he was drained and sluggish. His eyes ached when they opened. It wasn’t in him.
Patience was the better plan, but he had doubts. One could never trust the City Watch, controlled by the Royal brethren. They would slit a woman’s throat with little more than a word; he had seen it before. If someone had drugged him, he wanted to know who and why. He was perturbed and embarrassed to have been duped at the tavern.  To make matters worse, his nose was aching, and the rest of his body throbbed under his skin. But it could have been worse. Nothing felt broken, not even a rib. He was lucky all he had was a headache and not a cracked skull. He had tasted steel-toed boots before. But who would have gone to all this trouble over him? It must have been the Royals; he had crossed their turf once too often. I hate it when Melegal’s right.
He drifted into sleep only to awaken to biting pain and discomfort as he shifted in his shackles. The next few hours were agonizing. He dozed off and was heavy in dreams when the sound of several footsteps disturbed his sleep. His mind seemed to trudge through the mud, eyes cracking open to see what was about to befall him. 
Four figures strode into full view at the cell door: the chubby guard who had spat on him, a rugged-faced man marked as a warden, a tall, familiar brown-haired man, and an older, elegant and powerful-looking man. Royals. His blood began to stir. 
The pair of royal men both towered over the guards and looked to be father and son. He knew one of them well enough, and his nose ached at the sight. Their rich clothing bore the insignias of upper-class Royals, and their appearance in the dungeon seemed misplaced. He shifted in his shackles, head down and eyes up. 
The ugly warden with the rough voice spoke first.
“It hasn’t taken you long to wind up here again, I see.”
Venir didn’t reply, but was all ears. 
“You’ve been brought in for assault on a Royal and theft,” the warden continued, “and threatening a city watchman. What do you say to that, Scum?” 
“It’s crap,” 
Venir responded, his voice dry and cracked. 
“I’m here because I beat that loudmouthed little braggart in a fair challenge. I embarrassed him and all of his little brood.” 
Tonio’s face reddened with fury, gripping the hilt of his longsword. 
“That’s not true!”
 A strong hand held his grip in place. 
 “Father, he tried to cheat me. I broke his nose for it. Look!” 
Venir winced at the lies. 
“Did you tell your father how many coins you lost, Boy? It was quite a bit, I recall!”
Tonio was shaking with rage. 
“Lying Crook! You attacked me from behind and stole my money!”
It was preposterous now. One lie would come after the next. It was their kind’s way. I should have killed him. He knew it was best to remain silent, but silence was not his forte.
“You mean your father’s money? And how would you have seen me attacking you from behind?” He was almost laughing now. 
“He’s a liar, Father! He didn’t beat me! He’s a thief! Open the door! Open it so I can slit his throat!” Tonio was losing control. 
“I’ll tear this vermin to pieces! You scum! You’ll rot in this cell or die by my sword!” 
A sharp backhand slapped into Tonio’s frothing face. Venir laughed out loud. Silenced and dejected, Tonio looked away, holding his lip. 
“I bet that stung,” Venir said. “Ooof!” 
The warden slammed his stick into his gut. It could have been worse; he could’ve lost his tongue for it, but he couldn’t resist. You gotta keep a sense of humor, even on the worst days. 
Tonio stormed from the room, wailing obscenities. When the young Royal was out of shouting distance, the father prepared to speak. The city guards kept their eyes downcast like fearful children about to be stricken. Whoever the man was, he had great command of his subjects. An uneasy feeling crept over Venir. He realized he had crossed the wrong people. His vacation in the City of Bone was over. 
The older Royal’s words seemed to control the air with the power of a strong breeze.
“No food and ten lashes a day, until I return.”
Before the man left, he turned, casting a sharp glance his way.
“What a waste of a man. I could have used a brute like you. If you were one of us, you might not be left in the rot. See to it he doesn’t regain his strength. I like seeing them die at their worst, not their best.” 
The Royal father turned and walked away, leaving Venir with a sinking feeling. 
“Unless you’re lucky enough to die within a week,” the warden told him, “you’ll be calling this dungeon home for most of your life. You'll probably just have your decrepit body hanged or quartered. I‘d like to see a big fellow like you pulled apart. Now that’d be something I’d pay for. Heh –heh. You messed with the wrong people. They’ve got the power to make you pay every moment of your last days. You should know that.”
“I can leave when I choose,” Venir said, shifting in his shackles, but his words were not convincing. “Nobody can do anything about it.” 
The warden laughed.
“Sure. Go ahead! Run all you want, they’ll catch you. The Royals always get their man. War games, and you're less than a pawn.”


CHAPTER 6


The guards left him hanging alone in his cell, crushed by his thoughts. War games. Those were things he had avoided over the years; now he was caught in the middle. He knew he was a pawn, no more or less, to die at their whim. 
He had taken his own games too far. The Outlands were dangerous abroad, face-to-face with the elements, but the belly of Bone was just as bad. Now he was there, the same place he had crawled out of years ago. He had been charged with lesser charges before, but not by a Royal. His prior shenanigans roused little fervor and cost no more than a few days in a dingy hole. This time, Royals had it in for him, and his future in the City of Bone, and perhaps in all of Bish, was uncertain. 
The Royals were the elite rulers of Bish, and lesser men had no rights over them. If a Royal accused you, you were guilty. You were either indebted with impossible fines, killed, or spent years—decades even—in the dungeons to rot. Many opted for suicide, which sometimes passed the burden onto a family member to finish suffering their fate. The easiest ways to thrive in Bone were steering clear of the Royals or doing as they said. It was slavery without saying so. 
As bad as that seemed, it was easy to avoid such troubles because the Royals were a fragment of the wretched population. One could lay low after a frivolous encounter; the twisting city offered many places to hide. The common faces were easy to forget. 
In addition, the City Watch was incapable of enforcing all the ludicrous accusations of the Royals. There was too much crime and not enough manpower. The City Watch and Royals had enemies that didn’t like them, either, and did not fear to strike back. Several areas were not even patrolled, and these were the areas Venir would frequent. He was safe in the dark local areas, and he knew that the guards there only pursued criminals who had just committed a major offense. And anyway, major crimes were more lucrative for the city guards. The petty ones were given little regard.
So why was he captured, shackled, and left to perish in the rot? After some hard thinking and remembering his encounter with Tonio several days ago, it dawned on him. The Royal warrior’s ego was bigger than his own. All of this over a fair bet. There was no honor in it, but Royals only had honor among their own. 
As he hung in the gloom, his own faults became clear. He had ignored his friend’s warnings, failed to play by their own rules, even. Booze and ego intertwined into a bad mixer of his poor judgment and lust. Ah, but that fire-topped wench was worth the shot. Still, his actions were a no-no in their business. A rich, smart, and vengeful man could just pay a spotter to alert him when a foe was around. It wouldn't take more than an urchin or a decrepit geezer seeking a goblet of wine to track a man for miles around. 
He winced as he struggled within his confines, noting the trickle of blood oozing down his wrists.
He should have known this bratty Royal would have it in for him, but Venir was cocky and stupid sometimes. Unlike most people in the City of Bone, he never felt in danger there. He hadn't since he was a boy. He was too weathered by his ventures in the Outlands, a hardened soldier, and he had seen horrors the common people had never heard of. Besides, dark grog can make a red-blooded man feel invincible, and in his case, it worked most of the time. Only one thing made him feel mightier: Brool … his war-axe. 
So here he was in a dank gray cell, hanging in chains, feeling hungry, foolish, and hung-over. A slow hour had passed before he heard a scratchy voice reveal itself from a pile of rags adjacent to his cell. 
“Ahem … Venir, are you enjoying yourself?” 
It was Melegal, huddled in a heap of cloth that began to take shape. He was not surprised, but glad to see the man. He had long gotten over his amazement at the rogue’s way of appearing out of nowhere.
“No … just hanging,” he replied in a sour voice. 
Melegal explained that as soon as he’d found out Venir was in the dungeon, he had himself arrested for calling a City Watchman a “big, ugly, cow-loving orc-face”. Now, the rogue had already escaped his first cell and managed to sneak into Venir's. Melegal wanted to make sure he got out of jail; he needed him around for protection and profits. This was the surviving nature of their relationship, and it worked well for both men. “Better hanging in here than outside from a noose,” Melegal said, dusting off his clothes. The thief had been raised from birth in the City of Bone and knew its history well. Venir had met with him in one of many orphanages he wound up in not long after the underlings slaughtered his family. Venir hit it off with Melegal, though most did not. The orphanage offered the adventuresome boys few comforts or choices. Their days were filled with hard labor, which they performed beneath the castles of the great city. Months would sometimes pass before he ever caught a glimpse of sunlight. 
Many hopeless and pain-filled years passed for him, but Melegal always hung by his side. Days went by without food, and he watched many die without hope. Others disappeared. Out of all the children he had come to know, Melegal would have been the last he guessed would survive. He did what he could, and the scrawny crumb-snatcher did the same for him. He and the thief grew bold enough to escape and live on their own in the City of Bone. Once they found freedom, they never looked back. Their past was best forgotten, but it always lingered.
The pair managed just fine despite their young age. But, over time Melegal branched out to test his own skills, while he, who had been born in the Outlands, was drawn to the barren landscapes and forests where he felt most at home. It wasn’t long after the underlings overtook Outpost Thirty-One that Melegal had come back to settle again in Bone. Venir spent his time in many lands and cities, but much of the time he came back to Bone. This had been going on for the past five years. 
He looked across at Melegal, thinking how funny it was that this gaunt man always looked the same. The thief’s face was neither welcoming nor threatening. His steel gray eyes drew a savory woman now and then. The man had a smile, but saved that for the fairer sex. His half-shaven face, salt and pepper hair and dimpled chin gave the man an older appearance. As far as he knew, they were about the same age, but neither could tell for sure. 
The rogue was still wearing loose-fitting drab clothes and had on an odd black cloth hat. It hung like a wet leaf down the right side of his head. Why it was so special to his friend, he did not know. 
Their friendship had been sparked in the orphanage, the day some bullies snatched a similar hat from Melegal. He'd whipped the bullies that same day and taken back the hat. He did not know why he did it, but he was beaten for it, as good deeds were often punished along with the bad. The raw-boned boy had been at his side ever since. 
Men always hated Melegal’s hat, but women of late, for some reason, loved to play with it and comment on it. He never understood the importance of the hat, but found it funny when his friend explained that it made him look ‘distinguished’. 
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?” Melegal was 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.” 
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 had come to the jail to protect him and maybe help him escape. 
The thief was cleaning his nails with a thin blade while leaning against the wall. Venir knew his friend wanted him to admit his mistake. Melegal always played these games, but had never gotten him to acknowledge any failure. And the thief was always too impatient to pass up the next business transaction. The man wanted to regain his lost profits. 
Venir 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 is 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, eyes wide, like a child on the first day of school. 
“On yer feet, Dirt!” The warden snarled. “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, Deadman. 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 farther, while looking over the warden’s shoulder. It was a bonding moment between student and teacher. Venir almost laughed, but his head hurt too much. His limbs were stiff and aching, his head still full of bad medicine. 
“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. 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 the thief was hidden somewhere in the dungeon, 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 blasted 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 a thousand times.” 
The warden snapped the whip with another 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, shoving his way 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 his toes and sneering down on the man.
“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 and the backs of everyone in your family, 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. 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 begrudging 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 Venir's 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, and his 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 hot air was filled with 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 taut 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, which 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. The painful expression on Tonio’s face would 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 to his side. It was as if Tonio saw him for the first time. This was not the "Royal" 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, and shoulders that hulked like a 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 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 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 his feet.
“Ooomph!”Tonio fell to his knees, winded but groaning as he rose 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 that loudmouth jaw with a mallet of a punch. Tonio was out cold, his face bleeding on the cobblestone floor. 
Venir was breathing heavily 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 had 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, but the thief was gone, leaving behind only a small red apple in his cell. With the keys and the apple, Venir 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 his shoulders. 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!” 
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 saying that, but Melegal was 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 friend’s 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 had Melegal gotten back here 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 herders 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 with a deadpan face.
Venir grunted and chewed 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, 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 him?” 
“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 that role. He even liked the rumors he heard about himself, even the most ridiculous ones. Still, his identity was safe, because his alter-ego didn’t play inside the City of Bone. His older self kept many things from the thief, as the years had indeed changed him.
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 awaited him. Crawling inside dank caves, buried in foul marshes, they dug in, and he was beginning to lose sleep over it


CHAPTER 7


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, 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 captives who went in didn’t escape, 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. By 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 steeply graded, 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 that ruled the Underland. The underlight had arisen from ancient spells cast millennia 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, two robed figures hovered over the puddle of blood. 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!” one elated.
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. 
Lord Verbard held out his index finger, and with a quick hiss his finger ignited into a red hot glow. The underling ran its nail over the fresh blood on the leg of the middle human. The man’s hairs began to curl away and stink. The underling jabbed his burning fingernail into the man’s flesh, ripping a deep laceration on the thigh. 
“Wonderful sounds they make don’t they, Catten?” 
Catten studied the man’s tormented face and clapped.
“Like music … did that hurt, human? Was that a sound of pleasure or pain? Are you trying to say something?”
Catten floated closer to the man, reaching out and turning his ear. A sound was coming from the corner of the man’s torn mouth.
“The Darks..slaaaa…kilz..filth…unders-s-s…”
Catten’s gold eyes became molten with anger. All five of his nails glowed red hot as he tore out the flesh of the man’s thigh in a single stroke.
“Are you falling asleep on me? Verbard, we cannot allow him to sleep again. It’s the ninth time today. I will not be treated like this by my guests.” 
“And we can’t have them sleeping when Master Sinway arrives,” Verbard replied. 
Catten shared his brother’s look of concern and he snapped his fingers. 
“Let’s remove their eyelids.” 


CHAPTER 8


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, millennia 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 newly found capabilities and responsibilities. Like them, she could do or create anything at will, anywhere in the vastness of 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 hands 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 and then new races gained knowledge, made fire, made weapons, went to war, struggled for survival, fought alien invaders, and ultimately destroyed themselves or were exterminated by others. 
On occasion, maybe one race in thousands would evolve into the omnipotent status her kind enjoyed. Trinos had seen this happen a few times, and it gave her a tingle to welcome the newcomers to the expanse. This joy was always short-lived because she had to go back to watch the other worlds destroy themselves. War, famine, and disease 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. 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 a small corner of her universe. It was blue and beautiful. She had visited and could feel that this race had the potential to become 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 began 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 were 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. 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 ran 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 9


Venir awoke to the sound of pounding rain. He was in the little apartment he shared with Melegal during his stays in the City of Bone. On the top floor of a dingy four-story apartment building, it was adequate for the two full-grown men to live in comfort within the miserable city. 
The candles mounted on the walls were unlit, but a lantern glowed, and there was a hint of light at the small window where the rain splattered the glass pane. Another empty cot was by his side, its satin pillow fluffed and the blankets folded in perfect squares. A wood stove was burning as the smell of fresh coffee filled his nostrils. A metal carafe of Melegal’s best was percolating on the stove.
He yawned as he watched his roommate’s rigorous routine of calisthenics taking place on the floor. The thief was in a hand stand, doing push-ups. 
“Ninety-nine … one hundred.” Melegal rolled down, silent as a cat, and hoisted his feet behind his head. 
“Morning,” he yawned again. 
“Morning, crap!” the thief replied. “It’s almost noon.”
“What!”He turned to the single window by his bed and peered through the water-coated glass. 
“Slat! It’s just gone dawn.” 
“No fooling you.”
Melegal switched positions and began one-armed pushups. 
Venir got up and went to the water basin beside the wood stove and rinsed his face. He sucked in some water from a pitcher, washing out his cottonmouth, and spit into a large metal pipe between the wood stove and the basin. The indoor waste shoot was the reason they had chosen the top apartment. That way they would not have to listen to any other occupants spit, wash, and urinate from the spouts above, down into the nasty sewers below. 
Indoor plumbing was one of the marvels of the City of Bone, rumored to be the only city with such advancements. In truth, this ancient city was almost the only one with buildings several stories high. The humans that claimed they built the City of Bone often bragged of being the most advanced race on the world of Bish. They enjoyed their comforts. But, over the centuries, even they had forgotten most of what they had or hadn't done, or who had done it and why. For the City of Bone had been torn down more than once in its long life, only to be rebuilt on the bones of its dead. That was how it had acquired its current name. And, chances are, as with all things on Bish, it would fall again. 
He sat down alongside his roommate and tried duplicating the routine calisthenics. It was agonizing. If he can do it I can. Ten minutes later, he was sweating like a pig. Melegal’s forehead was still dry as a bone as the man crouched with his legs behind his head. Venir strained to attempt the same.
Melegal snorted a laugh as he hopped up and poured some coffee. 
Venir stayed on the floor, struggling to put his legs behind his head. He grunted and pulled. He used to do it all the time, years ago. 
“Hah!”
Melegal’s face said it all. 
“How’d you get your legs over those monstrous shoulders?” 
“Don’t know,” he replied, flopping them back to the floor. “But I can.” 
Melegal stirred his coffee, shaking his head.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, 
“Ahh!” His head was clearing, and he was beginning to feel better.
“How ’bout some coffee?” 
Melegal poured it into a handle-free mug and passed it over to him.
“So, what’s the plan for the day? Are you going to be around any longer, or head back to the wilderness already?” 
Venir sniffed in the intoxicating aroma, feeling the warmth from his ceramic mug. He took a slurp.
“Mmmm … it’s that time again, it seems. Besides, after that last run-in, I’d better be going. Are you gonna come this time, or hide under your cot again?” He managed a smile, but the truth was he felt cooped up. He couldn’t tear his mind from the underlings. The things they did to people. The shredded faces were always haunting his thoughts and dreams. The longer he stayed inside, the more people died.
Melegal frowned. 
“With all that gold we just made … would I rush off and risk dying again? You get me into one life-threatening mess after another. It’s insane. You’re insane! I like the easy life inside the walls.” 
“Ah, bullslat. You get bored outta your mind when I’m gone. You just sit in here and whittle away. You like it on the edge with me. And I always keep you safe; you know that.” Melegal sipped his coffee, shaking his head. 
“No … I don’t miss you. I like the quiet. I like the coin, but the quiet is better. You cause such a racket.” 
There was an odd silence while he gave the thief a look.
“Venir, every time you leave, you come back with less. Sometimes you act uncivilized, out of control. Maybe if you stayed in the walls longer you could unwind. You are tighter than a bowstring these days.” 
The words stung a little, but he knew his friend was right. He had to drink himself into a slumber when he was home. His warrior sense fired up at every odd noise, and his mind was in a constant race for battle. The women, sex, and alcohol, as enjoyable as they might be, were just distractions. Fleeting and foolish. He had a problem that he couldn’t control, unless he was out there. 
He got up and pulled a large, worn leather sack from underneath his cot. He tossed it on the bed with a clank that brought him a flickering memory of Jarla, an old foe, her beautiful face scowling from years ago. He hunted her, but never found her because the underlings got in the way.
“Pulling out the artillery,” the thief said in a dour tone. “Seems your mind's made up.” 
Melegal was all eyes as Venir reached inside the leather sack and pulled out the shield. It was a strange design, a grid of worn iron bands welded over a body of dark gray metal unknown anywhere in Bish. He had no idea what metal it was. The shield appeared grim and heavy, but he flipped it around with ease. It fit his powerful frame like a glove. He had stopped countless life-threatening blades and arrows with it, but it didn’t have a single notch or dent. He rubbed its framework and smiled.“You’re a strange man.” Next, he pulled out a colossal battle axe and whispered in a loving tone. 
“Brool.” 
Melegal grimaced. “You would have a name for that nasty thing.” 
“All good friends have names!” Venir swung the axe like a toy. The weathered shaft felt like an extension of his arm. Its warmth filled him with vitality. He couldn’t help but grin. Brool was a four-foot long, double-bladed battle axe, with an iron-shod dark oak handle. A serrated spike at the top made the weapon almost five feet in length. It was long enough to impale a man. The metal of its double blades shimmered like that of the shield as he began whirling it around his body like black lightning. The tip and edges were just a hair from destroying the interior of the room. 
Melegal followed the fluid movements with a silent shudder. 
Brool had an odd design for a weapon; bigger than a battle axe, yet smaller than a great war axe. It looked unwieldy, awkward, and heavy. He liked to call it a "hand-and-a-half axe." He didn't know this, but there was no other like it on all the world of Bish. He fought one-handed with it, a feat in itself, but he could deal out even more damage two-handed. It was a terrible thing to face Brool in his hands. 
 “So, why have you decided to head out this time? Is there another brood of orcen princesses you’re trying to rescue?” 
“Hah,” he said, chopping in the air, “… there’s word of some trouble in the southern provinces that’s moving north. They’re getting aggressive out there. The Royal soldiers have their hands full keeping tabs on Outpost Thirty-One. I can make good coin on underling heads, assuming they pay before they perish this time. The caravan officials say the carnage along the trails is increasing.” Venir ran his thick forearm across his sweaty head as he put down his weapon and fetched the final object out of the bag. 
“Helm.”
He placed the burnished gray helmet over his great skull, buckling the leather chinstrap. The sound of the rain on the window became louder, his senses crisp and clear. The helmet was banded with iron like the shield, with another sinister spike on top like Brool’s, only smaller. It covered everything above the nose, including his eyes, which peered out through eyelets. 
He was a menacing sight, and eeriness settled over the small apartment. Here was the figure that the outlanders, farmers and villagers all hailed as The Darkslayer. 
Melegal shifted in his chair, sucking hot coffee though his teeth. The man was nodding his head. 
“That is one disturbing get-up. But, it goes great with your trousers.” 
He was in a semi-trance, only half noticing the words. 

“Huh? Oh,” he replied, “guess I do look a bit foolish , don’t I?” 
“Yep … you do.” 
“The underlings won’t think so when Brool and I get a fix on them. I’m itching for it.” 
It had been weeks since he slaughtered any of the heinous creatures.
His broad smile had Melegal shaking his head. 
“Think they’re the ones causing trouble on the caravan trails?” 
“They’re always causing trouble, little monsters,” he retorted. “I hate ’em. The smaller farms seem to be suffering, and the villagers don’t stand a chance. There’s lots of people showing up dead or disappearing. It’s a shame. The Royals couldn't care less about the people who feed them.” 
“Well, they say The Darkslayer has their number. At least, that’s what I’ve heard,” Melegal added with a straight face. 
“That’s right!” 
He gave the air a two-handed chop with the axe as Melegal jumped over the table. 
“Watch it with that thing, will you! You could put a dragon’s eye out.” 
He grinned. 
“Sorry.”
He kissed Brool on the blade and began shoving the armaments back into the sack. The thought of leaving the city put a spring in his step. He needed something he could sink his blade into. He used to enjoy it here, but he had changed so that now he felt like a caged animal inside of Bone’s mighty walls. His purpose was out there now, so he thought. 
He began pulling on his clothes, giving his friend a hard look as he buckled his belt. 
“Why not tag along on this one? It’s been a while, and you’re getting rusty. These city walls make you soft, Melegal. Even though you’ve got it all under control here, there’s bound to be a day when the walls come down. You might not be ready.” 
Melegal stood in front of the mirror arranging his beloved hat. 
“I’ve got it better now than ever. Why give it up to risk my neck with you?” 
The thief showed himself a satisfied and handsome smile of perfect teeth. 
“There’s no comfort outside these walls. It’s brutal out there! The ants are bigger than my hands. The ground is as hard as stone. What’s to gain? Here, I have coin, privacy, and a roof over my head.” He poured another cup of coffee. “I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts. And the women are a lot prettier here, too. Out there they usually have three eyes, hairy backs, and a row of rotten canines. I’ll pass!” 
“No need to be nasty. Besides, I recall you liking those little hairy lycan gals from time to time,” he said with a laugh. 
“No more of those.” 
The thief's eyes closed, and then he opened them with a sigh. 
“That last lycan about did me in. Cripes, she killed a handful of women just for looking at me one night. I don’t want to take the chance of running into her again. My guess is she’s still around.”
Venir pulled on his boots and said, 
“Fair point … she was fetching in the light, though, if you ignored her tail. Look, I’d like to stay, but … I gotta go before I wind up killing somebody, myself.” Venir attached a large belt pouch around his waist. 
Melegal gave him a rueful look and said, “I’ll walk you to the stables so I can check on Quickster. If Georgio isn’t doing his job, I’m gonna kick his fat butt. Maybe he can go with you. Then you won’t need me along.” 
“If you say so. How about heading down to the market with me? I need to load up with supplies before I get outta this stinking city.” 
Venir tossed the remainder of his belongings into a backpack while Melegal started setting some homemade intruder traps. As the two adventurers went out, the door quietly shut behind them. Venir locked it with his own key. Next, Melegal produced a razor-thin key, self-made, and stuck it in a well-concealed key hole. The lock tumbled into place with a quiet click, double locking the door.
“Is that necessary? Nobody’s gonna break in before you get back,” he said, scratching his head. “Not our spot anyway.”
“I’m trying to not go soft, being prepared, like you were lecturing. Now, let’s get you outta here, before you hurt someone.” 
The two companions headed down four flights of creaking steps onto the empty floor of the Drunken Octopus. They hit the malodorous city streets as the stinging rain hit their faces. The showers from above disguised the sound of footsteps following from behind. 


CHAPTER 10


As the suns rose, Melegal had finished haggling with the local grocers as their arguments over prices with him didn’t hold salt. Nothing was worth what he didn’t want to pay. He was doing them a favor by not stealing it. Stupid merchants. Just thieves in fancy clothes. His lumbering friend’s backpack was now stocked up with plenty of dried meat, fruit, and water to last the journey south. It was a stupid place to go, but at least his grinning friend could have a belly full. Anything was better than nights of eating bark and fried toad. Melegal had enough of those retched days in the wilderness. This city might smell worse, but it tasted so much better. He pinched a pair of plums from a wart-faced woman’s cart and padded back alongside Venir, handing him one. 
The walk was much longer than he was used to, and his narrow legs began to ache the ever slightest. 
“I hate long walks in daylight like this. It feels like ten miles to the stables. You need to find a stable closer to the Drunken Octopus.” 
He bit into the plum and spit a tiny seed at a cat’s nose, causing it to hiss and bound away. 
“Quit crying, we’re almost there,” Venir said with a mouthful of fruit. “Mmmm … besides, you’ll be happy to see me go.” 
“Sure will!” 
The back alleys of the massive city remained gloomy even in the daylight. Most of the city wasn’t safe, even on the brightest days on Bish. Only the main streets offered any safety. The two companions always took shortcuts, however, leaving a confusing trail in case of unwanted pursuit. Melegal always led Venir on a different route, but he never got used to the big warrior moving like a ghost behind his shadows. 
He looked back at stern-faced Venir, who paid his glance no mind. Melegal knew his friend’s mind was elsewhere, tracking and killing something. As adolescents, the pair had managed to survive some of the worst punishment that the Royals had to offer. It was Venir who was the beacon that pulled them through. Even back then, Venir reminded him that Bish had better things to offer. 
Venir had told him about his family, pets, fish fries and more about his home village called Throhm. Melegal could almost taste and smell the words as they had rolled off Venir’s enthusiastic lips. Venir had given him something he never had before ... hope. 
The Royals tried to beat it from Venir, but never could. How anyone could find humor in that was beyond Melegal, but somehow Venir always had. Now the man’s face was dark and distant, these days. His strapping friend had been full of mirth many years ago, yet hard as iron inside and out. That festive smile was now replaced with something grimmer. Ever since the man came back from the clutches of the Brigand Queen many years ago, the crafty ranger was not the same. 
As each year passed, the hardy warrior returned thickened by battle and time, rangy muscles turned to bullish brawn. Now, the youthful face was scuffed and hard as stone. His friend was on a lone mission that even his forthcoming words could not explain. Venir was a talker, but said little about what was inside. Every time Venir left, Melegal felt it would be the last time he saw the man. He assumed the armament protected the man, but it did harm as well. Another piece of his jovial friend had disappeared whenever he returned. 
“Do you think that Royal brat learned his lesson?” Melegal wondered aloud. “Or do you think he’d have the gall to come after you again?” 
He stopped as Venir caught up. 
“I mean, the beating you gave him, it should have scared the life out of him.” 
Venir gave him a strange look. 
“Are you really worried about that, Melegal? Don’t, because if he comes after me again he’ll die.”
Melegal picked up the pace.
“Well, I’ve discovered he’s from a very high Royal house,” he said with a sheepish look. “They don’t like scum like us screwing with their own. They can be vengeful.” 
Venir’s face was curled up, half-sneer, half-smile. 
“Pah, I’m sure I put an end to it. Besides, he shouldn’t be able to walk or talk for days.”
“If you say so.” 
After several more minutes of walking, his fleet feet fell onto a wide cobblestone street that crossed between the alleys. People plowed through one another, bargaining in the buzzing market places. Shouting and bartering could be heard everywhere, passing from slick lips and hefty hips. The streets were alive with trading, soliciting, and stealing, amid shouts of joy, shock and surprise. 
Not far from the cobbled road loomed the great southern gate, standing five stories high. The mighty portcullis was a woven steel maw locked shut. People, wagons, carts and mounts were directed in and out, through a smaller gate on the east side, by an assertive squad of the City Watch. It was the main gate that controlled the passage of all vehicles and pedestrians in and out of the southern part of the city. Desperate people tried to press inside, only to be beaten back by whips and thick clubs called watch sticks.
The wall surrounding the City of Bone was a sight to behold. It stood over four stories high, made of massive stones no group of men could have ever moved. No one knew for sure where they came from, nor did they care. The story of the old seers was that giants had built and occupied the City of Bone. There was no evidence to support such a tale. Only the boulders knew, and they had no interest in talking. On top of the huge stone walls stood many battlements lined with smaller walls of brick and mortar. Dozens of guards in studded leather armor and gleaming helmets were posted in pairs, spaced along the wall, as far as the eye could see. 
“Exciting job,” Melegal said, gazing at those guards. 
He would almost prefer the Outlands to standing hours on end along that wall. He turned his eyes away. 
“Let’s get you to the stables and out of my hair.” 
Along the foreboding wall a few hundred yards east of the main gate, a dozen large wood-framed barns were laid out in two rows, each over twenty feet high and a hundred yards long. Melegal headed toward the barn in the rear, farthest from the gate. His feet were beginning to burn, and the thought of a blister ate at his brain. 
Gonna have to buy new shoes, too. 
Melegal tugged open a small nondescript door. 
Finally here. Ew. The smell of hay and manure magnified ten times when he stepped inside. He tucked his nose inside his cloak. 
Filthy. Hundreds of stalls lined the walls, and the sounds of stabled beasts rose to the rafters. Banners of the militia and Royal houses were displayed at the utmost northern end. An open roof cast light on several well-bred horses that were standing in the distance, being tended by stable hands hard at work with chores. He remembered those long days, frail arms shaking, face filled with sweat and grime. Urchins—the bottom of the barrel—worked here.
Pitiful, but at least I was smart enough to make it back to the castles and out of the stink.   
Venir followed him into the southern end, away from the rustles and neighs that fell behind. The open roof was shadowed by the city’s wall, leaving the area quiet, undisturbed and run down. Another wooden fence, several feet in height, barricaded the south from the north. He climbed between the rotting planks as Venir pushed his gear through and climbed over the top, landing by his side.

***

In the distance, a curly-headed boy seated on a stool was buffing his shoe with a horse brush. Seeing the two coming his way, the young fellow squinted, jumped up, and began running toward them, while trying to put his shoe back on. 
“Venir!” the boy yelled, running up and wrapping two arms around his waist. 
“Georgio!” he said, patting him on the head, trying to pry his arms off. “Easy, big fella. You’re getting stronger every day, I see.” Seeing the boy brought a smile to his face. 
Georgio released him, beaming with pride. 
“I want to be strong like you. The strongest man in the world! I moved five hundred hay bales this week!” 
The big boy flexed his arms and stuck out his chest. 
“Taking care of Chongo is a lot of work. I didn’t think you were ever gonna come back by.” 
Georgio began to skip away while motioning for him to follow, but Melegal grabbed his arm. 
“What about my mount?” Melegal began with a hiss. “I hope you haven’t been neglecting him!” 
“Aw, let me go!” 
Georgio tried to jerk his arm away, but was held fast. 
“Your stinking donkey’s just fine! All he ever does is sleep and poop everywhere.” 
“Don’t smart mouth me,” Melegal said, poking him in the chest. 
Venir stepped in between them.
“Can’t you two ever get along? Melegal, you know Georgio always takes care of Quickster.”
Venir grabbed the boy by the shoulder and turned him away as Melegal retorted, “Not last time he didn’t. Quickster was sick ’cause of him.” 
“That wasn’t my fault. That dumb donkey started eating from the slat bins.”
“He’s not a donkey! He’s a pony!” the thief said. 
“It’s a pony that looks like a donkey and eats crap!” Georgio said, jumping away as Melegal swatted at his curly head. 
The hefty boy moved with speed that belied his formidable girth as Melegal started after, but Venir obstructed him again. 
“Let it go. I’m sure he’s fine this time.” 
“He'd better be, or I’ll bust Georgio’s butt.” 
Melegal straightened his cap as he walked away, saying, “Take the boy with you, eh. If you run low on food you can always cook him.”

***

Venir watched Georgio finish his trot to a stable many yards away. The boy was nodding and mumbling between the planks of the gate. The stable was quiet, more so than normal. Something was missing. He craned his neck, expecting to hear the eager baritone yelps of Chongo. The barking did not come. As he watched Melegal walking towards the boy, the skin on his neck began to itch. Something was amiss. Venir started to turn. 
“Don’t move!” a raspy voice said from behind. 
He froze.
Ahead of him, Melegal had whirled back his way, daggers drawn. He saw the thief’s chin dip, eyes flaring wide. Melegal’s lips were mouthing the word … Tonio. 
Another chill slivered to his toes as he made a slow turn to face his assailant. Indeed, it was his latest adversary, Tonio. Now the man he’d busted to bits stood there without a noticeable scratch around his curled sneer. The pupils of the man’s eyes were big dots of coal, glaring back at him. The quivering hands were now wrapped about the trigger of a double crossbow that was pointed dead at his chest. Venir fought the urge to lunge underneath it. He began lowering his two sacks slowly to the ground. 
“Keep those sacks up! You in the back, toss the blades.” 
Venir heard the daggers clatter behind him. He could hear the boy asking, “Who’s that guy?” 
Tonio’s voice was tense, slurred and wavering. “Can’t believe I’m better, can you?” Tonio said in a throaty voice. “You should have killed me. We Royals have the best healing at our disposal. And now I’ve got you, Dog! Nobody beats me and lives to tell about it!” 
Tonio motioned him backward with the crossbow, and he backed up, stopping as he came alongside Melegal. 
The Royal spat, made a tight face, then spat again. 
“Let’s take this a little farther back. A stable full of manure should make a nice grave.” 
Tonio’s chuckle was low and wicked. 
“Fat urchin back there, stop fidgeting! Get those hands back up, all of you!” 
“Do as he says, Georgio,” Venir said, stepping back until they all stood side by side. 
He watched the tip of the bolt swing from belly to belly. The boy’s labored breathing caught his ears. He couldn’t have been in a worse situation if his pants were down. No weapon or armor. How did they miss the man? Tonio was sweating, hands clammy and eyes dilating, fingertip fidgeting on the trigger. Sweat dripped into Venir’s eye and off his nose. Slat! 
“Don’t stop, you two! Boy, go open that empty stable back there, or I’ll shoot your friends.” Tonio said.
Georgio tripped over his feet, scrambled up, clutched at another stable door and pulled it open. He managed to conceal himself behind the planks on the other side. 
Venir and Melegal moved backward, step by step along the opening of the stable, and stopped again. 
“I said don’t stop!” Tonio yelled. “Are you deaf? Keep moving! Get in there! ” 
Venir's chest tightened as Tonio’s finger twitched on the crossbow's trigger. Ten paces away, he side-stepped, blocking Tonio’s view of the boy. 
“Fine!” the Royal shouted, aiming the crossbow at his throat. “You can die right there!” Venir prepared to spring away. 
A low growl erupted from the stable by Tonio’s side. The Royal took a peek over the closed stable gate. 
“Eh …?”
A pair of lion-like paws reached over the gate and tore into Tonio’s face. A burst of snarls and barks followed as the claws pinned the man to the gate. 
“Aagh!” 
Tonio wailed and thrashed as a massive dog snapped at his head. Tonio raised his crossbow, eyes bearing down on Venir like charging lances. 
Clatch! Zip!Zip!
Venir dove to the ground as a bolt shot his way and clipped the back of his calf. He scrambled back to his feet. The crossbow fell from Tonio’s limp hands as he screamed and fought for his life. The beast kept pulling at him, tearing his clothes to bloodied shreds. 
“No! No! NOOOOO!” 
A massive maw bit down on Tonio’s horrified face, gripping it tight, while another set of teeth sank into his neck. A resounding crunch sent a flock of doves from the rafters in a plume of white and grey. Outside the stables, few noticed their flight, for it was nothing extraordinary to a commoner’s eye, but one secluded person noticed the uniqueness of the event. 
Venir saw Tonio’s body go limp. Two giant dog heads came into full view, shaking the body a couple of times and dropping it to the stable floor like a discarded toy. Venir pulled the man’s still breathing body out of the way and swung the door open. 
The two faces of Chongo bounded out, his two tails wagging with enthusiasm. The pair of monstrous, bloodied heads licked Venir like a happy puppy. He tried to fight the giant dog off, but it was in vain. Chongo came out of the gate, standing as tall as a small horse, but broader.  The shaggy red-brown coat shone in the morning light as Venir tried to calm his excited pooch. He rubbed the massive dog’s chest and belly as it rolled onto its back. 
“Good boy, Chongo. Good boy.”
He scratched all four of the dog’s ears and looked about for the thief and boy. Georgio stood shaking at the gate, staring at the crossbow bolt embedded in it. He signaled the boy over. Melegal, with a foul look on his face, was leading a shaggy, dark gray pony out of another stable.
“See what you’ve done!” the thief yelled at Venir. “The City Watch is gonna be all over us. The Royals will have a price on our heads so high we’ll never be able to come back. They’ll be hunting us nonstop. Blast you, Brute!”
Melegal paused as he inspected the teeth and ears of his pony.
“Now, I’m gonna have to go with you. I knew this would happen—I bloody knew it! I told you we shoulda been worried!” 
Melegal began cursing under his breath, glaring at him. 
“Now what?” 
“Be silent,” Venir growled under his breath, looking about. Tonio couldn’t have been alone. 
Venir held two fingers to his chest, paused, and held up one. Melegal repeated the signs back to him, and handed Georgio the saddle of his pony. With a parting glare, Melegal shook his head and disappeared. 
“Where’s—” 
Venir tugged at the boy’s ear. 
“Oh …”
Georgio scrambled to saddle the pony. They moved like soldiers breaking down a camp. Venir slung Chongo’s leather saddle over his back and was ready to move out. 
Georgio stepped into Chongo’s stable and pulled an old rake off the wall. The boy stretched it upward, caught it high above the rafters, and yanked at something. An angled wooden walkway dropped down at the back of the stable. It opened into a deep passage facing south and slanting down. 
The mysterious passage had been revealed to Venir by an old stable hand. The old man said he had seen it used only once when he was a boy. It was just another forgotten secret among a thousand in the great City of Bone. 
Venir grabbed the big dog by the scruff of its chest and led both animals into the tunnel. Back inside the stable, the boy raked at the hay, manure, and dirt, and waved. The secret door closed and Georgio’s broad smile left his sight. 
It was pitch black. Venir traveled at a sluggish pace for over a mile. He crossed over a large metal grate with the sound of water running far below. Venir always assumed it was a large storm drain, but wondered if that was its only purpose. From there, the passage began sloping upward, and he came to a dead end. There, he waited …. 
At last, the dead end opened up, and scattered daylight poured in. They were inside a small cave. Georgio’s flushed pie-face appeared, whispering.
“Coast is clear.” 
“Good job, Georgio. Now, help me adjust Chongo’s saddle. I’ll keep him calm while you tighten the buckles.”
The husky boy closed off the secret passage and took the large saddle from Venir’s shoulder. Venir sat Chongo down, talking to him and scratching his head while the dog-beast growled as Georgio saddled him. Venir kept Chongo calm long enough for the boy to finish the last buckle, and tossed each head a red apple. Chongo chomped them down, whirled, and began barking at the boy, who backed up gingerly. 
“Heel!” Venir said. 
The dog lowered his heads and lay down at his feet. Venir loaded his two sacks onto the giant dog. One head licked at his boots, while the other kept a wary eye on the boy. 
“Why’s he doing that? He never does me like that in the stables,” Georgio said as he clambered onto Quickster’s saddle. 
“Ah … he’s just testing you. Besides, he doesn’t like me saddling him, either.” 
Venir slung himself up on Chongo’s back and led the way. It was late morning, and the two suns were hot over the dry, open land. The City of Bone’s southern wall stood like a blackened monolith more than two miles away. In the south, the barren Outlands looked dry and dreadful. Venir smiled. 
The air was fresh and pure, the sunlight hot on his face. The clouds had broken apart as the rain traveled into the distant north. He could still see several groups of nomadic people and farmers clustered near the distant walls. Most were not welcome in the City of Bone. It was either sell or be sold if you weren’t careful. The main caravan trail was busy with the comings and goings of all types of trade. Heavy clouds of dust from beasts of burden obscured the figures traveling along with their carts and wagons. Fools. But what better choice did they have?
Georgio rode at his side as he set off. 
“Where to?” The boy looked eager.
“I’m taking you home. Melegal will meet us in a couple of hours. You’ll be safe; the City Watch won’t come out more than a day’s ride.”
Georgio frowned as they rode on in silence. The dog led the way with a fluid gait, tongues hanging out in the heat, ears and eyes all alert. 
“Why didn’t Chongo bark when you showed up?” 
“He sensed danger and wanted to sneak up on it, I guess. He’s good-natured and smart. He doesn’t like bad people. I think he can sense evil.” 
“How come Melegal has this dumb pony? Why can’t he have a real horse or something?” 
“I told you before,” he said as irritation rose in his voice, “… quick ponies move just as fast, but they carry like a pack mule. Melegal thinks he’s going to find a hoard of treasure one day. Besides, it didn’t cost him anything; he won Quickster in a bet.” 
“Well, Quickster’s a stupid name. He should be called Poopster.” 
“Enough, Georgio!” 
The land south of the city was mostly clay, dirt, and rocks, vegetated with cacti and thick thatches of thistles. It was flat, and the footing was hard. The suns burned front and back on a day like this. The Outlands offered little comfort to those who were ill prepared. 
Not much was to be encountered between cities or villages, except in the cool of the evening. Bandits knew the pickings on the trails were riskier at night, but that was when they came. During the day, the dreaded blistering heat of the suns helped to protect travelers. Still, day or night, you could never get comfortable. The bandits watched for you to get comfortable, and they laid their traps as soon as you did. Many wearied travelers perished under their desperate steel. It was only one of many terrors to be encountered in the Outlands. 
The two hadn’t traveled far when they came upon a dry well with sparse vegetation. The cacti were abundant; it was good fortune. Venir found a nice round cactus, lopped off the top, and started pulling out the watery pulp and feeding it to Chongo. Georgio did the same for Quickster. In the distance, the City of Bone hovered like a mirage, wavering in the sunlight like a ghostly castle. He squinted towards it. Georgio, soaked in sweat, grabbed a waterskin and gulped it down. 
Venir went to one of his large sacks and pulled out two beige cotton cowls. 
“Put this on your head. It’ll keep you from frying.”
It had been over an hour, and Melegal was nowhere in sight. 
“Bloody thief’s gonna be late,” he muttered to himself. “I told him he was getting rusty.” 
“Rusty? I’ve been following you for an hour,” a voice shot from behind. “I just couldn’t decide who I would kill first.” 
Venir turned around, grinning. The thief was dressed in tones as drab as the landscape, hands on polished steel at his hips. 
“Well, maybe I was wrong. Any news?” 
“I moved the body, covered the tracks. There was a stir as I left the stables. The City Watch filed in with some Royals. I thought I saw a familiar face from the Chimera, but I recognized no one else. But, you can bet your ears they’ll be looking for us for a long time coming. He wasn’t alone, I’m sure.”
Melegal turned back towards the city and waved.
“Good-bye my dear tavern dwelling. Good-bye soft and simple life.” 
As the wind whipped across their faces, Venir began thinking out loud.“Who could’ve seen us? I know Tonio’s father knows what I look like and a few guards, too, but I seriously doubt—” 
“You know as well as I, not a man in all of Bone can hide forever when he’s on the List. All you can hope is to not make the List. But now that Chongo’s turned one of their own into a chew toy—I’m pretty sure we are on that List! Something I’d taken pride in avoiding all these years.” 
Venir kept his own discomforting thoughts to himself. All this trouble over him was excessive, even for a Royal. 
Melegal snatched the waterskin from Georgio’s hand.
“I don’t understand why that Royal bastard even conceived of coming after you. Usually, they get their dirty work done for them. It was insane!” 
“Maybe we became pawns in something bigger. The Royals like doing one another in.” 
“My gut’s telling me the same, but there is no evidence.” 
The thief rinsed the grit from his mouth, spit, and continued. 
“Not that they need it. That’s why I gotta get my happy arse out of Bone!” 
Venir tried to sound reassuring.
“One way or the other, they were coming after us. At least we didn’t get cornered in the city. We’ll head down to Two-Ten first. We’ll hail well there; they hate Bone.” 
The thief shook his head and swung his leg up unto Georgio’s saddle.
“Oh great! Orcs and bad wine. I can’t wait!” 
“Well, I guess you’re coming after all!” Venir said.
“Why not? I’ve nothing to live for anymore, might as well die trying to live.” They loaded up as Georgio hopped onto Chongo’s back behind Venir. Despite their quick pace, it was a long, hot ride south, where he hoped to leave Georgio at his home village. But they’d have to pass through the Red Clay Forest first, and Venir had reservations about going in there. It couldn’t be as bad as the last time. It was just dusk when the small party finally stopped, just inside the shadowy edge of the Forest. 



CHAPTER 11


Lords Catten and Verbard floated at attention as another underling hovered before the hanging humans. Catten’s icy heart was working overtime. Master Sinway had arrived. The master of all underlings was dark-robed, hawk-nosed, and not so different than his brethren. Still, Master Sinway’s greater height and breadth distinguished him from all others. He made Catten feel small. 
Iron colored irises outlined Master Sinway’s black pupils that glinted like cut coal. The underling master's countenance radiated an endless river of wisdom. His thick black robes were traced in exquisite patterns flecked with traces of silver and rust. Oh, how Catten craved the magic he could feel permeating those clothes. Master Sinway turned, catching his eye, causing him to look down and away. He could feel his brother Verbard, fidgeting at this side. 
As ancient as Master Sinway was, one would never know it. His face was broad and hairless, more like a human. His hair was black and short, hanging just below his ears. His thin lips hid small, flat gray teeth, and his hands were large, black-knuckled, and hairless. The underlings changed little after their adolescence, but as they aged, they became more refined. This was true in Master Sinway’s case. He was the ageless, omnipotent, polished version of the rest. As underlings grew in age and power, they also grew in height and stature. Master Sinway was the tallest of them all. 
Master Sinway was not alone. Catten’s golden gaze fell on two of the most impressive sights in the Underland, known as the Vicious. The Vicious stood flat on the ground only a few feet from the master underling. The imposing pair was black and genderless. 
Catten had seen them only a handful of times over the centuries. He began digging his nails into his palms. The Vicious were as tall on the ground as he was floating. Why are they here? He could see their heavy muscles ripple underneath their hairless, leather-like skin. Catten recalled a time when one Vicious had twisted an imprisoned gnoll's head from its skull. An unwelcome tingle raced down his spine. 
The Vicious were unlike underlings. They had round, cat-like faces with long, pointed ears, and small noses with flared nostrils. The Vicious were known to track prey for leagues on scent alone. Thick, claw-like black fingernails came to points, like five small daggers on each hand. Wide platinum eyes without lashes shone bright under their protruding brows. Their countenances revealed the cool intelligence of predators. Their lips were turned up in matching sinister sneers. Pain and destruction. That is what Catten thought of them. He watched as the pair moved, silent and fluid, over the cave water that mixed with dripping human blood. They were difficult to see against the cavernous background. These great assassins were heralded throughout the Underland as legends of death. 
Sinway was believed to have been an apprentice to the underling Master Sidebor. Master Sidebor was the greatest of all underlings back then, and he had created the Vicious from a blend of man, underling, and magic. Sidebor was believed to have perished in long-past centuries in a great battle some said was against Sinway. No underling knew for sure what had caused the demise of Sidebor, though Catten was certain Sinway knew the truth. The evidence casting suspicion on Sinway was the powerful magic robe he wore. It too had been Sidebor’s. Of course, as far as he was concerned, Sidebor could still be alive, for his body had never been found. 
If Catten’s brother Verbard was as uncomfortable as he was, he didn’t show it. Verbard’s head was looking up and down, fingers twitching like a bored child. Catten hoped his brother could keep his mouth shut, just this once. Tension continued its slow ascent up his neck. After several uncomfortable minutes, the master of all underlings spoke.  
“What a unique piece of humanity you have displayed.” 
Catten was surprised. His master's voice was almost reassuring. Master Sinway floated toward the bleeding humans as his black index fingers ignited into sharp blue flames.
“Perhaps a few finishing touches.”
Master Sinway drew agonizing symbols into the men’s burning flesh.
“Much better,” Sinway said, adding a mild chuckle as he blew out his fingers. 
Catten was clapping in unison with his brother, sharp teeth bared wide. Sinway cut their efforts off with a short hand gesture, his iron eyes sliding back and forth between the two.
“So, what have you to report about the world above? I gather our troops have been … oh, how shall I put it—Diminished!” 
Catten felt like he was hit in the stomach. He doubled over as heavy drops of water and debris fell from the stalactites above. He wanted to slither away. Instead, he pulled his tongue down from the roof of his mouth and began to speak, but Verbard beat him to it. 
“All is fine, Master Sinway. The troublemakers have been vanquished, and our troops are in good order.”
Catten couldn’t believe his ears. Idiot! 
“Really, Verbard?”Master Sinway was standing inches from Verbard’s face, and Catten could feel his master’s cool breath. 
“The last I heard, a few score raiding parties perished a few weeks ago—and two score just before that!” 
The drops began to fall again as Catten covered his queasy stomach with his arms.
“So, how do you consider the problem to be resolved, Verbard?” Master Sinway's face was taut.
Don’t say a word, Verbard. Catten knew the numbers were even greater, but he had no desire to admit to that. In all of his centuries alongside Master Sinway, Catten had never seen him more angered. The time to grovel had come. Verbard dropped to his knees, robes dangling in the stream below.
“My lord, we did not know—”Verbard was lying, but Catten kneeled alongside his brother anyway. 
“We have been so busy with other projects. We were assured that the problem was taken care of,” Verbard pleaded in a stammering voice.
Catten had seen the soft ploy before. He didn’t care for it, but it worked. 
“Be silent, Verbard! I am no fool. You two have never failed me, up until now, that is.”
Catten pulled himself into a tighter ball. He could see his master’s fingers twitching at his sides. He tucked his chin deeper into his chest. He caught Verbard’s silver eyes for a split second. The fool was smiling. Quiet, Fool! 
Sinway’s tone softened a hair as he said, “This situation is unusual, but it is not the first time this has happened.” There was a pause, and Catten swore he heard Sinway sigh. 
“It seems our troops and run-of-the-mill soldiers are no match for this Darkslayer. He kills with less mercy than we … and he hunts us down!” 
A stalactite fell to the cave floor. Sinway’s ancient voice was almost a yell.
“No one dares to hunt the underlings!”
Catten expected the cave to collapse as more debris fell around them. “So, I am dispatching the Vicious to finish the task you have clearly mismanaged.”
What? Catten’s golden eyes were as wide as saucers, as well were his brother's. He tilted his head upward, eyes still down.
Sinway resumed.“Assuming this Darkslayer works alone, he will be unable to handle the Vicious. None has ever lived to see the Vicious another day.” 
Catten watched as Sinway’s robes billowed and floated away. When he looked up, the Vicious and Sinway were gone without another word. Sinway’s words lingered in his mind. I am dispatching the Vicious. Catten stood up at his brother’s side, and the two faced one another with evil grins. He knew what Verbard was thinking. With the Vicious gone, Sinway would be at his most vulnerable. But it was only a whim; Catten knew that even together they were still no match for him. Yet the thought was pleasurable. 
“Do you think this solves our problem?” Catten asked. 
“I don’t know, but it’s one less burden. That Darkslayer is a pain in my bollards. The Vicious are going after him … incredible.” Verbard was bobbing his head. “Now we will learn what we are really dealing with.” 
“I imagine so. It should be a great battle. What do you think Master Sinway meant by ‘It is not the first time this has happened'?” Catten searched his brother’s eyes.
“I don’t know, but I’m not sure he intended to let that out.”
Catten agreed. Sinway knew something he didn’t want to share. Catten shuddered as he looked at the fallen rocks on the floor. The fact they both were unharmed was astounding. Sinway hadn’t become the master of all underlings by showing mercy. Whatever The Darkslayer was, it had Sinway concerned. It had Catten concerned as well. Stay or go. 
The two magi lords dusted off their robes and floated away, abandoning their dead human masterpiece. Cave rats scurried forth, nipping into the succulent human nutrition, rather than the crisp cave bugs that always fought back. 


CHAPTER 12


Venir awoke just as the light of the two suns cracked over the horizon and warmed his face. He sat up and stepped onto the grassy edge of the Red Clay Forest. He could hear the chittering of small creatures bouncing among the tree tops and rustling in the branches above. Shade and food were in abundance just inside the forest, but danger lurked in there as well. Venir thought about going around. Too long. Too hot. The suns would dry his companions out like twigs if they ran out of water. All of a sudden, he was uneasy, hot, and thirsty. 
He pulled Georgio off the ground and gave him a firm shake. The boy rubbed his groggy eyes with his meaty fists and said, “I’m hungry.”  
Unlike the dry plains they had crossed the previous day, the Red Clay Forest appeared alive, eerie, and magnificent. But, travelers would risk the heat over the forest most of the time. The rough and uncertain terrain wasn’t made for wagons or slow-footed folk. Still, Venir recognized the faint pathways with his experienced eye. They always seemed to move. He paced back and forth along the edge and then knelt down to feel the ground and peer ahead. A pair of large brown squirrels scurried in the distance. This would be it. He dusted his hands off. 
The Red Clay Forest was known for its inviting beauty, lush vegetation, and delicious wildlife. Travelers didn’t pass through it for the view, no, most passed when there was little choice left. The inviting beauty was uncomfortable amid the odd serenity. Despite Venir’s misgivings, it was the fastest way to Georgio’s village. 
“I don’t wanna go into that filthy forest!” Melegal was packing Quickster's saddle bags. “It’s easier in the Outlands. Now, bugs and vermin are gonna crawl all over me. I remember last time. I barely made it out alive, and I lost my gold! Let’s go around!” Melegal swatted at a mosquito bigger than his hand. “Bone!  How’d I get into this?” 
“It wasn’t so bad last time. You just overreacted. And we aren’t going around; it’d take days. We don’t have that much water. Do you want to die of thirst?” 
“I don’t drink so much as you. I have plenty,” Melegal said, patting one of his two flasks.
“Don’t worry, the bugs will leave you alone once they realize you’re made of stone,” Georgio said, smiling and turning away. 
Melegal flung a stone, hitting the boy in the back of his head. 
“Ow!” Georgio cried, rubbing his head. “You didn’t need to do that.” 
The thief and the farm boy had been at each other without ceasing, and Venir had reached his limit.
“Get your gear ready! This forest isn’t gonna make the trip any less miserable, so stop it, both of you!” He slung his pack over his shoulder and pulled Chongo along. 
It didn’t take but a few dozen steps before Venir felt like he was in another world. Georgio’s curly head was twisting up and down.
The forest trees rose out of sight in many places, and even the lowest branches were too high to reach. The leaves were an assortment of reds, greens, and blues, and they never fell from the trees inside Red Clay, unlike in other parts of Bish. It could not be explained; no one on Bish cared anyway. Why, never came to mind.
They walked over the red clay and stepped through areas covered in various mosses, shrubbery, and flowers of great beauty. Venir pulled Georgio away when he began picking at blackish berries on a thorny bush. 
“Poison,” Venir muttered. 
Georgio stuck his tongue out, flicking the berries away, saying, “Yuck.” 
Step after step, Venir lead them down a narrow path. Without the rustle of leaves beneath their feet, it was as if the forest had been recently swept. 
Much of Venir’s time in the Outlands was spent here in the Red Clay Forest. He used it both as a safe haven and for shortcuts during his travels. Most people knew better than to be too curious about the forest, because too often the curious never came back out. The forest was risky, filled with violence of all sorts. At times, the forest left Venir alone, and at other times it would not. It had been a while since Venir traveled with company in the forest. He had never grown used to the unexpected here. Still, his knowledge of the shortcuts through the forest often threw the more experienced pursuers off his trail. The Red Clay Forest was one of the few uncontrolled areas of permanent habitation on the world of Bish. Not many people lived in the Red Clay Forest. It seemed to not like the company. 
The minutes dredged into hours, and despite the wonderful shade of the mammoth leaves, it was still hot and humid. There was no breeze. Chongo’s two heads made loud panting sounds, tongues hanging out like red carpets. Quickster panted too, and Georgio’s curly hair was bushed out and soaked with sweat. It was almost as miserable as being under the suns. There was little cool comfort anywhere in the Outlands, except in the caves or high in the nameless mountains. 
“This forest makes me itch all over,” Melegal said, scratching his neck. 
Venir looked back towards the thief, who’d changed some of his clothes.
“Eh … changing attire again?” he said. 
Melegal shrugged. 
“I don’t think that will scare the bugs away.”
“No, but it will make me a less obvious target than you.”
“Have it your way, then.” 
He led Chongo up a steep slope of rocks and slippery moss. Georgio clutched at the saddle as the big dog lurched upward. Onward they went; one hour became two. When they leveled out on a plateau, a stiff wind cut through their damp clothes. “Ah … that feels great,” Georgio said, widening his arms. 
Even Melegal seemed to think so, closing his tireless eyes. Venir’s nostrils widened as his hand fell down to the hilt of his knife. The wind picked up, bending the saplings and tall grass, raising goose bumps on his sweat-slickened skin. The smell in the wind was foul, like molded bread. Georgio and Melegal held their noses. Venir knew what it was the foul breeze spoke in his ears. Bone—the magi come! 


CHAPTER 13


Royal Lord Almen was seated in his elaborate throne room. His primped brow was drawn down, and his chest was heaving. His fist was clenched in the face of another man, all clad in black. 
“Why? Who? How?” he yelled in the cowering man’s face. 
His bellows echoed off the high ceilings, down the corridors, and throughout the rooms of his castle. There was a crash of glass coming from somewhere, a gasp and the sound of footfalls scurrying away. It was not good to be around the wrath of The Lord Almen of the Fourth House of Bone. 
Lord Almen was seething inside, far worse than his shaking voice. His finest son was lost. His enemies, any hundred of them, would see this as a weakness in his powerful house. He had to take precautions so that news of his son’s demise would not travel.
“Why haven’t the culprits already been brought to me? I want the culprits … Now!” 
“It seems that the criminal has fled the City of Bone.”
The man’s voice was silky, but mindful. The swarthy figure spread out his hands and began to fan himself with a wide brimmed hat. 
“Go on, Detective McKnight!” Lord Almen bellowed. McKnight drew himself up, but left his head dipped down. “There is no specific evidence, except that Tonio was mauled to death.”
McKnight spoke fast, but fluidly as he went on.
“By what, I haven’t discovered yet. It’s taking time to scramble up all of the locals. But we’ll make them talk. The stable master and his help were found dead. Others seem to have vanished. It seems to be the work of an assassin from another family, although the mauling is inexplicable at the moment,” the detective shrugged. “I don’t understand it yet … but I will.” 
Lord Almen grabbed the detective by the collar of his cloak, and pulled him up on his toes. 
“You better!”
Lord Almen searched for the man’s eyes, but could not find them. He wanted any reason to kill a man, any man would do. But McKnight he needed. He sat down in thoughtful repose, dipping his jeweled goblet into his wine bowl.“It is assassination, then?” Evil vermin, those assassins, but not all.
“I believe so, Lord, but who and why is curious.” 
“That much I know, Fool.”
Lord Almen folded his arms and leaned back into his cushions.
“I believe I shall deal with this without your help, Detective McKnight. In the meantime, make sure this recent debacle of my son’s demise does not get out, especially to my wife.” 
Lord Almen waved his hand. 
“You are dismissed.”

***

Detective McKnight could not have been more relieved. Let him find his deviant son’s killers. That way, my back will be covered, not buried. 
Detective McKnight was one of the finest in the business, having done the dirty work for many Royal families for more than twenty years. He had seen the worst. This mess, however, was unique. Whatever had mangled the foolish Tonio was no assassin of a Royal house. It was perhaps a clever setup, though. It seemed more likely that Tonio had gotten caught up with the wrong locals. It happens. 
McKnight knew all too well that the City of Bone contained people and creatures that even the mighty Royal houses should not mess with. He had given up warning them, as they would never believe a commoner such as himself. They’ll have plenty of time to think it over in the grave.
Dozens of scenarios were running through his mind. He strode through the castle like a ghost in black garb, stroking his thin sideburns and pointed chin. A thin film of sweat built up on his pallid face. Lord Almen was one of the few who made him nervous. He looked straight ahead as he passed the hard stares of the sentries in the exit corridor. Morons. 
McKnight, unlike most in his profession, enjoyed the limelight. He suspected that this was why Almen had hired him long ago. He also knew how to handle delicate matters … in the dark. He stepped out from under a small portcullis and into the streets of the city. 
“Whew,” he said, scratching a small bald spot on the crown of his head. He had to find out more. Who killed Tonio? That information would be worth something. It might even get him a room in the castle. But first … a drink. He put on his wide black hat and disappeared into the city, singing a cheerful melody, “Ding Dong, the brat is gone ...” 


CHAPTER 14


Chongo’s four ears were perked up like horns, and his tails moved in rigid unison. Venir could hear his dog’s low howls. Melegal reigned in Quickster along Chongo’s side, tucking his nose inside his cowl. The foul air cut through the scented leaves. Venir stood on the grassy plateau holding his hand out in warning. This was no normal breeze.
The wind picked up around the group as Chongo began to howl louder at the whine of the whipping wind. The party stood firm as Georgio clutched Chongo’s saddle, shaking on the dog’s back. The howling wind began tearing at their clothes; louder and louder it came. Venir squinted his eyes, but he couldn’t see a thing. The wind knocked him around so that he grabbed Georgio and held him tight. 
He yelled for Melegal, “Hang on to something!”
The howling continued for more than a minute before the wind died. Venir looked about only to see Melegal adjusting his hat, and that’s when he saw them coming. 
He heard a whoosh, like broken branches flying in the wind. Several floating figures in earthen robes hovered above the ground and began encircling the party. Venir squinted as he searched the hooded faces that circled them. He had no idea what race they were, as the races of the magi were known to be many. 
“Don’t anyone make any sudden moves,” Venir said. “Just be still.” 
He wanted to drop his hand over the hilt of his knife; instead he tugged at the reigns. Chongo pressed his ears down and rumbled growls while Quickster chewed on a piece of grass. 
“Where are their feet?” Georgio whispered, drawing a sharp elbow from Venir. 
The magi came to a stop, and two of the misshapen figures floated toward Venir, Chongo, and Georgio. Another set bore down on Melegal and Quickster when Venir saw Melegal reaching for something.
“Don’t move; it’s alright,” Venir warned.
Melegal sat like a stone, a scowl crossing his slender face. 
Like greedy thieves, the four forest magi pawed and rummaged through all of their belongings. Their groping was uncomfortable, but the smell was worse. Rancid breath filled Venir’s nostrils, and he heard Georgio gagging behind his back. 
“Venir!” said Melegal, pleading as the magi turned his sack upside down, spilling the contents to the ground. 
“Hold off … I don’t think they’ll take anything.”
“Easy for you to say, you don’t—” 
“Ssh! For all I know, they speak our tongue. We won’t have what they want. Be still!” 
One of the forest magi was shaking Venir’s large leather sack up and down. 
Oh no. If anything fell out of that sack, a fight was on. He waited for Brool to drop out, but nothing fell. He saw one of the magi toss the sack away, and he swore he heard a clank, but all the clatter elsewhere covered the sound. Venir let out a soft sigh. 
He watched as all of their meager belongings were picked through and dropped. The magi gathered, circled around them once more, broke off into a uniform column, and disappeared back into the Red Clay Forest. The stink was gone.
The normal forest sounds resumed, and Chongo’s twin tails wagged again. Quickster was still chewing at the ground, but all their supplies were now strewn about the forest floor. 
“Whew!” Georgio said. “What were those nasty things?”
“Forest Magi!” Venir said, picking up his knife and jamming it back in his sheath.
“Oh … then what were they looking for?” Georgio asked, retrieving some items. 
“Magic, no doubt. They’re whores for magic, those smelly fiends. That’s why they live here.” 
Venir picked up his large leather sack and shook it.
“Why?” the boy asked.
“It’s isolated, and the forest is supposedly magical. I don’t know if it is, but then again, it doesn’t change like the rest. So I’m told.”
Venir was picking up more provisions when he noticed Melegal making no effort to help.
“What’s the matter, Melegal? Did they rob you of your magic hands?” 
Melegal sat motionless, his face dark with emotion. 
“Your hat!” Venir exclaimed. Georgio gasped.
At that, Melegal unleashed a fury of profanities never before heard in the Red Clay Forest. Melegal ranted in an unbroken stream for a full minute, until at last his outburst began to subside. “I told you! I told you! I told you! Just like the last time, you idiot!” He stopped, took a breath, and turned on Venir. 

***

Venir was not there. In his place was the form of a brutish man wearing a spiked helmet, a round shield, and a massive battle axe. It was a chilling sight. 
The words from the man’s lips were scary and reassuring.
“I'll get it back.”
Melegal and Georgio stepped out of his way.


CHAPTER 15


Trinos was pleased with her world, Bish. Whenever she checked in, it seemed to be stuck deep in a mud puddle of chaos. Yet, it was not as entertaining as she had hoped, because she knew what was going to happen most of the time. She remembered something called repeats from other worlds; so still she watched, even when she had seen it all before. She liked the people. 
But sometimes a ripple here and there would catch her off guard, for good and evil were always somewhat unpredictable. It was those precious thrills that gave her world meaning. The infinite ones had escaped from good and evil over time, as their eternal life transcended it, or so it seemed.
Whenever Trinos saw that things had become too mundane, she would place a ripple in the world—a new creature, race, or ecosystem—and come back later to see what effect it caused. This proved the most effective way to keep things interesting, or to create the feeling she had once referred to as fun. Life on the world of Bish always reacted to her interventions. The balance would tip in favor of good or of evil. Currently, things were much in favor of evil. So, Trinos had her tool in place to protect the good for the time being. And it was a bloody creative tool at that. 


CHAPTER 16


Venir took off at a flat run, angling to cut off the forest magi somewhere down the winding paths. His bulk achieved amazing speed as his ragged hair waved like a banner under his helm. His unusual breadth was deceptive, for he could shoot off in a blink.
“I’m going after him,” said Georgio, dashing after Venir as fast as his chubby legs would carry him. 
“Crap,” Melegal replied, as he placed Quickster’s reins in one of Chongo’s mouths and caught up to Georgio in several quick bounds.
It wasn’t long before the pair was caught up in the thatches and had to slow. Melegal’s ears were keen though, and what he might not see, the seasoned thief could hear. He grabbed Georgio and pulled him along.

***

Ahead in the distance Venir had stopped. He had almost overrun the pinched path where he intended to cut off the forest magi. He knew the forest well enough to track them down. There he stood, his stout legs shoulder-width apart, with a slight bend in his knees. His helmet was keen to his needs, but it didn’t feel like a boiling pot on his head, not like when the underlings were near. No, he was in control, but his anger was far from in check. 
He laid his banded shield behind him while Brool twirled in his left arm, cutting the air in short strokes. His head rolled, making his neck crackle as he grumbled beneath his black-spiked helm. The forest grew quiet, and a score of birds burst away when the magi rounded the bend. 
The tallest of the forest magi floated forward, twirling around while making odd gestures with its hands. 
Venir flexed his grip on his axe, thick blue veins rising in his arm like small roots. He had played their games before, but he hadn't always won. What’s it gonna be this time? The rest of the magi began forming two columns on opposite sides of the path, centered on their leader. 
“One of you took something that was not yours,” Venir said in growl. “I will be taking it back!” 
The forest magi weren’t known to take material things, such as a commoner's cap. This was considered dishonorable among them. They loved magic, though. They were greedy little pests, and not often challenged about what they took. Gripped in fear, most would leave the forest magi alone. Travelers were often happy for the inconvenience when they felt their lives had been spared.
The forest magi, greasy and unkempt, were the bullies of the forest. They did what they pleased, for only a fool would tangle with a pack of magic wielding misfits. Then again, most people weren’t Venir, who had faced more than his own share of terrors. 
Venir watched as one lone forest mage floated from the back of one of the columns. Much shorter than the others, the mage came alongside his leader and removed his hood. Venir could make out a human face covered in bright red blemishes. A nasty grin crossed the little mage’s face, revealing missing teeth and a swollen tongue licking dirty lips. Atop the mage’s mangy tufts of red hair sat Melegal’s floppy hat.
The little man spread his arms wide, pointing outward, and brought his fingertips to the hat and started tapping it. The forest mage began to tap his chest and twirl while waving the hat in the air. 
Venir’s temper began to unshackle at the sight of the creature's countenance. He strode towards the mage, axe brandished before him. He drew back to swing, but the cackling forest mage floated back out of his reach. He watched as the gruesome mage weaved in and out of his kindred, taking the hat off and waving it high in the air. 
Despite his efforts, Venir could not square up on the floating man for a single swipe. He felt that he was being set up for something, as that was how their kind worked, and these were magi after all. Time began to tick as he felt their mutterings inside his head. If something didn’t happen soon, they would be gone, or he would be dead.

**

Nearby, Melegal and Georgio had crept up and were peeking from the brush. To Melegal’s surprise, Georgio wasn’t making a sound. The thief watched a mage who was doing a strange dance of sorts. It’s wearing my hat! Fury swelled in his belly. The remaining forest magi kept their distance as if captivated by the spectacle, but Melegal’s keen ears picked up on something else. They were muttering underneath their hoods. He nudged the boy, dangling a sling in front of him, and Georgio followed suit. Melegal's eyes darted back to the magi as he withdrew some stones, but they seemed preoccupied and unaware of their presence. 
“I’ll take the one with the hat. You take the tall one,” Melegal whispered.
Georgio gave several quick nods, brushing his hair from his eyes. It was a rare thing when Melegal felt his heart in his chest. Ten of those things, Bone! He low crawled over to a clearing as the boy squirmed behind him. He looked back and watched the thick beads of sweat drop from the boy’s brow. His breathing became shallow and rapid. Calm. He closed his eyes and thought of a burning candle. He blew it out, and his body began to cool. Better to die doing something than nothing. 
Melegal continued to watch the unpleasant song and dance between the ugly forest mage and Venir. He could see Venir’s cold blue eyes burning under his helmet. Venir’s feet were shuffling back and forth as he made clumsy swings at the mage. Melegal worried that the other magi voices were getting louder, when suddenly a tree root rose from beneath the dirt, tripping Venir and forcing him to one knee. As the big warrior faltered, his tormentor took advantage of the moment by muttering a spell. Melegal signaled to Georgio. Now!
The tiny mage’s lips shimmered as more roots burst from the ground. 
Whoosh-Thunk!
The mage’s next word was stifled with a stone, broken teeth, and the taste of blood. The forest mage sputtered toward the ground with an anguished groan, trying to spit out the stone. In a flash, Venir slung Brool as if shot from a heavy crossbow, its spike tip penetrating the mage’s sternum. The weightless man was flung backward and pinned to a Red Forest tree. 
Whoosh-Thunk! 
Georgio’s sling stone crushed the temple of the leading mage, who collapsed onto the hard forest floor with a thud. It all happened so fast that the other magi watched in disbelief, and the roots they summoned began to seep back into the clay ground. 
Venir leapt over to the tree, plucked the hat from the dangling mage’s head, and tossed it away. Somehow, the strange mage lived, still struggling to spit out the stone. Melegal watched Venir clutch the handle of his weapon, brace his leg on the mage’s chest, and jerk it free. The thief couldn’t control his wince. Venir then whipped the blade in a full circle and severed the ugly mage’s head from his body. 
The lifeless head floated away from its body, leaving a trail of red blood bubbles in the air.
The others! When Melegal looked for the rest of the forest magi, they were fleeing. Venir then took the flat of his great axe and batted the floating head at the rest of the pack. The head smacked into a tree and dropped to the ground. 
This time, the forest magi lost.
“That was incredible!” yelled Georgio. 
“Here,” Venir said, tossing Melegal his hat. “You should wash it.” 
Melegal sniffed the hat, scowled, and jammed it into his pocket. 
“Thanks,” Venir added, slinging the blood from his dripping axe. “I don’t think the forest magi will mess with you two again.” 
“Yeah, because next time they won’t just get a few sling bullets,” Melegal said, pulling out a small knife, “but the whole battle package.” 
Georgio and Venir huffed a laugh. 
Melegal allowed himself a grin.
“Now let’s find a creek so I can wash my hat,” Melegal said. 
“Sure, sure, Melegal.”
Venir stopped and looked around. 
“So, where’s Chongo?” 
Georgio offered the answer saying, “Melegal left them.” 
The warrior turned on Melegal with a deep frown on his face.“You what!?”


CHAPTER 17


A small army of slaughterers traveled at a rapid pace from the great caves of the Underland. Five squads, with twelve heavily armed underlings each, were cutting through the brush. They were the Badoon underlings, each well known for their stealth, skill, and tactics. 
The Badoon were the most sinister warriors in the underling world. This Badoon Brigade, in particular, had been battle tested time after time over the decades, and many of them bore scars from the wrath of The Darkslayer. The stories of the surviving Badoon inspired the other cold-hearted soldiers as they marched through the landscape like a giant black caterpillar. 
The Badoon were armored in dark leathers, woven with stud and mail. Weapons jangled at their hips as the glimmer of blackened steel revealed curved blades, knives, swords, daggers and crossbows. Some of the dark faces chittered from underneath cloaks, while the others were brazen with shaved heads, bare bodies, and long clawed hands hanging at their sides. 
It was night, and the fields of cacti and thatches that lay between the dark, hairy little race and the Nameless Mountains of Bish did little to slow their pace. Ahead, the towering Vicious led the Badoons with great vigor as the underlings followed mile after mile, day and night, on blistering feet. 
A couple of the soldiers stumbled along the way, drew off their boots of hide, and wrapped their bloodied feet. When they returned to the column, the Vicious barred their way, snapped their necks, and mounted their heads on spears at the fore and aft of the column. It was a gruesome sight, unless you were an underling. For an underling, it was a great honor to die at the hands of a Vicious, and that sacrifice left the Badoon Brigade feeling as invincible as ever. They picked up the pace. 
They had lost more than enough men to The Darkslayer, and they all shared in the hatred for this enemy of their kind. In the past, their numbers had never seemed to be enough. The human had foiled them time and again, but this time the odds would be in greater favor of the underlings. Their time for vengeance had come. The Vicious had never lost.


CHAPTER 18


Venir was hoofing it through the forest as Melegal and Georgio struggled to keep up from behind.
Venir yelled over his shoulder. 
“You’d better hope Chongo hasn’t eaten yer little pony!” 
 “You’d better hope he hasn’t, either,” Melegal said, under his breath. 
Georgio was bouncing in and out of the trees, mimicking the now perished forest mage.
“Nya, nya …you can’t catch me,” the boy said, waving a handkerchief over his head. “I’m the ugly-faced moron, and I’m too fast for you!”
Leaping upward, Georgio attempted to float by clutching at branches, only to fall on his butt. The boy broke out in giggles as he pretended to impale himself to a tree with a stick. Melegal and Venir continued to storm ahead while Georgio looked around, scratching his head.
“Wait up!” the boy said, tripping and falling before getting on track again.
Venir was several yards from the clearing when he squatted down. He smelled something. Closing his eyes, he focused on the sound of the mounts. Melegal was at his side, swatting the winded Georgio on the back of the head. 
Venir motioned for them to follow. Melegal nodded, towing Georgio behind him by the shirt cuff. Venir crept toward the clearing with Brool clutched in his hand. He came to a stop and coiled like a big ape ready to spring. His eyes grazed back and forth where Quickster and Chongo seemed undisturbed. Each lay in a thick patch of tall grass.
What is that smell? It was driving him crazy.
Chongo’s head and ears perked up over the grass, and his fat paws began stamping. The dog howled as Venir emerged into the clearing, and began licking his face like it was covered in beef gravy. 
“Why all the excitement, Chongo?” Venir said with a puzzled look. “I haven’t been gone long.” He scratched Chongo’s ears while trying to avoid the soaking saliva. “The last time you acted like this—” 

Venir whirled, his axe ready. 
A booming voice erupted from the foliage.
“Ahh! Humans! More scrawny little humans in Mood’s forest?”
A figure that was broader than Venir and almost as tall had hoisted Georgio and Melegal off the ground like rodents. They kicked and flailed like children as the red-bearded fellow pinched the life out of them between the nooks of his elbows. 
“Put them down, Mood; you’re gonna kill them,” Venir said, laughing and dropping his helm and Brool, spike first, to the ground. Chongo was still howling and stammering his paws at the sight of the husky figure. 
“Oh, why not let me kill them?” Mood said with a snort, dropping them unceremoniously to the ground. “Humans are about as useful as underlings nowadays.” 
He came and stood toe to toe with Venir, his mighty hands grasping and almost engulfing Venir’s forearms. Melegal and Georgio just shook their heads and looked over at each other with uncertain glances.
Mood’s head was almost as wide as one of Chongo’s, his features indistinguishable behind his bushy red hair, eyebrows, and beard. Only a pair of glinting green eyes gave evidence of the dwarf within. Beneath a heavy chain-mail shirt, Mood wore a long-sleeved leather jerkin with matching pants and high, floppy-cuffed brown boots. Two giant hand axes were strapped crisscross over his broad back, and a large belt pouch was wrapped around his waist. 
Melegal dusted himself off and pulled Georgio back to his feet.
“Good to see you, Mood! Chongo’s even more pleased, I see,” Venir said.“Oh Chongo, it’s been too long!”
Mood hugged both of the dog’s thick necks as Chongo licked the giant-sized dwarf’s broad face. 
“You just keep getting bigger and bigger.”
Mood reached into his pouch and produced two purple fruits, which he tossed to Georgio. Chongo leapt after them, knocked Georgio back down, fruits falling from his hands. The dog licked them up and belched. Noticing Melegal’s perched eyebrows, Venir began the introductions. 
 “Ahem … Melegal, Georgio, this is my friend, Mood. He’s the giant dwarf who used to look after Chongo.”
Mood patted Melegal on the shoulder.
“Hello to you. And to you, too, little fella.”
Georgio stared back at the wide, fuzzy face, squinting toward the bright green eyes beneath the bushy brows. 
“Yer almost bigger than, Venir!” Georgio blurted out. The boy’s gawking face caused Mood to turn away. 
“Er … so I saw you and those little forest magi having a tussle, eh?” Mood said with a chuckle. “You sure scared the slat out of them, I’ll tell you! Never seen ’em scatter like that.” 
“That’s the first time they’ve done something so blatantly ignorant,” Venir replied. 
“Times are tough. The underlings have been creeping around the borders, making trouble. The forest magi aren’t used to anyone messing with their territory, never mind invading it. It makes them edgy, thinking the fiends want their magic. But you’d think by now they’d know you’re on their side.” “Whose side? Yours?” Melegal glared at Venir. “Maybe they need to spend more time with just you and not me or my sling. Forest magi, underlings, and giant dwarves? Another fine mess you’ve gotten me into. One right after the other!” 
Venir shrugged and Mood let out a chuckle.
“I told you, Melegal; you’ve been in the city too long.”
Venir almost started laughing, but he held it in by taking a deep breath, and smiled.
“You don’t need to worry about the forest magi; they’re lightweights. You and Georgio could have handled them. You just didn’t know it.”
Venir winked at the boy, but his statement wasn’t exactly true. The forest magi were well known to trap and cannibalize a traveler from time to time, but only the ones that used magic. Still, he saw no need to raise a panic in his companions. He needed to defuse their worries.
“Just save it, Venir,” Melegal said, checking his cap. “You always try to downplay the dangers, but I know better than that. And I’d remember any story about your red-bearded friend here, too.”
“I’ve told you about him,” Venir disagreed.
“No you haven’t,” Melegal retorted. 
“I don’t remember,” Georgio confirmed.
“Uh … well anyway, he’s an old friend and so are his people. Sometimes we track underlings together. As a matter of fact, he’s the one who taught me most of what I know about such things.”
Melegal’s expression wasn’t satisfied. Shrugging, Venir added, “I try to tell you about these things, but you don’t like to listen.” 
“As for the underlings,” Mood piped up, lounging against Chongo who was lying down, “I don’t think you need to worry about them, either. Your buddy with the big axe over there goes through them like slat through ah … well, I forget how it goes, but you get the idea. It’s like nothin’ I ever saw. Almost enjoyable to watch.”
Venir sighed and sat down. 
“Anyway, we’re gonna be just fine.”As long as we don’t run into any underlings.
He was thirsty and tired, and his friends looked the same. He broke out a canteen and tossed it to Georgio, then opened another for himself. 
Melegal strolled forward, arms crossed. 
“And what about the Royals that we assume to be chasing us? Is that no longer a concern?” 
“Nope. They won’t follow us here.” 
“Royals?” Mood sat up. “Uh, that would be something I’d definitely worry about. Why are you running from Royals, Venir?” 
“You’re leaning against the reason.” 
“Oh.” 
The big dwarf leaned back, deep in thought. A silence fell over them, and the forest quieted as a gentle breeze wheezed through the glossy blue, green, and red leaves of the Red Clay Forest. Mood lit a massive cigar, and its aroma began to calm their nerves. Exhaustion filtered through Venir’s body. His eyes grew heavy, and in moments he was fast asleep. Melegal and Georgio followed suit while Mood chewed on his cigar. 
“Royals … sheesh!” Mood said in a whisper.
There was a faint roar somewhere nearby. Chongo’s tails began a fast twitch. Mood pulled his massive hand axes off his back and rose from the ground. A second roar came, closer now, but the men didn’t stir from their slumber. Mood watched the trees shaking in the distance as another growl came.  


CHAPTER 19

Two days had passed since Tonio’s demise in the stables near the south gate of the city. During that time, Lord Almen’s detective had figured out that Tonio had not been assassinated. 
An old stable hand, haggard and leathery, stood shaking in his sandals. The man’s hair was salted with white flakes and lice, forcing McKnight to avert his eyes from the man’s wispy crown. The old man continued to tremble as McKnight spoke in a threatening tone. 
“So, you don’t know what on Bish it was, do you?”
The old man trembled as he spoke. 
“Yes, a two-headed beast. Like a d-dog … M-m-master. It’s nothing like I-I’ve ever seen.”“Anything else?” McKnight asked, pulling the man’s chin upward, studying his eyes.  
The old man’s teeth were chattering as he said, “No … I’ve worked all my life in this stable, and I only saw this creature once, a few months ago. Me thinks it was what you’re asking for.” 
McKnight shoved the old man to the ground. 
“I’m not asking what you think!” He twirled a blade between his fingers. The stable hand watched him with eyes full of terror.
Why is this stuttering fool scared? Killing him would be a kindness. Wait, that can’t be right. Killing someone would be kind? Doing them a favor? I have been going about this the wrong way all of these years.“Well …” he said, shaking his blade at the old man, “I don’t like your story, but I’ve gathered little more than the same from others. You say this is the stable the dog-beast was in?” 
He looked around the stable. 
“So how did it leave without being seen?” 
The old man was holding his shaking skull as he muttered, “I don’t know.” 
McKnight jerked out another knife from his scabbard, and the old man flinched. He nodded his head and began poking all over the stable. I hate these foul smelling places. After several minutes, he stormed from the stable, looking up and down the rows, stepping back and forth. Something’s not right here. 
“Close that stable gate, you useless sack of bones.” 
The old hand crawled up from the ground and began to dust himself off.
“Quickly, Fool!”
The man jumped and pushed the gate closed with a loud clank, then backed away. McKnight opened and closed some other gates. They latched without the same sound. Interesting. He looked back at the first gate, noticing it was set a little lower than the others. He chuckled. Brushing the old man aside, he opened the stable gate and closed himself on the inside. From there, his long fingers searched for a handhold or latch of sorts. Two big grooves hid under the main support beam of the stable gate. McKnight lifted it, felt some give, and stopped. He tried again. Bone! He squatted down, braced his arms on the bar, and pushed up with his legs. The heavy piece of wood popped in his ears, but nothing happened. He looked around and noticed a small wooden lever protruding from one of the rafters. Clever. He jumped up and pulled it down. The floor at the back of the stable dropped open as he turned around, staring at a gaping hole leading down into the ground. 
“This could come in handy,” he whispered to himself. “Well, there we have it—Fascinating.” 
He looked back over the stable gate and saw that the old man was no longer there. Instead, he saw him hobbling away down the middle of the barn.
He’s horribly slow. He pondered whether to kill him or let him go. Living is a much worse fate. Perhaps he will be of some use to me later. His curiosity had the better of him today. 
McKnight studied how the latching mechanism worked. After a minute’s time, he had it figured out. He then gathered a small bull’s-eye lantern, stepped into the secret corridor, and closed the passage behind him. 


CHAPTER 20

It was early in the day when Lord Almen strolled from his chamber. His handsome face was heavy in thought as he passed by the nervous bows and downcast eyes of servants. Castle Almen was decorated with the finest materials available in Bish, a marvel in comparison to the other houses ranked below it, as well as some above. The marble pillars sparkled with intricate inlaid copper designs that reflected the candlelight from the golden wrought chandeliers. Every chamber oozed with wealth as his footsteps echoed down the hall. 
None in Bish ever needed so much, but the Royals were the most selfish beings in the world.  Each house competed with the others to obtain more material, slaves, and bragging rights, and Lord Almen would not be outdone. It was his passion: the acquisition of beautiful things, but how he acquired them was dark, dark indeed. Fear and killing were the formulas for success in ruling this cruel world. Lord Almen excelled at this. He descended down a spiraling set of stone-cut stairs. At the bottom, a lone door and sentry appeared. The sentry saluted, opened the door, and closed it behind him. He now stood in a makeshift bedroom with a large, plush bed. The room was dry and dusty, unlike the chambers of the rest of the castle. Two figures stood beside the bed, and one turned to greet him with a bow. It was the house cleric, Sefron. The other figure was scrawny and black-robed, with a sharp fuzzy face and a sparkle of violet in his eyes—an underling.
Sefron was flabby and naked, except for a small cloth around his waist. His body was shaven from head to toe, and his crystal blue eyes were bulged and watery. The look on Sefron’s face drew questions about his sanity, and Lord Almen never got used to it. The strange man had his uses, though. Many clerics in the City of Bone had disturbing ways, but Lord Almen made the most of it. Sefron shuffled forward, wheezing, and went down on his knees in front of him. The underling stood silent, without a single glance his way.
Lord Almen walked past Sefron and stood alongside the bed. The figure of his son lay prone on exquisite blue silk sheets and spreads. Tonio’s face was bandaged with wet salves of damp medicated cloth. Only his nostrils and eyes remained uncovered as his chest rose and fell. The rest of the young man’s mangled body was wrapped like a mummy with strange symbols drawn on the blood stained wraps.
“He lives?” 
Sefron shuffled at his side, speaking in an excited lisp. 
“Oh yes, he lives, dear Lord Almen. He lives, indeed. I did not think it could be done when we found him after many hours of bleeding. He is strong like you, Lord.”Sefron cast a wary glance at the black-haired underling.
“Of course, I merely stopped the bleeding and applied the bandages. Your lordship’s … er … underling acquaintance brought him back to life … it seems.”
Lord Almen gave Sefron a stern look.
“Of-of course, you know that, my Lord,” Sefron said, edging back and checking Tonio’s bandages. 
“I appreciate your service to my son, Oran,” Almen said as he turned and gave the small underling a slight smile. 
“My most promising son would have been a great loss to the family.” The underling was the size of a child by comparison, but Oran’s dark eyes showed power and wisdom unlike that of any human child—or man, for that matter. 
“I care not, Royal Almen,” Oran said in an insulting retort. “My race will never understand this human attachment to family. We underlings do not mourn the dead.”
It was a lie, as underlings cherished their lives more so than men.
“It is pathetic. There are always more to take a dead one’s place.” 
Oran, black to the bone, was also a cleric among his kind. The underlings were Bish’s most prominent race in the mastery of magic. Underlings could heal, but they focused more on the aggressive forms of magic. Still, in order to dominate, even underlings sometimes needed their lives saved, though none would care to admit it. 
Oran was advanced among underling clerics, for rather than merely healing, he had also mastered ways of causing great harm—especially to other races. But, as much as he hated humans and other races, he could not help but be fascinated by them. Oran’s meddling with the other races had made him a renegade among his kind. 
He was a studious underling, whose eyes revealed a deep knowledge of the black arts. His coal black hair was thick, long, and matted. Simple robes and shoes adorned his body. His face was narrow, with high cheeks, a strong chin, and the sharp gray teeth of his kind. His eyes were round and hypnotic, causing Lord Almen to struggle to keep his stare. Yet, Almen feared no underling, or he would not have been where he was today. 
“Do you have my payment?” Oran said. “I have no time to waste like a human. I have studies to complete and travel to make.”
The underling began to fidget.
“I would like to inspect the specimen now, if I could.”Lord Almen’s voice took a harsher tone as he studied his son. 
“I was wondering if you have discovered the cause of my son’s death, Underling Oran. Your work is not complete until I know this. Surely, you know what brought my son to such a brutal end, Oran?” 
Oran huffed and gritted his teeth before he answered. 
“I don’t know what stabled beast could have done this. It’s not the bite of a horse, a mule, or a giant bug, for that matter. It seems to be an Outlands creature, but I cannot say what. It had four legs with paws and canine teeth, possibly a Fenris Wolf.”The underling shook his head and added. 
“It is odd because they reside in the far north. Big though, big enough to ride, I would say,” Oran said, rolling his eyes with indifference. 
“He has spoken a bit. He has said ‘heads’ over and over. Odd … he may mean a symbol, or something else, but I found no evidence on his—” 
“How about a giant two-headed dog?” a bold voice offered from inside the doorway. 
Sefron and Lord Almen looked up to find McKnight standing in the entrance of Tonio’s chamber. 
“A what?” Lord Almen said with a look of surprise and agitation. 
McKnight removed his hat and bowed, saying, “I am sorry to interrupt, Royal Lord Almen, but I could not pass up the moment.” 
“I have never heard of such a creature. Did you see it?” Oran's eyes were enlarged, almost fearful. 
“No, but I’ve questioned enough people to know there is such a creature, and I’ve tracked it outside the city heading toward the Red Clay Forest.” 
Lord Almen caught the moment of shock showing on Oran’s furry face.
The underling composed himself and asked in a soft hiss, “How many were there?” 
“The dog thing, a pony, and three people; two men and a boy, based on the tracks I found.” 
Lord Almen was thrilled, but did not show it.
“It seems you have earned your keep this day, McKnight. Your interruption is forgiven. Ready a score of my finest—” 
“Wait, Lord Almen,” interjected Oran. “I can help you here. I think I know who and what attacked your son.” 
“Do tell?” 
“We call him The Darkslayer.” 
“And why is that?” questioned McKnight. 
“Well … he has been a scourge of my people for quite some time now,” Oran said, dejected.
“A scourge of the underlings?” Lord Almen was incredulous. “Can this be? Hah!” He smiled at the thought of a man that troubled underlings. 
“Is it the beast or his rider that you call The Darkslayer?” McKnight asked. 
“Ah,” Oran grew flustered as he spoke, “… he is a man, a thickset man at that! He is like no other, and he wields a war-axe like a stick. He appears a split second before he kills, made of magic and changing shapes. He is the only one known to ride a two-headed beast.”
The candles seemed to flicker as the room became silent. 
Oran continued, “But maybe I can help track him down and kill him.” 
Almen, McKnight, and Sefron were looking at one another, and all eyes fell back on the underling. It was common knowledge that underlings feared neither human nor any other race. The fear and respect with which Oran had spoken of the human was unheard of; not that any man ever dared—or survived long enough—to repeat what an underling had said. It was an amazing turn of events. 
“What now, Oran?” Almen asked as his mind was beset with more questions. Has a rival house hired out this man’s services? Was this man a member of another house? The Klings? The Caapes? The Crones? Slergs? Who could it be? How had Tonio fallen into their midst? 
“Let us finish today’s business with my payment. I shall contact you soon. Your servant has provided helpful information to me,” Oran said. 
McKnight cocked a brow at Oran’s words. 
“Tomorrow then, Oran,” Almen said. “I think you know the way to your payments. I bid you farewell.” 
Without any further courtesy, Oran turned and walked through another doorway in the back. 
“My lord,” McKnight said, “may I ask what his payment is for the resurrection of your son?” 
Sefron looked up from checking a bandage, his watery eyes feverish with interest. 
“More humans,” Almen said. “He wanted twenty of them: men, women, boys, girls and some elderly.” 
“What does he do with them?” McKnight asked, stroking his goatee. 
The room seemed to darken before Lord Almen replied. 
“Various experiments—while they are alive, he studies their reactions to torture. Once they have breathed their last, he tries to find other practical uses for their bodies.”
Lord Almen could see McKnight’s skin turn as pasty as Sefron’s.
“Yes, McKnight, we are cruel. But the underlings are so much crueler.” 


CHAPTER 21

Venir jerked up from his slumber, eyes darting back and forth. A monstrous howl cut through the branches, so he snatched Brool and charged through the foliage. He burst into a clearing just as Mood cut the neck out of a silver-backed grizzly bear, causing the massive animal to fall onto the ground. He watched in amazement as Mood wiped the blood from his axes before looking toward him, and said, “Enjoy yer nap?”
Mood and Venir skinned the beast as Mood devoured lumps of the raw flesh, its blood deepening the color of his beard. Georgio still napped while Melegal sat grim-faced, holding his stomach, and retching. Venir shivered a tad himself. Some things you never get used to. 
Chongo devoured his portion of the treat with vigor. Venir then bundled up the remainder of the meat and gathered the hide and head for Georgio’s poor family, knowing they would be thankful for such a fine gift. 
Moments later, Mood was leading them into a stream that was as cool as cave water. Georgio jumped in with a splash, while Melegal rinsed out his dingy hat. Chongo barked away the fowl on the water as Mood flushed the blood out of his beard. Venir's eyes began to swell with tears, and he splashed water into them. He was thinking about home, so long ago. The familiar scene of content faces splashing in the water tugged at his heart. 
“Let’s go!” Venir said.
“Aw …” Georgio replied with a frown, kicking at the water. 
Venir let Mood take the lead over the terrain that was rough, slick, steep, and narrow. Ahead, Mood chopped brush like wheat with his axes, and Venir towed Chongo behind him. Georgio bounced as he rode on Chongo, sweating with a funny smile. Melegal brought up the rear on Quickster, scowling as he kept having to shift in his saddle.
“When will we see the suns again?” Melegal said. “We’ve been half a day in this tangled mess, and then some. My butt hurts, the bugs are eating me alive, and the humidity’s sweating me dry.” 
“Oh, shut up, it won’t be much longer,” Venir said, shaking his head. Too much time in the city. 
Venir didn’t care how hot it was; anything was better than sweltering inside city walls. Here, the air was fresh, and he didn’t miss the odor of muck that filled his nose in the city. Of course, the climate could be perfect and Melegal would still complain. Venir knew what to expect from the thief, but it was still annoying. 
“Almost out,” added Mood. “A few more miles and we’ll be back in that blazing desert.” Mood’s broad body trudged forward, unfazed by the briars and thorns that tore at his clothes. The giant dwarven people preferred cooler, darker, and damper places, most of the time. They were the hardiest of races on Bish and not ones to complain. Venir had seen dwarfs lose ears, even limbs, and never shed a tear. They were tougher than chewed leather, Venir always said, and Mood was no exception, rather the exceptional. 


CHAPTER 22

Tonio’s fatal experience still didn’t add up in the mind of Detective McKnight. Why was the young lord alone at the stables on the day of his debacle? Did he encounter The Darkslayer? And why was he armed with a crossbow—a weapon rarely carried unless one was guarding the wall or marching off to war? 
Maybe Tonio would be able to recall why he was there, if the brat wasn’t too ashamed to tell. Even with his pride on the line, a man like Tonio would not venture into danger alone. Had a friend or an ally accompanied him? Had someone set him up? 
The young Royals kept tight circles. They competed with one another, jumping at openings to grab more power. After all, Lord Almen’s house had been moving up over the years, and so too would his son move up. Had Tonio been set up by another house, or had the brat messed with the wrong man this time? McKnight was out to get the whole story, even if Tonio was not willing to talk. 
McKnight had just finished choking some fresh information from a disheveled chap he found wandering around the barns. He slit a piece off the man’s ear, whispered a warning, and then headed for the tavern called the Chimera. He knew it to be a seedier place where Tonio and many others among Bone’s finest jackanapes hung around.
It was evening as he pushed inside the heavy doors. It was just as he thought. Pompous snobs and overbearing arses pretending to be scoundrels, like me. McKnight felt flattered as small groups of eyes darted his way from every corner. He would find out what he needed to know, with or without their cooperation, and their evil little minds need never know. He set his wide brimmed hat on the bar and ordered: “A goblet of your finest please.”


CHAPTER 23

Oran did not waste any time before traveling home with new information about The Darkslayer. The lords and masters of the Underland might find his musing useful. Oran the cleric, also known as Oran the outcast, might regain some lost favor. They had not been very approving of his dealings with the other races. In fact, they had forced him from his home, the Underland. 
The underlings feared he might reveal too much about his own kind, despite his proven reliance. He had not betrayed his kind, but still he was mistrusted and shunned. The pit in his stomach deepened at the thought. He was an odd underling, and that much he would admit. He was more concerned with the pursuit of knowledge than the pursuit of world domination. You cannot have one without the other. But they did not listen.
Oran was one of the few underlings to have stepped inside a human city of his own free will. An underling in the City of Bone was unheard of and so far as he knew, he may have been the only one inside of Bone in centuries. He had crossed paths with Lord Almen after the siege of Outpost Thirty-One. Lord Almen became a person of interest to him, and he allied himself with the man. 
Oran wasn’t a fool though. He knew Lord Almen was a dangerous man who liked to take risks. He saw it as an opportunity to learn more about his enemies. Oran was one of the main reasons the Almen house had moved up so fast over the recent years. So far, their relationship had paid off, for Oran also liked risk—and its rewards. One day, Oran would make Almen pay much more for his services, but so far Almen had served his needs well. 
He left Almen’s castle via the dungeons, and traveled by torch with his twenty new captives through a secret tunnel that led into massive caves far below, until they reached an underground river. There, an ample barge was waiting, and he loaded the slack-jawed humans aboard. They offered no resistance as he shackled them with chains and gagged them with dirty rags. Pathetic. Their glassy blank stares showed no alarm. He tossed the torch into the murky black river, where it extinguished with a hiss and sank. 
The cavern that hosted the stagnant river was pitch black, and the sound of dripping water echoed inside the tunnel. Oran sat, soaking up the darkness, and muttered an incantation. The barge slid over the water, deeper and faster into the darkness. A mild breeze ruffled his robes, raising goose bumps under the hairs of the naked prisoners. 
The prisoners sat, silent and helpless in the darkness, in the last moments of peace they would ever know.


CHAPTER 24

Bish’s orange-red suns were setting on the skyline, casting long shadows over the burnt plains. 
“Stop staring at the suns, Georgio,” Venir said with a snap. “It’ll burn your eyes into the back of your head.”
It was a fair warning, for many on Bish had lost their eyesight trying to stare down the suns. Georgio, however, loved the suns and seemed unfazed by his staring. Even Mood held a perplexed look over the paunchy boy’s obsession. Venir gave it no serious thought. They had arrived at the Red Clay Village, and he was keen to dispatch the boy, even though Georgio resisted being left behind. 
“I’m going with you!” he said, hands locked on Chongo’s saddle.
The boy’s pleas fell on deaf ears, but Venir decided to bargain with the boy. 
“Now Georgio, you keep your mouth shut. No talk about Mood or Chongo. Your people here won’t understand,” he lectured. “Your folks don’t trust outsiders, and you’re lucky they finally came to trust me.”
He hoped they did. It was not long ago that he had saved their village from a nasty brood of brigands. Trust was still hard to come by. 
“So, keep your silence, Boy, and we’ll come get you in a few weeks. If you don’t, you won’t see me or Chongo for a very long time.” 
“But…” the boy’s large brown eyes filled with tears. 
“I said not a word.” 
“How am I s’posed to last that long? You know I can’t shut up forever.”
He shook the boy saying, “You don’t have to—just a few weeks!” 
Georgio slid from the saddle, kicked up some dirt, and said, “All right …” 
Venir spoke a few moments with Georgio’s parents. Their wary looks turned to tear-filled eyes as they hugged their boy. The grizzly meat and pelt would take care of the family for weeks. 
“What a good influence you’ve been on Georgio,” they said. It was true, Venir knew, although not quite the way they thought; yet he took pride in the matter, and their comments warmed his battle-hardened heart. 
Venir said his goodbyes and headed out of the village with Melegal at his side. A few miles away they would catch up with Mood and the mounts.
“So, what’s this about bloodthirsty brigands you saved the village from?”
“Oh my, I wouldn’t want to take any time away from your complaining.”
Melegal smiled.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get my complaining in, all in due course.”
“I think you already know that story anyway.” 
Venir felt heavy now, and Melegal let it go. Venir and Georgio’s relationship was not born of sunshine and rainbows, but from tragedy and loss. That was why the big man cared for the boy and protected him from things he wasn’t yet ready to know. Venir carried this burden so that Georgio could remain happy and carefree. 
Venir was thinking back to the time he’d been hired to track some bandits and had caught up with them pillaging Georgio’s village. Venir and his small force of mercenaries managed to run off those they had not slain. The skirmish was one against superior numbers, and Venir’s leadership, battle tactics, and instincts had blossomed that day. His valiant efforts were never forgotten by the folks in the small village. Yet, the victory was not without its tragedies. Many of the brigands had escaped with captives before he arrived. Georgio’s teenage sister, Silvia, had been among them. Georgio was just a toddler then. For his own good, his heartbroken parents never mentioned her to the boy. As far a Venir knew, Georgio no longer remembered her. 
Georgio’s parents had described her to Venir, and several years later he found her by chance, working in a tavern in the City of Bone. She had grown to be a comely woman with long locks of curly brown hair, and round chestnut eyes like her mother and Georgio. Venir spoke with her, but it did not go well. Shame and humiliation had hardened her, and she would not acknowledge any pleasant memories of family and home. Venir wound up walking away. He had kept tabs on her for a while, but soon lost track of her. It was a memory he wished he could leave behind.
It was nightfall when Venir and Melegal came to a massive crevasse in the ground where signs of light wavered from deep inside. Below, Mood had made a campfire inside the steep, rocky gorge. From the dry plains at the upper rim of the gorge, the illumination was not visible, as the smoke was absorbed into the hazy night. 
The pair of men navigated into the crevasse and found Mood and Chongo on a large jutting crag. Venir knew this spot as he and Mood had spent many nights here before. A few snakes and vermin ventured here from time to time, but most dangerous humanoids or predators were not likely to travel this terrain. It had been this way always, as far as he knew. Something in this chasm seemed to preserve this spot as a safe haven for select travelers. 
“Ah, in time for some chow,” said Mood as Chongo slobbered over Venir.
“Whatcha got for us, Mood?” Venir said.
“We’re lucky. Snake, big green snake. The best. Chongo and I have had our share. You and yer little buddy help yerselves to the rest.” 
“Ooh, Melegal, you’re gonna like this!” Venir said, nudging his friend in the back.
“Not if it isn’t cooked.” 
“It’s cooked. And better than anything you’ve ever had in Bone.”
Venir took a big bite of snake meat that Mood had skewered on a stick.
 “Mmmm … now that’s good. I haven’t had this in years.”
Melegal picked off a piece, his skinny face drawn tight, and nibbled at it. A look of curiosity crossed his brow as he took a bigger bite. The meat was tender, juicy, and delicious. 
“Incredible!” 
“I told you it was good,” Venir answered, shaking his skewer. 
“Good? It’s great! Is it really snake?” 
“Yes.” 
“Bone!” Melegal exclaimed above a whisper, sinking his teeth into the succulent dinner from the wild. 
“So,” Mood said, “you never told me about this mess you’re in back at Bone. What exactly did Chongo do?” 
Venir made himself comfortable and said, “Well, Melegal and I skimmed a Royal who tracked me down and got me thrown in the dungeons.” 
Mood chuckled. 
“Then, at the dungeon, the fool boy decided to take a whip to me.”
Venir’s lip turned up as his voice dropped down.
“I didn’t really care for that, so I gave him the beating of his life.” 
Mood perched his brows.
“Shouldn’t mess with ta’ Royals. Most er’ pretty bad company. Looks like you got a beating yerself—if that’s what happened to yer nose?” 
Venir rubbed his nose, frowning at Mood’s ho-ho chuckles.
“Uh … I didn’t really think. I was too ticked off. I guess I shouldn’t have skimmed the fool, but we can never pass up a sucker—can we?” 
Melegal gave him the thumbs up, still stuffing his face. 
Venir singed more of his meat on the fire.
“So, I left the dungeon and decided it was time to get out of the city for a while. But this Royal shows up at the stable—with a loaded crossbow mind you—and tries to kill me. That’s when ol’ Chongo got hold of him.”
He scratched Chongo’s heads affectionately.
“Chewed him up good, but the stubborn boy was still breathing when we bolted. Bleedin’ pretty bad, though.” 
The giant dwarf lounged on his side, shaking his head. Venir knew what Mood was thinking. His friend had warned him, but he already knew. Mood had fought Royals before. Crafty, selfish, and sly they were. They ran Bish despite the attempts of the underlings to subdue the surface. 
Good Royals were uncommon, and somehow the bad Royals ruled in unison with them. Whenever there was a threat to the humans on Bish, all Royals, good and bad, stuck together. They had the numbers and the resources, and they had always ruled, as far back as anyone could remember. 
It was fine during the wars, when the Royals left everyone else alone. But when Bish wasn’t at war, the Royals didn’t have much to do. Then they were a pain in the neck. If you weren’t a Royal, the last thing you wanted was to be a part of their daily affairs. If you crossed one, you crossed the whole family and sometimes other families, too. They wouldn’t let up until you were humiliated, punished, or in your grave. It was what the commoners called the Royal War Games. 
Mood grunted as his bushy eyebrows buckled up and down. Venir unrolled his blanket between Chongo and the warm fire and lay down. The ravine was quiet. No crickets, no howls, just a whistling between the small crags and other outcroppings at the upper rim. It was neither a soothing nor a threatening sound, just eerie. The blackness crept in as the party slept, and the coals began winking out. Venir’s eyes drifted open and closed. 
Mood and Chongo snorted on occasion, sometimes in unison. Melegal slumbered, belly now filled with the wonderful green snake meat. Quickster slept at Melegal’s side, seemingly dead, but for the bursts of green snake gas that stirred the mount from time to time. All were at rest, except Venir. The mammoth man lay quiet and still, but tormented. Above him, the two full moons, one white and one red, cast shadows that outlined the warrior's form like a statue. The stress lines etched in his face seemed to deepen. His head was filled with anguish as nightmares seared his mind with images of death.
Venir’s eyes snapped open. The moonlight shone a bluish hue in his burning gaze. He crested the lip of the ravine, adorning his helm, shield, and Brool, without disturbing a thing.
There he stood, an onyx statue of a man, a mighty two-bladed axe in one hand, and a fattened black shield in the other. The black spike atop his helm sparkled in the moonlight. He murmured in fury. His eyes were like burning coals behind the iron eyelets. He could feel them … the underlings were near. He sprang into a quick stride, running along the plains of dirt and sand like an armored panther. This big cat would find his prey tonight. The underlings were his favorite gifts to death, and he was coming for them. A new hunt had begun ….

***

Melegal’s fantastical, moonlit dream of a bosomy dwarven woman came to an abrupt halt as Chongo let loose the barking of a dozen bloodhounds. He bolted upright, his once blissful face a fuzzy knot of concern. 
“What in all of Bish?” he said, jumping up and fumbling to reach his short sword. Quickster remained sound asleep at his back, bent legs up in the air. 
“Come on human,” Mood said, strapping on his axes, “… Venir’s gone.” 
Melegal rubbed his blurry eyes as he started snatching up whatever he thought would help.
“What?”
“Just grab yer gear and get on that shaggy thing. Yer friend has his weapons, which means he’s huntin’ underlings. If we can catch up, things’ll be … well … you can just see for yerself.” 
Melegal was ready and on Quickster’s saddle in moments. Mood was on Chongo, leading them out of the ravine. The great two-headed dog charged southwards, following the scent of Venir. 
Melegal watched ahead as he followed behind the two tails of the ridiculous dog and the odd-looking giant dwarf. He rubbed his eyes some more and shook his head. He was accustomed to many things, but not this. The warm night air confirmed to Melegal that he was indeed awake, and so did Mood’s bellowing voice.
“Huzzah! Ride, Chongo, ride!” 
And ride they did, through the night, over the barren plain, beneath the bright white and red glow of the moons. Melegal was so caught up in the rush that he had almost forgotten where they were going. Venir was hunting underlings, and they were headed that way as well. He wanted no part of that. Underlings! Not me! He almost pulled back on the reigns, but where would he go? 
“Son of a Bish!” he yelled, whipping the reigns, catching up to Chongo in no time. He’s gonna owe me big. 



CHAPTER 25


The strange moonlight on Bish hindered the movement of most inhabitants at night. The moons were at times white, red, orange or blue. Their colors changed; so it was, so it had always been. The light could come and go, sometimes hidden by clouds and other times disappearing altogether. Tonight, a red moon sat on the edge of the world of Bish, offering little light and darker shadows. Only a few races could see at night, and humans were not among them. But at this particular moment, one human inhabitant on Bish was not hindered at all. No, Venir could see every bit as well as an underling at night. The mystic helm allowed for that. It was something he’d grown fond of over the years.
The underlings used their infravision to take advantage of unsuspecting people. They could see the warmth of living bodies, sneak up on them, and kill. It was one more tactic they used to instill terror on the surface world. Venir had learned over the years how to turn the underlings' own guerilla tactics against them. He thrived on it. 
Venir was far south of the ravine where he had left Melegal and Mood. A thick coat of sweat covered his armored body. A dream had woken him, a sixth sense of sorts he couldn’t explain. Such dreams had become more frequent over the years and had saved him a time or two, as well. 
He stood inside the edge of a stagnant and foul-smelling marsh. Many dark groves such as this were scattered about, providing on Bish’s open plains water, which, by a cruel twist of nature, was undrinkable for humans. It was refreshing for underlings, however, and they often sought refuge in such places. Venir could feel their presence inside as his heart began thumping in his brain. 
The nervousness in his belly was choked down by his burning desire to kill. Venir was compelled to venture into this nasty grove to put an end to the filthy inhabitants that sought its sanctuary. He pushed through the brush, boots sinking into the muddy waters, and merged deep into the shadows. It wasn’t long before he picked out several warm shapes huddled together, muttering their ratty chit-chat. 
Silent as a cat, he crept forward and counted as many as twenty underling hunters. The small humanoids wore cloaks and leather. They were armed with steel and shields. He could smell their rancid breath, and their chittering voices aggravated him. His head scanned around, but he did not feel the presence of any guards. Good. He knew this race that he hunted. No guards meant something else, a magic ward perhaps, if he ventured close enough. Magic—all underlings had magic. Underling hunters, though not powerful in magic, still had spells that would aid them. But, Venir thought, he was privy to most of it. Fighting the urgings within the helm, he crouched down and waited. His sweaty hands were squeezing the shaft of his axe. Patience!


CHAPTER 26

After several minutes of hard riding, Mood and Melegal pulled their mounts to a stop. Ahead lay several groves scattered throughout the barren landscape. Chongo’s heads snorted the air, paws stammering in a certain direction. Mood hopped to the ground, pulling the dog's wet noses to the dirt.  
Mood said, “Sometimes, smells get mixed up in these areas. The acidic trees and marshes give off strong odors that kill a scent. It makes underlings hard to find.” 
The man-sized dwarf stuck his nose in the air and sniffed long and hard. 
“Chongo’s the ultimate tracker … noses ten times better than mine. But sometimes the two pooch heads clash. One wants one thing, one wants another. It happens,” he said as he ran his sausage-like fingers through the dirt and pointed to a marsh ahead. “Dog heads seem right … usually are.” 
“Why didn’t Venir take Chongo?” Melegal asked. 
“Have you ever gone hunting underlings with him at night?” 
“No.” 
“Underlings can see at night, and Chongo’s so big he’d be spotted. It’s harder for them to see Venir. The underlings, like me, see the warmth we give off, but I don’t think they see Venir when he has that get-up on.” 
“I’d like to see him fight underlings at night,” mused Melegal. “I’ve been out with him here and there, but never encountered much. I have seen him in his scary outfit, though. It’s hard to believe they can’t see him!” 
Mood chuckled as he swung himself back up on Chongo’s saddle and pointed. 
“I think he’s in that grove ahead, if you can make it out. Go, Chongo!” Melegal could make out the foggy grove’s outline in the distance. Tall, ugly trees seemed to spike the sky, and the ever-changing glow of the moons cast an eerie haze over the strange marsh. Melegal hoped they wouldn’t have to enter it; the Red Clay Forest seemed far preferable to a swamp. But, for some silly reason, Melegal knew Quickster would enjoy it. What a strange pony, he thought. 
An abhorrent stench assaulted Melegal’s nose.
“Oh slat, don’t tell me that’s the grove!” The thief pinched his nose. What’s with all these smells?
But Mood and Chongo were galloping out of sight. He had no desire to be left alone, so he dug his heels into Quickster. The thought of fighting underlings terrified him, but so did being left in the Outlands, alone.


CHAPTER 27

Venir watched as an underling hunter broke from the main group and came his way. He choked the neck of his axe, knuckles white, head aching with fury. The underling’s eyes sparkled, peering around as it began to piss into the murk, releasing a sound of relief. Finished, the underling shook his waist and headed back to his group, this time followed by a silent, axe-wielding shadow.
Venir closed within five paces, mimicking the smaller underling’s movements step for step.  He listened as the returning underling stood before the group and rambled something amusing. The group chittered in the odd way of the underlings. Venir had heard those twisted laughs before. He could no longer contain the savage cry within. 
As the underling before him giggled on, the laughter of the others came to a stop. Their colorful eyes were transfixed, and their mouths dropped open when his great shadow rose up before them. The underling turned just in time to see Venir thrust down the double-bladed axe, splitting it from head to belly. Venir rushed between falling body parts before the first drop of blood hit the ground. 
The nearest underling stood stupefied as Brool exploded into its chest, spraying blood like a rainbow across the grove. Another underling’s neck was punctured from his backswing. Venir ripped out its throat and prepared his next swing. Three! The next underling turned to run as he swung Brool around his head and down onto the creature’s shoulder. The heavy blade crunched through the clavicle, severing the shoulder and arm from its body. Stepping onto the dying underling’s bloodied corpse, Venir moved forward for more kills. He could sense them if not see them, spreading out and preparing for action. The surprise was over, now the work was about to begin. 
The remaining underlings had readied curved short swords and hand axes as they chittered orders. Five of them, armed and ready, formed a semicircle before Venir, but it didn’t slow his coming. 
His voice was loud like an enraged animal as the words burst from his lips. 
“Prepare to die, Vermin! I’m coming for you!”
The underlings didn’t quiver or turn; they dug in, spitting threats of their own. 
Venir dove into them, sweeping Brool left to right, keeping the five underlings at bay. His axe blade whistled, making an eerie sound that many underlings had come to know as the ‘last call’. 
Two flanking underlings charged Venir. He leapt forward, chopping through the head of the astonished center figure. The two beside the fallen underling swiped at his legs, striking a pain-filled gash and drawing blood. Venir slammed his shield edge into the head of one, cracking its skull. He was howling in bloodlust as he swept Brool into another underling’s side. It fell in a gurgling heap. Seven!
The last two underlings cut into his shifting thighs. The hot blood oozing down his leg did little to slow him, but it burned. He fought back, Brool hacking from the right and the shield defending on the left. The underlings were skilled and patient, ducking and dodging under his swings. He could feel his blood seeping from his wounds. There was no time for these games. He knew they only wanted to wear him down, and it wouldn’t be long before help arrived. 
In a blink between underling attacks, he whirled a hundred and eighty degrees, cutting one underling deep into the leg and shattering the other’s knee with his shield. Their howls of pain were cut off as Venir put them to death. Nine!
The long run to the grove, the fury of his attack, and the loss of blood were taking a toll on Venir. This was the part he hated, the torture of being pushed on despite his agony. He couldn’t tell if it was in him or from the helm, but he would not quit until the underlings were all dead. He was like one possessed, all reason banished by his hatred and rage. 
His chest heaved, and his lungs burned like fire as he slunk through the murk. Control it! His heart pounded as he pressed himself into the thatches, fighting the drive that urged him forward. A voice deep in the back of his battle-raged head reminded him that there were still many more. 
The red haze of battle began to subside in his thoughts. The marsh was filled with sounds of crickets, toads and squawking birds. Maybe they all fled. He sucked in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused. No, they were still out there. Venir had almost cleared himself from the thatch when something caught his feet. Roots, vines, and grasses of the marsh began winding around his legs, pulling him down. He bit his tongue. Bone! 
The dark magic coiled around his thighs like tightened rope. He could feel the plants cutting into his torn skin. He chopped and tore at his tangled assailants, Brool’s honed edge slicing the cords away. The vines crawled up his back and around his face and mouth. If he didn’t escape he would be overcome and suffocated. Brool cut through the twisted foliage, his arm and elbow working like a saw. He was on his knees now, coughing and fighting to stay alive. He gave another gasp and wrenched at his bondage, tearing himself free.
He pulled himself upright, spitting vegetation from his mouth, his legs held fast from below.  Venir’s drained eyes shot up just as three more underlings encircled him. Heavy darts assailed his body, stinging like a nest of wasps, causing him to wriggle with pain. 
“Arghh! Curse you little maggots!” he cried out from behind his shield as the poison burned like fire in his straining biceps.
Venir wiggled and sliced away at the vines that finally gave way, sinking back into the marsh. He was free now, free to destroy. A small robed underling turned on him, a foot long pipe protruding from its lips. Venir bashed its brain in with the edge of the shield. Another flurry of darts came from behind with several landing in the backs of his legs. His knees buckled as pain raced into his chest. Poison! His anger blinded his mind from the pain as he whirled to attack. Both underlings fired from the left and right, turning him into a human pin cushion.
Venir hurled his spiked axe like a spear, impaling the chest of one. The other underling yanked out its sword, a hiss of triumph parting from its lips. Venir charged as the underling thrust at his thigh, but the blade bounced off his shield with a clang that brought sparks. As the underling drew back for another attack, Venir’s steel-toed boot crushed its chin, dropping the stunned creature. He stomped his heel into its chest a few more times, collapsing its ribcage and pulverizing its lungs. The underling convulsed on the ground as the edge of his shield dealt the death blow to its skull. Twelve is good! 
Venir bounded after Brool, hobbled as he plunged farther into the darkness of the marsh. Time was running short. His body burned like fire, and his strength was ebbing. He knew he had to rest, but rest did not kill underlings, and he drove himself on in pursuit. The underlings were in hiding, planning another attack on him. He knew it. It was time to flush them out. 
He was moving southward, quiet as a deer, when he spotted them. He saw three bulges of heat hunkered down in the murk. Their colorful eyes were shifting back and forth, axes and swords gripped in their clawed hands. He could assault them all, chop them down one by one, but more were bound to come with poison-filled darts and all. No need for more of that. 
Like a shade, Venir moved behind their line and crept back up on the one in the middle. Setting his axe and his shield down, he slipped behind the hunkered-down underling. He struck like a cobra, clutching the underling’s neck in his mighty hands, lifting the creature from the ground, and choking the life out of it. The underling’s feet dangled and twitched in the air. Venir fought the urge to snap its neck before setting the limp creature down. Good. The dead underling’s legs gave one last violent twitch, kicking the thicket. 
Two enraged underlings were charging at his sides. There Venir stood, weaponless, with their brother dangling in his grip. Venir flipped the dead underling’s feet up into his hands and swung the underling like a sack of melons into the body of the closest attacker. Bowled over by the impact, the underling collapsed in a heap. Venir dropped the one underling just in time to dodge the two-handed axe attacks of the other, defenseless.
The underling moved in, chopping in a furry. Venir lashed out, catching the underling by one of its wrists, restraining it like a toddler swinging a stick. The underling countered, swinging its free arm at his neck. Venir caught it in the same manner, now squeezing both wrists like a vice, causing the underling to drop its weapons. The underling released a high pitched wail that was silenced by a crotch-crunching kick, which dropped the underling to its knees. Venir snatched one of the underling’s hand axes from the ground and slammed it deep into its brain. Now, the other underling was back on its feet charging full force, just in time to receive a flying hand axe between its eyes. 
Grimacing, Venir grabbed Brool and his shield and ran toward where he sensed more underlings lurking in the grove. His battle-raged mind became sluggish, and each step was filled with pain. Although his body was burning and weakening with every stride, he forced himself to find the last few before his body collapsed. The helm assisted in beckoning him on. He saw underlings were near, bodies warm and red in the blackness. He cut between two trees, closing the distance between him and them. 
“Bone!” he cried out.
Venir was held fast by a giant spider web. 
“Slat!” he shouted again, struggling to free himself.
The cords stuck fast as he struggled, peeling off loose pieces of his skin. His mind was in a frenzy to escape. He needed to remain calm, but those thoughts were gone. 
Venir could see them coming. Two underlings strapped in leather with long blow pipes. He tried pushing through the web, but iron would have been easier to cross. His axe and arm were held fast, but he groaned while pulling Brool back and forth to cut through. The trees bent from his efforts. The blades cut through the tiny fibers, little by little, giving him more leeway by the second. 
Toowah! Toowha! Toowah!
The barrage of bigger darts bit into him as his blood coursed like fire once more. He cut into the web as fast as he could, but the poison slowed him. Second by second, he felt his strength fade, as the fire inside him was smothered by the life-draining poison. He was numb from head to toe. Not now! Not now …. 
Relief entered a splinter of his mind. His pursuit was coming to an end. The cold dirt of a grave to lie in was welcoming to Venir. His lazy eyes looked up as the garbled sounds of the underlings chittered away. He still wanted to kill just a few more, but he would have to rest first. Venir’s blue eyes rolled up into his head, and he no longer moved at all. 


CHAPTER 28

Three haunting figures emerged from the grove.
“Underlings! He musta missed some!” Mood roared, spurring Chongo to attack. 
Chongo growled and charged, all four eyes bearing down on the underlings that burst from the marsh. Two underlings broke away to the right, dashing away from the fearsome sight. Chongo closed in on the fleet-footed pair, great jaws snapping at the heels of the one who was half a step behind the other. 
“Bite that vermin, Chongo!” Mood bellowed, axe shining in the light. 
The underling ducked, swerving away, but Chongo snatched up the underling in his massive jaws. The underling swung its sword, but Mood knocked it away with his axe. One head of Chongo crushed down on the underling, killing it. The other dog head led the pursuit of the underling that was still running away. 
The underling managed further separation as Chongo had slowed to drop his prey. The open plain and its moons assisted Mood with keeping the underling in his line of sight. The dwarf spurred the beast onward. 
“Yo Ho!” Mood yelled as they closed the gap. 
The underling turned and kneeled with a crossbow pointing their way. 
“Whoa!” screamed Mood, pulling at Chongo’s reigns, but the dog charged on.
It was a short-range shot, and Mood saw in a split second that someone was going to get hurt. The underling’s wicked smile danced in the moonlight as it squeezed the trigger. 


CHAPTER 29

The underlings stared at the mass of flesh in the web that was as prone as a possum. One launched another dart into his leg, but Venir did not react. They gave a loud whistle, a strange, inhuman sound that only underlings could make. The two underlings drew their swords as they approached their fallen foe. 
Avoiding the webs, one went behind Venir’s back. The other underling stepped in closer to get a better look at Venir’s face. The underling’s lips curled up in a merciless grin. If this were truly The Darkslayer, the scourge of the underlings, they would be honored and praised indeed.

***

Venir could see and hear everything as if he were in a distant land. The figures, the sounds and smells were still there, vivid in his mind. Something ignited inside his head and raced down to his toes. The sluggishness was wearing off. His thickened blood began to thin and flow again as a fresh spring of life beat between his temples. He felt the nearby danger racing down his spine. Die doing something or die for nothing! 
As the underling’s rancid breath reached Venir’s nose, his bloodshot eyes popped open. The underling lurched back with a hiss as Venir punched Brool through the web, puncturing its neck.  It dropped, gurgling to the marshy ground. The underling behind Venir drove its blade at Venir’s back, but it clanged off of his shield, which he had pulled free. The webs were dissipating now that their caster was dead. The underling swung its blade in a high arcing swing. 
Venir stepped out of the blade's way and chopped off the underling's head. “I hate webs,” he muttered, trying to pull the tacky substance away. He spun slowly around. “Where are they?”
He didn’t feel them close by, but the helmet wasn’t always right. He cracked his neck side to side and spat blood and saliva from his mouth. His arms and legs ached, and he coughed up blood. He gritted his teeth and then started running towards the north end of the marsh. 
“Slat,” he muttered, running through the murk, not wanting to believe that the last few underlings had gotten away. 


CHAPTER 30

A sudden whoosh-thunk erased the underling hunter’s grin as a sling bullet glanced off the back of its head. The underling shook off the blow and jerked up the tip of its crossbow, with Chongo’s heart still in its sight.
Whoosh-thunk!
The underling’s head pitched forward and dropped it like a stone as the crossbow bolt sailed over Mood’s ducking head. Chongo tore into the helpless creature, both heads chomping and devouring the bloody underling treat. The bone-crunching sounds turned Melegal’s stomach as he pulled along Mood’s side, dangling a sling.
“Sorry about that first shot,” Melegal said with a sheepish look. “No harm done. Where’s da other underling?” Mood said, wiping the sweat from his brow. 
“Hard to say. He ran like he had a hive of angry bees up his arse. I never saw anything like it. He just ran faster and faster, then he was gone.”
“Hmm … those underlings have some sneaky magic,” Mood commented. “That musta been their leader blinking out like that. No matter, just hunters by the looks of ’em. I don’t think there’ll be any more left in this party. Our friend musta taken care of the rest, seeing how they was run outta dat grove ’n all.”
Mood’s brow furrowed.
“Let’s head over to where they came out; Venir should be coming our way, anytime.” 
Mood waited a bit as Chongo gulped down the remains of the underlings, and then they made their way toward the grove’s edge. While they waited, mosquitoes hummed in their ears and attempted in vain to drink their blood. It wasn’t long before a rustle stirred not far from where they stood.
Venir stepped into the clear. Muscle, sweat, blood and metal all combined into a horrifying sight: a great gory man that the world of Bish called The Darkslayer. He was splashed with mud and guts from head to toe. His muscled legs and arms bled from a dozen wounds. Darts were still embedded and jutting from his skin, leaving black and purple marks. His chain mail shirt glimmered in the moonlight. His eyes blazed like a blue inferno, and his voice was as dry as a bone.
“Any left?” he rasped.
“No, one got away,” Mood answered. 
Venir approached with a bitter face, his tanned skin now ashen. 
“So, how many?” Mood asked of the warrior. 
“Fourteen.” 
His voice was almost inaudible as he removed his helm, revealing long sweaty locks of blond hair on a damp brow. Under his helmet, his head had remained as clean as the rest of his face was filthy with grit. Venir spat more blood. 
“Fourteen?” Melegal was incredulous. “You killed fourteen underlings?” 
“Would’a been more if I hadn’t hit a spider web. Bone! Would’ve had them all.”
He stretched his arms, grimacing, but then managed a small grin. 
“That was good. Close, but I live.” 
Venir began scratching Chongo, who started to lick the dirt off of him. 
“Your legs are purple!” Melegal said, looking on in concern. 
“Yep,” Mood said. “He’s been poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” Melegal cried, appalled at Mood’s indifference. “We have to do something!”
“We already did,” Venir replied. 
“We did? What?” 
“Ate green snake meat.” 
Melegal folded his arms over his chest and said, “Oh, and I suppose you told me that before as well.” He’s got the memory of an ox.
“Probably, ” Venir said as he coughed and hacked, spitting more bile, “you see, green snake meat does more than just taste good. It remedies poisons and such. It’s saved my hide more than once. It’s already taking the pain from my legs.”
“Really, because you look like you’re in pain,” Melegal added. “Perhaps it hasn’t reached that grog imbibed brain of yours?” 
“No, I couldn’t be better,” Venir said, winking. 
One second the warrior looked fine and in the next his eyes fluttered and rolled up in his head as his body sagged towards the ground. Melegal leapt forward just in time to break his friend’s fall. 
“Never seen ’em do that before,” the big dwarf said, rushing along their side. 
“He’ll be all right with your snake meat, I trust?” Melegal asked with some sarcasm. 
Mood shrugged.
“Maybe so, but we better get some water in ’em. If he ran all that way and then jumped all those underlings, he should ‘a been dead by now anyway. Them wounds are pretty bad, and I can’t say for sure green snake meat cures everything. No telling what those underlings shot him with.” 
Melegal returned with some water, made Venir drink some, and then slipped Venir's helmet back on his head, saying, "Maybe this will help." . 
Mood began stitching up the passed-out warrior whose breathing was very shallow for so robust a man. They plucked the poisoned darts from his body, revealing more ugly purple wounds. Blood and pus ran freely as Mood squeezed and drained them. It looked painful to Melegal, but his friend lay still as a corpse. Slat, just what I need, to drag his husk around.
Mood had done all that he could, and now all they could do was wait. Melegal couldn’t sleep as he sat huddled at Venir’s side, rocking with his hands wrapped up around his knees. Chongo lay alongside his master, eyes drooping and ears flicking up from time to time. Melegal couldn’t help but wonder what he would do if Venir didn’t make it. His best friend’s mortality never occurred to him. He drew a blanket over his shoulders as the aroma of Mood’s cigar lulled him back into a relaxing sleep, dreaming of more green snake meat.  


CHAPTER 31

Trinos felt something like enjoyment from the affects her ripples were having on her world called Bish. Actually, it was not so much the ripples themselves as the ripples upon ripples that filled her with mild amusement. Was this how some worlds were able to reach infinite status? Worlds that were not supposed to make it made it anyway, while those that should have made it did not. Had other beings like herself tinkered too much for their own good, perhaps sending in ripples of good that turned bad? 
Trinos felt she should know the answer to this, but then again, many of the laws of their universe had not been revealed. The edge of their universe was yet to be found, and certainly that was where the answers would lie. And without an objective outside view of the universe, how could the universe ever be fully explained? This, of course, was not the problem Trinos had been assigned by her kind. But it did spark a thought now and again. She would see parallels between her life within the universe and the life on her tiny world called Bish. Interesting.
Trinos had also found certain points in her captivating world that required additional study. In particular, there was the matter of conflict. She had created a world that contained both boundaries and conflict. The main boundary was a lack of interest in understanding any complicated formulas of science. The creatures of Bish lacked either the intelligence or the drive to study why they existed or why there were two suns and moons, all changing as she so desired.  The people of Bish did not care about her stars or why they were there. It all just was.
The only driving force was for power and control over the other beings in their world. Some races wanted peace, while others wanted war. One race could not ignore or survive without the other. In general, the races of Bish exhibited very little compassion, friendship, or joy. The people were hard, and their need to survive and conquer always outweighed their need for affection. Greed and betrayal kept breaking down alliances and friendships, leaving all in Bish forever watching their own backs. 
The creation of Bish had also led Trinos to contemplate the nature of good and evil. She had instilled both good and evil—although she herself was unable to engage in either—in order to confer strife. There had to be acts that resembled one or the other. Or, had she merely created persons with good and evil traits for the sake of her own entertainment? 
Trinos began to wonder if Bish was perhaps not such a good idea after all. She pondered destroying it, but could not. Would a mother destroy her own children? She continued her study. 
Most worlds she had studied were created on a basis of neutrality and shaped by the natural will of the creator. How these worlds turned out depended on those rules. The specific needs of the world would then either enlighten or extinguish it. Trinos, however, had created a world differently. Or had she? And she had instilled characteristics of other worlds, but not allowed room for change. She had, in a sense, created good and evil from her own free will. Did that mean she was not the neutral being she had always thought she was? Had she bent the rules of her kind for her own entertainment? So be it.
All this contemplation took place in mere seconds before she arrived at her conclusion. Whatever she may have done, the world she had created could not possibly affect anything else in their universe other than itself. With that last thought, Trinos abandoned her observation of Bish, and returned to her study of the comings and goings of the other worlds. Perhaps she would discover some similarities to her world while the world of Bish kept on churning. 


CHAPTER 32

“AAAUGH!”
A man screamed from the dusky chamber below Castle Almen. 
“My skull hurts!”
Tonio was on his feet, screaming and clutching his head. The young man tore at his bandages, jostling over tables and chairs. The cleric Sefron offered soothing chants, only to see the rampaging man square off on him. The flabby cleric was all alone when Tonio’s hands wrapped around his neck. 
Sefron’s bald head purpled like a turnip, wet eyes almost bulging from the sockets, tongue curling like a salted slug. Tonio shook the man, squeezing harder as he spat through his busted lips.
“Vee-Man!”
Sefron’s hypnotic eyes locked onto Tonio’s torn and twisted face. The young man’s pupils were black dots, lips curled in pain, brows buckled with hatred. Sefron couldn’t breathe, but he could think. Let go. Let go. The cleric’s eyes made the suggestion as he was being forced downward on the pillow-filled bed. Sefron fought to hold the man’s gaze, refusing to look away as his air began to fade. Let go. Stop. Let go. Stop. Sefron’s eyes and mind pleaded for escape. 
Tonio’s screams began to soften, and his grip slackened. Sefron felt himself regain control, slowly, very slowly. Let go. Stop. Tonio became still. Sefron rolled off the bed and sank to the floor, gasping for air. The cleric’s pasty skin turned from purple to red to pink and finally white. The cleric struggled back to his feet, knees wobbling as Lord Almen burst through the door.
“What has happened, Sefron?” he demanded, looking at his son, who was standing on the bed. “I heard screams from the kitchen.” Almen’s voice betrayed a hint of worry. 
Sefron rubbed his throat, trying to find his voice. A few croaks came out as he turned toward Lord Almen. 
“Good news … eh … good news … uh … my Royal Lord Almen,” he answered grimacing. “Er … He woke up!”
Lord Almen’s heated scowl almost sent him running. Slat! Think fast!
 “When they do awaken … it is usually with a great deal of delirium and pain. But I … I mean he … is fortunate.”
The shifty cleric had a fit of coughing as he recovered his wind and tried to smile, saying, “He is surprisingly powerful, and had I not kept my composure, I would surely be dead now, with Tonio on a rampage. Your son is powerful indeed.” 
“Hmmm … I know how this goes. But I thought you would have it under better control, Sefron.”
Lord Almen walked around the bed’s edge and studied the mangled skin of his son. Sefron could see Lord Almen’s face tighten, dry eyes becoming moist. 
“I thought so, too, my lord,” Sefron’s tone was upbeat, “… but he came out of his healing slumber sooner than expected. He is a fine specimen and a true warrior. I’ve not seen one recover so fast.”
Despite Sefron’s ingratiating manner, his words were true.
“I have something else I discovered as well, my lord.” Sefron bowed, awaiting notice from his master. 
Lord Almen’s voice came like a crack of thunder.
“What!?” 
“He was drugged,” a new voice said from the doorway. 
Lord Almen’s broad shoulders twisted around as Sefron whipped his neck over his back. It was McKnight, hat off and head bowed. Sefron glared at McKnight with all his hatred. Arsehole! 
“How do you know this, McKnight?” asked Almen. 
“Well …” 
Sefron stepped between them, blocking McKnight from Lord Almen’s view. 
“I found traces of various inducers in his body, my lord. This detective is only guessing. I have proof. He couldn’t possibly know this. I’ll show you.” 
Sefron hurried to the tall body of Tonio that stood like a statue, staring blank at the wall. The cleric took the battered man by the hand and led Tonio from the bed like a pliant child. Lord Almen nodded and Sefron continued. 
Sefron caught McKnight’s grinning face, but hid his heartless scowl. Sefron hated McKnight, his charm, his privileges, and the trust he did not have. The detective was a pain in the neck, always keeping a wary eye on his spiny back. 
“My lord, when a person is drugged—in this case it was consumed—the inducers that are used do not dissolve in the system. They are thick juices of specific types; in this case it is the purple leaf from the Red Clay Forest. It is one of the rarest plants on Bish. The juice does in fact dissolve out of the body, but slowly, sometimes over weeks. However, the effects of purple leaf only last a few hours, but this is quite long enough for a person to implant one, or maybe two, solid suggestions.” 
“I know what purple leaf is, Fool!” Lord Almen shouted. “Do you think I need a refresher course in manipulation? Poison?” 
Sefron dropped to his knees, cringing at the edge of the Royal Lord’s robes.
“Forgive me Master!” 
McKnight began backing toward the door. 
“Get up!” Lord Almen said.
Sefron feebly rose to his feet, head down.
“Very well then, Sefron,” Lord Almen said in a softer tone. “How did you know?”
The cleric bounded toward Tonio, flabby arms jiggling.
“I cast a minor spell designed to extract poison. It bled out from Tonio’s bowels. And it showed up purple in his urine and stool, my lord. I have it over here my lord,” Sefron said, grabbing a bowl from the bed. 
“I’m glad that you checked him out thoroughly this time, Sefron. The last time you were not so careful.”
Sefron couldn’t hide the look of surprise and fear growing on his face as McKnight watched him, needling his chin.  “Now, when can I expect Tonio to be back to normal?” Lord Almen said.
Sefron set the bowl back down and said, “My lord, I am sure Oran’s resurrection will have the same consequences as the others. Tonio will operate as a better warrior with greater strength and pain tolerance, but his constitution will not be quite what it was. Resurrection takes a lot out of a person—as you know. But as he wasn’t dead long, I think his mind will be almost eighty percent. Such resurrections don’t restore a person’s full humanity. And the scars he shall wear may make him rather irritable.”
There was a long pause after Sefron’s statement. The cleric’s eyes twitched, darting back and forth between the three superior men. 
Lord Almen let out a sigh and said, “Indeed. My son was a fine-looking warrior. He will be, how shall I put it, maniacal and sick from time to time … and his mother is not to know of this. Understand!”
Both the detective and cleric nodded. 
Lord Almen walked around his son, continuing his inspection, running his fingers over the wounds of the hypnotized young man.
“Dear Tonio,” he muttered in a low, callous voice, “what a life you have set up for yourself from now on.” 
The Royal Lord turned back to Sefron.
“Make sure he is calm when I next come to see him. When you get him under control, I need him dressed—and induced if need be—so I can make sure he is prepared for his new role.” 
“Yes, my lord,” Sefron said, bowing.
Lord Almen turned to a guard’s corpse that was lying alongside the wall. 
“What happened here, Sefron?” 
“When Tonio awoke, screaming, the sentry charged in and tried to restrain him. Tonio slammed the man into the wall like a rag doll.” 
Lord Almen lifted his chin and nodded.
“McKnight, come with me. I’d like you to explain what you’ve discovered. Sefron, I’ll send another sentry.” 
The two men left Tonio and Sefron alone in the healing chambers. Sefron saw McKnight shoot him a wink, and he responded with an obscene gesture of his own. Arsehole! 


CHAPTER 33

Oran the underling cleric arrived home with his barge full of slaves. He led them off the barge and into the underground river called the Current. Their feet and legs sank into the sandy bank, forcing him to pull them along by the ropes that held them. They followed him, silent and morbid, in a labyrinth filled with stalagmites, stalactites, streams, ponds and bats. It was pitch black, the setting into which all underlings were born and raised. These human men, women and children were some of the few creatures that ever ventured beneath the word of Bish. 
When he could see a faint blue light ahead in the distance he let out a sigh. It wasn’t the Underland, but it wasn’t far from the same, either. He took his prisoners inside a cave cell and then closed an ancient iron door behind him. He took a key off a metal peg in the rock and locked the door shut. The blue light danced off their shivering faces. He had plans for them. 
He shuffled his robed feet over the dry cave floor until he found himself back in a large cavern. Over his head, jagged stalactites jutted from the ceiling, casting shadows in the eerie light. Candles burned, large and small, not with yellow and orange flames as on the surface of Bish, but in flickering hues of pink, green and blue. He walked along a wall of shelves, filled with myriad glass jars containing heads, arms, legs, hearts, and every other appendage imaginable. What most beings would regard as a show of timeless horror was stylish décor to Oran. This is what he called home.
The thick glass tanks and jars on all of the shelves and tabletops were filled with human contents. The tormented faces of men and women, and sometimes an entire child, could be seen in their liquid graves. Oran chuckled as he tapped on the glass with a twisted sneer. This was his research for the greater advancement of his race, and for his quest for knowledge. 
The acquisition of humanoids had its price, of course. Oran was neither a hunter nor a slayer. He had to provide payment or service for the creatures he sought. Magic, metal, or precious stones, the humans were suckers for it all. The human remains were plentiful in his labs, but the more difficult races appeared in jars as well. There were dwarves, dog-faced gnolls, orcs, and even some long-legged striders to be discovered, among others. But most of the less-common races were of little threat compared to the insurmountable numbers of humans. Only the underlings came close to matching them in number, but it just wasn’t enough.   
Oran felt tired as he trekked into the most welcoming part of his lair. He slumped into a massive couch layered with red and purple velvet pillows. He stared into a jar with the pickled head of a black-bearded dwarf, a victim from centuries ago. He blew dust from the corked opening on the top and stretched. He wanted to take a nap for only a week or so, but more pressing matters were at hand. The news of The Darkslayer could not wait. He pulled one of his black toes to his lips and bit off a few of his nails. He spat the black bits into a small bronze bowl filled with driftwood shavings. As he twitched his fingers over the bowl, the bits crackled, and black smoke rose from a yellowish flame. The scent of acid filled his flaring nostrils as he closed his eyes and began murmuring a spell. 
For many minutes, Oran murmured and chittered in various high and low crescendos. Sometimes fast-paced and sometimes slow, he kept the rhythm steady. His body stiffened as his face drew tight. Every syllable he uttered tingled in his bones. Power filled him. Magic coursed through his unwavering lips while his mind harnessed the magic of another realm. The energy he summoned felt like a river rushing over him, and then it passed, leaving him as dry as a desert. Oran collapsed back on his couch with a gasp …. 
Several hours went by before he awoke. He sat up on his couch, rubbing his blurry eyes with his hands and wiping the drool off his sleeve. Staring at him was a big, unblinking eye. It was Eep the imp. Eep was just over three feet tall, with two legs, two arms, two leathery wings, and a head with just one large eye. His muscular arms ended in three clawed fingers and a thumb, and his thick bumpy skin was a mixture of grey, brown, and black. The imp had a hawk nose, and his wide nostrils seemed to point to his grin. Eep opened his mouth full of white, razor-sharp teeth and a long tail-like tongue. Eep was a small horror with a very big smile. 
“It’s been long, Eep,” Oran said, stretching. 
“You could say so!”
Eep spoke in a scratchy rasp: “Years! We used to spend so much time together, killing humans and the like. Those were the days. So master,” Eep asked clutching its claws, “what wicked bidding awaits me now?” 
Oran had gotten off the couch and poured himself a glass of underling port.
“I need you to run a message to lords Verbard and Catten for me.” 
“What?” The imp’s wings fluttered, raising him in the air as he said, “Deliver a message? To them? Can’t we go and kill like we used to? Please?” 
Oran took a long draw of his drink. His throat was dry, and there was nothing like the fermented juices from underneath Bish to soothe it.
“No, Eep. That can wait. I need haste! You are the only one who can give me that.”
Eep’s wings slowed as his clawed toes landed on the ground. Imps fed well on compliments. 
“Please, Master! I haven’t been summoned in a very long time. You gotta let me kill someone.”
Eep gnashed his teeth and clawed the air.
“I gotta kill something, Master Oran, I just gotta! It’s been too long!” 
“Oh, quit begging, Eep! When you get back, I have some fresh meat ready for you to play with. My word. Now, properly deliver the message to Lord Verbard and Lord Catten. I can’t have you killed like last time, either, so watch your tongue.” 
The imp bunched up, its tongue rolling back in its mouth, and said, “Ooh, I hate those two. They had no business doing that. It was just for their pleasure—and it hurt. Nothing can hurt me usually, but they did.”Eep paced back and forth, his orbish eye blinking.
“They’d better not kill me this time … no-no … Master Oran. Each time it happens, it’s harder to come back. I think so, anyway; I can’t remember because it’s been so long.” 
“Quiet Eep!” said Oran with his palm out. “The news you shall deliver is positive news about the tracking of The Darkslayer. They will be pleased, and we shall gain favor. I assure you, not even lords Verbard and Catten will want to tease you with their twisted musings." 
Eep’s head was down. “If you say so, Master. What message am I to deliver?” 


CHAPTER 34

One moment, Eep the imp was running across the open plains of Bish faster than the fleetest deer, and in the next the little imp vanished in a blink. The mystic powers of the world came from a different dimension of Bish that few could tap. Creatures of magic that existed in those unseen dimensions could be summoned, and Eep was one of those. He could view Bish from his own dimension and re-enter it in a different place from where he had left it. It made Eep faster than any other known creature and very powerful at that. 
Eep knew his orders, no special stops on his way to the Underland. He soared through the air and buzzed over the plains, snorting his freedom. His bat-like wings flapped on his back as the air whistled through his ear holes. He spied a golden eagle miles in the distance. The bird was beautiful, and he hated such things. 
He pictured the spot he wanted to go and blinked. He reappeared, smashing mid-air into the unsuspecting eagle. It shrieked as Eep tore the life out of it in a lustful frenzy. Its feathers and blood were scattering in the sky, sprinkling on the aghast faces of the farmer’s below. The noble bird struggled for its life as Eep was pulling them toward the ground in a gray streak. He was biting off the eagle’s leg when he saw the ground rushing up from below. 
“Eh!” Eep said as he crashed into the ground. 
“Oooph!”
The great bird was dead, but Eep felt fine. He stood up; dusted off his elbows, and saw the terror-stricken faces watching him. He wanted more. Eep showed them a mouthful of blood and feathers as he licked his lips. The farmers scattered like children running from a crack of thunder. Eep hovered off the ground, his leathery wings beating like a giant hummingbird, and then attacked. It was a bad day to be a farmer. 

***

“Look who we have here, Catten,” said Verbard as he lounged on his pewter throne, “…a visitor. It is underling Oran’s little imp.”
Eep stood inside the magi lords' audience hall, eye averted and wings still. The chamber was dark and ornate with sparse decorations other than two man-made thrones of pewter encrusted with jewels. The two brothers lounged atop puffy velvet cushions, wrapped up in their heavy robes. Eep felt their gold and silver eyes boring into him, picking at his mind. Eep was evil just as they were evil, but there was a difference. The underling brothers had no respect for his kind, or for his master Oran, for that matter.
“Is he not dead, Verbard?” Catten inquired, shifting in his throne. “Did we not kill him?”
Eep tried not to cringe as they stepped from their seats and approached him. 
“Ah, you know how these imps are,” Verbard sighed. “Kill them, and they just come on back. I wonder how we can erase this weird little one for good. After all, we don’t really like Oran nor his little pets.”
Eep’s urge to attack burned in his tiny mind, but he was shackled by magic he could not break. Instead, he stood like a soldier, head bent down. He must do as commanded.
“Agreed,” Catten said, “… but perhaps the imp brings good news, or something we can use, perhaps. A gift? What say you, imp? Have you some news to deliver?”
Eep almost didn’t hear the question. All he could think about was the last time he met with them. Eep, who hated all life on Bish, did not fear death from the lords, for they could only kill him temporarily on Bish. However, they could bring him a lot of pain and suffering during his stay. Eep sucked back his biting tongue.  Too often, his big, grinning mouth had got the better of him. The underlings liked to trick him, Oran had warned, and then make him pay. Eep’s squat little figure dropped to one knee.
“Yes, Lord Catten, Lord Verbard, I do have a message of importance from the cleric, Oran. I have been sent to tell you about a human called The Darkslayer. It seems this man was in the City of Bone recently, with his two-headed dog. He is now sought by a Royal House called Almen. This human is believed to be heading through the Red Clay Forest at this time. Oran believes the man and beast will continue their flight further south, and that they could be cut off. 
Verbard and Catten looked at each other before they turned their eyes back on the imp.
“Impling, this news from Oran is of some regard, but it would be better if we knew exactly where he was. Tell your master that his message shall be remembered by us. In the meantime, give him this message.”
Eep felt a moment of relief.
“If he can deliver the precise location of this man in the next two days, the chances are that our underling community could find a new place for him. If he cannot, I would suggest he never bother trying to be a part of this community again. Am I clear … wretched imp?” 
“Yes! Yes, Lord Catten … very clear,” Eep said in a hiss that revealed his excitement.
Eep’s fantasies of killing them both faded for a moment. He often thought about it, but was certain it wasn’t something he could accomplish. No creatures in all of his existence were as dangerous as Catten and Verbard. That there was an underling more powerful was hard to believe. Eep was mindful of the power of Oran, but he felt that the power of each one of these two alone was like Oran’s multiplied. It made him resent them even more.
The imp stayed on one knee, listening for the next command. His head was still bowed, and his eye grew tired of counting the pieces of grit on the cavern ground. As the underling lords loomed over him, he listened to Verbard's recount of the previous time he spent with them. Eep remembered the pain he felt in his mind as the dogs tore him, muscle from bone. Their words bored into him, and he was certain they would do it again. Verbard’s voice rose with more exciting ways to torment him. Oran was wrong, Eep thought. They would show him no mercy again. Eep heard a sharp whistle and the padding of cave dogs coming his way. His small body was yearning to bolt away, but Oran’s command held him fast. Eep wanted to look up at the dogs, but a glance at anything could provoke them. If he left on his own, Oran would banish him again, somewhere else, until summoned again. Eep would rather be tortured than bored. He closed his eye and readied himself for the worst. 
Several long and horrible minutes passed before Verbard broke off and said, “You may go, Imp.” 
Eep’s wings buzzed as he floated up, turned his back to the underling lords, and flew through the winding caves as fast as he could. The imp felt a rush of joy and relief, if indeed he could feel such things. In a blink he would be back in Oran’s lair. 
Verbard and Catten sat back on their thrones as the gruesome and mangy cave dogs lay at their feet. 
“This is good timing, Verbard. We haven’t heard from Oran in years, and now this. Right when we have sent a Badoon Brigade after this human. Now we just need to get word to the Vicious and send them that way. We may finally catch the element we have always lacked—surprise!” Catten said, clutching his fist.
“Yes, Brother, but I don’t wish to take chances. We should send the Vicious and the Badoon further southeast … and I think we should go as well. We can head him off in case he returns north.” 
Lord Catten’s golden eyes darted towards his brother. Verbard’s head was cocked, and his eyebrows were raised. The brothers preferred to operate from behind the scenes, pulling the strings. 
Catten added, “Brother, if you think that is best, I have to agree. But if we are to go out, let us make the most of this trip. Let’s fill it with screams of human terror.” 
“Well, let us not limit it to humans.”


CHAPTER 35

Melegal woke at dawn to a stench as foul as anything he had known in the City of Bone. Shaking his head as he held his nose, he peered toward a mysterious rustling. Venir was on his feet, packing his gear on Chongo. 
“Venir?”
Melegal could not tell if this was a dream or a ghost in the strange morning mist rising from the marsh.
“How are you?”
“Doing better,” Venir said, forcing a smile as he stretched the straps on Chongo’s saddle. “How ’bout you?”
“You are?” Melegal looked around, rubbing his eyes. “Well, you were pretty nearly dead last night.” 
Venir cocked his pale face. 
“Really? I don’t recall seeing you last night.” 
“You don’t?”
Melegal stood up and walked over to his friend.
“You’re telling me you don’t remember coming out of that grimy, stinking marsh and telling me about green snake meat and all?”
“No.” 
“Well—and there I was worried about you. Bone!”
The thief kicked up some dirt.
“You are invincible, aren’t you! Well, fine, I guess if you can’t be killed, then I don’t have to bother myself worrying about you,” he said, snatching his blanket from the ground. “So, why don’t we just go kill all the underlings right now?”
He strutted over to Quickster and slapped the pony on its rear, startling it from its slumber. 
“Hah!” Venir managed. “Would you rather I was dead then, Melegal? Then you’d have another reason to be miserable on this trip. Would that make you feel better?” 
He folded his arms and said, “Maybe it would. I mean, look at you! Your legs were purple last night. Now they’re just plain ugly and white.”
Melegal felt bad for saying it as he came closer and noticed that Venir’s battered appearance had been hidden by the mist. The man had a haggard expression, and his torn body was bandaged and scuffed as if he’d been dragged by horses for several miles. Melegal didn’t understand how Venir endured all of the scrapes. Well, he should know better by now.
“It’s the snake meat. But, does it make you feel better to know I ache from head to toe?  My stomach is nauseous and my head is dizzy!”
Melegal fought to contain a smile.
“A little … bit.”
He didn’t know why, but it actually did make him feel better than it should. He didn’t like feeling vulnerable in the wake of Venir and Mood. “Besides, it’s not like you haven’t seen me pass out a dozen times before. Why are you so bothered this time?” Venir took a draw from a waterskin. 
“Oh, well forgive me for still being riled up from last night’s skirmish. My underling killing skills are a little rusty.”
Melegal glanced at Venir’s gory helmet that lay beside the extinguished camp fire.
“It’s disturbing.” 
“You’ll get over it,” replied Venir. 
“Sure … sure.” I always do. 
“Have you ladies finished squabbling over not being dead yet?” said Mood’s grizzly voice from close by. “I’m ready ta go.”

***

It took a full day’s travel before the company arrived a few miles north of Two-Ten City. Dusk was setting in, and the two blazing suns were melting down over the southern treetops and onto the burnt plains of Bish. 
Unlike the City of Bone, Two-Ten City could not be seen as well from a distance. It had no giant wall enclosing it, only the open plains. Venir's keen eyes could see the few scattered lookout towers ahead, some with militia and others without. Two-Ten City was a community without civil care. All comers were welcome. Venir led the way along an older caravan trail leading into the rundown city. 
Venir admired how the people of Two-Ten City lived without the fear of being overrun by hordes of underlings, or any other race for that matter. It had a motley army at best, that was made up of various races. Nobody cared if you were human, orc, half-orc, or dwarf, just as long as you weren’t an underling. This odd mixture of people made for the most unique culture on Bish. It was where all the misfits, adventurers, profiteers, and thieves came when their status as an outcast or criminal had all but banished them from elsewhere. For the most part, the races tended to stick with their own kind, but in this city, everyone was welcome. 
“Well, this is close enough for me, Venir,” Mood said under his bushy beard, green eyes following along the disused trail. “The smell of city, ooh, it’s as bad as the marsh. I’ll take care of Chongo and the pony if you like, while you two dogs go into that hole and do what you gotta do.” 
“I figure we won’t be long,” Venir said as he hopped off Chongo and started gathering his necessities. “But, if we decide to lay low here, you may have to keep Chongo with you longer.”
Venir began rubbing the big dog’s floppy ears.
“I don’t know how persistent those Royals will be. They may look here, but they won’t get much help. The Royals here aren’t like the ones in Bone. But they’ll get other help, I’m sure.” 
“They won’t find us in this city,” said Melegal, straightening his hat. “And as long as we’re here, I plan on enjoying myself. Oh, and I’m keeping Quickster with me. I’m not gonna walk any more than I have to.”Melegal scratched the black mane of the shaggy mount. 
“That’s one thing I like about Two-Ten. Nobody messes with Quickster.” 
“Fine, keep your stinkin’ pony, Stick Man,” Mood said with a gruff laugh. “I’m sure as slat nobody will want to eat or steal that smelly beast, not even an orc. Ho-Ho!”
Mood slapped Venir on the shoulder, and then hoisted himself on Chongo. Venir watched them go, then turned and followed Melegal into the city. 
Venir’s body throbbed with every step. The green snake meat did its part countering the poison, but his body was far from one hundred percent. When he awoke earlier in the morning, he wished he was dead, but the survivalist inside him kept him going. It always did. He could see Melegal’s sharp and shaven face was now wooly and haggard. Guilt settled in his thoughts, so he tried to lighten the mood. 
“Ah, Melegal, it’ll be good to be back into Two-Ten City. I can smell the ale, grog and cheap perfume already. And some of Bish’s best-kept secrets are in Two-Ten. There’s always something new every time I come.” 
“Well, you got that right,” Melegal said, stretching out his arms, “It’s been years, and I can’t believe I’ve been in Bone so long. I used to like it here.”
Venir could see the thief’s grey eyes begin to dance.
“I wonder if our old tavern’s still standing. Wasn’t it almost destroyed the last time we were here together?” Melegal remarked. 
Venir began to smile and said, “I’m pretty sure.” The truth was he couldn’t remember a thing about the last time. It seemed strange. 
It wasn’t long before the neglected trail led them toward the bustling activity on the outskirts of the city. Every type of commerce could be found scattered around the borders of the city as well as within. Merchants and farmers fought for space to sell their baubles or their food. The worst of the harlots aggressively foisted their wares in the faces of the two adventurers. Their lucid tongues promised unforgettable favors. Their expressive seduction added a bounce to Venir’s step, and he watched a thin smile cross Melegal’s lips as he brushed the women away. 
There was something about Two-Ten City that represented the high life he enjoyed most in Bish. Maybe it was the oddity of it all. The strumpets were not just human, but orc, dwarf, and even halfling. They were all jostling to find seekers of their tricks, each race offering its own specialties. The open fondness of the different races was not represented in the City of Bone. The Royals there considered it something of a crime to intermingle with other races within city walls. But the Royals of Two-Ten cared not, for they, too, were of different races. 
It wasn’t long after the first wave of jobbers that the ragtag urchins, faces wrought with filth, swarmed around the men. Venir shoved them away with a growl, sending them in a scurry, except for one who clung to Melegal’s heels. 
“Lord, shall I find you a stable for your jackass?” asked an ugly orc boy with a tuft of blond hair, snaggled teeth and a slimy pig nose. 
“No,” Melegal answered in a gruff tone, tugging Quickster along.
The orc boy grabbed Quickster’s reigns. 
“It will only cost a few coppers, Skinny Man, and I shall groom and feed him,” the orc boy insisted. 
“What?” Melegal snatched the reigns away. “Go away, you ignorant boy, and don’t call me Skinny Man again!” 
Venir watched as the persistent boy blocked Melegal’s path, saying, “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were just an ugly woman.” 
Venir coughed a laugh. He had almost forgotten how smart-alecky orcs were by nature. Melegal came to a stop. The thief waved his finger across the orc boy’s watching eyes. 
“Leave me and my pony be, Orcling, or I shall be forced to use this.”“Whatcha gonna do with that finger, Miss?”
Venir covered his mouth. 
Melegal’s frown turned upward. Striking like a snake, he poked his finger in the boy’s throat. The orcen child dropped to his knees, clutching his neck, kicking at the air. 
Melegal bent over the misfortunate boy, whispering in his ear.
“That’s what I’m gonna a do. And if I ever see you again, I’ll be the last thing you ever see. Got it?” 
The orc boy was turning purple as he began to pee himself. The boy’s growing eyes blinked over and over. A small crowd gathered. Melegal looked around and then poked the orc boy’s throat again. The orc gasped, looked back at Melegal, screamed, and ran clumsily away and out of sight. The laughing crowd began to disperse.
“Tsk, tsk. Pickin’ on children already, are you?” Venir said. 
“That wasn’t a child; it was an orc. And he reminded me too much of Georgio.” 
“That’s low ,” Venir said, shaking his aching head. “Just plain low.” 
“You know, I’m starting to remember why we left this wretched place. Those orcs are stupid, a real nuisance, and I can see they haven’t changed. I’m starting to recall another reason why we had to leave last time.” 
“Me too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they were still around,” Venir said as something he hadn’t considered entered his mind. 
“I’d be surprised if they weren’t.” 
Venir forced a chuckle, giving the thief a big slap on the back.
“I guess we’ll know soon enough.”
He led the way toward a rundown tavern that stood near three stories high. The oak building was covered in dirt and grime. It was as ugly as it was unnatural. On the wall hung a cock-eyed sign that read: THE BEATEN BOAR’S BUM. Venir could hear the plank walls creak as the building seemed to sway in the breeze. The Bum stood in defiance of its odd and decaying appearance. Some said it was magic that somehow held the giant tavern together, while others said it was how soundly the dwarves had built it centuries ago. The stories had grown in extravagance over the decades, and it mattered not. The Beaten Boar’s Bum was one of the lowest and dirtiest places to be found on Bish, without being underground. 
“Shall I stable your pony?” enquired a small, black human lad sporting a heavy afro, blue eyes and a small nose. 
Melegal gave the boy a thoughtful look.
“Keep him close to the Boar’s Bum,” replied Melegal, handing over the reins and a few coppers, “and be sure to feed him well.”
The thief flashed a few more coins and the young boy smiled as he led Quickster away. 
Venir stood before the decrepit building and gave a sigh. The refreshing thought of ale, grog, and women began to surge over his aches and pains. A bosomy older woman in a revealing short dress was rocking in a chair on the porch. Her leathery lips and crooked fingers were beckoning for him to enter. 
Venir’s thoughts shivered in mid-fantasy as he turned his boot away from the porch's front step.
“We’d better go in the back. Let’s fetch that boy and have him get us a room.”
The thief gave an excited clap. 
“I’m with you,” Melegal said, winking at the woman,” but let’s make haste. My tongue’s dry, and my belly's groaning, and I’ll be having enough wine to pickle me purple. I want to forget all about that rough trip down.” 
“Go on after the boy, then,” Venir urged. As Melegal hurried away, he looked back at the older gal and gave her a quick nod. Her seedy smile gave him pause. Maybe coming back to Two-Ten City wasn’t such a good idea after all. 


CHAPTER 36

Oran’s face was filled with glee as Eep took his pinned-up frustrations out on many of the imprisoned humans. He made swift notes of the reactions the people had defending themselves from the blood-thirsty imp. 
“Pace yourself,” Oran had said, but the imp tore through them like a milling stone.
Oran jotted down quick sketches with his deft hand, black lips mimicking their shrieks as he recorded their final words at the threshold of death. They all pleaded, begged for mercy, and promised everything a human could imagine. Every word of it would have made him laugh, but he didn’t know how. 
He watched all of them cringe in horror, but for one. A lone woman was fighting for her very life, a short mop of strawberry hair hanging down in her eyes. Oran noted how she bit, clawed and kicked, one time clipping the imp’s eye with a long fingernail. Eep silenced the screaming woman after that brief moment of triumph with a quick-clawed blow to the neck. It was one of the better sessions Oran had ever recorded, all five seconds of it. 
In a separate cell, the remaining humans had emerged from their drugged calm. Four stout men stood at the bars, while the rest were wailing with tear-filled faces as he let Eep out from the cage. The imp walked by, snapping at them. The men shuffled back as the blood-drenched imp hissed and walked on. 
“Eep, come over here so we can get moving,” Oran said, strolling back to his lab. “It’s time for part two of your journey.”
“Ah, thank you, Master Oran, thank you,” said the imp. “That was just what I needed … I just had to rip something apart. They were perfect.”
The imp wiped the blood from the lid of his large eye.
“I’m sorry it went so fast. Catten and Verbard made me so angry I couldn’t contain myself.”
Eep’s wings began buzzing as he shook off the blood like a rain-soaked dog, splattering Oran with droplets. 
“Foolish imp!” shrieked Oran. “Look what you’ve done!”
Oran tore off his modest robes and hurled them at the distracted imp.
"Nah-rollah!” he shouted. 
The robes caught Eep full in the face, becoming alive and smothering the imp like a living thing. Eep struggled as the robes constricted around his small body, restraining his wings, dropping the imp to the ground with a plop. Oran watched his robes confine the entirety of the imp like a waxy mold as he focused on the robes squeezing every crevice air tight, suffocating the imp. Eep’s body lurched and kicked from within, then lay still. Oran gathered his composure, considering all he had to do.
“Stupid imp.”
His hand passed through the air.
“Rollahkem,” he said.
The robes slackened, and Oran walked over, pulled his heavy robe off of the limp imp, and kicked Eep in the head. 
“Ooch,” the imp whimpered as it struggled to draw breath. 
“No more games, Eep. Let’s track this Darkslayer and be done with it. Come.” 
Eep dragged himself up and followed Oran into a study that was filled with less experiments and more paperwork. Oran sat down on a stool and rolled out a long weathered parchment, a map, and pointed at it. 
“This is the plan. I have to return to the City of Bone. You need to head southeast to this area. The Darkslayer has to be somewhere between the Red Clay Forest and Two-Ten City. Our human troublemaker will most likely be in the city, so look there first.” Oran’s black nail circled the spot. 
Eep’s head tilted, nodded and said, “Yes.” 
Oran continued saying, “We have to resolve this quickly in order to help Verbard and Catten. Even if we don’t actually catch him, at least we’ll have aided them. That will go a long way with the underling lords. Then hopefully,” he paused and hissed through his teeth, “I can finally go home.” 
Oran was thinking back to the last time he had met with Lords Catten and Verbard. Oran was outspoken, and they didn’t like it. He had dared to speak against them in the presence of brethren on the issue of mingling more with humanity and the rest. The mistake had almost cost him his life, but instead he had been banished. Oran once had power and status in the Underland, but Verbard and Catten had it removed. Since then, he had hardly spoken with another underling in years, but he had his ways of staying informed. 
With a wave of his hand, Oran watched Eep speed out of the cave, over the Current as fast as his wings could take him. Oran headed that way as well, stepping onto his barge while muttering a spell. The barge glided over the black river toward the City of Bone. He could still hear the screams of the humans calling for him as he went. Why? They were begging for food and pleading for freedom. He wondered if any would die of starvation while he was gone. Will they eat one another? He hoped he wouldn’t miss it. Oran’s stomach rumbled. It had been days since he himself had last eaten. 


CHAPTER 37

It was late evening before Venir and Melegal sauntered down the wooden steps leading them to a balcony that surveyed all below. He inhaled the smells of exotic smoke and long-brewed ale. It gave him a welcoming burst of virility. Melegal stood at his side, rubbing his eager hands together, his eyes glinting at the roughshod faces below. 
Venir bustled past scornful faces as he made his way to the main floor below. The smell of mead and grog was so strong he could taste it on his watering tongue. Bravado blinded his manners as he created a path through the crowded bar. He thought of Mood, thankful of that last sliver of snake meat that had melted in his mouth. His aches and pains were beginning to wash away. 
Melegal cruised, flanking his side. The thief toyed with a nubile waitress and dispensed winks, kisses, and nods to others as he went by. A curious kind of music filled the main tavern, mingling with the sounds of laughter, anger, and triumph. Venir rocked his shoulders with the rhythm as he shoved into a spot along a waxy blackened bar.
Unlike the taverns in the City of Bone, the Beaten Boar’s Bum had few fully human occupants. There were plenty of part-humans, but the full-blooded ones stood out like flowers among the thorns. Also absent were the expensive perfumes and beautiful ladies in elaborate silks and colorful make-up. There was nothing to hide in Two-Ten City, and the miscellaneous folks were proud of that. Appearances weren’t as important as coin. 
The room was weathered, yet maintained. The tables, chairs and wooden mugs seemed as well-worn and hardy as the heavy planked floors. Torches lit the room on all sides, their orange flames casting shadows onto the mishmash of faces as they laughed, drank, smiled, cursed, and even wept. Despite the plethora of torches, it was not hard to find enough privacy to commit an inscrupulous act or two. The room was live and engaging. No judgment was to be found here among Bish’s unwanted. It provided a respite for its occupants from the harsh realities they all faced, whether due to shame, ugliness, or their crimes. It was a tavern that didn’t know a stranger even though it was full of them, coming and going just like the light. And tonight, Venir had returned to a scene where he had once thrived, but had to leave behind.
Venir felt memories swelling up inside him that he hadn’t anticipated. The room and its ambience made him feel as if he had stepped back in time. He felt like the younger man he had been before he became something else. He thought back to other nights like this and about what had happened before he acquired Brool and the armament. In those times he had lived so free, as a soldier, a mercenary, a scout, and even a brigand. 
Best of all were the days when he had lived for the hunt, as his reputation as a tracker and killer of underlings and beasts preceded him. He had been vibrant, whispering words in jeweled ears that drove the ladies in the taverns wild. Things had never been the same since. Venir had buried the flickers that longed for those days, but tonight it hit him like a great slap in the face. So much had happened since he last left this place. Two-Ten City may have been the last place he remembered truly having any fun. 
He watched Melegal talking up two formidable part-orcen soldiers at the bar, their grim faces turning upward at the words of the thief’s uncanny jokes. A soothing expression crossed his face as he recalled some of his daring, foolish, and even childish adventures with the thief. It seemed as if they had come from nothing, only to have the whole world of Bish at their very feet . But she had changed it all. A woman, an inhuman woman some would say, whose exploits he had heard about in Two-Ten City one sweltering night. It was with more than a mere glance that Jarla had caught his eye. Friendships like his and Melegal’s were put to the test, and changed forever. A familiar voice jostled him away from the unwanted thoughts.
“Venir, it’s the same band!” Melegal said, nudging him with a knobby elbow.
Twin orc men with large noses were strumming tall basses, one with three strings and one with four; a halfling man banged a tambourine and danced; while a bald and beardless dwarf was playing a lengthy cone-shaped flute. It seemed as if the band had never changed, never left the stage since the day they were last here, many years ago. Venir snapped out of his daze. It was time to unwind. 
Venir’s booming voice cut through the room like a cymbal, causing heads to turn: “The Bone if it isn’t!” 
Venir was tapping his hands on the bar, trying to catch the eye of the barkeep. It felt like it had been days since he had a drink of anything, and his throat felt as dry as sand. The barkeep was at the far end of the bar that ran the full length of the tavern’s floor. Venir could see the barkeep’s big bald head, keeping his back turned on him. The barkeep hadn’t so much as glanced his way.
Venir slammed his fist down on the bar. 
“Pardon me, you big black son of a boar!” Venir bellowed, drawing dozens of eyes on him. “How about some tankards down here!”
Parts of the tavern fell silent, but the band still played, while the bartender stayed leaning over the bar, continuing his conversation.
Venir shouted, “Are you deaf? If you don’t send me my mead I’m gonna come back there and get it myself.”
Venir hopped onto the bar counter. Bewildered folks snatched their drinks and vacated their bar stools. The barkeep stood straight up, head towering above the rest, muscles thick and supple under his apron. As Venir opened his mouth again he saw a small cask of ale hurling across the counter like a missile. Off-balance and unable to dodge it, Venir caught it fully in his chest and was sent tumbling off the end of the bar with a resounding crash. 
The tavern jumped and fell silent as the music still lingered in the background. Melegal stood alone at the bar, eyes down on his friend on the floor. People were murmuring and craning their necks, peeking back and forth between the floor and the bartender. 
“If I catch it, it’s free!” Venir said with a roar as he bounced up, hoisting the keg over his head, flashing a smile. The crowd stared and shouted out in astonishment. 
“You better not have spilled any, you big oaf, or I’d bust yer tail—Venir!” the big black man said with a broad, white-toothed smile.
The man reached Venir’s end of the bar in a few strides, leapt the bar in a single bound, and snagged the keg of ale. “What on Bish brings you back to this rat hole?” The big man lowered the keg on the bar as another man, frail as a fiddle, tapped it. “I didn’t think you could leave the pretty women of Bone behind!” 
The ragged and motley crowd of humanoids shifted around as whispers of Venir’s name began to spread from lip to lip. 
“You know me, Mikkel, I can’t stay in one place too long. Besides, I missed the finest mead ever brewed. By a man, that is!” Venir and Mikkel faced one another, both standing tall and proud, like men among babes. Venir slapped and clasped the bartender’s shoulder. 
Mikkel’s broad smile turned downward.
“Yer not saying I don’t make the best mead in the Bish, are you?” 
“Come now, there is one better, made by a beautiful gal in Bone—” 
“You shut your mouth!” Mikkel’s light eyes were hot with anger. “ “You know that heifer stole my recipe!” 
Venir poked the man in his chest.
“She said it was hers.” 
“By Bish! It’s from my grandfather’s grandfather, and it’s older than his tavern, you know that!” Mikkel was clutching his head and squeezing his eyes shut as he said, “Why do you torture me with her memory?” 
“Ah, I just like toying with you.” 
“As long as it ain’t with her,” Mikkel said, giving him the eye. 
“You know me better than that. The last time I saw her she was as big as a six-legged cow.” 
Mikkel let out a thunderous laugh.
“Now you’re talking; she was that big when I kicked her out. Now let’s drink the best brew ever made.” Mikkel snatched the barrel off the bar saying, “Nikkel! Get us some mugs and tumblers and a bottle of grog. Today, I drink with old friends!” 
The three men took a separate table near the bar, and each pulled up a chair. The young black boy with blue eyes brought over the bottle and mugs. It was clear to Venir who the boy’s father was, although Mikkel wasn’t sporting an afro anymore. 
“So, why did you start shaving your head, Mikkel?” Venir said. 
“Don’t ask,” the big bartender said, frowning as he filled the glasses. 
Puzzled, Venir started slurping some drinks before it hit him.
“You went bald!” 
Mikkel stiffened.“Well, you aren’t so far off, yourself. But I am older than you, so show some respect.”
Mikkel then turned to Melegal.
“So, how are you, Melegal? What kinda trouble has he got you into this time?” Mikkel said.
“Oh?” Melegal said, straightening from his slump. “Are you going to start acting as if I’m here, now?” 
“Ah, come on, you know better than that. I’d never snub you,” Mikkel said in a sincere apology. 
“I know that, Mikkel, I’m just deviling you,” the thief said, finishing off his first mug. “Ah! Anyway, to answer your question, let’s just say some simple skimming turned ugly, and we’re trying to avoid any further Royal trouble.”
The slender thief took a solid slug of his second mug of delicious mead. Mikkel nodded, his blue eyes looking upward as he rubbed his silvery chin. 
“So we thought we’d lay low awhile until this situation clears,” Venir piped up, scarfing down one mug after the other. He was plenty happy in present company and didn’t feel a bit worried at the moment. The gratifying taste of Mikkel’s mead seemed to shave the past ten years off his life. 
The Broken Boar’s Bum was alive and kicking, and he felt his body begin to unwind. He ate and drank like a Royal as they all talked far into the morning. Each had a story that marveled the other. But none could tell a story like Venir, as one tale after another rolled off his drunken lips. The middling women, swooning at his words, became more tempting by the hour. 
It took some time before Venir ran out of words and fell asleep at the table, alongside the rest. The day had passed from dawn and back and into the dusk before he stirred. After a belly full of steak, eggs, red potatoes and biscuits, Venir’s tongue was back up to speed. Stoking more stories with mead and grog, Venir continued to have one of the best times he had in years. It was good to be alive for a change. However, peaceful moments on Bish never lasted long.
There were many kinds of silence on Bish. There were silent nights, silent shadows, silent terrors, silent murders, and silent suffering. But this silence, the silence that fell now, was perhaps the most unnerving and unpleasant of them all. The band of the Broken Boar’s Bum had fallen silent. The rest of the occupants gawped as if a spreading doom had crept upon the tavern. All were quiet, wide-eyed, and unmoving, as a menacing bulk overshadowed the room with heavy steps that caused the plank floors to groan. All living creatures in the tavern were transfixed, hairs standing on end, except for one. Venir carried on as ever, finishing off another pitcher of mead. 
He was sharing a compelling misadventure with the boy, Nikkel, whose head had turned away. He continued his rambling as loud and offensively as ever. Seldom was such talk even noticed in a place such as this. But when all went quiet, his audience became as stiff as wrought iron. Something about this voice seemed out of line, inappropriate. He hardly noticed his friend’s words. 
“Oh no,” Mikkel breathed, “not again.” 
The entire room darkened as a giant shadow fell over the massive shoulders of the ever-rowdy Venir. 
“Who turned the lights off and the stink on?” Venir turned toward the source of disturbance. 
He looked up and saw one of the biggest humanoids he had even seen. Much broader and far taller than himself, a rare half-ogre man loomed over him, arms crossed over a hairy, muscled chest. He was peering down at Venir through what appeared to be only one good eye. The ogre had thick black and brown hair, brown eyes and some canine teeth. There was little facial hair, and his arms and legs were covered with coarse black hair. This one in particular stood nearly seven feet tall, and must have weighed well over four hundred pounds. He seemed older than Venir.
“Ah … it’s Farc,” Venir slurred, peering up through one eye, trying to keep things from looking twice as bad. “I gather you haven’t taken a bath since I last saw you. You smell like orc slat!” 
Farc sounded like ten voices in one.
“Venir—close mouth! Listen while Farc talk,” the glowering half-ogre said. “Farc not forget you smashing eye! Farc pay you back! Farc pay you now!” 
Gasps filled the room, and those who had actually been around at the time the two had clashed before scattered to spread the news. 
Venir slouched back in his chair and said, “And how do you plan to do that?” He said in a rising voice, “I crippled you, Farc. And even you wouldn’t be stupid enough to fight me again, ’cause then your other eye would be useless, too!” 
Farc leaned in and Venir could feel his fetid breath on his face.
“You promise Farc another fight. Remember, human?”
Venir nodded. 
“But, I not said you fight Farc, did I? I just said you fight. Right?” 
“Yes,” Venir said, nodding again as he slurped the last of a mug of ale and wiped his mouth on the inside of his arm. Venir began waving his mug in the air.
“Say, Farc, why don’t you buy me another drink? I’m all empty.” 
Farc slapped Venir’s mug across the room.
“You say anytime, anyplace, last time,” Farc growled. “Time now! Place the same! Me and my boy will be waiting!” 
The half-ogre stormed through the dispersing crowd like a behemoth and disappeared. 
Moments after he had left, Venir looked around and smiled.
“I bet he’s got one ugly boy, and I bet that boy has an ugly mother to boot. Poor lad!” 
Melegal chuckled, but Mikkel’s face was grim as he cleared his throat and said, “Uh, Venir, I think it’s his boy he wants you to fight. He’s been the champ for the last two years.”
Venir didn’t pay any notice to the tension in his friend’s voice."You might wanna stop drinking. This is gonna go down soon.” 
“I thought you were the champ, Mikkel,” Venir said, looking around for his mug. 
“Not since Farc beat me. Then you beat him, and after you left it, was wide open for a while. His boy’s better, Vee, much better and younger. Farc wasn’t the youngest, or even in his prime when you defeated him. But his son! Well, he’s an abomination! He makes his ugly old man look like a halfling.” 
The young Nikkel was just putting two refilled mugs of mead in front of Venir when Mikkel grabbed them away. 
“Gimme my drinks now, Mikkel!” Venir said in a slur, as his face began to redden.
“You better stop drinking and start thinking! You’re on in about an hour!” 
Venir was brooding. He wanted to just walk away, grab a wench and go to bed. He could see the worried faces around him. Their expressions seemed to suggest that he might lose. It made him mad. Then he let out a loud sigh and rapped his fist on the table. 
“Coffee then!”


CHAPTER 38 

The Vicious and the Badoon Brigade moved fast, cutting through the southwestern part of Bish and leaving a trail of blood over hill and dale. Many unfortunate inhabitants that weren’t quick enough to flee died, their final moments filled with pain and anguish. The possibility of surviving a Vicious-led Badoon attachment was slim. Dozens of Bish’s more peaceful inhabitants had already perished, and dozens more would meet the same fate before the brigade caught up with their enemy. 
The two hulking Vicious led the trek through high and low landscapes, unhindered by rugged terrain, inclement weather, or natural hazards. Even the most senior and weathered elite underling hunters were pushed to keep pace with them. The best of the Badoons, as nasty as they were, felt some discomfort in the presence of the Vicious, for the Vicious, more evil than they, did such things to torture and mutilate their victims that even a hardened Badoon had never imagined. The word ‘cruel’ was inadequate in describing their deeds. The worst the soldiers could imagine was little more than a bad dream compared to what the Vicious would, could, and did do. Still, the Badoon soldiers found it inspiring.
Little of Bish had heard about the legendary Vicious, for none had lived to witness such events unfolding. Their appearances on the surface were rare at best. But now, from high in a tree perch, a rare yellow-haired halfling boy named Lefty Lightfoot had seen the Vicious in action. 
Lefty had watched in numb dismay as the bodies of his family and friends were torn, shredded, bludgeoned, and strewn from one end of his village to the other. The muscle-laden Vicious were responsible for almost all of it. He saw many of the frightened halflings escape the clawed clutches of the Vicious only to be cut down by the crossbow bolts of the surrounding warriors. It had all happened so fast, and then the underlings were gone. 
Lefty’s mind was seared with the nightmarish screams of his brothers and sisters, bigger and smaller, being bitten, broken, and eaten. He only wished he had not survived to see such horrors befall his people. He wept until he could weep no more and then ran as fast and far as his speedy little legs would carry him.


CHAPTER 39

Oran had made haste returning beneath the belly of the City of Bone. The Current ran just below Castle Almen, as well as many other castles. The cavernous stone-cut chambers far below the castle, ancient beyond recorded history, could not possibly have been the handiwork of humans. Dwarves possibly, but even dwarves were not known for engineering feats as spectacular as this. In an eerie cave room, Lord Almen stood in the torch-lit semi-darkness with the resurrected Tonio, Sefron, and Detective McKnight. 
“What information do you have for me, Oran?” Almen’s loud voice echoed through the large chamber. 
“South, most positively. He will be found no matter where he goes. An underling Badoon is en route to dispose of him now.”
Lord Almen folded his arms across his golden-etched clothes.
“What is your point, Oran?” asked Lord Almen. “I thought the underlings could not handle this Darkslayer, so what makes you think he’ll be dispatched now?” 
Oran kept his groan to himself as Lord Almen’s flickering shadow enveloped him. Oran felt no fear of this powerful Royal. He respected the man, but it was beneath an underling to fear a human.
“Lord Almen, my reliable sources leave me in no doubt that these are the final days of the human pest. He has never been taken seriously by our people. But, over time, word got back to some of the upper echelons, so to speak, and they were not happy with these losses.” 
At this, Lord Almen let out a deep chuckle.
“Ha, Oran! Yet you tell me that this man, this one man, has required the effort of a whole underling Badoon? My, what I wouldn’t do to have a fellow such as that on my side. This has to be the most astonishing news I’ve heard in over a decade!”
Lord Almen’s continued chuckles drew a sneer from Oran. He wanted to rip the man’s tongue out. He was an underling after all, and human mockery wasn’t something he had ever experienced. Sefron laughed along, his naked belly jiggling, while McKnight stood fanning himself with his hat, grinning. 
As Oran felt things sink in, it became an awkward moment for him. He had been too busy to give the situation much thought. Struck now by the preposterousness of it, he felt somewhat embarrassed for his kind. 
Even Tonio managed to choke a laugh: “Huh ... huh.”
Once a loudmouthed braggart, Tonio was much quieter now. Oran stared at the young man.  Since Tonio’s resurrection, he was clearly not all there, but he was still a soldier to contend with. Just not one of Oran’s better jobs, something he kept to himself. 
Oran shook it off. 
“Lord Almen, you need no longer trouble yourself with this matter. I could try to recover the body of the man for you, or a piece of it at least. It is unlikely even a shred will remain, but I will do my beh—urk!” 
All of a sudden, Tonio’s strong gray hands were squeezing his neck. 
“Lead me to Vee-man,” the young warrior forced from his throat, “or die now!” 
In that instant, Tonio’s impulsive action could have decided the fate of Oran. He was flat footed. It was a human voice that saved his life. 
“Drop him, Tonio!” Sefron shouted. 
The Royal son obeyed, dropping him to the ground, where he gasped for air. 
Lord Almen continued, “This is prophetic. Oran, you will see to it this Darkslayer is dead. You can take my son with you on your journey.”  
What! But Oran could not muster the words. He was only happy to breathe again as he watched Sefron calm his zombie-like attacker. 
Lord Almen stepped over him and said, “Give me your word, Underling; you will take my son to find The Darkslayer.” 
Oran searched the eyes of the men that surrounded him. Hatred began to swell inside him. He didn’t feel as if he had much of a choice. At least, not at this very moment 
“My word,” Oran agreed.
The cleric Sefron stepped further into view and added, “Perhaps McKnight can be of some assistance, Lord Almen. He’s an excellent tracker.”
McKnight’s enlarged eyes shot arrows at Sefron’s insidious suggestion. 
Lord Almen perched his brows. 
“Good idea, Sefron.” 
McKnight’s jaw dropped. 
A few words were exchanged as Almen clasped his son’s hands and gave him a final blessing. 
“Kill him without mercy, Son. Avenge yourself. Good hunting.”

***

McKnight could not believe how quickly his life had worsened. Sefron had gotten him, and gotten him good. It had all been fun and games to him over the years, tormenting the perverted cleric. Now it seemed to have caught up with him. McKnight had exposed the cleric’s twisted behavior time and again at Castle Almen. He had caught the cleric peeping on the ladies, young and old. He had returned the cleric's small hoard of "misplaced" castle jewels and other rare baubles, some of which he still kept for himself. McKnight had always been two steps ahead of the cleric, until today.
Now, he found himself smack in the center of a mess he would have done anything to avoid. He was now stuck with the Royal brat Tonio. At least he doesn’t talk as much anymore. McKnight knew nothing about underlings, either. It was pitch black other than the lantern he carried. He was at the mercy of the foul-looking underling, and of Tonio as well. It was an unlikely cadre of adventurers. 
He heard Oran chitter something in underling, which he didn’t comprehend, but it meant, “I am an idiot.”  
“What’s that, Underling?” enquired McKnight, brandishing two long, silver-hilted daggers of a unique design. 
“Oh, be silent!” 
It was the last thing he heard Oran say for a while. McKnight wasn’t used to traveling in total silence and darkness. He had always felt darkness was his friend, but now it was like a drape that covered him so that he couldn’t escape. He kept Oran and Tonio in sight before him, fingers toying with his daggers. The craft glided over the water, how, he did not know. The cool wind wafted in his hair. It did little to ease his thoughts. For all he knew, they were headed for the Underland. 


CHAPTER 40

After an entire pot of Nikkel’s strongest coffee, Venir’s head was only a little more clear. Things were beginning to annoy him as he contemplated how such a promising night had turned bad in a moment’s notice. And as if things couldn’t have been worse, he was now being harassed by things that should have been settled years ago. 
“Ooh, Honey, now don’t get beat up too bad,” a half-orcen woman cooed.She stood before him, hands on hips, wearing a purple satin dress that was slit to reveal one of the most curvaceous bodies he had ever seen on Bish.
“I just love the rough and rowdy type, and I was counting on you the moment I saw you walk through that door.”
She winked at him and flashed him a promising smile. 
“Don’t worry, Dear, you won’t be waitin’ long,” Venir said as he brushed into her body.
As the sexy part-orcen woman’s swelling chest smashed into his, more bravado pumped through his body. The woman’s muscular thighs and pumpkin-round behind caught his attention as well. His lust-addled mind was blind to her blonde pigtails, sweaty lips, crooked teeth, and piggish nose. After countless drinks, compounded by hard travel and no companionship, Venir’s particulars no longer registered. 
“See you later, Mighty Warrior.”
She blew him a kiss and waved as Melegal and Mikkel pulled him away. 
“Venir, if you survive this, you might not survive that!” Melegal said with a wide open smile. 
“You two guys are both sick!” Mikkel said, shaking his head. “She is trouble. Trust me, I know. Win, lose, or don’t fight at all tonight, she’s still gonna try and tear your legs off!” 
Venir responded with a foolish grin and a shameless comment. The boy Nikkel gagged as his father Mikkel covered his ears. 


CHAPTER 41

Trinos found herself stymied from time to time. A degree of frustration had even set in, which was odd to one who had the ability to do anything; yet it had. 
More often than one would expect, created things would evolve into things that were not supposed to happen. Still, her endless universe offered some surprises for the omnipotent ones who seemed to roam and do whatever they pleased. Trinos would run across unique changes to worlds that had come and gone. She would be fascinated and begin to study them, looking for answers. It did not happen as often as she would have liked, but by her eternal frame of reference, that was still quite often. 
Her world of Bish was safe, tucked away from the meddling eyes of others. The rules were in place to avoid a catastrophic change. And so, while she roamed, she had left the tiny world of Bish hidden deep in their universe, in a place impossible to find. But within the infinite, there still remain infinite possibilities. 
Another being like herself had been lurking near her precious world. Scorch made his discovery of her odd world quite accidentally. He began to study it with divine interest. Its unique set-up gave him enjoyment. But, he thought to himself, it could be even better. 



CHAPTER 42


A stairwell opened up in the back of the tavern and sloped down. It was wide and steep, flattening out deeper under the ground. Venir looked ahead at a large tunnel that was cut from rock and gleaming iron ore. A muffled roar was in the distance. Warmth filtered in the air with every step, and the salt of sweating bodies flared his nostrils. 
All races sweated, but half-ogre sweat distinguished itself above and beyond the rest. You could not smell it from a mile away, but you always wished you had. Once you got too close, it stuck to you. It was best described as a mix of salt, manure and urine. Venir fought the urge to hold his nose as the foul odor began to assault his senses.  
The tunnel opened into an enormous cavern hosting a circular arena. Hundreds of shouting faces crowded on wooden benches. This was the home of the greatest game on Bish: Pit Battles. Every race on Bish had fought here, except the underlings. Fights inside the Pit were ongoing, twenty-four seven. Many of the spectators were known to stay a week at a time. Many of the spectators couldn’t leave: they either owed the Royals too much, or they were addicted to the madness. That madness began creeping into Venir’s bones. 
The Pit itself was a simple setup. It was a six-foot deep and fifty-foot wide circle cut into a stone floor. Heavy iron bars were bolted into the lip of the stone circle and rose in a crisscross pattern over ten feet high. Two large grates on opposite ends of the ceiling allowed the contestants to drop down inside. Venir had seen dwarves and halflings hang from the ceiling bars, legs dangling as they got their fingers smashed before falling to the pit floor. Broken legs and ankles were never a good thing. A man or woman needed every advantage they could find. A cripple stood little chance, but some had prevailed.
As he scanned the room, it appeared nothing had changed. Venir didn’t have to struggle to remember the rules. They were simple: no weapons other than a single blunt weapon that hung from a chain in the middle of the cage. The weapon varied; it could be a staff, a mace, a flail, or a big wooden club. Whoever got it first would often have the advantage, and once again, dwarves and halflings had a hard time jumping up to reach the weapon, especially with a busted ankle. 
On the other side of the cage, Venir eyed a handful of the Royals from Two-Ten City. They were unlike any Royals in Bone. Most of the Royals on Bish were pure human, while the Royals in Two-Ten City were humanoid, but little human showed. Long ago, Two-Ten City had been pure human, until it was invaded by a multi-racial horde who usurped the city. They bred with the Royal humans by force and claimed to be Royals themselves. The other Royal families of Bish no longer recognized a Royal from Two-Ten City. They considered them a disgrace and a mockery of humankind, so Two-Ten City was left alone to fend for itself. 
Venir stood along the rim of the cage with his comrades. Mikkel’s light-hearted expression was as grim as he had ever remembered. Even Melegal seemed to be shifting uncomfortably by his side. The battle with Farc from so long ago was never as glorious as it had been portrayed. It had become a classic that had spread throughout the land, taking the shape of legend over the years. Farc was past his prime, and battered from an earlier fight. Venir just never allowed himself to admit that a desperate punch saved him from a crushed neck when he busted Farc’s eye. 
Mikkel nudged him with an elbow. Several more Royals were now perched in their seats high above the pit. Their unpleasant faces were part-­orc, some gnoll and ogre. There was some portion of humanity in all of them, maybe an eighth, or a quarter. They all were adorned in fashionable attire and gaudy jewels. Most had large eyes, flaring nostrils, rough skin, course hair and iron jaws. They were bigger and more muscular, on average, but many mixed orcs sometimes looked very much like their pure human counterparts. It was the orcs that called the shots. 
If there was uncertainty about whether one was more orc than human, the brash orcen personality would usually reveal the more prominent lineage. The more human, the more bearable in all cases, as the orcs were one of the strongest and ugliest races on Bish. Their stupidity was a marvel of its own accord. They all despised humans, and of course denied being any part other than orcen. Still, they tried to imitate humans as best they could. Humans were still tolerated in Two-Ten City. Someone had to keep the books and encourage order. 
Venir turned his gaze inside the pit as a tall, heavy human was dispatching a family of six halflings. The robed pony-tailed man seemed intent on breaking every bone he could in their tiny bodies. His strikes were hard and fast, and his movements as fluid as water. The crowd roared at the sounds of the man splintering bones. The crippled halfling family begged for mercy before they were finally dragged up out of the cage. Orcen men tossed their broken bodies down into a cart, and they were wheeled down another tunnel. Venir caught the boy Nikkel shuddering at his father’s side. Mikkel was whispering in his son’s ear. He saw Nikkel mouth the words, I’ll be all right. 
Bad memories began to swim inside Venir’s head now. Melegal’s hand slipped on his shoulder as he said in his ear, “Should I bet on this?” 
Venir nodded.
“Why not? One of us should enjoy himself.”
Melegal was already moving away as Venir added, “It’s just my life.”
Farc approached, with a patch now drawn over his eye, chin jutting in what could have been mistaken for a smile. The ogre leaned down and pointed into Venir’s somber face. He spit with rotten breath as he spoke: “Tonight Farc finally pay you back! Tonight your eyes get smashed good!”
Farc flipped up his patch, revealing his crushed eye socket.
“Then you know what it like for Farc. Son of Farc bust you good. Every bit of you!” 
Mikkel had turned away, covering his nose, but Venir held Farc’s gaze as his blood pumped harder behind his temples. 
“Whatever makes you happy, Farc,” he replied with an icy stare.
Venir stood with his hands behind his back, glaring into Farc’s milky eye. 
“Time to get in … and die!” Farc said, breaking off his stare and seating himself where the Royals now sat. 
Now that the cage was being prepared, the room filled beyond capacity. The betting had begun. People were craning their necks to get a look at the legend who had walloped Farc long ago. On top of the cage, two full-blooded orcs in studded leather armor opened the drop-down gates and beckoned for Venir to come. He strode to the cage and climbed the bars like an ape until he stood on top. 
The crowd fell silent. The two armored orcs looked at one another and then at him. They were the same two that had badmouthed him the last time. Now they nodded and stepped aside.  The crowd was full of puzzled looks. He could feel the inhuman Royals' burning gazes, and he shot them all a fiery glance. He spit, punched his fist into his hand, and hopped down inside. The orcs slammed the cage door shut. 
BANG! 
The crowd erupted with jeers from all over. Venir could feel the power in their blood-thirsty voices, but it wasn’t for him. Then the chanting began. 
“Son of Farc! Son of Farc! Son of Farc!” 
The rafters shook with every lung-bursting syllable. Venir didn’t remember hearing such cheers the last time. He gritted his teeth and stared down the tunnel. A large head appeared, coming his way through the dim light. The crowd’s roaring became deafening as Son of Farc stepped out into full view. The ogre was pumping his fists high in the air, stirring the frenzied crowd into another high. Being in the cage seemed like the safest place to be as scuffles began to break out all around. 
Son of Farc was much more ogre than his father. By the looks of things, Son of Farc was all ogre, but for his blue eyes. The part-ogre was the biggest Venir had ever seen, standing over seven feet tall and every bit of four hundred pounds. Venir swallowed hard and waited. Farc’s son was more than a chip off the ole block, rather the block itself.
Son of Farc had coarse black hair all over his half-naked body. His muscles were thick, his heavy brow protruded, and his legs were like solid oak trees. His nostrils flared wide under a fattened nose, and his shoulders had the girth of a bull’s. All Son of Farc wore were faded blue pants, tattered at the bottom, and a belt made out of hair. Farc had worn a similar belt, a variety of hair pulled from the heads of the ogre's vanquished opponents. Venir tied his long locks back.  He had no desire to become a part of the ogre’s strange trophy. 
Son of Farc reached up, grabbed the upper rim of the cage, and bounded to the top. The ogre then shoved the two armored orcs off the top, opened the drop-down gate, and jumped inside. Looking down at Venir, Son of Farc displayed a smile full of rotting yellow teeth above his jutting jaw. Above, the orcs slammed the gate down and prepared to lower the weapon. But, as a morning star was about to be lowered, Farc, from the audience, made them stop, signaling ‘no weapon’ with his fists in the air. The crowd booed and hissed, but then Farc’s roar settled them down. This fight was to be bare knuckles, teeth, knees, elbows, you-got-it you-use-it; just the way it had been the last time. 
It was all on Venir now. No help, no Brool, no choice. He cast a glance at his friends, who all looked worried. Better me than them. 
He was dripping like a waterfall as he removed his sweat-soaked jerkin. He tried to shake the flow of blood into his fingers. He felt numb, lethargic and unprepared, but a twinge of anger was burning somewhere. 
He could hear voices in the crowed shouting about the big V-shaped tattoo on his over muscled back. Vermin, Vulgar, Vile, Villain, the mixed races had screamed, Victorious said another, much to the laughter of the others. A few coins exchanged in favor of the man that had beaten Farc before. Son of Farc snorted, staring at his sneering father who stood on the balcony above. 
Venir wasn’t the less-experienced man who Farc had fought years earlier. He was rather different, weathered and frightening. Venir looked over again at his comrades, all pressed near the cage. Mikkel gave him a puzzled look, while Melegal gave him a meager thumbs up. 
The crowd’s voices became a manageable rumble as a gray-bearded dwarf sauntered over to a bronze gong as tall as an ogre. The ancient dwarf stared up at the Royals in the bleachers, hoisting the mallet high above his head. A tall orcen man, leaner than the rest, stood and raised his palms outward in the air. The crowd hushed. A handful of coins clinked onto the bleachers and rattled down. Venir’s eyes locked of Son of Farc’s. There was ice in the ogre’s stare, and fire behind the ice. Venir could feel the rush of blood flowing behind his ears. Die doing something!
The tall orc’s palms knotted into big fists. Two long hairy thumbs flicked upwards. 
BONG!
In an instant, Venir sprang like a panther and punched Son of Farc straight in the nose. The ogre’s head rocked back with a notable crack, and first blood had been drawn. The roar of the crowd was a dull hum in Venir’s pulsating ears. 
Son of Farc was holding his broken nose, furious, swatting his long arms back and forth, and forcing Venir to dodge away. Venir watched as the ogre grinned, smearing the dripping blood with his forearm along his chin. Now, the ogre beckoned to the man with his finger. The crowd went wild. Venir’s hand ached, and he realized it was going to be a hard and dirty fight. 
The two circled each other, and Son of Farc made his move. Son of Farc lunged in low with a powerful right upper cut. Venir ducked inside and pounded a flurry of hard shots into the ogre’s ribs. A man would have dropped like a sack of broken glass, but the ogre shoved him away.
Son of Farc circled, agile on his massive feet, then lunged once more. Venir dropped to a crouch, punching into the ogre’s belly.
“Ooph!” 
Venir heard a rush of air burst out above him, and then a massive fist slammed down, glanced off his head and onto his neck and shoulder. Blinded by the shocking blow, Venir dropped to one knee. Two huge fists slammed into his shoulders like hammers, driving Venir to the ground. Pain exploded into his upper body as the crowd leapt to their feet. Venir sat on both knees, waiting as Son of Farc brought his mallet-like fists down again. Venir bolted up, catching both wrists clean and rose up, staring the ogre in the face. 
“You got nothin’, human.” the ogre said with a growl. “You gonna die.”Venir pushed the ogre back, its feet sliding backwards in the dirt. Venir’s bull neck was red, blue veins rising along his arms and back. Son of Farc snarled, using his superior weight as leverage, bending Venir back. Venir squeezed the ogre’s wrists and screamed. With a yank he pulled the ogre down and inward, rolled onto his back, planted his feet in the ogre’s belly and launched him over his head. Son of Farc slammed into the rocky arena wall.
Mikkel and Nikkel were jumping into the air as the ogre lay stunned on the floor. 
Venir pounced on the ogre’s back, raining down punches as hard as he could into his ribs and kidneys. Howling in pain and anger, Son of Farc tore himself away from the vicious onslaught. Venir lost his grip on the ogre’s head of hair, dropped down, and crouched on the stony floor. He was gasping. His legs felt wobbly, and his lungs were bursting. 
Son of Farc stood up before him, tall as a tree, clutching his side and spitting a mouthful of blood. One thing was for sure, Son of Farc was a lot tougher than his father. If Farc had not become overconfident, Venir might not have won that battle. It seemed Farc had certainly prepared his son well for this day. 
Do something or die trying. Venir rushed back in, throwing powerful haymakers and uppercuts into every vulnerable spot on the ogre’s body. The ogre returned in kind, and the apparent mismatch became a clash of titans. In a furious assault, Son of Farc struck, dodged, and countered. Venir was quicker and more precise, but the ogre was taking the pain and keeping up the pressure. Frustration settled on Son of Farc’s bewildered face as Venir’s hammering blows raised knots on his body. Venir punched harder and harder, and his hands felt like they were about to break as the ogre’s big arms served well to absorb most of his powerful blows. Son of Farc’s massive fists swung all around as Venir dodged and ducked his head. His quickness and instincts saved him from punches that might have killed a lesser man. Stunned at what they were witnessing, the crowd squealed in delight.
Battered, bruised, and bloodied, the seconds began to feel like minutes. Venir was on the verge of collapse, his arms as heavy as lead. Not going to make it. Son of Farc had worn him down with sheer weight and endless strength. Suddenly, the ogre broke it off and backed away. 
Venir gasped for air, clutching at his aching sides. He could see the ogre’s chest heaving while it was clutching at its sides. Blood was dripping in Venir’s eyes as the ogre’s clawed fingers had ripped open the skin on his skull.
Then the Son of Farc charged with a thunderous roar. Venir tried to dodge, but was barreled over and crushed into the ground. Something inside of him cracked, and he let out a yell of pain. 
From beneath, he tried to break free of the big ogre’s grapple and squirm away. The ogre’s powerful grip held him fast. Venir was determined to wrestle his way out. He didn’t hear Mikkel screaming at him: “NO!” 
It was a mistake. There was an old saying in Bish, “Don’t wrestle the ogre, wrestle the bear instead.” 
Outmatched under the ogre’s weight, Venir’s wrestling was fruitless, and something was stabbing inside his chest. He was as good a wrestler as any man on Bish, but humans weren’t the natural-born wrestlers that ogres were. Venir began countering as he tried in vain to grab ahold of something, or pull away to escape. 
Son of Farc was relentless, countering every move as if he was one step ahead. Venir’s strength was sapped as his blood dripped to the ground in a steady stream. He got turned with his belly to the ground. Bone! The ogre grabbed his long hair in his hand and jerked his head back with a painful snap. He cried out. The crowd went wild, screaming for his blood. He caught a glimpse of his friends' shocked faces, now filled with internal anguish. Nikkel turned his head away. 
Son of Farc wrapped his arms under Venir’s and locked his hands behind Venir’s head. Venir was in a full headlock by the strongest creature he had ever known. Slat! What have I done! He forced his head backward against the growing pressure. The pressure in his corded neck kept building, and his nerves were on fire. He struggled as his chin was bending down into his chest. He was turning red with rage, his veins bulging like purple snakes. Every ounce of his strength was exhausted. He waited for the sound of his cracking neck. He wondered if that would be the final sound, or would it be the Son of Farc laughing in his ear. Blood streamed out of his nose as his eyes rolled up in his head. Better dying ….


CHAPTER 43

McKnight couldn’t have been happier when the barge stopped. The dreadful journey that seemed to take an eon came to an end. The sound of rippling water and Tonio’s raspy breath had worn on McKnight like a festering earache. Just when he was contemplating stabbing his own dagger into his ears, they arrived. 
McKnight had never been more thankful for the ground below his feet as they climbed out of the barge and into a cave. The cool gritty dirt clutched in his fingers might as well have been gold as he crawled through it. The dark cave winded and twisted and there was light ahead, moonlight. Its orange light burned like sunshine to him. He enhanced his efforts, scraping over the shale and slime, welcoming the illumination. 
The cave opened somewhere in the Outlands, but where exactly Detective McKnight could not be sure. It wasn’t the Underland, and that was all that mattered. He studied the moon high above, calculating his position. It offered little comfort, but the terrain told him much more. Vegetation was not so sparse, trees and grass appeared near and more so in the distance. He surmised that they were far from the City of Bone. The detective basked in the light until a shadow blocked it out. 
“Let’s eat,” Tonio said in a ragged voice. 
It was the first words the man had spoken since they departed. McKnight wanted nothing more than to feed the man his sword. The blank expression on Tonio’s torn face was almost as bad as the twisted grimace of the underling. Both men seemed unnatural to McKnight, but he kept his shudders to himself. He rubbed the pommel of his blade with his hand and watched their every move. 
He shared a brief and tasteless meal of baked cornmeal and soured wine with Tonio, while the underling Oran stared unmoving at the sky. McKnight watched as Oran began moving away from them. 
“And where are you trying to head off to, Underling?” asked McKnight as his daggers glinted in the moonlight. 
Oran hissed and said, “At ease, Human. I am not venturing out of sight. I have to call for some help to find the whereabouts of our … I mean, your prey. It would be wise to let me be, so that we can get this over with.” 
McKnight brushed the crumbs from his chest, sucked in a swish of wine, and ventured over by Oran’s side. His tone was threatening as he said, “I don’t trust you. What you have to do, you can do right here.” 
“Pah! Surely even you must know that I have nothing to gain at this point. You clearly have the advantage.” Oran looked toward Tonio who was facing him as well, brandishing his longsword.
McKnight shook his head. Ah yes, a mute swordsman that moves like a slug. How dangerous! McKnight looked away from the Royal, pointing his dagger at the underling’s neck.
“What kind of help are you calling on, Oran?” he asked. “I at least need to know what to expect.” 
“Since you insist, it is my familiar, an imp. You do know what an imp is?” 
McKnight had not heard the word imp in decades. But he knew that imps were creatures mentioned in stories to scare children. It had never occurred to him that they might be real, but he was not going to let Oran know that. 
“If an imp shows up here—Underling—it had better not make any suspect moves, got it?” He flashed his daggers before Oran’s eyes before stuffing them back into their sheathes. 
Oran sighed.
“I only want this over. The imp won’t bother you; just don’t bother it.” 
“Do your summoning then, and tell us how long until the imp arrives,” McKnight said, stepping away. 
He was nervous and curious now. The stories he remembered described imps as wretched creatures, dangerous and wild. He drew his daggers and leaned against a tree. Maybe it will kill Tonio. 
Oran sauntered off, but remained within his sight. McKnight could hear the chaotic chirping that made his stomach sour. After a minute Oran came back, head down, black eyes slack. 
“Eep should be here any second, flying or just appearing, I cannot tell, but certainly any second.” 
Tonio’s ugly face scoured the sky, clutching his sword, while McKnight’s eye stayed on the dark and frustrated underling. 

***

Eep, bored with killing forest vermin, was relieved to receive a tingling summons from Oran. His master wasn’t too far away for flying. Eep’s wings buzzed to a shriek as he spit out a squirrel head and flew like lightning toward his master. Finally, the imp thought, I can get this done and receive my due. 
Eep flew low over the plains, grazing the cactus tops, in a straight bead of flight toward the underling. His leathery wings buzzed like a thousand bees, cutting the air with a zipping sound that could be heard from a hundred yards. 
Eep saw a man in his path, a large one holding out a sword. Why would a human—no, two humans—be with his master? Imps, for all their magic and power, were not known for complex thinking: they were impulsive creatures, creatures of action. They followed simple orders to attack and kill. Split-second thinking was not their forte; they relied on instinct, reflexes, and the urge to destroy life whenever and however they could. Master’s in danger! Destroy!


CHAPTER 44

Lord Almen had been busy pursuing an additional investigation of his son’s recent demise. He had already set things in motion to try and catch the person responsible for filling Tonio with inducers. He toyed with a garrote in his fists as he sat on the bed where Tonio had lain in recovery. How many men had died in his clutches on his rise to power? He remembered every face, castle and name. He was subtle and swift, an assassin of high pedigree. Killing had gotten him everything he wanted … almost.
Now others did his dirty work, but the urge to mangle and torture another person still wrangled inside him. He needed someone to take out his frustrations on. He needed it soon. He tossed the garrote on the bed, folded his hands behind his back, and headed back up the stairs. His emboldened enemies would have to pay. 
He simmered at the thought of the attempt to eliminate his son. Indeed, nothing intimidated one who had raised his house from the lowliest of Royal rankings to almost the very top. More than anything, he was insulted that the attempt appeared to have been made by an inferior house. The use of inducers was amateurish. Though rare and costly, they were child’s play for any upper ranking Royal family or assassin. Whoever ha used it was desperate.
Such evidence eliminated the houses ranked just ahead and behind his. But with almost unlimited resources at his disposal, Almen was confident of finding his answer soon. In the meantime, he played within his wondrous castle, entertaining people from near and far. The garden variety of guests came and went all hours of the day, some using different doors than others. Everyone was a suspect. Even in his own castle he had to be careful.


CHAPTER 45

Oblivious to Oran’s loud protests, Eep dove into an attack on the lower legs of the large human who was brandishing the gleaming longsword. Tonio’s downward thrust cut into the imp’s flight path, nearly cleaving it in two. Eep barrel-rolled away, wings buzzing in the air, as the imp prepared another run. As Eep turned back toward Tonio, two daggers, hurled like streaks of lightning, caught him in mid-air. One dagger lodged in a wing, while the other found the imp’s large eye. Eep fell to the ground, screaming in anger.
Tonio leapt to finish off the imp.
 “Charlonock!” Oran bellowed. 
The grass and foliage burst from the ground, coiling around Tonio’s lower legs. The man let out a raging howl.
“Oran!” McKnight warned. “You had better not be double crossing me.” The detective’s sword tip was digging into the underlings back. 
Oran waved his hands about his head. 	
“I’m not!” he yelled back over Tonio’s clamor. “Just don’t kill the stupid imp. He must have thought you were attacking me!”
A moment of silence fell as the two men watched the imp dislodge the dagger from its oozing eye. McKnight shivered and gaped as the imp slid the other from its wing. Nearby, Tonio was struggling with the vines that grew back as quickly as he snapped them. The imp took a confident step their way, mouth wide, red tongue flickering in the air. McKnight pressed his sword tip deeper into Oran’s back.
“Eep,” Oran commanded. “Stay still!” 
The imp froze; not a muscle moved. Tonio was on the verge of cutting off his own legs, hacking at the roots and dirt. The man’s sword fell up and down. Oran looked over his shoulder at McKnight, who shrugged. Oran chittered another word and the foliage slunk back under the dirt. 
Tonio lunged with his blade at the imp, who simply slipped through the air and away. It was perfect. McKnight wanted nothing more than to see the imp tear the man asunder. 
“Call off your friend, Human,” Oran said with a snap. “The imp will not tolerate this aggression forever. They aren’t the smartest creatures. My control of his rage has limits.”
Whatever happens, happens, McKnight thought. He watched as Tonio chopped into the air like a blind man as the imp would cackle and fly away. It went on for several agitating minutes, and then Tonio sheathed his sword and walked away. Not the outcome I was hoping for. However, with the immediate drama resolved, the natural tension among underling, imp, and humans resurfaced. 
McKnight got them back to the subject of their journey. 
“So, exactly how is this awful imp going to help us, Underling?” 
Oran paused, twisting the black hairs on his head.
“I’ll be brief, and maybe you will grasp it. Eep can travel from our dimension to his own, the magical dimension. But imps are not ordinary magical creatures. From their dimension they can see into ours, as if looking into a crystal ball.” 
McKnight fanned himself with his hat. Preposterous. “So, are you are planning for the imp to find the people we’re tracking?” He grasped the situation, but had monumental doubts.
“Unless he has already.” 
McKnight was surprised. “Continue.” 
“Eep, catch us up on what you’ve found out so far.” 
Eep began leading the small, miserable party south, playing question-and-answer with Oran and McKnight, while Tonio strode slack-jawed at the rear. McKnight found the conversation with the imp as intimidating as it was fascinating. 
“Two humans and a donkey, you say, entered Two-Ten City?” repeated McKnight. “Did this donkey seem capable of killing Tonio? Was it a rare, killer donkey, perhaps, distinguishable from a normal donkey?” He couldn’t help himself, as his indifference for the spoiled Royal seemed to grow with every step. 
Eep eked out a few more details. It left McKnight with little to go on, except that the people they sought might be in Two-Ten City. Hundreds of other humanoids traveled in and out of that city each day. He was not confident that they could find the right people, and time was pressing. He wanted this over with. 
“All of that imp blather and that is all you have. Eep thinks he saw them enter Two-Ten City. Certainly the powerful underlings rely on better resources that this.”
Of course, a visit to Two-Ten City wouldn’t be bad about now. After all, they made the best mead in all of Bish. 
Oran’s glassy black eyes twinkled in the moonlight.
“I shall send Eep ahead to find who he is talking about. I have a spell that allows us all to see what he sees. This will have to do. It would have helped if Tonio could have given a better description than just, Vee-man. Go, Eep!” 
In a violent buzz, the imp blinked out of sight. McKnight’s spine tingled. I should have been a mage. 
“Now, McKnight, I need your word that you will not interfere with my spell casting.” 
“My word, Underling. Anything to get this over with.” 
Oran stepped away and closed his eyes. McKnight felt the air thicken as the underling muttered an incantation under his breath. Several minutes passed, and then his spell began to take form. Colors began to explode before his eyes, sparkling, fading, swirling, and popping in and out like the crackling of hot embers in a fireplace. McKnight was enthralled; he would be much more mindful of Oran’s abilities from now on. 
Then the collage of colors began to take on a shape in the air before him, forming an oval boundary enclosing a black space. A blurry picture formed from what seemed to be inside of the imp’s single eye. Then the barrier of the eye vanished, and in its place, everything the imp could see, they could see. He heard Tonio mumble, “Wuh.” 
McKnight was high above trees and hills, then streaking towards the ground below. He was hovering above a city where he could see the people coming and going. Then, through the city he zipped, viewing sight after sight in an instant. 
Flashing before his eyes were humanoids of all kinds doing all sorts of things—much of which seemed indecent or inhumane—and in just a few moments he had toured most of the city. A lump formed in his throat as his gaze passed straight through beasts and buildings, and after many moments the images began to slow and settle. McKnight felt a wave of nausea. The image settled inside an old tavern that appeared deserted, except for a band of misfits playing music. 
McKnight was looking down a stairwell and into a corridor that opened into a wide arena. He knew this place. The Pit. All types of humanoids were gathered and whooping it up. It was odd to watch such a thriving sight and not hear a sound. Is this how the deaf feel?. Pity. McKnight tried to read the lips of those he saw. Farc? The people were chanting. Then his blood turned cold. He recognized Melegal. What’s that little rat doing here? It looks like he’s having a bad time. Must be losing money. Good. 
“Well done, Oran,” McKnight said in a disgruntled voice as the spell began fade and the image paled. 
The fading picture went toward the inside of an iron cage. A large, hairy ogre had an overgrown man locked up and was forcing his neck down. A big V-shaped tattoo was visible on the man’s back. 
 “Vee-man!” screamed Tonio, diving straight through the image and into a tree with a tremendous thud. 
The spell fizzled out with a flash as Oran let out a heavy sigh. 
“Like I was saying, Oran, well done!” McKnight said as he began to chuckle. “Bone of a good job! I think we’ve found who we’re looking for. And it would appear that this Vee-man is practically dead already.”
With relief, McKnight could see his mission nearing its end. But there was another thing. Melegal! Why isn’t that worm dead?


CHAPTER 46

It was not the choking hold of Son of Farc that was to be Venir’s final memory. It was the blackness, the sinking into unconscious in his last gasping moments of desperation. Venir’s colleagues, Mikkel, Nikkel, and Melegal, all cried out in horror as he felt his rigid body start to turn slack. An odd silence began to settle on the battle arena as the excitement in the air changed from a blasphemous hostility to a collective shiver. All awaited the sound of the Son of Farc snapping Venir’s neck. All the faces were fading to black, and the roaring sounds were muted. 
Son of Farc yelled something in his ear. The ogre was straining, bending the iron muscles in his thick neck. If Venir was still fighting, he didn’t know what with. He was oblivious to the breathless crowd. Something was stirring deep inside him. A black suffocating hole opened up in his mind. Sounds of chittering underlings filled his ears. Evil. Mocking. Laughing. 
His life was rushing past his eyes, the moments of promise destroyed by the masses of underlings. They killed family, friends, innocent men and beasts. He recoiled. Images of Chongo, fish, Georgio, and silver flashed in his mind, and a volcano began to erupt inside him. 
The ogre now wrapped his mighty arms around his head, ready to apply his final spine-shattering twist to Venir’s neck. The crowd was wild-eyed. The Royals of Two-Ten were on their feet. At any second that resounding crack would come, or had they just not heard it? They peered deeper into the caged arena, lips pursed, knees bent and arms half raised. And then the crowd saw Venir’s body flex and stiffen. He growled in rage. His white eyes snapped open. The crowd went into an uncontrollable frenzy. 
Venir’s work on Bish wasn’t finished. 
NO! He remembered the most hated and despised moment in his violent life; the day that the innocent boy was supposed to die in a ditch. The rage had come upon him then for the first time. And now that rage, an unforeseen creation of the underlings, was triggered along with something else. A spark ignited inside him. His blood coursed through his veins like liquid lightning. From the inside out, he grew. 
Venir lurched up, his bloodshot eyes rolling up in his head, his face turning purple. As the crowd looked on, fear and excitement surged through every one of them. Venir fought himself into a sitting position. Son of Farc continued to crank up his hairy forearm around his neck. 
“NO!” Venir spat. 
He shook in unfettered fury, his rage and blood lust blocking all rational action. Only his instinct to survive was thinking, and that kind of thought meant destroying whatever he saw. His elbows began hammering into the half-ogre’s ribs, causing Son of Farc’s grip to slip. Bellowing in objection, the ogre kept trying to squeeze the life out of him. The pressure was unrelenting, but Venir wouldn’t give way. He felt the ogre’s wind beginning to wane. The Darkslayer sensed it. 
“Get him, Venir!” shouted Nikkel, his excited young voice shattering the moment of spellbound silence. 
“Go Vee!” Melegal and Mikkel began yelling in unison. 
“VEE! VEE! VEE!”
The name rang out as the crowd throughout the arena began to turn on their own champion. The human haters' faces turned to outrage at the impossible turn of events. 
He was on his knees now, struggling back to his feet. Son of Farc was draped over his back, dead weight trying to force him back to the ground. Venir continued his rise, legs shaking from the effort. Every muscle on Son of Farc was straining as Venir’s corded muscles knotted all over his body. Son of Farc shouted in defiance, but Venir surged on. Venir’s legs sprung upward. He charged toward the stone wall of the arena, dragging the clinging half-ogre with him. Ducking in an instant, he slammed the man-beast’s head full into the hard rock. The thrust jarred the ogre. Chips of stone hit the floor. A nasty gash opened on the ogre’s head, and blood gushed over his face and hairy arms. 
Venir dragged the stunned ogre toward the other side of the arena, repeating the same tactic with another tremendous effort. He felt Son of Farc’s grip slip away. Venir backed away from his opponent, fists clenched, feeling ten feet tall. 
The crowd was split. Fights began to break out all around the arena. None was more shocked than the elder Farc. In disbelief, he waded unnoticed through the fracas toward the arena. Inside the cage, an enraged man was about to give the Farc family their just due. Farc looked determined to not see that happen. 
Son of Farc rose back to his feet as the two warriors charged each other. Son of Farc tried to pound his body back down, but Venir didn’t feel a thing. He would have none of it. He was far too quick for the sluggish ogre to land a solid hit. Venir’s energized punches were like mallets driving spikes through the ogre’s body. He had Son of Farc groaning under every blow.
Venir could not hear the rising crescendo of the crowd, but he could smell the blood of the ogre as it began spitting it up. The ogre’s rock-hard ribs began to snap and crack like twigs, and its energy was all but dissipated. Then Son of Farc’s legs wobbled; his head rolled on his slumped shoulders as he fell. Venir sensed the kill and went for it.
Smash! 
Venir’s head was rocked from behind by the big fist of the once mighty Farc himself. Venir reeled from the blow and fell, rolling backward before he leapt back onto his feet. The ogre father now stood between him and the ogre son. 
Farc shouted, blocking him with his hands.
“Stop!”
Venir came at him. 
“Stop!” Farc pleaded louder, once more.
It would have been easier to make such demands of the wind. 
Son of Farc, in a heap behind his father, was struggling to regain his feet. The movement seized the heightened instincts of Venir. His prey was alive still, not dead. He charged and leapt into the massive body of Farc, crushing his last good eye socket with a devastating haymaker and then shattering his jaw with a knockout. Farc fell face first onto the bloodstained stone floor. 
Son of Farc’s face turned into a pit of fire as he gazed upon his fallen father. He charged Venir, attempting to bowl him over once more, but Venir didn’t care. He braced himself, latched onto the ogre’s large head and neck, and squeezed so hard that the ogre made a noticeable choking sound.
Venir squeezed, turning the ogre’s head purple. He wasn’t letting go. Son of Farc’s legs kicked, and his body twisted, but to no avail. Venir had full control of the ogre this time, forcing the ogre to drop to his knees. The crowd watched as the remorseless man cranked it up, squeezing with all of his might. His muscles were popping out all over on his sweaty and blood-soaked body. 
No one imagined that he could possibly choke the ogre out, for it had never been known to happen, nor did it. Instead, something else that had never happened … happened. As Son of Farc roared, his voice was cut off by a sound never heard before in the Pit.
CRACK! 
His neck broke in the arms of the berserk human warrior. So far as anyone remembered, an ogre’s neck had never been broken. 
It was over. A huge silence overcame the stunned crowd. Before their eyes, the man who had pulled off the improbable five years earlier had, this day, pulled off the impossible. When the cage was opened again and Venir climbed out, a frenzied chant erupted.
“VEE! … VEE! … VEE!”


CHAPTER 47

Halflings were fast. To have survived on Bish with such feeble bodies, there had to be magic in the feet of the halfling race. So the people would say. No matter how dire their situation, somehow halflings managed to move fast enough to survive their fate. 
But other than being quick and hardy, halflings were considered little more than occasional inconvenience. They were amusing little people who traveled with caravans or in small nomadic packs, fetching supplies as needed. Often, they would not leave a person alone until they had traded whatever it was they had, for whatever it was they wanted. People would take what they neither wanted nor needed just to see them gone. It was as if halflings could talk people into letting themselves be robbed. Yet, there was much more to these little people.
***
Georgio was bored. He missed the city: the sights, the sounds, and the mouth-watering food. His parents wouldn’t pay him for his chores like Venir did. Then again there weren’t any biscuits or fruity pie for him to buy with his tiny coins, either. He huffed as he walked along a creek bank after abandoning his usual chores. The tall reeds of grass and patches of woods gave him the privacy he needed. The small village was a nuisance of nosy old women and smelly old men. 
Heedless of his parents’ warnings, he found time to play. He was deep in his own fantasy in the forest, imitating his hero, Venir. Equipped with his own hand axe, Georgio had tossed it with surprising accuracy into a tree, when suddenly he heard a rustle. He turned just as a little blond head slammed into his chest and knocked him to the ground. 
Georgio studied the halfling in puzzlement. He had never seen one up close before. The sight of this little blond halfling fidgeting in a panic made him giggle. 
“Human, what you are laughing at?” the halfling said, eyes darting all around.
The sound of the halfling's tiny voice turned Georgio’s giggles into an eruption of laughter. The halfling turned and began walking away, head down, little hands stuffed inside the tiny pockets of his pants. Georgio scrambled up, still laughing, and began to follow, but slipped on the slick embankment and fell into the creek. He climbed back out, chuckling with a mouthful of water as the halfling kept going.
“Stop!” called Georgio. “Stop—please!”
The halfling boy stopped and turned. Georgio got a closer look at the dark rings around the halfling's sagging blue eyes, and his heart sank. 
“I’m sorry for laughing,” he said as he lumbered over to the tiny person and took a knee.
“I’ve just never met a halfling before. I’m Georgio!”
He held out his hand.
The halfling extended his little hand that fit just inside Georgio’s meaty palm and replied, “I’m Lefty Lightfoot, Sir. I need help. We all do! There’s great danger!”
At that, Lefty slumped to the ground and started crying. It made Georgio want to cry as well, but he sat down and patted the back of the tiny weeping boy.


CHAPTER 48

Few living things survived in the wake of the Vicious-led Badoon Brigade. The evil that radiated from the Vicious stifled the life force of lesser living things. But despite the path of devastation—where most vegetation and small vermin lay dead—the Badoons did not kill every living thing along their route. 
This unusual migration of strong life forces on Bish sent creatures fleeing and sparked alarm across the Outlands. The disturbance reached a little known place that was as ancient as Bish itself. It was called Dwarven Hole, home of the dwarves and the giant dwarves, known as the Blood Rangers. 
The Blood Rangers were great hunters that thrived in seclusion. They lived within Dwarven Hole, protecting their kind. Few other races, if any, had ever seen a Blood Ranger, for there were only one hundred. They were thought to be little more than a myth, but their hold was buried deep in the plains of Bish, north of the Underland. Dwarven Hole was practically a secret, and the dwarves liked to keep it that way. 
At this moment, no more than ten miles separated the Badoon Brigade and the Blood Rangers. The giant dwarf rangers had been privy to the activity and movements of the Badoon within hours of their departure, and though the dwarves most often stayed in isolation, the Blood Rangers had often been involved in defending Bish and its peoples. It seemed that another such time was on the horizon.


CHAPTER 49

Despite being beaten within an inch of his life, Venir somehow mustered more than enough energy to entertain himself. The bodacious part-orc woman he had flirted with minutes before stepping into the cage with Son of Farc had scurried him away. His animal instincts had been awakened, and Dolly the entertainer was eager to oblige. 
He was lying inside the stone walls of her candlelit chambers, sprawled out on her big round bed. Dolly stood before him in a tight black dress with a deep slit that showed off her muscular thighs. Another deep slit plunged down the front to show her full and swelling chest. Lust shielded him from any decent thought he ever had. 
As Venir lay down amid comforting pillows, Dolly pursed her puffy lips and blew out some of the candles. She brushed her long straw locks away from her batting eyes. A giggle burst from behind her snaggled teeth. It wasn’t the worst face he’d seen, and far from the prettiest, but Dolly’s body could make an old dwarf cry. Standing before him, she let her dress slide slowly to the floor. He pulled her onto the bed, crushed her into his arms, and ravished her all night long.

***

Early the next morning he was having breakfast with Melegal, Mikkel and Nikkel inside the tavern. The aroma of baked dough, eggs, and sausage filled the air, and Venir ate enough for ten men. All were quiet, including the usual patrons of the tavern. The buzz of the battle had dissipated, yet the lingering silence seemed unnatural. Venir washed down another biscuit, then clonked his wooden cup on the table. 
“Alright, out with it! Why is everyone acting like they’re eating with a ghost?” 
Mikkel met Venir’s eyes and glanced away. 
“I thought you were dead,” Melegal answered. “The fact that you aren’t isn’t easy to understand. Don’t get me wrong, Venir, but I don’t quite follow how you survived last night.” 
Venir took a deep breath and winced. His ribs were sore. He had felt them crack in the iron cage, he was certain. He shouldn’t be up and about, and he knew it, but here he was, just like any other day. He sipped his coffee and helped himself to some more bread and scrambled eggs. Melegal’s question was fair, but it wasn’t something he could explain. He remembered the feeling of dying, something inside slipping away as the cold grip of death was on him. Then somewhere deep, a spring of energy rushed through him like a crashing wave and his body crackled like fire. It was something he didn’t understand.
Mikkel forced a broad smile and added, “You must have wanted Dolly pretty bad, huh, Vee?” 
They all gave a half- hearted chuckle.
“Venir?” Nikkel asked, his curious eyes staring, head cocked. “How come you’re bigger now?”
“What do you mean, Nikkel?” his father asked. 
“Why, he’s bigger, he’s taller. How come?” 
“You know,” said Melegal, looking perplexed, “when you came down here, I thought something was off. I figured it was all the swelling, but … stand up, Vee. I think Nikkel’s onto something.”
Venir shrugged, pushed himself back from the table and stood up. 
“Mikkel, stand back to back with Vee.” 
Mikkel obliged.
 “Don’t tell me he’s taller than me now, Melegal.” 
“Well, no … but he’s the same height!” 
“What!? Turn around, Vee,” Mikkel ordered. 
Venir turned and met Mikkel, eye to eye. 
“Venir, you have grown. I think I saw it happen!” said Melegal. “I mean, when you were in the ring making your escape from Son of Farc … I thought you grew that moment. Your entire body lurched like it was hatching from a shell. The whole room shuddered. I felt it. You are bigger, no doubt about it!” 
Mikkel’s voice was distant. 
“I never heard of anything like that before.” 
Venir had. This wasn’t the first time, either. He sometimes thought the armament had something to do with it, but it had happened long before that. Bish offered plenty of strange things no one cared to investigate, so why should he? 
Venir let on a grin saying, “It’s happened to me before actually, when I was a child.”
Everyone sat back at the table and pulled their chairs in.
He continued: “When I was a boy, I caught a fish … a silver fish. Nothing like I’d ever fished before. I was hungry, so instead of taking it home with the rest, I ate it. It was the most wonderful thing I ever tasted. Sometimes when I burp, I swear I can still taste it. The next day, my grandfather said I was bigger. I grew overnight.” 
“That’s amazing! I want some silver fish, too!” said Nikkel
Melegal then asked, “So did Chongo eat some, too?” 
“Yes, but he didn’t grow and get his second head until a long time after that.” 
“Are you pulling our legs, Vee?” asked Mikkel. 
Still grinning, he replied, “Maybe.” 
“Aw!” Mikkel got up and walked away. Melegal rolled his eyes. They finished their meal without another word about it. 

***

The next day, early in the morning, the small group of friends began to part ways. Nikkel fetched Quickster, and the two adventurers headed back north out of Two-Ten City. To Venir’s embarrassment, Dolly came running out, begging him to take her with him and causing a scene that caught the fancy of everyone within a hundred yards. 
Somehow, Venir managed to break away, whispering, “I’ll be back for you one day.”
Dolly fell for it long enough for him to speed off out of sight. Mikkel’s laughter was audible all the way out of the city, while Nikkel waved goodbye to his father with sad look in his eyes. 
Melegal was still chuckling when he came upon the same smart-aleck orc boy he had encountered on the way in. Melegal locked eyes on the boy and scowled, causing the boy to tremble and run off. 
“Is there any chance,” Melegal said, breaking the odd silence, “that could be Dolly’s boy?” 
Venir didn’t reply. His shameful closed-door encounter with Dolly was still sinking in. The thief had a fair point that he hadn’t ever considered. In the past, he had never given such things a moment’s thought. But today, for some reason, he began to ask himself some searching questions. Venir’s head was downcast as he vowed never to return to Two-Ten City again. 

***

From high above, Eep’s magic eye stared down on the warrior and the thief. Oran and McKnight were keeping a close watch, having convinced Tonio to gather firewood. 
“I can’t believe that big, tiresome human is still alive,” hissed Oran as the swirling, scintillating colors at the edge of the vision began to fade. 
“He must have had help,” said McKnight. 
The two paused, trying to imagine what they might be up against. 
“Did you see that ugly orc woman? I find it hard to imagine that he …” his voice trailed off. McKnight couldn’t bear the thought. He knew Two-Ten City had much better to offer. 
“Clearly you do not get around Bish much, human. You are rather sheltered in your City of Bone. Two-Ten is the most normal city. You should visit it,” said Oran as he examined his long black nails. “You will be a changed man.” 
“No thanks! I’ve been there before, and I have a pretty good idea why I left.”
McKnight flicked a stick into the campfire.
“Unlike your kind, I see no need to maintain sub-human standards.” 
“The human heart is as wicked as the rest … even yours,” commented Oran. 
“Maybe so, but at least it’s human. Now let’s cut the chat. We have about a day to wait until they show up. In the meantime, let’s go over our plans again, because getting that over-sized menace back to Bone alive won’t be easy. Are you sure you and Tonio can handle it? I’m quite sure I can dispatch his friend,” McKnight said as he slung one of his daggers, impaling a squirrel to a tree. 
Oran said, “I have Eep, remember? He will tip the scales in our overwhelming favor.” 
“Good,” said McKnight. He gathered his blade and prepared to skin the squirrel. He held the vermin in his face and looked it in the eye.
“Ah Melegal, what a nice little fur coat you have,” he said as he crushed it in his hand. 


CHAPTER 50

The omnipotent Scorch had existed longer than most all eternal beings. But to Scorch it did not matter how long he had been there; it mattered only that he existed. Unlike many of his counterparts in the universe, he had no assigned realm of responsibility, for he pre-existed even that. 
He had dealt with his eternal frustration long before most infinite beings arrived. He told them—There is no end—but they did not listen. So he made the most of his situation by doing whatever he wished. Time and time again, his meddling led to the demise or the enlightenment of other worlds and their civilizations. And now Bish was to become his latest exploit as he tossed one additional ingredient into Trinos’s secret stew. Bish would never be the same.


CHAPTER 51

The winds on Bish were brisker than normal, but not as refreshing as one might expect. The change was strange. The typical warm and dry season was replaced with something else. Venir’s thoughts had been elsewhere for most of the journey since leaving Two-Ten City. For whatever reason, he wasn’t himself. Instead, he tried to somehow distance himself from his past. 
Lost in his memories, Venir was in a daze. He had all but forgotten that Melegal was behind him when Quickster sneezed, jolting Venir back to the present. 
“Ah … did Quickster startle the deep-thinking lout?” Melegal said with snicker. “You’re not even humming a tune. What’s going on in that thick skull of yours, Venir?” 
 “Uh, just thinking back to when things were different, is all.”
“You mean, before Brool?”
“Yeah, but not just that.”
Melegal remembered those days, too. But that had all come and gone, and Venir was able to move on, as most people did in Bish. Few dwelled upon the past, although long journeys could cause a man to reflect from time to time.
“Two-Ten City stirred you up, didn’t it? But I think we’ve had as much good luck as bad there. I mean, you wrestled an ogre and lived—you should be happy. I’m glad for you,” Melegal said.“Bet you are, Thief,” Venir said, managing a smile. “And where’s my share of the winnings?”
“In due course, Vee. You gotta get me back to Bone first. Now, quit thinking so much. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
Venir nodded his head as he remembered the exact moment that it had happened, that he had become The Darkslayer. He could remember the sweltering weather and the sight of the setting moons glowing in the dawn. On that day, life on Bish had opened up like a black cave and swallowed him like a drop of water. He didn’t regret it, for somehow it had helped him survive, again and again. It took him a moment before he realized Melegal was still talking to him. 
“Why are we heading this way, Venir?” Melegal was sitting sideways on his saddle. “Not that I mind heading back this way. I think the stench of the marsh has finally cleared my nose.” 
There was a pause. He didn’t really have an answer. Venir replied in a somber voice, “I don’t think it makes much difference which way we go.” 
Melegal cocked his head as he fanned himself with his hat.
“Really? It’s barely a week since we left home, but if we’re going back, shouldn’t we go straight? Why northwest instead of north?” The thief turned forward in his saddle, spurring Quickster along his side. “Surely there are other northward paths we can take that aren’t the same as the one we took southward?” 
“This way we’ll catch Mood and Chongo quicker. I have a feeling he’s gonna be this way. He won’t be expecting us so soon, so he’s unlikely to be at our original rendezvous. Besides, I need to try and track what I can. It’s not as easy to do without Chongo, though. It’ll be harder to find them on our own.”  
“Well that was a mouthful, considering you’re not drunk,” Melegal said. “That’s more words than you’ve said all day.” 
Venir realized his friend was attempting to lighten the dour mood, but it did little. He was dead inside. Things hadn’t felt right since he had left Two-Ten City. He felt different. The weather had changed. Grimness had settled over him like a damp quilt. It was not an overwhelming feeling, but bad enough. Something was wrong. He kept scanning the sky; the small suns were burning like ghostly beacons behind a patch of rolling clouds ahead. The heat seemed to sizzle his neck, but there was something else. 
Venir began jogging with determined footfalls, crunching down a path in the tall grass. 
“Eh …” Melegal said, watching him go and shaking his head, then trotting along from behind. 
In the distance, a wall of thickened forest lay ahead. Tall treetops bunched together for miles across from east to west. Dark clouds seemed to sit on the gray treetops with rays of sunlight breaking through and displaying bright splotches of green leaves here and there. Flocks of birds swooped by the hundreds, disappearing in and out of the clouds. Venir began to slow from his brisk pace. He could hear thunder in the distance. 
“Something’s ahead. I can’t quite say what, but I feel it might be waiting for us." He pulled a canteen from Quickster’s saddle, bringing a soft neigh from the beast. 
“Well, should we venture in, or find another way?” Melegal took the canteen Venir offered him and had a sip. “Do you think it’s Royals?” 
Venir shook his head, twisting the cap back on the canteen.
“I think whatever it is will find us anyway. Maybe it already has, so let’s take the fight to it.” 
“Or sneak past it.”
Venir could see Melegal didn’t like the idea. His friend was out of his element. Outdoor treks weren’t for everyone. They had traveled a few miles farther when Melegal asked, “Which forest is ahead of us, anyway?” 
“That, my friend, is the Great Forest of Bish. Its trees are triple the girth and height of any other trees on Bish. It’s spectacular. It’s actually twice as far away as it appears. And those birds you see are pretty large, too. Don’t get spooked, though. Travelers make it through, on the whole. Well, in most cases.” Venir allowed himself a slight smile. 
“Man, one day nothing, then the next it’s talk, talk, talk.” 
The sound of Melegal’s complaining voice made him feel better. 
“Maybe you should write it down. Of course, there isn’t enough paper in Bish once you get going—Story Teller,” Melegal said, snapping the reigns. 
“Hmm, I like that idea.”
“Uh … maybe you should start acting like the brute you are and stop blathering. That ogre must’ve squeezed something loose in you. Did he finally get the blood flowing in your thick skull?” 
Maybe he did, thought Venir.
Melegal began checking his equipment. Encounters were something the thief fought hard to avoid. It would have bided him well over the years if he had more reservations like the thief, but that just wasn’t in him. He was always go, go, go. 
Venir started his jog again, straight ahead toward the Great Forest of Bish. Action was better medicine than talking. But the great forest ahead left him uneasy, more so than the Red Clay Forest. At least there was shade in the trees, but the suns kept your enemies from creeping up on you.


CHAPTER 52

Lord Almen’s henchmen bore fruit. With satisfaction, he watched the torture of a member of another Royal family from a discreet location far away from his palace walls. Two others also witnessed the torment of one man who had assisted in Tonio’s fall. 
The tormentor was none other than Sefron. The flabby, half-naked cleric had just finished dripping drops of acid on the wailing man’s toes. The other witness, a mysterious man named Teku who was no newcomer to dispensing pain, was standing alongside Lord Almen. He was taller than the Royal Lord, olive skinned, and dressed from head to toe in loose, nondescript white robes that draped over his fingers. His brush-green eyes were intelligent and deep.
Lord Almen smiled at the man from time to time as they exchanged elegant words back and forth. Sefron sneered when they weren’t looking his way. Teku’s voice was deep and soft, and his body as still as calm water. He smiled along with Lord Almen, and his sharpened white teeth shone like pearls in the torchlight. 
The leather-bound prisoner was from the Slerg house, a once prominent house that had fallen from the ranks of the city’s hierarchy. Lord Almen knew their story quite well, for it was he who had led them to their fall. Now, the Royal Slerg’s vengeful tactics had caught up with him, and he was to be another sacrifice of the Slerg family.
The tortured man laughed at the sight of Sefron opening another vial. He had already told them everything, almost. 
“Curse you, Lord Almen!” the man said as spit dribbled down his chin. “Payback’s coming!”
Sefron’s sweaty face looked back, but Lord Almen remained stone-faced as he gave his final nod. 


CHAPTER 53

Mood was resting underneath the leafy branches of the Great Forest of Bish. A steady breeze bristled his blood-red beard as he wondered how his friends were doing. Chongo was sleeping, small snorting noises coming from his nostrils, while Mood leaned back against a tree wider than twenty bunched men. He stretched his arms and then propped up his stout legs on Chongo. 
All the while, he was smoking a rolled-leaf cigar of the dwarven kind. The rare leaves burned slowly around the tobacco that was harvested unseen in the caves of the dwarves back home. The smoke from his bearded lips was light blue. It hung in the air like a ghost before the breeze took it away. Mood’s mouth opened wide as he yawned. The cigar was the only thing that caused that. A dwarf like him wasn’t accustomed to fatigue, no, not the King of the Blood Rangers. 
The forest was his escape from the massive holes that confined his pressing people. His kin always seemed to do well without him, so he roamed. Why not, he was the King. But today, neither the powerful narcotic of his dwarven cigar, nor the rich green mossy forest with its gentle plant life and blooms were able to take the edge from his mind. At length, the ears of the double-headed mastiff perked up; one pair anyway, while the other remained asleep. Mood’s blurry eyes showed a sliver of green beneath his brows, for he, too sensed that something—maybe dangerous—was amiss. 
He nudged the dog with his boot. 
“Let’s go, Chongo.”
Chongo rolled up on all fours, one head still sagging down as the pair slipped through the forest like an apparition. Mood felt small as he negotiated the enormous forest. The plant life was gargantuan. A single leaf could shield you from the heavy rains. He almost liked it as much as the Red Clay Forest, where he was the most at home. 
The Great Forest of Bish was open to all comers. It wasn’t as particular as the others. It seemed too big for the smaller matters of the life that surrounded it. But sometimes the wrong creature would bother the forest, intentionally or not, and the ramifications were often fatal.
Mood took a long sniff of the air. He had a feeling something was about to happen. He hoisted himself on Chongo’s back. There he sat in thick canvas-like clothes of brown and green, two giant-hand axes forming an X across his back, wearing high, soft leather boots, and a large belt pouch containing various requirements. He blew half a dozen smoke rings in the air. He could feel the thick muscles of Chongo’s back shifting under his seat. Both necks rose on the dog, all four ears alert. Mood rubbed each thick neck and said, “Let’s go get ’em, Boy.” 


CHAPTER 54

Georgio had stopped to pee inside the edge of the Great Forest of Bish. 
“Run! Run! Run!”
Lefty Lightfoot was running his way at full speed.
“Wait! What’s going on?” Georgio hollered, struggling to stop in midstream and getting splashed as he turned toward the voice. 
“See what you’ve made me do … again!” he yelled, trying to pull up his britches as he ran.
Georgio could not keep up.
“What are we running from, Lefty? We need to keep westward.”Lefty’s hands were in a frantic wave. 
“No! Come, or we’ll be eaten!” 
Georgio had already seen the little halfling panic several times over nothing. The poor little boy couldn’t sleep a wink. Georgio pitied him, but it was becoming annoying. 
“Will you stop a second and tell me what you’re talking about?” 
Any creature seemed to spook the halfling, but the curly-headed Georgio was beginning to gain Lefty’s trust that he could take care of him. 
Lefty stopped and began tugging at his wrist, saying, “It’s a gigantic two-headed beast with a huge red man-thing! Run!” 
The poor halfling’s ashen face almost broke Georgio’s heart, and he had to bite his tongue to keep back the giggles that had offended Lefty earlier. 
He stuck out his chest.
“I’ll handle the beast. Don’t fear, Lefty. I’ll protect you!” 
Georgio patted his shoulder, turned, and pulled out his hand axe, leaving Lefty frozen in his tracks. The past few days had left the poor halfling not knowing what to expect.

***

Lefty let Georgio talk him into heading back the way they had come. Lefty thought the human was a fool, but the boy had been convincing. Now the prolonged wait began to cause further doubts. Lefty’s feet became clammy as his eyes darted all around. Was he wrong about what he had seen? Then he thought he heard something, and his hairs stood on end. 
Lefty was frozen with fear in his hiding place among the great trees. The forest seemed so still and quiet that his heartbeat was all that he heard. Nearby, Georgio stood in a clearing with his broad shoulders beginning to slouch. Georgio turned and began walking back toward him, his hand axe swinging back and forth at his side. The big boy had a look of disappointment on his face. It did little to comfort Lefty. 
The closer Georgio came toward him, the more Lefty knew something was about to happen. He imagined a pair of massive jaws jumping out to devour the boy at any moment. The bright day had dimmed, leaving the forest cast in an eerie darkness. What is he doing? Lefty thought. We must run! 
Salty sweat dripped into his eyes, and he began to dab them with a handkerchief. Lefty bit his nails as he looked at the boy with horror. Here it comes! He wanted to scream for Georgio to run, but the boy kept walking, in circles now, his eyes to the ground. Oh, look up, stupid man! 
He’s going to die, and so am I, Lefty kept thinking. Georgio looked up and around and their eyes locked. Georgio smiled. Lefty felt a moment of relief, but then Georgio froze in his tracks. Lefty felt hot breath on the nape of his weensy neck, and he couldn’t move as a warm gob splashed down his spine. Oh my! Somehow, he turned.  
Facing him were four huge eyes, two heads, two massive sets of teeth, and above these a giant hairy red man-thing. Lefty’s fleet feet were immobilized. He knew he would soon be dead. 
Squeezing his eyes shut, he managed to stammer: “Eat me. Please get it over with.” 
His fate came in the form of two soaking licks and an uproarious laugh. Certain that he was being consumed by a giant beast; it took the constant shaking of his shoulders by Georgio to get him to open his eyes. 
“Are we dead, Georgio?” he said, shivering with a squeak. 
“No, Lefty!” Georgio answered. “We’re saved!”
Lefty cracked open his eyes and saw the blood-red beard in his face, then fainted before his new friends. 
“Now ain’t that somethin’,” Mood said, scratching his head. “He sure is tiny, even for a halfling.” 
“He is?” Georgio exclaimed. 
Mood just shrugged and grabbed Georgio under his armpits, dropping him onto Chongo’s saddle. 
“What’s going on? Where’s Venir?”
A big hand clamped over Georgio’s mouth. 
“Hush boy.” 
He hated it when people did that. He thought the better of taking a bite from Mood’s hand.
Mood looked upward and Georgio did, too. Thunder was rolling overhead, but he hadn’t noticed it before. The forest began to darken as Mood picked up the limp halfling and put him in Georgio’s arms. Something made Georgio shiver as he felt the halfling boy’s ice-cold skin. 
“Mood, I want to go home now. My friend needs help.” 
“It’s too late for that, Boy.”
The Blood Ranger grabbed the reigns and led them deeper into the Great Forest of Bish. Georgio’s head kept twisting around, noticing many other odd sounds and movements coming from above them. “I hope Venir’s in there,” he whispered.


CHAPTER 55

Venir moved ahead at a slow run. One setting sun had dipped below the horizon while the other began to sink behind the treetops of the great forest. The man was only focused on what lay ahead. Melegal wasn’t so determined. 
The incongruity in the distance made for a strange sight. The treetops were thrice as high as normal, casting an early shadow over the grassy plain. Venir was running ahead and picking up his pace. He had emptied his arsenal from his sack, except the helm. The large iron-banded shield was slung across his back, and his menacing battle axe, Brool, whistled sharply as it cut the wind. Melegal followed on Quickster, staying close behind, careful of the distance he kept between him and the axe. Something about that blade always left him uncomfortable. Whenever it was out, death soon followed. 
A nagging began creeping between Melegal’s narrow shoulders. His back was stiff from the long ride, and he wanted to stop and stretch. A moment of relief came as Venir came to a halt and dropped to a knee, peering through the waist-high grass. 
Melegal pulled on Quickster’s reigns, saying, “Whoa.” 
Quickster’s legs continued on, whisking him onward and well past his friend. 
“What the …?”Gritting his teeth, Melegal yanked at the reins, but Quickster kept right on going. As the forest began to close in, dread overcame him. He tugged once more, snapping up Quickster’s bullish neck. Quickster didn’t slow. 
“Bish!” 
In a quick hop, he abandoned the saddle. He watched Quickster go, faster and faster, now a speck against the tree line, and out of sight. He smoothed his floppy hat down along the side of his head and stood dumbfounded and silent. Then he cursed at the top of his lungs.
With a sigh and a grimace, Melegal began marching back to where he had passed Venir. I’m sure the big lout will have another new humorous story to tell. Stupid mule! He didn’t hear the laughter he expected, though. In the dimming light, his eyes caught Venir running toward the forest in full battle gear. He saw the spiked helm strapped to Venir’s chin, his large shield on his back, and Brool swinging in cadence from his right hand. The helm’s iron eyelets glowed with menace. He felt something cold inside him, and he crouched down. Venir was not there. No, this was The Darkslayer, running as fleet and quiet as a forest stag. Not you, too!
Melegal stood alone in the dusk. He turned back and stared at the looming forest. Should he follow Venir, or try to find Quickster? There was no time to waste. Deciding that Venir was capable of taking care of himself, he set off along Quickster’s path. I’ve got to get my gear. He ran as fast as he could, but the Great Forest of Bish was farther than he had anticipated. How fast had his pony gone?  He was out of breath before he was half way there. All of his judgment was based on what he had learned in the City of Bone, and that seemed wholly inadequate now. With great caution and misgiving, the thief jogged with anxiety as he entered the forest. Dimwitted animals. 


CHAPTER 56

Oran’s spell was working. Their surprise attack was underway, and soon his mission would be over. It would not be long before they could all go back home. Through the eye of Eep, Oran and McKnight viewed the swirling image of The Darkslayer and the pony rushing towards the Great Forest of Bish. 
“I must say,” said McKnight, fighting the urge to slap the underling on the back, “I’m rather glad you and Tonio have chosen to tackle the big fellow. I can’t say I have any desire to be in your boots. He looks rather menacing. Good hunting to you.” 
“It should be you, in fact, Human,” said Oran, without looking up from his mirage. “But I shall do what I must. Be thankful I have set you up with easy prey. In a few moments that animal will deliver into your lap the other resident of your tiresome city.” 
“Rather a shame, really, to lose another fine citizen of Bone. I suspect we will need every sneaky human we have in order to keep you underlings under control,” McKnight said, pointing his finger at Oran.
McKnight didn’t want to let on about his past with Melegal and how this was his opportunity to see his former apprentice undone. He dabbed some poison on his bolts and blades, then tucked them back under his cloak. 
“Tsk, tsk—such decisions—which lives to take and which to let be!”
McKnight's eyes perked up at his comments.
“I ought to make note of that; it sounds rather profound!” He turned as he left, saying, “I shall try to be quick and return to help you, Underling. I rather think you may need it.” 
Staring at the fading mystic image, Oran stroked his jaw with his long-nailed fingers. The time had come to forever be rid of this impudent human. As the image died, Oran caught a faint glimpse of what was coming his way: a large man, armed like a war machine, eyes glowing black fire, and moving like the wind. Oran couldn’t contain his audible gasp. 
“Tonio! Take your position … he comes!”
He closed his eyes with the imp hovering by his side.
“Eep, you know what to do!”
Eep turned on a nasty smile and buzzed away.


CHAPTER 57

Lord Catten and Lord Verbard arrived in the southwest corner of the Red Clay Forest. 
“It’s as good of a place to wait out The Darkslayer as any,” Verbard comment as they landed near the colorful forest's edge.
“What have we here?” Catten remarked.
Ten gangly robed figures floated around them now, making odd sounds, but not getting too close. Catten could feel the magic within the strange figures of the forest magi, and he knew they were drawn to his as well. 
Arms folded across their chests, he and his brother didn’t bother to introduce themselves. A tall, brown-robed figure ventured before Catten, hands motioning in arcane patterns. Then the forest mage froze. 
Verbard let out a hissing chuckle.
The forest mage bent in a slight bow and began to back off. The rest began to do the same, slowly floating away as their robes brushed over the ground. Catten could feel their earlier confidence turn into fear.  
The air shimmered as Catten called the magic within him. Tendrils of lightning burst from Verbard’s clawed hand. The first bolt of chained lightning blasted into the nearest forest mage’s retreating form. Catten let loose his own bolt of energy, slamming into the one opposite the leader. The silver-blue bolts shot counter-clockwise, gaining speed, spinning like grinding stones and growing brighter and brighter as they passed through each of the forest magi. Catten and Verbard stood in the middle of the mayhem, sadistic faces filled with glee. As they closed their eyes, one final brilliant flash followed, and when they opened them just ten piles of ash remained. As the brothers inhaled, they found the smell of smoldering skin and charred bones refreshing 
“That felt good, but they didn’t even have time to scream. I like it when they scream,” Catten said with disappointment. 
Verbard continued his chuckle and said, “Me, too.”


CHAPTER 58

Venir charged into the Great Forest of Bish like a human juggernaut shot from a catapult. He grew angrier with every stride as the scent of an underling consumed him. He was wary of a trap, but he couldn’t fight the urge to take things head on. His battle instincts always served him best when he took the fight to them. But who was he trying to face?
His blue eyes flashed beneath his spiked helm as Brool slashed through any foliage that barricaded his path. The Great Forest of Bish had darkened a great deal since he had entered from the more open plains. It was of little concern. He knew this forest as well as the rest, and his quick feet carried him through the woodland as if it were daylight in the desert. 
He was about two hundred yards inside when trouble appeared. Spider webs, giant spider webs, now engulfed the trees from the ground to as high as the eye could see. Underling magic.  His helm shimmered around his head. Great power awaited him somewhere ahead. 
Venir slowed his pace and began to pick his way past the webs through the gaps between trees that were not covered. Meanwhile, the recesses of his raging mind asked a question whose answer he already knew, for this maze reminded him of the fish traps he had set as a boy in the silver streams of Throhm. But this was a crueler version, designed by underling hunters to trap their prey. 
The labyrinth of webs let you think you were finding your way through, but at the end, if you succeeded without getting stuck, you were boxed in and killed. He had dealt with the webs before, and his spine tingled as he recalled the last time, but he trudged on. 
The underling labyrinth opened into a cove laced with webs around all of its vast trees. There was no other way out, but back. Venir turned and watched as new webs grew along the trees, sealing off his path. Whoever it was, they were not far ahead. He could sense it, strong and evil. 
He spat from his dry mouth. 
“The Bone with this!” 
Running straight, he charged the webs ahead at full speed. Brool sliced a gap in the entanglement, and the thick webs began to curl away and dissipate. 
The forest had opened wide again, but darker still. Venir pressed his back along a massive tree and listened. He heard nothing. His helm ebbed around his skull, and he'd started moving again when an odd sound reached his ears. It was a high buzzing noise, right on top of him. Pain raced up his arms as a hunk of skin was sheared away. 
“Argh!” he cried as he slashed Brool high in the air. 
He was on the defensive now, searching for the source of the buzzing sound that seemed to come from all over the forest. Venir circled where he stood, scanning the high branches. A rush of wind came his way as he swung Brool up, while two talons skinned his neck, and one nail nicked his throat. It burned as the hot blood began to flow down his chest. Whatever it was, it had Venir’s attention. 
Eep zipped in and out, and his evil mocking bird-like sounds seemed to echo from all sides. More webs began to coat the trees, and Venir became ever mindful of where he turned, lest he be stuck. The imp cut past the webs, but Venir chopped Brool in the imp’s path at every last second.  Brool’s spike jabbed and poked at the imp as Venir tried to work his shield free from his back. 
Brool cut through the spider webs, creating room to work, but the axe could only do so much. The imp came from every direction. Venir couldn’t tell how many of the creatures were out there. He did all he could to contain the imp attacks. Blasted things are ripping me to ribbons! The imp rushed in and out, just beyond Brool’s metal, darting away in the nick of time. Venir had his shield ready now, but the chronic buzzing had gone away.
Silence fell. Venir labored for his breath. Somewhere, an underling was waiting, that and something else he had never encountered before, what seemed like a horde of imps. Go! His mind urged him onward, even as his shield arm drooped and blood dripped down his injured hand. He cut away at the thick webs and headed for the beacon of evil deeper in the forest. Suddenly, the buzzing was back again, from somewhere high above. It agitated him. His wounds seemed to fester from the annoying sound. The smacks of flapping wings split through the air as the imp was flying in and out of his range. Venir stayed low. More silence came. The sweat rolled off Venir’s chiseled face in large drops. He waited. A distant hum rattled in the high branches. He groaned. Aggravation, pain and throbbing licked at his limbs. He was thirsty. He wanted a good look at his assailants, but it was only cold and black all around him. He searched, but found no heat from the creatures, only hearing flapping wings and a ragged voice mocking him from above. 
The brawny warrior pressed deeper through the forest at a trot. The webs continued to peel away as he cut through them. The underling presence ahead refueled his anger. He was getting closer. In an instant, a beating of bat-like wings shrilled from behind, and he felt thick claws rip into the chain mail on his back. He twisted away, striking back with his axe. Nothing was there. A gaping slash was torn in the chain along his gouged back. Venir fought the urge to scream. What was that?
He moved on, his mystic eyelets not sensing the cold shadow squatted like a stump as he passed by. Then Venir heard something scuff the dirt behind him. He whirled, shield raised before him, as there was a bone-jarring sound.
CLANG! 
A shower of sparks lit up a familiar face that his mind could not comprehend. It cannot be! 


CHAPTER 59

I have had enough of this misadventure! Venir and Quickster had frustrated Melegal to his limit, finding him stomping through the Great Forest, peering about for Quickster’s tracks. Doing his best imitation of a ranger, he ran his hands through the dirt and leaves. He followed a straight line as best he could, trying to guess where a pony might go, but to no avail. 
The darkness had settled, and that left him uneasy, especially without Quickster and most of his gear. The odd rustles, hoots and chirps of the forest only added to his growing discomfort. Muttering and cursing under his breath, he finally heard a familiar sound not far ahead: the soft neighs and munching sounds of his ever-hungry quick pony. 
Thank Bish! He thought as he strolled to the side of his shaggy mount, wrapped his arms around its neck and squeezed. Resisting the urge to choke the stupid beast, he stroked its mane instead. 
He sighed, but the tickle between his shoulders was still there, telling him something abnormal hung in the air. Now he had to find Venir, in a forest bigger in size than Bone. Finding a man in the city was one thing, but in the forest was another. He checked all of his belongings. All there. It left him with little relief. Pony or no, he still felt awkward and alone. He stuck his boot in the stirrup.
“Whatever made you drag me into this cursed forest better have been worth it,” he huffed, glancing around. “Now let this be the end of it, Quickster.” 
“I should say it was worth it,” said a familiar voice.
The tickle in Melegal spine turned to a sheet of ice.
“… and this will be the end of it, for you, at any rate,” the voice added. 
It can’t be! Here? Melegal let his foot back out of the stirrup and began to turn.
The sinister voice continued, “No sudden moves now. Just stay put. I’m pretty good with a crossbow at such close range … Rat.” 
The ice in his veins began to simmer. Rat! Melegal hated being called that. The character's chuckle was most disturbing, indeed. It was a sound he wished he never would have heard again. Now he stood on flat feet, no idea where to run, and a long way from home. Melegal shook off his fears.“I was figuring you’d swallowed your tongue, McKnight. In that wretched hat, I thought you’d be too embarrassed to open your mouth.” 
“Hah! Fine guess, Melegal, but compared to that filthy sock on your head, my hat is simply glorious.”
Melegal could hear the man’s feet shift in the dirt.
McKnight said, “My, my, but you’ve certainly grown since I last saw you living like a rat in Bone. You must be rather uncomfortable outside the city, I should think.” 
“No more than you. It’s not the first time I’ve been here, and far from the last.” 
Melegal stood with his arms wide, palms outward and in the air. McKnight came around in front of him. The two men from the City of Bone—the thief and the former thief turned detective—stood eye to eye, while between them Quickster continued to munch at a tuft of green grass. A few quiet seconds passed as Melegal’s mind raced with a hundred thoughts.
McKnight stood there, beady eyes shifting in the darkness. The man had been his friend and mentor once. McKnight had taught him just about everything he knew at one time: climbing, stealing, skimming, picking, throwing and fencing. The detective had been like a bad father, big brother, or uncle that he trusted despite the abuse. Melegal had betrayed the man and turned his back on his brethren, just when McKnight needed him most. Melegal had his reasons. He couldn’t stomach snatching children and stuffing them into the dungeons beneath the castles. Instead, he had freed them. It had been costly, and McKnight had longed for his head ever since. 
“Why exactly are you looking for me, McKnight?” 
“Well, now,” McKnight mused, “it’s a funny thing. I could offer you an explanation, but I’d rather shoot this bolt through your eye socket and get paid. Hard feelings, of course.” 
The detective took aim through his sight at Melegal’s eye socket. Move or die! 
McKnight then eased off and continued. 
“You knew you were being pursued by the Royals, which is why you and your large companion, The Darkslayer or whatever, fled Bone.” 
McKnight kept his steady aim on him, as Melegal allowed a gentle bend in his knees. Keep talking, please. 
“Myself … I’m merely the hired help of the Royal Almen House. This situation is rather unusual, in that it’s taken me out of the city. Somehow, you fellows managed to tangle with that Royal Almen brat Tonio, who—you may wish to know before you die—is alive and at present with me.” 
Melegal’s brows peaked. How can that be? He watched McKnight’s finger tighten on the trigger.
“As a matter of fact, he’s just preparing to dispatch your brutish friend once and for all, with some additional assistance from an underling and a foul magical creature called an imp.” 
Very little of what McKnight said made sense at all. Why would humans be tangled with an underling? It was considered forbidden without anyone ever having to say so. Of course, he had known of it happening before. Melegal didn’t have time to sort it all out. Time to move. 
“McKnight, all of this trouble over little ol’ us? It seems a bit much. So how much is this charge supposed to pay you? I’d hate to think you went to all of this effort for nothing. I mean … what if you don’t achieve your objective?”
Melegal caught McKnight staring at him eye to eye. Freeze. Freeze. Freeze, Melegal’s mind suggested to the detective. His floppy hat was warm, his mind glowing. Please work!  

***
 
McKnight thought he noticed a twinkling wink in Melegal’s eye. He felt dizzy, and the image before him began to blur. Somewhat perplexed, he regained his composure and refocused his crossbow on Melegal’s eye.
“It’s the end of the road for you … Rat.”
He squeezed the trigger.
Click. No bolt fired. Alarmed, he pulled the second trigger.
Click.
The unexpected misfire of the crossbow sounded like breaking glass in the silence. McKnight’s narrow chin dropped. Before him, Melegal chuckled, twirling the crossbow bolts in and out of his fingers in a blur. 
“How?” McKnight said, dropping his crossbow and reaching for his swords. They, too were missing. He tried to jump aside, but his paralyzed legs didn’t budge. A small dart was stuck in each of them. Bone, those are mine!
Two silvery flashes caught a dash of red moonlight as they sliced through the air and buried themselves into his chest. McKnight clutched at them, trying to remove his cherished daggers. The poison set fire to his veins. He tried to scream, but his tongue was thick and garbled. He tasted blood in his coughing mouth. His body teetered and fell. He had killed all of those people, and now he knew what it felt like. 
His former protégé had turned the tables on him, again. Melegal strolled over with one of McKnight’s shortswords in each hand. McKnight begged through blood-splattered lips.
“How did you do that?” McKnight somehow managed.
“I could tell you, but somehow I don’t think that would make you feel any better.”
Melegal stood straight up and examined the fine craftsmanship of the shortswords. The blades shimmered in the night, edges sharp as razors. McKnight watched Melegal’s eyes and hands caress the fine craftsmanship.
“Thanks, McKnight. Nice to have them back after all these years.” 
McKnight watched as Melegal gathered Quickster and departed. He lay on his back on the hard ground, staring at the sky between the treetops, and for a moment wondered what would happen when he died. His chest burned like a thousand fires, but his hatred for Melegal burned like a thousand more. 


CHAPTER 60

More thunderous blows resounded in Venir’s ears. The fury of Tonio’s assault had his full attention. Every jolt sent a wave of pain down his gashed arm. Venir felt as if his arm was about to shatter as the deranged half-dead Royal swung heavy two-handed blows down on his shield. It didn’t help that the man trying to carve a chunk out of him should have been dead. 
Tonio’s scarred faced was a twisted sneer, ashen with hatred. Venir had hated the man’s face before, but now it reached another level. Tonio’s flashing sword came down with the power of an ogre, almost driving him to his knees. 
His demented foe was one issue, but the buzzing of what turned out to be just one imp was another. 
Eep kept buzzing in, high and low, jabbing at Venir’s exposed limbs with thick, sharp talons. Venir shrugged off what he could as Brool’s spike did well to parry the swift imp. Fresh cuts began to litter his body now, and his helmet still ebbed in warning of the underling. An angry hiss rushed between his teeth as he strained to push back and deflect Tonio’s blows with his shield.

***

A short distance from the melee, Oran stood alone, a mask of concern. He was fascinated that the human was somehow withstanding Tonio and Eep’s unrelenting attacks, blow after ringing blow. It was the first time Oran had witnessed either man or underling withstand such heightened ferocity. He was beginning to understand that The Darkslayer was no mere man and why he had become the scourge of his kind. 
As fast as Eep was, the imp had managed only a few good cuts to the sinewy arms and legs of the man. Oran watched for the final blow to be struck by the imp, but the axe's tip would lick out like a snake's tongue, almost impaling the imp a time or two. The man was dripping in blood, but the fatal wounds had not landed. The whirling figure did not slow, and it worried him. 
Oran was wringing his rat-furred hands together. The longer his pawns went on struggling to dispose of the big warrior, the more likely they would miss their chance. Oran decided it was time to put an end to what should’ve long since ended. From his thin purplish lips, Oran began to mutter an incantation in a low, barely audible tone. 

***

Venir was taking a pounding. The relentless attack was wearing down his inner fury. His chest labored, while his opponents didn’t seem to have the same need for air. Wave after wave, they came on, hard and fast. A split second of missed timing and he’d be dead. He had to counter somehow before all his energy ebbed. Blink and die! 
The whispers of an underling spell caster hummed in Venir’s ears. It was a beacon of fire in his mind. Tonio’s tireless blows still hammered into his shield in a chronic rhythm. The one-eyed creature stilled zipped in and out. It was time to let it all out. 
As the imp flew in, Venir parried and countered with Brool, nicking a leathery wing, sending the mystic creature hissing in retreat. Venir whirled as Tonio’s sword clanged one more time off his shield. Tonio’s corded arms were raised high, face mired with hatred and scars, lips letting out a wrath-filled groan. Venir watched the man’s arms begin to thrust down, dead eyes unblinking. Venir bellowed as he swung Brool in return with all of his might. 
Slice!
Tonio’s face remained unchanged as his arms were both cut off at the elbows. The Royal lord’s fresh stumps went on chopping the air with vigor, up and down. Astonishment and anguish set in the man’s eyes as the remaining shred of humanity crossed in the young man’s face. Armless and trying to cover his face, he looked up, watching the axe blade coming from high. Venir wrenched Brool down with such force it cleaved the man’s head and body in two. One half of Tonio fell to the left and the other to the right. 
That better do it!
More buzzing combined with a screech of fury and came from behind. In a flash, Venir spun, jabbing his spike as he turned, impaling the screaming imp through the chest.
Crunch!
It squealed as its ribs cracked. It was the first good look Venir got of the thing. Powerful claws were clutching at him, a large red eye burned at him. It was the essence of evil. The thing dangled on the spike, trying to push itself off. Venir’s laugh was gruesome, and he charged deeper into the forest.

***

Oran was feeling a renewed sense of confidence and power. Time seemed to be at his command, and everything seemed to take place in slow motion; he had never felt such magic within him. It was as if the gates that held the magic of Bish had burst open for him. It was unexplainable and delicious. He waited for the man to enter his path so he could wipe the brutish human from the face of Bish forever. 
The Darkslayer charged into his clearing with Eep skewered on the spike of his axe like a chicken for a roast. Oran heard Eep screaming.
“Now you will die, Human! Drop your axe and surrender, Fool!” 
The Darkslayer’s eyelets were like black fire. 
“No, you all die today!” the man said in an inhuman bellow. 
The imp was laughing scornfully as the man hoisted the war-axe high above his head and charged into Oran’s path. Oran felt the hatred grow in his belly and fuel his power. He was screaming aloud now, his spell fully prepared, and his triumph imminent. Power filled him like a blast of hot air. Tree limbs bowed and leaves blustered all around. 
“Die now, Darkslayer, at the hand of the great underling—Oran!” 
A bolt of red-blue fire shot straight at the man as he swung down his axe. 
“No!” screamed Eep as the spike caught the bolt, frying the thrashing imp into blackened char. The imp was gone, but the man remained. 
Oran howled in rage. 
“Impossible!” 
The bolt should have destroyed the axe and the man. Instead, its blast had knocked the warrior flat onto his back, intact. The smell of fried flesh and hair was heavy in the air. Oran stared wide-eyed at the brute still gripping the axe, body smoking on the ground at the end of the scorched path. One more spell should finish off the prone man once and for all. 
Oran was on his own now. His imp was blasted to smithereens, the man chopped asunder. The scourge of the underlings was knocked flat, chest laboring up and down, feet shaking. He’s mine, Oran thought. All mine! He summoned more of the world’s energy into his finger tips. It came slow, easy and willing, filling him from head to toe. Oran wanted the power to wipe out everything that lived and breathed within a mile. One final shot was all he needed. He eyed the twitching figure on the forest floor, hungry to turn the human into a crater of flesh and steel. It was Oran’s time for glory now. His eyes turned to violet-black saucers as The Darkslayer rolled onto one knee.

***

Venir felt like a piece of shattered glass. Pain coursed through his hardened body. His finger tips were numb. His mouth tasted like metal, and his ears rang. He saw the axe in his grip as he lay on his shield. His sluggish mind urged a warning. The underling was near. It felt like an army of them. Move or die. There were no other options. Although his mind was lusting for revenge, his body was longing to rest, but his survival instincts would not let him give in, not until he was dead. He rolled onto one knee. A radiant swirl of energy surrounded a robed underling whose small hands were rolling before his chest. Venir took a deep painful breath. The black eyes of the hairy underling bore into him, boiling him with rage. His pain was replaced with the urge to destroy the underling. The underling chittered like a hundred voices, waving his robed arms high in the air. 
Venir’s legs felt as heavy as iron as he sprang to his feet, lifted Brool high above his head, and charged. The underling wavered back a step as Venir ran onward like an angry bull. He watched Oran’s hands slap into the air. A crackle came, and a burst of brilliant light shot forth. Venir jerked up his shield and dived to the ground. He felt the shield ripped away from his arm, his breath knocked from his lungs. Everything was black, and the world was ringing all around him. 
He gasped for air, saw fire, and then patted the flames from his clothes. The blond hairs on his arms were tiny black curls, and his teeth hurt. He could see the underling screaming at him now, like a muted nightmare.
Then he heard it, something unnatural that could be heard for miles. The hideous shriek should have torn out his eardrums, if not for the helm he wore. His stomach twisted into sour knots at the horrifying mystic siren. Somehow, he rose from the ground, Brool still in hand, storming against the sound and down the seared path. The underling's filed teeth hung in its shouting maw like daggers as Venir delivered the final swing. Brool struck into the side of Oran’s screaming head, slicing it off between his eyes and nose. Black blood gurgled from the top as the silenced body collapsed on the forest floor. 
Venir stood shaking. Only his boots and his shorts remained. His chain mail was scattered in chunks and links along the burnt path. Scorch marks and red welts rose on the rippling muscles of his torso. His V tattoo remained unscathed between the breadths of his shoulder blades. His purple veins pulsated, and the blood and gore was baked red and black all over him. He looked as if he had just crawled out of the mouth of a volcano. He was the picture of every raw, wild, and powerful element on Bish. Brool hung in his right hand, and his blue eyes still blazed through the eyelets. His chinstrap was still tight under his grizzled chin. 
A hundred sets of eyes watched from high above as he banged Brool’s spike onto the heel of his boot, knocking the charred remains of the imp off. He inhaled, and then groaned and tried to spit the taste of metal from his mouth. He inhaled painfully again, filling his chest with the hot night air. He let out a bellowing battle cry so loud and deep that time seemed to stop until it was finished. The throbbing in his head subsided as he tried to remember where he was. Another concern came his way. Something was wrong. Where was Melegal? 


CHAPTER 61

Chongo’s four ears perked up. An inhuman shriek was cutting through the forest. Lefty was covering his ears, stomach in twisted knots. The halfling looked around, dizzy, his blue eyes rolling up in his head. The sound stabbed in the back of his mind when he felt a meaty hand grip him as he began to sag. Then the horrible sound was gone. Lefty’s stomach curled. Georgio puked on the ground. Everything seemed to stop for a long moment, and they tried to regain their senses.
“What was that?!” Georgio gasped and then gagged again. 
“Turn back!” Lefty wailed, panic-stricken, with one hand over his eyes and a finger in his ear. “I can’t take it, make this beast turn around!”
But Georgio held him tight.
“Don’t worry, Mood and Chongo won’t let anything happen to us!” 
The grizzle-faced Mood just grunted through his red beard. Chongo lay down; ears flat, a low wine could be heard. The giant dwarf urged the dog back on all fours, forcing Lefty to hang on to the saddle, Georgio still holding him from behind. They moved on, between the massive tree trunks, at a brisker pace. 
A faint human-like roar reached his ears. Chongo’s feet began to stammer ahead, his tails wagging back and forth in excitement. Mood turned back with a smile as Chongo howled. Georgio gave a reassuring squeeze on Lefty’s shoulders, causing him to lurch. Georgio was yelling in his ear, “Lefty, you’re gonna meet Venir!” 
“Oh …” he said, wishing when he met Georgio he’d kept on running.
Lefty rolled his neck back, peering upward in the ceiling a blackened leaves. Something was moving from high above. He hoped it was just a roost of birds. But it was not.


CHAPTER 62

A bone chilling sound had thrown Melegal from Quickster’s saddle. The pony bucked and he was sent reeling to the ground. He was covering his ears and choking back bile. He lay there for moments, sucking in his breath after the foul noise was gone. His legs felt like jelly as he got up. He heard another cry, more human this time. It took several more minutes before Quickster would budge. 
Melegal trotted through the forest towards the thunderous cracks, screams, and howls he had heard. He choked down his fears; there was nowhere else to go. The forest was black as night, but his eyes were as good as a man could have. He moved on towards the last sound he heard. 
The battle cry had to have come from the lungs of Venir. A warming thought of returning to Bone began to dance in his head. It was the simple things about the City of Bone that Melegal enjoyed so much. He pilfered his wants and needs. He tickled the toes of wanton women. He sipped from goblets filled with the finest wines. He was always one step ahead of the authorities. Now, with McKnight out of the picture, there could only be more to come. A satisfying smile crossed his thin lips. He rubbed the pommels of the twin swords on his hips. It was good to have his Sisters back. Now, all he had to do was get his arse out of the forest. 
Quickster slowed, interrupting his daydreams and making him notice there were massive cobwebs all around. His homesickness intensified, and he took a deep swallow. He heard soft movements in the monstrous branches high above. Quickster nickered as he slowly weaved in and out among the web-covered trees. The cobwebs were disintegrating, but Melegal was as stiff as a board. 
A clearing opened up ahead. His gray eyes made out a hulking silhouette coming his way; a familiar figure with a spiked helm and axe. Melegal could see a wide smile reflecting in the faint moonlight. 
“Hah!” roared the silhouette. “Another great night in the forest!”
Melegal gave the man an unforgiving look. Venir looked like he was just spit out of a furnace. He could see dried blood and long scabs scattered all over the man’s half-naked frame. He didn’t care. 
He couldn’t hold back his outrage; his fists were shaking when he let it out. 
“You go berserk and run off! My pony does the same! I get stuck in this jungle, trapped against all odds! McKnight! Do you remember him from Bone—you idiot?” 
Venir’s faced was pinched in thought as Melegal continued.
“Well … I had to kill him and then come and try to save your butt—great night! Bah!”
Melegal felt better, waiting to hear what his friend had to say. He waited for Venir to lay back into him like an overbearing ogre, maybe split him in two. Venir just stood there, emotionless. 
“You killed someone from Bone? McKnight?” 
The big man paused, scratching his chin.
“Good!” Venir added with a slap on his shoulder. “Then I guess that’s the last of them. I don’t figure anyone else is still looking for us. But it’s not time to run back home just yet, Me.”
Melegal rolled his eyes.
“Great.”
How much longer would he have to wait things out? It seemed like this had been the longest week of his life.
“Come, take a look at who I killed here. It’s that Tonio guy from the Chimera and the stables.”
Melegal’s face was aghast. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a man cut in twain like that before. Tonio’s body lay in two equal parts, his innards seeping toward the ground. Venir picked up one of the man’s dismembered arms and waved it at him. 
“Shouldn’t he have been dead already? You almost beat him to death, and then Chongo chewed him to death. How does that work?” 
“Magic. Evil, powerful, magic. Take a look.” 
Melegal looked at the corpse, split down the middle with arms cut off at the elbows. As horrible as it appeared, Tonio had bled very little at all. A chill ran up Melegal’s spine. 
“Vee, that is some serious magic. He was already dead when you killed him—or killed him again, that is. Who has that kind of power?” 
“Well, did you hear that battle earlier?” 
Melegal nodded saying, “I heard something awful, don’t know if I’d call it a battle.” 
“That’s who, is my guess.”
He pointed at the robed corpse of Oran.
“That was an underling, very powerful. Certainly the most powerful I’ve ever crossed. He’s dead as a rock now, though. I’m more concerned that an underling and a human were both coming after us.” 
“Or after you.”
What had Venir gotten him into? Melegal felt the pressing need to head back to Bone. There were no underlings there, or were there? Melegal didn’t know what to think, but he’d rather be home. 
“It’s strange. This alliance makes no sense. And you didn’t even see the other thing?’ Venir said. 
“What other thing?” 
“An imp, I believe.” 
Melegal shook his head in disbelief saying, “So now what?” 
“We make a fire and find something to eat. I’m starving.” 
“Good.” 

***

The surrounding sounds of the Great Forest of Bish had returned to normal. The owls hooted and the crickets chirped while the orange fire glowed. It was only a small camp fire, but its warmth and light softened Melegal’s always stern expression. The skinny man from the City of Bone lay back against the furry black belly of Quickster. All was well in the forest, leaving Venir alone in his thoughts. 
Venir squatted down, stoking the fire with a stick. He was concerned that he had dragged his friend bone deep in all of his affairs. He was aching, his faculties stretched to the limit, but he couldn’t let that on. It was his fault. Just smile, and people will think all is well. Someone had told him that once. It seemed to work. He would do anything to be back in Bone, soaking in some cool water, getting soaped down by a savory wench. Venir figured that was how Melegal felt most of the time. He did his best to enjoy the finer things in Bone, but the underlings seemed to call. He heard something faint over the whistling nose of Quickster. He stood up, peered around, and grabbed his axe. Something was out there. He didn’t stop, just slipped by his friend and plunged deeper into the forest. 

***

All too quickly, the morning crept up on Melegal. The sounds of the awakening forest became louder with every moment. Unlike the sounds of the city, these sounds couldn’t be quashed by closing a window or a thick oaken door. Melegal rubbed his groggy face. He heard loud snoring on the other side of Quickster. Somewhere close by he heard Venir’s low voice talking. Sunlight warmed his face as he rose up and began to stretch. His hand brushed against something humanoid. 
“Agh!” Melegal yelled, jumping clear over the smoldering fire in one bound. With McKnight’s blades drawn, Melegal peered at a small humanoid disappearing behind Quickster. 
Then he heard Georgio yelp from behind his pony.
“Get off me, Lefty. I’m trying to sleep.” 
Two thunderous laughs came from behind him. It was Venir and Mood, both bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Melegal sheathed his swords with a scowl. It seemed several people had snuck up on him last night. It was an embarrassing feeling for him. 
“What’s the matter, Scrawny Man? Got a bed bug?” Mood said in his gruff voice. Out of place as Melegal felt around the dwarf, he was glad to see him back. He waved the bushy face off with his hand. 
“What was that creature, Venir?” “That’s Georgio’s new halfling friend, Lefty,” Venir said, still chuckling. 
“Me, it’s me!” Georgio popped up from the other side of Quickster, face beaming. “Meet my friend, Lefty Lightfoot. He’s a halfling! See? Look!”
Georgio was pulling Lefty by the arm, but the halfling escaped his grasp and almost ran onto Melegal’s toes, stopping short when Melegal’s sword almost pierced his tiny neck. The halfling froze. 
“Easy Melegal, he’s just greeting you. Haven’t you met a halfling before?” asked Venir. Melegal said nothing, sticking his sword back in his sheath and walking away. 
Georgio put his hand on Lefty’s shoulder.
“It’s not you. He’s not a morning person … or any other time of the day, for that matter.” 
Georgio and Lefty began sniffing the air, and Lefty started stamping his little feet and clapping in excitement. 
“What’s for breakfast?” the boys asked in unison. 
“Mood’s been cooking up a young elk, big as a deer, but tastier than a stag. That’ll hold your hunger for most of the day,” said Venir, as Mood presented the boy’s breakfast. "Delicious, don’t you think, Lefty?” said Georgio, chewing the steaming hot meat. 
Lefty put a piece in his mouth and spat it out. He began fanning his tongue.
“It’s too hot!”
Georgio gave him a funny look, saying, “No it’s not.”
The beefy boy bit into another mouthful. 
Lefty set his food aside. As he waited for it to cool, his hand strayed to his pocket, and he smiled. He had tucked something away in there after hearing Venir’s tale late in the night. The curious halfling had gone to explore the battle site, and among the robes of the dead underling cleric he had found two red, bullet-sized gemstones that had a sparkle of light inside. 
Georgio had just finished his stag meat when Venir walked over and stuck Tonio’s sword in the ground at his feet. 
“This is yours, Georgio,” Venir said. 
The boy’s jaw dropped as he stared at the sword. It was magnificent and gleaming with tiny jewels around the hilt. Georgio’s hand latched on the hilt, yanking it from the ground. 
“Venir! This is the best gift ever!” The big boy made several awkward cuts in the air and Lefty dashed away. 
“Are you going to teach me to use it?” 
Venir kneeled alongside the boy. 
“Certainly. It’s one of the finest swords I’ve come by. I couldn’t believe it didn’t break against my shield. It came down with great force on every blow, but there isn’t a nick on it.” Georgio ran his pudgy fingers along the shiny blade, slicing his skin. 
“Ow!” he said, but no blood surfaced. 
Venir gave the boy a funny look and continued on.
”It’s big, but it’s light. Those Royals must have one mighty good weaponsmith. It’s a keeper, Georgio. You take good care of it, and I’m sure it’ll take care of you.”
Venir squeezed the boy’s shoulder, and Georgio could do nothing but smile up into the eyes of his hero.
“All right, already! Can we go home now?” asked Melegal.
“We’re gonna try,” said Venir. “But I still think it’s too soon.” 
“I don’t care!” Melegal snapped back. 
Venir’s reply was sullen.
“I know. We aren’t out of the thicket yet, Me. Mood says that many more underlings are about. Farther north than us, which is odd. No one knows what they're up to, but we can only hope they don’t get too close before I get you home.”
Melegal wanted to throttle something. Underlings and who knew what else might pop up on this misadventure. No chest of treasure to be found and no new coins to spend. He had lost their money betting on Son of Farc in the Pit. His friend cost him. He would never tell Venir that, though. He knew better than to ever bet against his comrade again. He slung his saddle back on his pony. 
“Well, if anyone’s still looking for us, I’d rather take my chances back in Bone. I’ll die in the comforts of my home. I just hope that there are no witnesses left to bother me … er … us there.”
Melegal swung his leg over Quickster’s saddle.
“So get me back. I need a hot bath, and so do you. Look at you, letting your dog lick the muck off you. It’s disgusting!” 


CHAPTER 63

The two suns, distant orange beacons, blazed over the Outlands, making the ground hazy to the naked eye. The sparse brown vegetation yielded little for the humanoid appetite. Enormous green cacti, bone trees, fire bushes, red toads, leather lizards, palm trees, and occasional sunflowers somehow survived without an oasis. Water in any form was hard to come by here. 
This particular section of the Outlands was southwest of the Great Forest of Bish and northeast of Dwarven Hole. It was the most dangerous place in the whole of this barren land, maybe all of Bish. It had been home to more battles, wars, and acts of terror than any other place in the world. This dry and dusty area had come to be known as—The Warfield.The Warfield was a flat piece of rock and desert that lay like a torched graveyard in the center of Bish’s Outlands. There were small villages near The Warfield, but they maintained a respectable distance. It was inhospitable for occupancy or commerce, and no place for children or adults to play. It endeared its trespassers with chronic sweat and pain. The Warfield was always the hottest and most humid spot on Bish at any time of the day. Only the toughest creatures occupied it. It was also the place where the chest beating of the races began and ended, for no skirmish, battle, or war was worth recalling that did not take place at The Warfield. As with so many other things in Bish, no one knew or cared why they battled in that place; they simply did. It was where true warriors came to earn their badges of honor and horror.
For centuries, The Warfield had been devouring the remains, weapons and armor of the greatest warriors and wizards that ever lived. All surviving traces of these events dissipated in the hard and bitter land and were forgotten. No one ever cared to visit the final resting place of The Warfield’s fallen heroes and villains. There was no graveyard, only rust turned to dust. It was as loathsome a place as there could be, where tempers would flare, and best friends could become bitter enemies. The survivors of the battles that broke out never returned for the fallen; they took whatever they could and left the rest to the impossible climate.
There were survivors, though; many had survived battles at The Warfield, and some became renowned throughout the land. The toughest of each and every race were Warfield veterans, and their names were revered among their kin. 
Some had survived more than once, whether twice or even a dozen times, and were no doubt the toughest men and women on Bish. One would know it at a glance, sometimes, for The Warfield always left its mark, a mark on their persona that was indescribable yet always discernible. Some boasted of their excursions, while others kept silent about their personal triumphs and tragedies. It was the quiet ones that always seemed to revisit their restless war demons in the hope of putting them to rest forever. 
One man and one woman who returned had never been able to erase their demons, and so they remained. Unfit for society, they were the Nameless Two, clothed in sandy white robes from head to toe, sandaled and insane. 
They lived in a cave behind a rocky crag on a gargantuan hill on The Warfield. With nothing left to live for, these tormented veterans practiced nothing but fighting for survival. They both tempered their skills and remained perfect Warfield warriors. They were known as nothing more than ghosts, and they showed up whenever they chose and fought whoever they wished. Often, they killed without mercy those too disabled to make it home after a battle. 
Today, the Nameless Two stood outside on their craggy stoop high above their cave. A strange event was unfolding in the distance. An underling Badoon Brigade had ventured onto The Warfield and now blocked the passage northwards it seemed. A squadron of Blood Rangers appeared from the western horizon. 
The Nameless Two saw this distant event from a powerful mystic source they had harnessed deep within their cave. The strange magic left them all-knowing of the occurrences on The Warfield. It gave them vision for miles all around. It was this secret that had allowed them to survive for so long, and a secret they would never risk losing to another. It came at a price, but they were willing to pay. 


CHAPTER 64

Venir led the way north toward the lower rim of the Outlands. He could feel Melegal glowering at his back. Georgio and Lefty sat atop the pony scrunched behind the thief, with uncomfortable looks on their faces. 
“Why are we heading north again, and not back through the Red Clay Forest? I have absolutely no desire to try to pass through The Warfield,” Melegal said.
Venir’s reply was grim.
“We’re just going to the rim, Melegal. Take it easy. Besides, it’s Mood’s understanding that underlings are near the Red Clay Forest.”
Melegal’s voice was defiant and quick as he shook his head
“How could he know that? And if you’re going anywhere near The Warfield, count me out.”
Melegal was hunched over and scooted up on his saddle, shaking his head.
“I know you’ll go on, and I want nothing to do with that dreadful place. And I’ve heard enough of your stupid bar room squalor to know that you’ll never pass up the chance of another story to brag about. And if even half the slat you say is true, it’s more than enough reason to know that The Warfield’s clearly no place I ever want to be. So I am heading west to the Red Clay Forest, with or without you. I’ll take my own chances.” 
Georgio and Lefty were nodding. Everyone knew about The Warfield, the place of fight or die. Venir got a good look at the boys' faces as they scooted closer on the thief’s saddle. Melegal’s elbow gave Georgio a sharp nudge. 
“What do you think, Mood?” Venir said.
“I smell a trap,” Mood replied cautiously. “If it ain’t, I’m a halfling’s uncle. The creatures say someone is there, waitin’ on someone. I can sense it, too. Chances are that someone’s you. I feel a northeastern way is not safe.”
Venir was ready to go it alone. He couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. If he sensed underlings, he might be gone anyway. If he left his friends, they might perish without his aid.  “North then, maybe we can slip by.” 
“Maybe, I don’t think it matters.” Mood pulled out a cigar from his pouch and began to light it as he said, “They’ll be waiting."
“Who’s waiting, and who’s setting traps?” Georgio asked.
“Underlings,” answered Mood.
“More underlings?” Lefty’s shrill voice shouted from behind. “Not the ones that killed my family?” 
“I’m afraid so, Lefty,” Venir answered, “those are the ones. To get home, we’re gonna have to try and go around them.”
It was one thing for Venir to get by. The armament provided for that, but not his friends. Underlings had their ways of finding a needle in a haystack. 
The hot winds seemed to ebb and flow. Venir sensed it wasn’t natural. The party traveled on in silence while he contemplated what might be their next—and possibly final—move. Venir could handle underlings, but this time it was different. This time it was not him hunting for them, but rather them hunting him. 
Melegal broke the silence. 
“Well, I don’t care. I’m going back through the Red Clay Forest, with or without the rest of you. Whatever’s looking for you probably isn’t looking for us.” 
Venir turned to face the thief, whose head now hung low. 
“Melegal, we’re not splitting up now! They know enough about where we are. If you want to get home alive, stick with us. And that means all of you!” 
With a gruff command, Venir nudged Chongo forward, and Mood followed. Melegal hesitated in his saddle. Then he sighed and spurred Quickster ahead. The ever-growing dread seemed to befall them all. 
Mood trotted up to Venir. 
“Wait. Let’s head northwest towards my dwarven kin. We can maybe avoid these underlings that way. Or at worst, perhaps, I can slip our friends around the underlings and back home. Whatcha say?” 
Venir didn’t like the idea. Underlings were thick in the Outlands below Dwarven Hole. Still, anything was better than trying to pass through The Warfield. It was a place that oft times drew him in like a bear to honey. He tried to sound positive. 
“That’s as good a plan as we’ve got, I guess. I hate to drag ’em into all this. You’ll have to look out for them in case I can’t.” 
Venir looked into the sky, where white clouds rushed overhead, streaked with grey. He had never seen that before. He fingered the chin straps on his helmet. Mood was looking at him warily. He donned his helmet. No sense in getting caught off guard. He saw Mood’s bushy face cocked at him. He nodded back. He felt fine, and took it off. He’d give it another go later. 
“Just don’t go any farther north, and let’s see what happens when it happens,” the dwarf said with a wink, puffing on his cigar. Its mellow smoke filtered back, bringing dizzy smiles to the faces of the boys. Melegal’s hands were busy fanning it away. 


CHAPTER 65

Verbard and Catten were in the midst of a long meditation on the edge of the Red Clay Forest when Verbard said, “I sense The Darkslayer might be on to us, Brother Catten. Shall we wait, or shall we depart for The Warfield?” 
“Oh, I say we have waited enough. If the man were headed this way, we’d have been alerted to it by now.”
Catten didn’t sound disappointed, however.
“It has been such a long time since I witnessed a lengthy battle. And a Vicious-led Badoon Brigade does promise a salivating new amusement.”
He licked his lips, gold eyes flashing in anticipation. Catten was clenching his fists, eyes flickering with power.
“I would think the risk worth taking, Brother. I don’t know about you, but I feel our day has come to finish off this man. Do you know I am not boasting when I say that I feel more powerful than ever?”
Verbard’s silver eyes shone with elation.
“Quite so, I feel just the same. I feel ready for anything.” 
Verbard glanced at the piles of smoking ash at their feet. Their spells had been more effective than he anticipated. And now he realized his brother felt the same. It was quite the natural high. 
“I wonder, is it just us, or do all of our kind feel this way, Verbard?”
“Well, if it is all of us—underlings, that is—then The Darkslayer is doomed, and Master Sinway will be very pleased.”
“Ah, I had almost forgotten that Master Sinway had set us on this charge. Perhaps he does not feel as we do, Brother,” he hissed.
“Yes,” Verbard answered as the corner of his mouth rose. 
Both of the underling lords had longed to remove Master Sinway at some time during their lengthy existence, but neither could hope to achieve it without the other. Although they never spoke of it, each brother plotted to wrest the rule of the underlings from Master Sinway. But for now, first things first. Verbard gave his brother a nod; each uttered an underling syllable, and both sailed high in the air towards The Warfield in the west. 

***

One lone forest mage had tucked himself deep in the brush. He had avoided the devastation Catten and Verbard had wrought on his brethren. It was a good day to be late, and live. Still, he had witnessed the whole thing, cringing like a babe. He had never realized such raw power existed in Bish. He dared a glance as he watched them depart like ghosts into the sky and out of sight. His heart was pounding in his chest, but he felt relief.
Morty the Mage was his name. His grungy robes billowed as he floated over and slumped beside the ashes of his fallen family. Sobbing, he created a makeshift wooden urn and put what he could of their remains in the shabby container. His grubby hands could still feel the magic within those ashes. It was faint, but it still was there nonetheless. 
As he scooped up another pile, a glint of silver caught his eye. A peculiar-looking silver coin lay on the ground. It seemed not everything had been destroyed after all. Picking it up to study, Morty saw the wicked face of an underling looking back at him. It was one of those who had just departed. Terrified, the forest mage tried to throw the coin away, but it would not leave his hand.
“No! Get away!” 
Morty screamed at the coin, squirming and wriggling as he tried to brush the coin from his hand against the ground and branches. But it was futile. He stared in horror as he looked at Verbard’s face on the gleaming coin and pleaded, “Please, be gone!” 
But the evil image looked back, winked his silver eye, and hissed, “Goodbye!”
Thunder crackled in the air from above. Morty lifted his hooded head. Filled with terror, he looked into the darkening sky. He saw a blinding white flash as he was blown to smithereens. The coin dropped to the ground and began to crumble away. Somewhere far away, Lord Verbard chuckled. 


CHAPTER 66

On Bish, the giant dwarves were also known as the Blood Rangers. There were less than a hundred of these dwarves on Bish, making them among the rarest of races. 
They were direct kin to the dwarves, and were born to that stocky, bearded race. Every decade or so, a new Blood Ranger would be born among the thousands of dwarves. They were as big as a man, yet stout as a dwarf with red colored hair, in some cases the color of blood. The Blood Ranger babies stayed with their mother and father for less than a year before being turned over to be raised by the giant dwarven clan. 
They were kept deep within the catacombs of Dwarven Hole, in a location they did not share. It would be decades before a new one emerged, hard as a rock and powerful like an oak. A fully fledged Blood Ranger was ready to take on any comers on Bish. They were the pride and joy of the dwarves. The Warfield was living up to its name this day. From the west, one squadron of giant dwarven rangers had flanked and fully surprised the underling Badoon Brigade. A dozen underling hunters lay dead and baking in the sun. The expert aim of the heavy crossbow bolts fired by the Blood Rangers was responsible for the surprising onslaught. The stunned Badoon warriors recovered, howling in fury, gathering themselves as one of the most violent skirmishes to ever take place on The Warfield had begun.
Twelve Blood Rangers, dressed in leather and metal armor, squared up against the remaining Badoon Brigade. Six powerful dwarven warriors, wielding their renowned giant hand axes, chopped into the raging black masses. Six more rangers fired their heavy crossbow bolts at the underlings with bull’s-eye precision. The waves of underlings screamed, fell and recoiled. The Blood Rangers chopped down the wounded underlings and continued to press them back. 
Heavily armored dwarven women with stern faces were busy reloading the crossbows. Other small dwarven women mumbled as they prepared healing and protection spells. The female dwarves wore chain mail dresses and small metal helmets over their long braided hair, framing their pleasant round faces. They worked with the same intent and diligence as if fighting the battle themselves. Each Blood Ranger was accompanied by a handful of hardworking little women who were charged to always take care of him. The fortune of being a Blood Ranger was that the women outnumbered them by over a thousand to one. It gave them plenty to choose from. These sweet yet hardened dwarven women took excellent care of their giant men-folk and saw to it that they were prepared for days such as this. 
The underlings were repelled back; many lay in pieces on the ground, reddish-black blood sinking into the sand. The Blood Rangers, faces mired with blood and sweat, ignored their painful wounds. The underlings gathered back from the volley of the crossbows, deflecting missiles away with an unseen shield. The dwarves stopped and waited. Six of the Blood Rangers stood facing the underlings, axes dripping wet, bushy beards caked in blood. Behind them on the higher ground, their brethren kneeled as loaded crossbows were set by their sides. The underlings' razor sharp weapons glistened in the suns. Their mouths were snapping back and forth as they tightened the buckles on their armor and loaded small crossbows. The fine rat-like hair on their dark gray skin was as wet as rain. The Vicious were barking commands in their ears, faces twisted with rage. The underlings raised canteens to their lips and drank. Their multi-colored eyes shone with renewed vigor, and with a single command they charged. 
The Blood Rangers stood their ground as the Badoon Brigade was fast approaching. Small bolts glanced off their hide-thick leather armor. Four underlings to one dwarf surged ahead on fleet legs.
Twenty steps away—Ten—Five.
A giant wall of flame leapt eight feet into the air. The underlings screamed to a halt, crouching away. The barrier ran a hundred yards, north–south, bright orange and yellow flames licking in the air. The underling hunters came as close as they could, firing volley after volley through the flames. 
The infuriated Vicious ordered a small group to run through the flames. A single Blood Ranger stood within the fire, unharmed, protected by the dwarven magic. With their swords drawn again, a dozen underlings charged into the flames, attacking the lone Blood Ranger. They drove him beyond the flames, singed and scorched, overwhelming him. 
He chopped hard with his axes, each hitting its mark and dropping underlings dead and knocking them back into the flames. The underlings’ discipline and hatred drove them on in the scorching inferno. Still his axes felled them one by one. The Blood Ranger was more than a match for several burning Badoons. The underlings' own magic began to counter some of the fire’s effects, but the next wave of dark bodies began to slow down the single ranger’s efforts.
The powerful dwarf was cut and stabbed as the underlings pinned themselves to his arms. He could swing no more. He struggled to his feet, a yell bursting from his throat as he dragged himself and the underlings into the flames, where he fell and died. Screaming in glee at their triumph, the Badoon underlings turned to find more prey. They burst through the flames to the other side. The relentless rear rank of Blood Rangers cut them down with the repeating fire of heavy crossbow bolts. Scrambling to escape, the underlings turned to retreat through the flames. The silhouettes of the Vicious on the other side of the flames suggested something else. They turned ready to fight, but their hesitation cost them. Heavy bolts pierced their temples, throats, eye-sockets, and black hearts. Falling, bleeding, and burning, another dozen underlings died quickly at the hands of the Blood Rangers. 
Over two dozen Badoons were now defeated, and less than four dozen more remained. The Warfield was quiet but for the roaring wall of flame. The Vicious stood boldly in front of the ranks, their hardened black bodies glistening under the two red-hot suns. Long, clawed hands opened and closed in unison with the gnashing of their teeth. The savvy dwarven Blood Rangers ignored the provocation. 
The Blood Rangers stood confidently on one side of the flames, ready, with the underlings uncertain and defeated on the other. Two robed underlings were floating down from the sky. Dwarven bolts zipped toward them, but bounced harmlessly away. The Vicious and the underlings began to scream and cheer as the two magi lords landed alongside the Vicious. With little more than a whisper, Lord Catten extinguished the wall of flame.


CHAPTER 67

Venir still led the way, now on foot, shoulder to shoulder with Mood, towing Chongo behind him. Melegal found renewed strength for complaining with every passing minute. Georgio giggled at his profanities, many of which the boy claimed he had never heard before. Lefty took mental note of all this, but his knowledge of the common language was not enough to follow most of the gutter-mouthed squalor that passed Melegal’s lips. 
Lefty tried asking Georgio the meanings, but the big boy just shrugged and giggled. Lefty took a keen interest, however, assuming that these strange words were some sort of thieve's cant. But Melegal’s discontent was evident, and Lefty opted to cover his ears and try to think of other things. Melegal’s caustic mutterings were only making the trip seem longer. Finally, Lefty could take no more. 
“Please, Human,” he said, raising his little voice, “Shut up!”
“You can walk if you like, Halfling,” Melegal retorted.
“Fine, I can keep up,” Lefty retorted, hopping off.
Lefty chose to catch up to Venir and Mood, leaving Georgio with his bad-tempered friend. He came up beside Chongo, whose left head stared at him like a tiny morsel while the right head tried to lick him. “Alright, dog-thing, don’t eat me, and I’ll pet you,” he said, putting a tiny hand on one of the dog's wet noses. Chongo’s other head began licking his hand. “Whew! Can I ride you?” 
Chongo flopped down so that Lefty could climb on, and then reared up and was on the move again. He shot a glance at the boy and thief behind him. Melegal’s scowl made him turn back away. Lefty found the big dog’s company much more pleasant than Melegal’s, and he enjoyed scratching his four big floppy ears. Lefty Lightfoot had another new friend, and Chongo seemed just as pleased.
Venir halted.
Mood pulled his axes from his back.
The sky above was a swirl of gray clouds. Suddenly, the big warrior jammed his helmet on and turned back toward them, his eyelets glowing black as the night. His knuckles were white around the handle of his axe. Venir howled like a hundred warriors gone mad. In the next instant, the man was sprinting away. 
Chongo was howling as well, but Mood held the dog tight by the reigns. Mood hopped up behind Lefty. 
“Who was that?” Lefty exclaimed.
“That was Venir,” answered Mood, puzzled by the question. 
“It was? It didn’t look like him.”
“I suppose not, but he’s on our side, you know.”
“I’d hate not to be on his side.”
“Me, too.”
“Melegal,” the giant dwarf shouted back, “what do you want to do? Follow Vee, or keep going west?” 
“Follow Vee!” screamed Georgio like a battle cry, hoisting his new longsword high into the air and howling like his hero. 
Melegal averted his eyes at first, and with a huff he yelled back, “If I have to fight a hundred underlings to get home, so be it!”
“Well, I hope you can keep up then! Yah!” Mood shouted as Chongo took off. 
“Now you’re ticking me off,” Melegal said, kicking his heels into Quickster.
The shaggy mount darted away like a race horse. Georgio was clutching the thief’s sides and howling with glee. In a moment, Quickster’s legs thundered alongside Chongo and began edging past. Lefty hung on to Mood and closed his eyes, while Mood whipped at Chongo’s reigns. “Ye’ve made yer point, Man,” Mood bellowed to Melegal. “Now let me lead so we don’t get lost.” 
As Melegal began to slow, Mood came up beside him. The city thief had a clever smile on his face. “Pretty fast, eh?” he said, lifting his brows.
“Guess so,” Mood answered gruffly. “Now let’s get after him.”
The party galloped over the plains, mile after mile, and Lefty expected to see Venir at any moment now, but the big man was gone like a ghost. 
“Did we lose him?” the halfling cried as he leaned back into the dwarf’s chest. 
“No, Chongo’s got the scent. But somehow the man’s moving much faster than we are.”
“How’s that possible?” 
Mood said nothing as they all continued galloping away. Lefty’s feet seemed to tingle. He wished he could run that fast.


CHAPTER 68

Something in their universe was raging, but then again, there were always things raging in their universe. Time and time again, chance or manipulation would cause such an event to occur. Scorch the meddler had manipulated Bish, as he had done elsewhere many times before. And now Bish was like a candle burning at both ends; but Trinos arrived. 
She was just in time to subdue the havoc Scorch had wrought. The damage had been done, however, to her tiny world of Bish. The ripple effects could not be reversed, for a door had been opened and innocence lost. Trinos implemented some hasty protection to her world to mend this catastrophe, and it would have to hold. Scorch had not stayed long enough to see his musing through. Her pet project seemed done for, though. She seethed inside, and it felt good. Why? This was a surprise. Such things should not bother her, yet this did. She turned her eye away from Bish and began to track down Scorch while the trail was hot. She would not stop until she had found him and held him accountable for his actions.


CHAPTER 69

When the wall of fire went out, the Blood Rangers repositioned themselves as if they had been in this same situation a dozen times before. The closest Badoon squadron was almost upon them by the time they had retreated to higher ground. Cries of alarm and shock went up. The underlings found themselves falling into a massive hidden pit. Thick dwarven bolts pierced the Badoon underlings who were trapped in the pit, while other underlings fired back over the chasm. 
The Vicious stormed around in hulking fury, but Catten and Verbard cackled. Invigorated, the two magi lords began pushing back the Blood Rangers with their own brand of firepower. Bolts of energy shot like missiles from their hands, blasting their targets with devastating accuracy. They relished roasting dwarven flesh, driving many to their knees, only to rise again in retreat. The underling brothers laughed at all the crossbow bolts bouncing off their invisible shield. There was little harm Blood Rangers could bring to them.
Doom was upon all of the fighting giants of Dwarven Hole; they were cornered and overpowered with the arrival of the underling lords. The remaining eleven Blood Rangers circled their women and fought valiantly. The underlings attacked them at all points with spells, bolts, arrows, and swords. The intensity was indescribable. 
The long-bearded Blood Rangers began singing in thunderous voices in complete defiance of the siege now befalling them. Chopping axes carved deep into underling bone as more heavy bolts impaled underlings left and right. The sheer numbers of underling hunters and the superior magic of their underling lords began overwhelming the brave fighters. The dwarves sang as they bled from a hundred wounds. Magic rocked the ground beneath their boots. Tiny poisoned bolts stuck in their arms and faces. Again and again the Blood Rangers rose, even though they were weakening by the second.
Their wonderful working women shouted encouragement and stayed within their men’s protective circle, casting spells of healing, strength, and vitality to help get them through each and every critical second. The Blood Rangers held their own as their blood and sweat formed pools on the rugged ground of The Warfield.
***

Elsewhere, from their crag not far away, the Nameless Two saw it all. The battle they were witnessing was a beautiful thing to them; so beautiful that it spurred them to thoughts of action. But the two troublesome underling lords caused them to hesitate.

***

Verbard looked at Catten, and Catten looked back at Verbard. 
“Are we being watched?” said Verbard, his head scanning back and forth.
“I believe so.” Catten agreed. 
“How can that be?”
“I don’t know … but I think we should find out.”
“I agree, Catten. Let us take the initiative. The Vicious will finish things off. These dwarves won’t hold out much longer.” 
Verbard looked downward. The dwarves were surrounded by the underling hoard. Mangled underling bodies littered the ground, but the Vicious pressed the Badoon forward. The rest of The Warfield was barren, plain and abandoned. Something was missing.“I would have expected that impudent human to be here by now. I can’t bear the thought that he might have avoided us, yet it may be so. Now, let us go and see what lies inside that crag.”
Catten nodded, and like two wraiths they sailed through the air towards the rocky hill in the distance. Verbard felt drawn towards the powerful source of magic inside the out-of-the-way landmark. It looked like a mountain, but was merely a rocky hill with a large cave mouth yawning wide open. 
Inside, Verbard noted very little, but his glance showed the primitive comforts of occupancy. Catten was strolling around the room, hands out, golden eyes alert. Verbard paced about, trying to find the source of power, but it was unrevealed. When he happened to step out of the cave mouth, he looked on in wonder. 
“Brother, come quick! Do you see this?”
By his side, Catten let out an excited hiss. 
“I see it all, my brother. This is new, completely fascinating. I can see the whole area for miles just as plain as the nose on your face. Stunning!” 
Verbard sucked in his breath as he too could see every detail of the events far away. He saw everything above, below and behind the mountain where he stood. From over a mile away, he could clearly see the angered face of a dwarf, chopping a Badoon down. “Those stubborn dwarves are still fighting, and the Vicious have still not acted,” Verbard admonished. 
Catten’s eyes flashed with rage.
“This whole thing should be over by now. I hate to think that we might have to go back to clean up when we could be enjoying the victory from here.” 
“Perhaps we can do what we must from here, if need be, Brother,” Verbard said, the corners of his mouth turning up. “It’s certainly worth a try.” 
“Ooh … a good idea, indeed, but let’s wait and see what happens first. The suns will be setting soon, and I like doing such things at night rather than in the blazing sunlight.”
“Certainly, assuming we can afford to wait … eh.”
Verbard noticed an object charging in the distance. 
“Do you see something coming from the south of The Warfield? It’s rather faint, but coming this way.” 
Catten leaned over the edge. 
“Hmm, I don’t see it, Verbard. Ah, now I do. Is this who I think it is? Finally?”
Verbard watched in silence. Just as he and his brother planned, The Darkslayer approached the trap. He had never relished the thought of battling the scourge of the underlings himself, but he’d never felt so robust before. Verbard felt his brother stiffen at his side. Their hatred ran deep for this human who had managed to slay hundreds—possibly thousands—of underlings over the years, to their great embarrassment. 
The toll had grown high. The stories they had heard and the variety of descriptions of the man had never seemed believable, until now. The closer the man got, the more eager they felt to bury him once and for all. 
Catten spoke up.
“Let us see if we can take him out from here, Verbard.”
“What shall it be, then? I say as soon as he hits the clearing—we turn him into dust!”
“No, we slow him down, smother him, and burn him alive with all means at our disposal. I am sure the Vicious can handle what is left. After which, we walk down there, skin him, remove his head from his shoulders and march it to the Underland on a pike!”
The pike won Verbard over. He nodded, stepping back to summon forth his energy. It grew inside him, something powerful and delicious, begging to be set free. He wanted to hold the intoxicating feeling a bit longer, the magic felt so good. Catten stood before him, his face a mask of concentration and limitless power. There was nothing to fear, nothing left but the urge to destroy one lone man. Verbard felt supreme, capable of leveling a city with the wave of his hand. 
His silver eyes became saucers, staring at their target, who was closing the distance, barreling toward where the Vicious still battled the giant dwarves. Powerful energy surged between both underling magi now, unifying them in their thoughts of destroying The Darkslayer. It felt like it would take little more than a single word to wipe out the whole lot of them. 
Catten urged Verbard a warning.
“Don’t try to kill them all.” 
Verbard cackled.
“Why not?”   


CHAPTER 70

In the world of Bish, none cared about how or why things happened as they did. Things were as they were, and none gave this a single thought. The Blood Rangers did not question why they were on the edge of obliteration. Instead, they fought on. 
The underling warriors gave no thought to why they were defeating the dwarves when they had never done so in battles past. There were no such scores on Bish. Trinos had made it so. However, Scorch had caused an imbalance, which Trinos had to correct. There had always been an equalizer for good and evil on Bish. As the battle between these two forces swung back and forth over decades, centuries, and millennia, the score had remained the same—until Scorch decided to tilt the odds in a different favor. Although Trinos had now changed it back, Bish would never be the same. And to get things back on course, the equalizer of Bish had work to do, whether he knew it or not.

***
 
Venir ran over the terrain with the speed of a galloping horse. He could not comprehend how he had moved so far so fast, but it was beyond him to slow his pace. His body no longer seemed his own. He felt the strength and stamina of ten men in one. He was not the wind, but a gale. Not a river, but a waterfall. Not the rain, but a storm. His mind was a maelstrom of anger and violence. 
The spiked helm was strapped to his clenched jaw, and the eyelets burned like black fire. A streak of blackness filtered through the air behind him. His tattered clothing, grimy pants and bloodied boots whistled through the wind. With white knuckles he gripped Brool in his right hand, while his iron-banded shield was tucked into his side. He could see the underlings now, tiny little specks in the near distant Warfield, home of the fallen. He smelled them; he heard them; he loathed them … he wanted to annihilate them. 
He paid no notice the two brutish heads with pointed ears and long claws barking orders at the mass of battle ahead. The creatures were of the likes he had never seen before. Their backs were turned, and they screeched an awful sound as he ran past. The Vicious ran like lions on all fours, fanged mouths gnashing at his heels; but, he was only concerned with the embattled throng of underlings ahead. 
The two underling predators were fast enough to catch any human in seconds, yet they could not close in on The Darkslayer. They were close enough to see the wide V-shaped tattoo that stretched across his expansive back. Their cries were impassioned from behind, but now Venir was a human juggernaut that would not slow.
He felt a hunger, his meal just steps away. The dark underling bodies were a synchronized mass of skill, armor and steel. A singing Blood Ranger hurled two underlings over his head, even as their stabbing weapons pierced his belly, doubling him down.
Venir ran roughshod into the backs of the Badoons that pressed in on the small circle of Blood Rangers. Brool carved out a path of mangled little figures. Sinking the axe into the shocked bodies of the underling soldiers intoxicated him. With every stride, he became quicker and his body stronger. Dark bodies were falling in piles at his feet. Limbs were severed, bones shattered and throats punctured. 
Venir leapt high in the air, roaring his battle cry. He crashed like a great boulder, crushing two or three beneath him, while slamming into others with his shield. The front ranks of the underlings faltered as the Blood Rangers let out a cheer. Venir rolled across the hard dusty ground and sprang to his feet. Instantly, Brool became a whirling razor's edge of death. The Darkslayer had arrived. The underlings howled with their weapons raised in alarm. 
All pairs of colored underling eyes set on Venir. They looked like children with sharp toys pointed at him. They chittered back and forth. More cries rose up from the other side of their circle. In an instant, the mass swarmed him. Venir swept Brool into the first onslaught; the Blood Rangers anchored his sides. Within moments, the red-black blood of the underlings began spreading like spilled oil. 
Limbs fell. Heads rolled under the fury of the man’s corded arm. The underlings trampled over one another, alive or dead. Heavy dwarven blades cleaved into their bodies, but they continued to surge toward the man they hated beyond reason. Venir felt a few stinging blows, but more and more underlings fell mutilated at his feet. Brool’s sweeping twin blades were as fast as a pair of short swords, weaving back and forth, striking like snakes. Venir and his axe were one. An underling leaped out of the fray, latching itself onto his shield. A dwarven hand axe chopped into its back. The Vicious were far from the melee, screaming orders to their single-minded minions. Not a single head turned. Not a single order was obeyed. The fine-tuned Badoon Brigade was little more than a frenzied hoard. The ensuing chaos resembled rats in a whirlpool; the more they struggled and thrashed, the more useless their attacks became. On they came, and down they went. 
Venir’s body seemed to move with a mind of its own. His own consciousness hovered in his mind, but it was as if he watched another’s work unfold. Elation tingled up his spine. Wrath was rushing through his blood. Revenge was hot, not cold. He was a mass of muscle and mayhem, steel and stone. He split the face of an emerald-eyed underling. He was strong. He disemboweled another. He was invincible. He was outnumbered a hundred to one. Hah!
The surrounding Blood Rangers, exhausted and bleeding, but now inspired, did not hesitate to take hold of the new advantage. Heavy crossbow bolts rocked out again, penetrating the heads of underling warriors with unfailing accuracy. The Blood Rangers’ green and brown garb was now soaked red and black, their long beards dripping blood. Their hand axes chopped from all angles, slowing the underling pressure toward Venir. 
Still, the Badoon Brigade’s numbers were overwhelming. The Blood Rangers' heavy wounds began to take a toll on their valiant efforts. The underlings were only falling one by one now, rather than in heaps. 
Venir was now being swamped by a renewed surge that came upon him. He swung in large arcing circles at such speed that the Badoon underlings hesitated. One ventured inside the arcing perimeter, and Brool chopped its leg out from under it. Venir swiped his axe forward and backward in an unpredictable rhythm. The underlings darted back and forth, stabbing away. 
Venir felt a burning slash in his legs. He cried out as he crushed the underling's head with the edge of his shield. Another nipped in and out, only to have the tip of Brool’s spike tear out its knee. Poisoned bolts from underling crossbows zinged over his head. Venir could feel them from behind, looking for an opening on his back. Venir felt his boundless energy subsiding. His arms felt like anchors. His raging mind began to become his own. 
One moment, Venir seemed to be slaughtering at will, and the next moment there were none within striking distance. Gasping for air, he watched his remaining foes rush away.
Two black hulking creatures, as tall as men, were circling him now. They had fluid gates, flawless physiques, and fingers clutching open and closed like daggers. The Vicious were like nothing he had ever seen before. The invincible sensation was vanquished from his spine. Only courage remained. 
He stood covered from helm to toe in baking gore. His eyes shone like boiling blue water. The blackened steel of Brool glinted as he swung it like a sickle back and forth. His body and mind were pushed past their limits. Every wound festered and ached. Keep moving. His helm, axe, and shield would not relent. 
In unison, the armaments he had donned seemed to consume his whole body, driving him onward, without mercy. His mind screamed, wanting it all to end, once and for all, but he knew there was only one way it could ever end. Fight or die. It was time to dish out more revenge.
Venir leapt into action, charging after one Vicious only to be pursued by the other. The first Vicious whirled, readied hungry claws and teeth, and braced for the attack. Venir brought Brool full circle around his head, swinging hard over the creature's ducking head. Venir was astonished at the speed and agility of the brute that easily rolled away and popped up, beckoning for more.
The pursuing Vicious was pouncing at his back. Brool’s blade almost chopped it down, but it sprang away in a split second. Venir held his shield close, head looking back and forth. Whatever they were, they weren’t underlings. The helm offered him no help anticipating their moves. 
They rushed him. Brool cut and whirled in offense and defense, in short and long arcs, keeping the Vicious at bay. Venir shuffled over the dusty ground, grit blowing in his teeth as he gasped for breath. He strained with every swing, his boundless energy sapped.  The claws of the Vicious were managing a nick here and there, and more severe cuts followed. Venir groaned again. 
He saw their eyes, calm and evil, knowing they were wearing him down, like jackals and a wounded lion. Their claw marks burned. He bled freely, soaking the legs of his tattered pants. He chased, chopped and swung, but they danced away. Even his anger could not overcome the dizzying loss of strength he was experiencing. Still Brool burned in his grasp. 
He knew he was losing, but he hung on regardless, battling through the pain without any fear of dying. Death meant nothing but rest to him. He could bleed to death at their mercy, he surmised, or try to kill at least one of them before he went. Fight and die! Reaching deep within himself, he summoned all his anger and hatred for one more valiant onslaught.
He slung his shield into the fang-like teeth of the nearest Vicious, drawing a howl of pain and surprise. High over his head, Venir gripped Brool in two hands and wrenched it down with such speed and accuracy that the air winced at the blow. The Vicious dodged, losing its entire left leg in the effort. It cried out like a banshee. 
Defiant, the one-legged Vicious regained its balance and crouched to attack. Its stump showed not a drop of blood. As the Vicious leapt, Brool was chopping through the air and then slamming back down to the ground. Venir raised the axe and dropped it with furious strikes, pulverizing the writhing creature whose parts were being hacked off like chunks of wood. With a shudder, the creature's magical life force subsided forever. 
The final blows came at a great price. The remaining Vicious grappled Venir from behind. His shredded, battle-weary arms could swing no more. Venir let Brool slip from his shaking hand. He could feel the dead weight of the creature on his back. He felt the vile creature choking him and ripping his helmet from his head. 
The Vicious hung onto him like an enormous blood leach. Its sharp claws cut and bored under his skin like lances. The opened holes gushed blood. It was man versus Vicious now, skin on skin. Venir could feel icy breath on his neck and cold skin sliding on his back. Strong as tempered steel, the muscles of the creature squeezed him like a vice. He felt his blood-soaked hair being ripped from his head. His exhausted body could no longer respond to the demands of his angry mind. Venir had little fight left inside him, but it would have to be enough. The two thrashed about the barren rocky ground, entwined like pythons. Venir’s hard head, powerful elbows, and honed instincts kept the Vicious from taking complete control. Venir’s head butted under the creature's rock hard chin, drawing spots in his eyes. The Vicious twisted away, howling back at him in fury. Venir could not believe he still stood. He wiped the blood from his eyes. 
Little more than the span of a man separated the two warriors. The Vicious clicked his talon-like fingers together. Venir sucked his breath in with deep pain-filled draws, noticing the creature didn’t appear to have a scratch. He scanned the ground, but Brool was nowhere to be seen. He shook his mangled head, not knowing why the Vicious hadn’t finished him; maybe it was just punishing him first. 
This was it for him. The Warfield was his last stand. Letting out a final scream, Venir charged like an ox. The Vicious struck like a snake. Two clawed hands punctured him deep in his chest. He looked it in the eyes, choking down the urge to cry out. He clutched the evil thing’s throat in his powerful hands and squeezed with all his might. The eyes of the Vicious bulged from their sockets, and its black tongue gagged soundlessly. Blood and saliva spit from Venir’s lips as he wrenched the thing's iron neck with all his effort. 
Venir could see the hatred and mockery in its face as its eyes receded back into their sockets. The gaping maw of the Vicious turned into a smile. Venir’s grip went slack as his body became ashen. Every ounce of strength had been sapped from Bish’s ultimate survivor. He didn’t feel a thing when the creature hoisted him listless into the air, claws still buried to the knuckle in his chest. All he saw was the white hot light above. There was a rush of blue and brown as he was driven into the ground. He twitched like a fish out of water—his body stopped. Somewhere, somebody screamed. 

***

Chongo’s keen ears picked up on the battle from over a mile away. The big dog burst forward, heads howling in the wind. Mood was the first to see the carnage as they crested the ridge above The Warfield. Melegal was riding Quickster right on his heels. They charged into the scene. Someone was screaming. They all saw Venir’s battered body pushed high in the air and slammed into the ground. 
Mood leapt from Chongo’s back and began bludgeoning the clinging Vicious with the backs of his big hand axes. The creature was balled up over Venir, claws still sunk deep in his sides. Mood’s pounding did nothing to loosen the creature’s death grip. The Vicious scowled at Mood as it hung onto Venir like a giant black tick. Mood tried the blades of his axes, but his dwarven steel had no effect. The thick skin of the Vicious showed no sign of blood.
“What in the seven cities of Bish is this thing?” Mood bellowed. The giant dwarf began pounding the evil thing on the head with his fists, avoiding the mess of Venir’s gaunt face. Chongo barked and bit, but the Vicious just tightened its grip. 
“Vee!” Georgio screamed, rushing to his hero’s side. The big boy jammed his sword into the creature's back. The Vicious let out a terrific scream of pain, but still it held on.
“Gimme that, Boy!”
Mood snatched the sword away from the big boy and began jabbing the monster. It shrieked in pain, each poke going deeper. Finally, letting go in a howl of rage, it jumped away. 
Chongo and Mood had the Vicious surrounded, their feet shuffling, cutting off any avenue of escape. Chongo managed to bite deep into its leg and hold it, while Mood slashed it deep in the chest. The Vicious drove its claws into Chongo. The big dog yelped and let go. But the furious Vicious remained at bay, with the dog and dwarf in relentless attack.
Melegal slipped past the melee and knelt at Venir’s side. The man was caked with blood and dirt, face almost unrecognizable. The thief tore off a sleeve from his shirt, then struggled to figure out which place to bandage first. 
“Vee, what do you need?” 
Melegal’s voice was dry and pleading. Venir was pale, his eye lids fluttering, his breath shallow and raspy. Venir’s lips were moving, so Melegal leaned his ear over his mouth. 
“Helm.” 
This single, almost inaudible word was all his busted lips could muster. Melegal’s head snapped up. 
“Georgio! Lefty! Find his helmet now!” 
The boys were a frenzy of action. Georgio appeared, dragging Brool along Venir’s side. 
“I said helmet, Georgio!”
Not appearing to notice the words, the boy just kneeled alongside Venir. Lefty appeared with the helmet.
Blinking, Melegal struggled to slip the helmet on his friend’s sticky and matted head. There was no response from Venir, whose eyes remained closed. His breathing appeared to have stopped. Melegal slipped the helmet’s buckle under Venir’s chin.
“Is he going to die?” Georgio asked, tears running from his eyes. 
Melegal had nothing but a pallid look on his face. A current of emotion stirred inside of the thief, who ran his hand along his friend's arm. He was empty. Lefty was curled up on the ground, weeping, body turned away from the sight. Melegal could hear Georgio’s pleading words. 
“No! No! No!”


CHAPTER 71

Lord Verbard’s moment of triumph had come. He didn’t care about anything other than the destruction of The Darkslayer. The Vicious had his enemy surrounded, but he didn’t care about them. His brother Catten would have to understand. Every battle has casualties. He summoned bolts of bright energy that coiled along his robed arms. Catten turned toward him, gold eyes knowing of his intent, lips mouthing the word, “Yes!” Feeling their unity was complete, Verbard turned his focus back to The Warfield.
Verbard took another glance at his brother, who whirled at him, face full of surprise. Verbard felt a bolt of pain as two swords burst through the front of his chest. The appearance of the Nameless Two could not have come at a worse time. Verbard looked down at the dark red steel jutting from his chest. It disappeared as they wrenched it out of him.  Falling to his knees, Verbard murmured under his lips, and a shimmering magic coat formed around his body. 
He watched the robed warriors dart toward Catten, blades high and low. Catten raised his hands, igniting the Nameless Two’s heads in flame. In shock, Verbard watched the sandaled pair press silently forward, blades still poised in the air. 
“Catten, help me!” Verbard cried out the best he could while trying to wipe the blood from his chest. His wounds were critical. He couldn’t focus enough to summon the words that would stop him from bleeding to death. 
Catten waved his hands, raising the Nameless Two off the ground. With another wave, Catten sent both figures sprawling out of the mouth of the cave, over the hillside, and hurtling down to the hard ground below. 
When Verbard looked up, Catten was by his side, whispering in his ear. He could feel his gaping skin closing up, the pain subsiding from his body. His internal bleeding had slowed, but the wounds were still grave. The underlings were not known for their healing. Verbard would need more help. He had to get back home.
Verbard saw the grave look in his brother’s eye. His situation was more serious than he was ever accustomed to. Something else flickered in the gold rim of his brother's eyes, too. Now would be an excellent opportunity for Catten to kill him. In Catten's place, would he not be tempted to do the same? Verbard watched with caution as Catten walked back over to the ledge of the cave mouth and let out a shriek.  
Somehow, Verbard dragged himself up to his feet and took several agonizing steps back to the ledge. “What now? Have they not yet killed him?”He was aghast. He saw one Blood Ranger and the two-headed dog fighting the lone Vicious. The man was lying still on the ground, surrounded by crying faces. Please be dead! His evil face soured when he saw that the Blood Rangers were routing the Badoon underlings. At his side, Catten trembled with rage. 
“We have to finish him now, Verbard. Not a shred shall remain,” Catten said. “We may not get another chance!”
Verbard was grim. He needed all of his energy to keep his own heart beating.
“I have nothing for you, Brother,” said Verbard. “I need all my strength to get home. Do what you can, and do it now.” 
The air began to shimmer with energy as Catten began a new incantation. Verbard felt The Darkslayer’s end drawing near.


CHAPTER 72

Venir felt nothing. He heard nothing. He saw nothing. Everything he was seemed to seep somewhere else. There were memories, faces and moments drifting in his mind. It all appeared in a distant haze, only to break up like smoke in the wind. He was ready to go to the abyss of the unknown …. 
Thump. He heard a faint heartbeat and felt the burning of his skin mending together. Thump-Thump! His heartbeat grew louder and faster, his blood igniting everything from his head to his toes. The sounds of battle in his ears awoke him from the darkness. Cries and sobs were nearby. Something powerful felt white hot on his head, but it didn’t burn. His eyes snapped open to the blood-smeared and bewildered face of Melegal.
Venir gasped in a huge gulp of air, and his color began to return. He lurched upright into a sitting position and rose to his feet. His blazing eyes searched for the creature that almost put him in the grave. It was there, trapped between two of his oldest friends. His helmet was no longer white hot. His mind was his own again, and his body was whole. The Darkslayer was back.
Venir extended his hand to Georgio. 
“Give me my axe, Boy.”
The boy dropped the handle in his awaiting hand. 
The Vicious chomped its jaws up and down, baring its teeth. Venir rushed out to greet it. Unfettered, he was determined to kill it. It hissed and then surged his way. Venir braced himself, arms springs of steel, axe ready to split the monster like a log. A loud chime of warning rang inside his head. 
Thunder cracked from a distant rocky hilltop, and lightning exploded beneath his feet in a blinding flash. Everyone was knocked to the ground, and chunks of rock and debris were falling from the air. Venir was down and stunned. The thunder continued to roll. Winds swirled above the battlefield. He could hear Chongo howling as he struggled back onto his feet. Whatever sent the magic must have missed. 
The others lay still on the ground, struggling to regain their feet. Venir could see Mood, Melegal and Lefty, but where was Georgio? There was a clicking sound coming from nearby. The Vicious had seized its opportunity and snatched up the curly-locked Georgio by the neck. It was dangling the screaming and kicking boy in front of his eyes. Venir saw Georgio’s face going purple as he stood there dumbfounded. 
The Vicious hissed out an evil laugh and ran a clawed finger across the boy’s throat, cutting it wide open. Venir felt like he had been stabbed in the heart. He cried out, “NOOO!” 
It dropped Georgio to the ground, where he lay in a growing pool of his own blood. Delighted, the Vicious was snickering in its own evil way. Melegal and Lefty screamed. Mood howled in outrage. Venir went on a rampage. The cackling monster ducked and dodged from Venir’s blade. Brool’s keen edge got closer and closer with each swing. Venir wasn’t going to let it get away. He would have vengeance. The Vicious could not run, for Mood and Chongo kept it corralled. It had no choice but to face Venir. 
Then, quick as a cobra, the powerful creature leapt at Venir, hands clutching for his throat. 
SLICE!
One Vicious hand was gone, but another came.
SLICE! 
Off came the other. The Vicious wailed in rage.
RIP!
The mocking maw of the evil creature fell to the ground.
CHOP!
CHOP!
Brool cut into bone and marrow.
CHOP!
CHOP!
CHOP!
That was for Georgio.
It was over in a few seconds. The Vicious moved no more. 
It had all happened so fast, but it had seemed much longer. Nothing remained of the Vicious but a blackened heap and two severed hands. 
All the while, Melegal held Georgio’s limp body in his arms, his head in his lap, with Lefty giving what aid and comfort he could. Tears were streaming down Lefty’s face. His makeshift bandages were soaked red around Georgio’s neck. Melegal’s face was filled with anguish. 
Venir rushed to the boy’s side. Georgio’s face was sunken and listless. 
Lefty cried, “You have to save him! He can’t die!” 
Venir took off his helmet and lowered it toward his young friend’s head. Tears and sweat streaked down his grimy cheeks. He was torn with his own personal agony. 
Yet, before the helmet touched him, the boy coughed up blood, and then some more. Melegal pulled the boy up and patted him on the back. Georgio screamed.
“Save me, Vee! Save me!” 
Venir dropped the helmet and grabbed the boy in his arms.
“Georgio, you’re alive!” 
Venir’s eyes were as wide as the boy's. 
“Let me see your neck!” 
He gently removed the bandages. The boy’s neck was caked with drying blood, but the nasty slash was closed and healed, almost as if nothing had happened. Venir fell back onto his seat in rapture. 
“By the giants of Bish! You’re a Regener, Georgio! You’re gonna be fine, Boy!” 
Georgio hugged him tightly, crying and refusing to let go. Venir let the boy get it all out. 
“He’s a what?” asked Melegal, busy trying to rub the filth off his clothes.
“He’s a self-healer; he regenerates. I kinda suspected it long ago. Anyway, he’s gonna be your friend for a long, long time, Melegal. I don’t think we could get rid of Georgio if we tried! And I wouldn’t want to, either!” he said, still hugging the boy and rubbing his head.
“Oh great,” Melegal said, keeping his head down, trying to hide his watery eyes. Mood showed a glint of yellow teeth behind his bearded face. Lefty jumped onto Georgio’s back, shouting with glee, while Chongo was busy devouring the remains of the Vicious. That’s when Venir noticed that they all were gathered around the edge of smoldering crater. He grabbed his helmet and axe. 


CHAPTER 73

“I cannot believe this, Verbard. I cannot believe this,” Catten said, shouting and trembling in outrage. “We had him, Catten. We had him. And now we have lost a brigade of our finest underling fighters, as well as two of Master Sinway’s precious pets, the Vicious. My spell did not make a direct hit! It faltered!” Catten spluttered, dumbfounded. “And that human boy appears to have revived!” “Something has changed this day, Brother,” Verbard’s voice was weak and raspy. “Something does not add up. Does that make sense to you?” “Yes, I think it does. You have no time to spare, however. We must go now.” 
Verbard was relieved at his brother’s words. He had no desire to die at The Warfield. Nodding, he offered what magic power he could. The two brothers concentrated and blinked out of the cave. It was the first step of a strenuous journey back to the Underland.


CHAPTER 74

No more lightning came from the distance, and Venir sensed no more danger nearby. Only a smoking pit of busted rock and shining globs of glass remained. Instead of more fighting, he put his newfound energy to use in aiding those who were left alive. 
Only four Blood Rangers remained at The Warfield, plus their king, Mood. In no other battle had more than two Blood Rangers ever died. But not a single underling hunter from the Badoon Brigade remained. Venir's arrival had enabled the Blood Rangers to rally and carve up the underlings who foundered. 
Still, the loss of eight Blood Rangers did not seem possible, and Mood was left wondering about this. The past few days had seen strange events that many people of all races everywhere on Bish had begun to take note of, including the halfling Lefty Lightfoot.
Georgio was shaken, but the curvy dwarven ladies cleaned him up and calmed him with their soothing touches. Melegal, Lefty, Mood, and Venir were all amazed that he lived and had not the slightest scar as evidence that he had almost died. 
Venir himself had scars all over, but the ones inflicted by Vicious would prove the worst of them all. Venir’s thoughts went back to the lightning.
“Did anyone notice where that lightning came from?” he asked.
“I saw it come from that mountain hill,” Georgio said, pointing. 
“I wonder if that’s something we need to check out. Any ideas?” Venir said.
Melegal didn’t hesitate to offer.
“Let’s get back to Bone. That’s been my idea all along.” The thief had a cheerful sound in his voice, perhaps because he was sipping on a flask of dwarven ale. 
“Well, as I recall, it was your idea to leave Bone in the first place. And look at you, not a scratch on you anywhere!” Venir said, taking the buckskin flask from his friend and sucking it dry. 
“It was your fault we had to leave. And I do my best to avoid wounds, unlike you, the human pincushion.”
“Come to think of it, I don’t even remember why we left!” Venir said, tossing the thief the empty flask.
“I’ll refresh your memory on the way back, then.” 
A dwarven woman with big hips and thick lips, standing almost four feet tall, brought him another flask and began rubbing his shoulders. The thief was putty in her strong little hands.
“Thanks, Melegal.” Venir said, “I’m looking forward to it already.”
“Can I come?”
Lefty Lightfoot had been so quiet he was all but forgotten; he had been busy writing something all along. Venir and Melegal looked at each other.
“Shall we let Georgio decide?” suggested Venir.
“Oh … he’s definitely coming!” The big boy was rubbing his neck and looking all about. “But what about the mountain that shoots lightning?”
“It doesn’t appear to be shooting lightning right now, and I don’t feel like fighting any mountains tonight,” Venir answered. He just wanted to put this entire saga behind him. He'd had enough sun and sand to last a lifetime. But he knew such was his life on Bish. 
“Me either,” Georgio said. “And I really hate underlings now, Vee. I’m glad I’m not dead. I‘d have missed you guys. What would’ve happened if I was dead?” 
Venir shrugged. He had no answer for that. 
“Let’s have no more close calls, Georgio. Let’s get you back home, safe and sound. But we’ll take a trip back to the big city first. Sound good?”
“Yes!” Georgio, Lefty, and Melegal all agreed.


CHAPTER 75

Royal Lord Almen had been so busy that he had not given much thought to the absence of McKnight, Oran, and Tonio. But now he began to wonder if he would ever see them again. His son Tonio had been the pride of Castle Almen, and although his new condition did not bode well for him, Tonio could still be useful. 
Detective McKnight had always been a resourceful ally and henchman. His loss would be difficult to replace. It was something Almen did not need at the moment, while he was under pressure from rival houses. He needed all of the loyal bodies he could find, and his son and McKnight were two of them. 
Underling Oran he could do without, however, for he could not be trusted. It had occurred to Almen when they left that it might be the last time he saw any of them. He hoped that he had not been right. In the meantime, he got back to his normal daily activities. He would find out about them soon enough, he decided.

***

McKnight’s body lay motionless and still. Paralyzed and in pain, he was wheezing softly through his nose. The poison hadn’t killed him, but he wished it had. Night had fallen, and a sound foreign to his ears began to crawl inside his brain. Several spider-like beings the size of large dogs scurried down the massive trees and surrounded him. These strange creatures had never before been seen on Bish. They had the bodies of tarantulas, but the torsos, heads and arms of humans. The vile faces of these creatures were like those of other men on Bish, except that they had eyes like those of insects. Two small antennas protruded from their heads, which were covered in jet-black hair. They carried small spears and had no need for clothing.
McKnight tried to recoil, but they dragged him along the ground. He thought he caught a glimpse of a man’s face staring back at him. He didn’t realize it was Tonio. Two of the arachna-men lifted each body off the ground, while two others stood before the men and began blowing at them. 
McKnight felt himself spinning around. The creatures opened their mouths wide, and threads of spider silk emerged to wind around him. No! No! Noooo! Enclosed in a cocoon, he was gathered up and carried high into the giant tree tops of the great forest. 


CHAPTER 76

A fresh pot of coffee brewed in the apartment room above the Drunken Octopus inside the City of Bone. The room had little of worth: a small cupboard alongside an iron stove, a round table and four hapless chairs, a couple of cots and some blankets and pillows. It was very warm, but compared to the Outlands it was paradise. 

Lefty Lightfoot took up the least amount of room. He was sitting cross-legged in a corner, deftly writing on a sheet of parchment. He felt compelled to chronicle all that they had done. He asked question after question of Venir in particular, and Venir was more than happy to answer. The big man enjoyed having his own personal scribe, and Lefty found him very entertaining after his reveling. It took some getting used to, but Lefty began to feel safe inside of the City of Bone. He had friends there he knew he could count on. 

Melegal lay stretched out on his cot, a jug of wine by his side, the smell of sweet perfume on his clothes. The women of Bone had something to offer that he swore he’d never part with again. If someone came for him again, he’d crawl into the sewers first. But maybe, just maybe he’d adventure to the City of Three. 
Melegal had run out of complaints about the last adventure, and decided to give Venir a break. He couldn’t help but notice that his friend had suffered more than he let on. The wounds from the last battle ran deep, and the near loss of Georgio had frightened them all. But it was clear that Venir was affected the most. Every day, Venir swore he’d take Georgio home, but he couldn’t do it, much to Melegal’s chagrin. The boy wasn’t half bad, though. At least he made a good pot of coffee, not that Melegal ever said so.

Georgio was not much worse for wear. He sat at the round table and sliced his finger open with a knife. It hurt, more like a sting, but then he watched the wound close in seconds. It amazed him every time. He stuffed his third piece of pie in his face and washed it down with a glass of warm milk in one big gulp. Then he patted his belly. The Warfield was more than a memory now. From time to time, he woke up at night coated in sweat and screaming. But a friend was always there, and getting back to sleep was never a problem. 

Venir sat at the small table as well, smiling at Georgio. He was having a conversation with Georgio, but not listening to a word the boy had to say. Instead, he wondered how many underlings he had killed and how many more he still had to kill. He didn’t realize it was something he had never thought about before. He reached over to the stove and grabbed the pot of coffee, refilling his cup.
Venir was protective of the people in this room. Guilt had crept inside him and responsibility ate at him. He wasn’t comfortable with such thoughts. A man of the Outlands couldn’t survive with such soft feelings. Bish took who it pleased, and there was nothing he could do about that. Just smile and laugh, an old friend had told him, it makes people think everything is all right. 
Recreation and relaxation wasn’t such a bad thing, either. The women and ale had never tasted sweeter. Venir watched Georgio go over and lay down on the blankets beside his cot. The boy would be fine. He got up, heading for the door, and Melegal’s soft footsteps fell in behind. Lefty waved his feathered quill, and out the door they went. 

The changed world of Bish would not wait long before thrusting its greatest hero, The Darkslayer, back into the field. The days ahead would all be different now, more treacherous than before. Scorch had sent ripples of change throughout the world, and nothing could turn them back.  The mystic leather sack lay undisturbed underneath Venir’s cot. Inside its sanctuary, the shield, the helm, and his great axe Brool lay quietly waiting to be called upon again. But someone who had once possessed the armament was on a mission to find them again. 


CHAPTER 77

It took everything underling Lord Catten had not to shake. He had been on a single knee, beaten and stripped, head down, for what seemed to be days. All he heard was his brother’s ragged breath, kneeling by his side, trembling and sick. Verbard had been healed soon after they made their return back to the Underland. Verbard’s body had paid a price, and Catten could only see a dull reflection in his brother’s once bright silver eyes. 
It was little more than two days after they returned home that the rumors were full blown. Catten knew full well that their colossal failure had spread throughout the under realm. He and his brother avoided their kin as best they could, but they couldn’t hide forever. Master Sinway called them to his throne. He had been kneeling in silence ever since, every joint in his body aching. Only the use of his magic allowed him to maintain the uncomfortable position. A drop of sweat fell from his brow, the first one in days. Catten tried to imagine what the underling master had in store for them next. Would he have to fight his brother to the death, be devoured by cave dogs, dropped in the caves of infernos, or skin flayed from his face and back for all to see? The punishment for failure was always extreme. A beating was little punishment if any at all, still his pulped face ached. If only his fool of a brother hadn’t been so careless and gotten stabbed, this all would have been over. 
Ahead of him, Catten could feel the mighty presence of Master Sinway, bearing down on his bowed head. The master of all underlings sat in robes blacker than night, on a large throne carved from rock and filled with scintillating metals and stones. The three of them were all alone. Catten wanted to grovel, but not doing so was his best hope. All he could do was wait. 
Master Sinway’s voice was soft and powerful, sending shivers into his core. “Do you have another plan?”
“Yes,” Catten managed to reply.
Catten felt his body lifted up and hurled through the room in a rush of wind. He landed hard on the ground. When he looked up, he saw a glimpse of his master on the throne as two towering metal doors slammed closed.
I’m alive! Catten couldn’t believe it. He looked over at his brother’s busted figure, struggling to rise from the floor. Catten heard his brother chitter as he floated away. 
“He must be getting soft.”
Catten couldn’t disagree more.


EPILOGUE
(Jarla The Brigand Queen and the Origin of Venir The Darkslayer)

CHAPTER 1

Venir waded in the cool silver stream, checking the trout snares he had set at the end of the previous day. His long straw hair was pulled back into a ponytail that hung to shoulder length. A fisherman since birth, the twelve-year-old fished like a man of thirty. He wore only a pair of brown cotton trousers rolled up above his ankles as he sloshed into the water.
His gritty fingers gathered fishing line from a large pouch on his belt. He cut the line with a very long hunting knife and sheathed it back at his side. It had been his grandfather’s, and he wore it with pride. His young muscles were fluid and supple as he moved the trout out of the traps, into nets, and into sacks for transport. It was hard work, but it had its rewards, for some of the fish he brought home were grilled or baked into delicious meals. He swore he could smell it cooking now. He had never missed such a feast.  
With a smile, he hefted two large half-filled sacks over his back and whistled an ancient song of cheer. He heard a dog barking. What now? From somewhere upstream, his agitated dog was coming toward him. Unworried, he wandered up to find out what was upsetting his pet. The ordinary reddish brown dog appeared along the stream bank, barking at something floating down the rippling waters. Venir set down his sacks with a grunt and waded into the water to try to catch it. 
“It’s just a stick, Chongo! Quit barking,” he said in an irritated voice. 
He knew he had to check it out or else his pooch would follow it to the mouth of the river, miles away.  He remembered the last time they took a long trip down stream together. He had almost drowned and never come back. His family had thought he would never fish again after that, but the incident only enhanced his resolve. 
Peering upstream, he noticed some darkening of the water. Slowly, it started flowing past him, becoming thicker, darker, and reddish. He focused on the object floating toward him, where Chongo splashed and barked in the water nearby. He grabbed it when it came within reach, and gasped in horror. It was a leg, a human leg—or so it appeared—pale and clammy like a fish belly. He slung it as far away as he could. The dog was howling now, but recoiled from crossing the now reddening water. 
He tried to gather his thoughts, but only numbness and confusion set in. Something unnatural crawled inside him. Standing in that water that was becoming something else shook the very innocence of his being. The once refreshing stream that had fed him all of his life had filled with blood, and he ran out of it screaming. The young fisherman tingled from head to toe. He knew that something was amiss … something awful. 
“Chongo, come! We have to get home!” he yelled as they sprinted back toward the village. 
It was not long before he heard the sounds: shrieks and wails gripped him with fear, but his legs pumped faster and faster. His imagination was paralyzed in terror. Billows of thick smoke began to burn his nostrils and water his eyes as he approached his home. The paths became more distinct, and his pace made the wind whistle in his ears. Screams of agony and terror filled his ears. His stomach was turning. Tears streaked down his face. He wiped them from his eyes and forged ahead. 
Chongo burst toward the center of the village, barking. Venir’s burning blue eyes lit upon furry, black and grey hawk-nosed humanoids who were running wild through his village with bloodied weapons and dismembered body parts. They were smaller in size and frame than men, but he knew what they were. He didn’t know how he knew, but these were underlings. Venir had heard enough terrible stories about Bish’s Underland to know what to expect at the sight of an underling. Hearing about the foul menace at campfires was nothing compared to seeing them in action. It was overwhelming. 
He froze, trying to comprehend the black and bloody madness surrounding him. Women, children, men, friends, and family were dead, dying, bleeding or crying. They ran all about in desperation, trying to evade their pursuers, only to be cut down. The villagers had been taken by surprise, and anyhow their weapons were little match for underling magic and steel. Many lay in bloodied heaps on the ground. 
Venir was frozen amid the chaos surrounding him. Something was coming his way. He gripped the hilt of his ancient knife. An underling hunter rushed directly into his path and screamed in his face. The underling’s face was covered with thin fur and blood. It bared its sharpened gray teeth and raised an odd shaped dagger before him. Venir struck. His hunting knife tore out the throat of the surprised underling, who gurgled and fell into its own pool of dark blood. 
Venir was in motion: running, screaming and slashing at the wild horde. He felt his long blade sink deep into flesh and bone. Howls of pain and fury assaulted him. The heat that had surged through him from fear now fueled something else as he punched holes into the dark bodies of his enemies. In the confusion, many underlings backed away, staring back and forth at one another with uncertainty. Amid the smoke, fire and chaos, the underling hunters faced the wild slashing boy. A couple of them were felled by his anger. 
The seasoned underling hunters barked out commands, surrounding him. Venir squared up to three underlings in his path, swinging and stabbing with all of his heart. They parried his attacks, toying with him, chittering in mockery, awaiting their moment. Wearing black armor and cloaks, they brandished weapons of all sorts, and stared at him with scintillating eyes of everlasting evil. Venir fought on, determined to spill their blood. But as quickly as it had started, it ended. Several poisoned darts hit his exposed body. He burned inside for a moment, and then his limbs went numb. He fell backward onto the ground, cold and stiff. 
Before his frozen gaze he saw the sneering faces of underlings passing by. He heard himself being dragged across the bloodied grass. He could hear their mocking; smell their sweat and dark blood. They did painful things to him, but he felt no fear of them. His smoldering will protected him from utter despair. The moments became like hours, tortuous and dragging as he heard the sounds of shovels digging into the ground. One shovelful at a time punched into the dirt nearby, a sound that ground into his brain like a chisel. What had happened to his family and Chongo? He did not know. It was time to cry, but no tears came. Mother? Father? Where are you? 
Venir was grabbed by his feet and turned around. He was able to see many more of the bodies of his people. The underling with the shovel walked back into his line of sight and sneered. Raising the spade over its head, it began bashing his people one by one. They all died before his eyes in a heartless and cruel moment of twisted triumph. His heart cried out, bursting inside his chest, burning with fire, and as it all came to an end, a single tear ran down his grimy cheek. The underling chittered with laughter, laid the bloody shovel down before Venir’s eyes, and dragged him away. As he passed, he could see dozens of bodies, buried head first in the ground, with only their legs sticking out. Buried alive? No! No! No! 
His limp body was pitched face first into a man-sized ditch. In a final tortuous twist of fate, the dirt hole became his personal grave. He could hear it being filled in, helpless to stop it, shovelful by shovelful. Each heap of dirt brought him closer and closer to his very last moments on Bish. Soon, the light was no more. He was finally covered and laid to rest, not hopeless but angry. The blackness suffocated him, but his rage burned bright until the end. Yet, without oxygen, all fires extinguish, and the young hunter from the village of Throhm blacked out.

***
 
He heard something. A popping and cracking sounded from somewhere. He felt grit in his eyes and struggled to wipe it out. He was lying on rugged ground. A blurry image of a man with bushy hair squatted by the fire with a slab of meat roasting on a spit. Venir tried to move toward the fire, but he only managed to let out a feeble groan. The stocky figure turned his way as something else stepped into his view and licked his face. He wasn’t sure what it was. He heard a deep voice rumble in his ears.
“Yer gawn bee fine, Boy,” a rough unfamiliar voice said.
Venir shivered.


CHAPTER 2

Despite the tragedy during his boyhood, more than ten seasons later Venir's spirit remained unbroken. His freedom among the cities, forests and dry lands kept a grim smile on his face most of the time. A good meal and a comfortable place to sleep was more than enough to satisfy him. And so, with trial, he lived on.

***
 
Where the thick forests ended and the harsh grit of the Outlands met, the young outlander had settled in at Two-Ten City. Inside the falling city—an unimpressive tavern called the Orc’s Elbow—he was carrying on with his colleagues. It was an unusual oaken tavern with a grimy gray-brown exterior, in a two-story building with few support walls. It had the appearance that the second story would tumble down at any moment.
Despite its name, no full orcs were to be found inside. The tavern’s previous owner, a full orc, had wagered the Orc's Elbow on a fight between Venir and another. The orcen man had lost. Since then, not a single full orc had re-entered it. Venir had been comrades with the new owner, Billip, ever since. 
“So Billip, what’s the wager tonight?” he said as he sat his big body on a groaning stool. The man behind the bar sent a fresh mug of mead sliding his way.
“Ah, wouldn’t you like in on the action! Well, I’ll tell you. I’ve got ten good gold against Melegal. That dirty donkey of his will be mine if he can’t throw a bulls-eye, blindfolded, from ten paces.” Billip cracked his knuckles, grinning with greed. 
Also sitting at the bar, a lean figure in loose fitting clothes looked up and rolled his eyes. Billip glared at the skinny man. Billip fidgeted. His dark eyes always seemed to be calculating odds under his mop of short black hair. Nothing appeared extraordinary about his stout, wiry frame or his weathered skin as he moved with fluid purpose about the bar. The tavern owner was a tireless tracker and an unrivaled archer, and as loyal a man as could be found on Bish. Older than Venir, Billip had much more experience as a soldier, a trader, and a gambler, which was what might have led to him living in Two-Ten City in the first place. 
The scout kept his private thoughts to himself and never confirmed it, but Venir suspected that Billip had got in over his head somewhere along the line. The security of this undesirable multi-humanoid city was as good a place to hide as any. 
The other man at the bar pulled his sleeves up along his bony wrists, adjusted his floppy hat, and savored his purple wine. Billip dug around under the bar and produced a black cloth. Venir, comfortable in his spot, slurped his mead and watched.
Melegal pushed himself away from the bar, walked over to Billip, and stood as still as a crane. Billip strapped the thick black cloth around the man’s narrow head and stepped back. 
Melegal now stood blindfolded as the barkeeper walked over to the adjacent wall. Billip outlined a large gold talent with a white piece of chalk. Venir could see the blinded man’s ear bend as the raunchy tavern dwellers closed in. Melegal stiffened, but Venir cleared his throat a few times, and the thief’s rigid posture loosened. Being blindfolded wasn’t something one normally did in treacherous taverns, but the gold made it worth the risk. Venir bristled in his chair, and the audience regressed their crowding. They all had enemies, and no one was ever safe, especially in Two-Ten City.
“Listen now, Melegal. Let me remind you of the rules. Your hit has to be inside the mark,” Billip rapped his knuckle on the spot, “… not touching it. Not even close to touching it!” 
Melegal smirked and drew a short flat throwing dagger from inside his shirt. The betting crowd quieted to a hush. With a flick of his wrist, Melegal’s dagger sliced the air and landed with a loud thunk, dead center as Billip jerked away his calloused fingers.
“I didn’t say go yet!” 
Venir was laughing out loud. He couldn’t remember the last time he had done so. When the others got over their amazement they began laughing, too. Billip snatched the dagger out of the wall and threw it into the floor.
“You wait until I say go—and you don’t get to use your own dagger! That’s cheating, and you didn’t let me finish the rules. Don’t move!” Billip said as he scurried away with a furrowed brow.
Melegal waited, hands on hips, sighing while his challenger hunted, crashed and cursed from back inside the kitchen. The barkeep returned, showing a thin row of white teeth, and placed an object in Melegal’s waiting hand. 
This should be good, Venir thought, leaning back on the bar. 
The blindfolded man ran his delicate fingers over the object and twirled it around with a scowl. Melegal said, “Are you expecting me to throw a wood-handled steak knife into that wall?”
“Sure,” Billip answered with cheer. 
“Surely you jest?” 
“I don’t’ jest when it comes to my wages. House rules. My house. My rules.”
“It doesn’t even have a point. Its round on the end,” Melegal said, fingering the edge. “I’m surprised you didn’t give me a spoon. This is ridiculous.”
“Too bad. Double or nothing. No—triple! Make your throw or give me your mule—plus ten gold!”
Venir covered his mouth as he saw Melegal bustle at the remark. The two challengers burst into a flurry of unpleasant words. Venir knew Billip was trying to get inside Melegal's head. There had been a hot issue between the two for some time over the pack animal called Quickster. The two argued another five minutes over the issue of true ownership. He watched the agitated men, wondering who would swing first. Someone else from the crowd told them to shut up and get it over with or they would all leave. As quick as it started, it was over. The two men then got back to business, but both men’s lips were turned tight. Billip looked over at him and shrugged. Nice try, Venir thought.“Wait until I say go,” Billip added.
“I’m waiting,” the thief replied. 
Billip paced about, checking the blindfold until he was satisfied. The room was tingling with anticipation. The crowd was shuffling coins between eager hands. Billip the barkeep raised his arms and voice.
“Well enough—Go!”
The knife flicked out of the man’s hand like a snake’s tongue and lodged itself inside the circle. The knife handle hung down at an angle, but held firm to the wall. The crowd cheered.
“Nooo!” Billip fell to his knees, holding his head, teeth clenched. “How did he do that? He does it every time. He’s gotta miss one of these days!” 
Billip tugged at his black hair, screamed, and stormed into the kitchen. A loud crash came from behind the wall. His staff rushed out with ashen faces.
The tavern erupted with praise and laughter as Melegal joined Venir at the bar.
“Good show, Melegal,” he said, refilling the rogue's wine glass. 
“Indeed,” the man said, saluting back before slinging the blindfold away. 
Billip resurfaced and dropped his coins on the bar. The man’s cheeks had cooled, and he didn’t watch as the coins disappeared faster than they appeared. The two men gave a quick nod to one another
“Come on,” Billip said, motioning with his head. Venir and Melegal followed him to a more discrete booth near the back end of the bar. 
“All right, so what’s the big news?” Venir asked in an eager voice, while Melegal fingered a piece of his winnings, drawing a hard look from the barkeep.
Billip turned to Venir, scratching his head. 
“You know, I love the Outlands and the forests and all, but I don’t see how you live out there as long as you do and survive. Don’t you miss the comforts of the city? The food and companionship? The girls keep asking me where my tawny-headed friend is. I ain’t got time to answer to your whereabouts all the time. I’m not your keeper, you know.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Melegal added.
Venir shrugged. They never understood before, so why bring it up now? 
“Someone’s got to keep tabs on the underlings.” 
Billip just shook his head and said, “I don’t understand you.”
Venir beckoned for the man to continue.
Billip started popping his knuckles. 
“Anyway, things are stirring up around here. I’m not used to it. A detestable bunch of mercenaries—not at all like us—are doing a lot of recruiting here in Two-Ten. Some of our fellows say they’re paying well—extremely well—and some have even joined up.” 
A steaming meal of steak and potatoes arrived with a strong-smelling pot of coffee. The powerful aroma roused his senses; Venir hadn’t had any in weeks. He took a few welcome gulps of his fresh brew straight from the pot.“Ah” he moaned. Too long. Venir topped off his mug and shrugged again. “That’s it? More mercenaries for hire? Just Royals up to their dirty tricks, somewhere. I don’t see the big deal—”
“I’m not finished,” Billip stammered, almost spilling his glass, “… mind your elder, Venir. I’ve been chatting them up when they ask for people, and Melegal has been listening in, too. They keep pretty hush-hush about their purposes, but we’re pretty sure we’ve figured it out.”
Venir leaned back in his chair and took a long hot sip.
“Well, what?” he asked.
“You sure you wanna know?’
“Yes, Big Brother. What is it?”
Billip’s voice was excited as he continued. 
“They’re raising a brigand army of the likes never before seen on Bish. I’m talking at least three hundred brigands. And they ain’t all human, either. They send humans to recruit, but it’s the orcs that are leaving in masses, more so than men.
“Great! The fewer full orcs in Two-Ten the better. What’s the problem?”
“They’re being led by a woman—a human woman.” 
There was a moment of pause. 
Venir tugged on the locks of his braided hair that hung over his shoulder. “A woman? That can’t be. And it’s hardly an army. Maybe a small one. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
Melegal interjected. 
“It’s true, Vee. They call her Jarla, the Brigand Queen. They revere her. They say she started with a small band near the White Blaze Pass beyond the Underland, and she’s been slowly carving her way through Bish for years. According to her men, they’ve been devastating merchant trains, human settlements, and even Royal outposts.” 
Melegal kept his voice at a harsh whisper as a group of merchants glanced their way.
“Now, that’s not normal protocol for brigands. They might rob men, but now they’ve been slaughtering them, too … and their families as well.”
Venir’s flaxen brows creased over his blue eyes as his fingers rubbed his square cut chin. He and his own mercenary troupe had seen and done much that very few would understand. They always drew the line at what had to be done. As for common brigands, they tended to scare rather than harm their own kind, and there were usually no more than a dozen or so to the gang. The thought of a brigand army that plundered, killed, and battled organized soldiers didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been far south lately, but maybe it was time he went and checked on some old friends.
“What are you thinking, Venir? You wanna go check if the rumors are true? I’m ready when you are,” Billip offered, “And Mikkel’s keen, too.”
“Count me in,” Melegal said, to Venir's surprise. “Even I need to get out of this stinking hole sometimes.”
“All right, but I want to enjoy myself some first,” Venir remarked. “We’ll figure something out tomorrow. I need to unwind. Say, where are they keeping the pretty women these days? Clearly they still aren’t coming in here.”
“Melegal runs them off every time he offers them a ride on his donkey.”
Venir laughed. It was time to revel into the hot night. As he got up, he felt an uncomfortable presence looming nearby. Scanning the room, he noticed nothing odd. He gulped down the remaining pot of coffee and tried to let the feeling go, but it hung in the air. Hopefully, a few stiff drinks and wayward songs would wash the feeling away.



CHAPTER 3

Two days later, a small band of men began the journey south toward the camp of Jarla, the Brigand Queen. The terrain they traveled was far more hospitable than the barren north, as the thick forests offered refuge from the two blazing suns. The southern lands of Bish contained less marsh, less desert dust, and much blue-green foliage. Cooling oases with large streams cropped up in their midst. But the terrain was anything but flat like the north. Unforgiving hills and valleys slowed travel, forcing a narrow traverse through winding passes, rather than straight over the hilltops. It kept the small party on edge, as it was a perfect place for an ambush.
The high ground was good ground, as small Royal outposts could be seen in the distance, flying the flags of their people. The Royal soldiers kept watch over this lush land. Farms and villages thrived in the rich soil, where food, water and timber were valuable commodities among the world rulers. The Royals protected their investments well, yet the southlands of Bish were just as treacherous as those of the north. 
Brigands, orcs, dog-faced gnolls, and kobolds thrived and raised their kind in this land as well. Most of the time, they fought one another, but they also raided and pillaged the more peaceful inhabitants. It had been the natural order of things for as long as anyone remembered. Not a day passed in the world without violence of the most treacherous nature. It made for hardened people everywhere. 
As the men passed through the villages they happened upon, the tales of Jarla’s brigand army became more intriguing. Venir could not tell if what they heard was truth or rumor, but the people seemed convincing enough. The repeated claims of a large army of orcs, kobolds, humans and gnolls, all functioning as a single unit under a woman’s command, toyed with his imagination. 
Still, it was a hard story for Venir to swallow. In his experience, two races almost never fought in a cohesive unit, let alone four. It must be the biggest, ugliest woman a woman could be, he thought. He was compelled to see for himself, and his thoughts of hunting underlings uncharacteristically drifted away. 
Female leaders were uncommon in the world of Bish. Most races were not led by fighting women. Venir was astonished that the rough races were following a female leader, let alone one of another race. As for female soldiers, he had known plenty among the human ranks, but they never ventured together too long. The men tended to want the women as more than just fellow soldiers, and those men often suffered dire injuries as a result. So how had this one woman created an army that threatened the southern lands of Bish? He had to find out.
The long hours of silence were broken when the powerful black man spoke with the voice of a rushing river.
“Man, I can’t believe there are kobolds in that army. That’s stupid!” Mikkel said, spitting. 
“Aye, I’m not so sure we need to get too curious about all this,” Billip added, wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. 
“We’ve come this far. Let’s just get a quick look. It’s hard to imagine the stories are true, but who knows,” Venir answered, sipping from his canteen.
The small band pushed through the slippery terrain, on foot, pressing deeper into the forests. He and the company had traveled like this dozens of times over the years, and they all knew how to handle things if they ever got into a pinch. They were all dressed in tunics of leather or woodsman garb, except for Melegal, who wore drab clothes of his own design. Backpacks, canteens, belt pouches, and weapons of choice made up the rest of their personal gear. The humidity in the south was as thick as water. Sweat rolled off the men’s heads and soaked their attire. Venir and Mikkel’s bare biceps were thick with oily sweat. Billip’s cloth-covered arms were soaked, while Melegal appeared as dry as a bone, drawing a frustrated grunt from Billip. 
The men did not brandish arms as they navigated the difficult territory. Instead, they left their grubby fingers free to fight for miniscule grips as they crossed over jutting hillsides and down into plunging gorges. Billip led the way with a short composite bow across his back, and Mikkel had a heavy crossbow strapped across his. Venir carried a short bow, and each had a quiver, while the wiry scout ahead carried a spare. Swords, daggers and knives could be seen at their hips. Whatever the thief carried was not apparent. 
“So what’s the plan, Vee?” Mikkel asked from behind. “I know you have one. Do we take a look? Spy—Attack—Join?”
“I thought we’d just rob them. I’m sure we can take them all on since you’re with us, Mikkel.”
“Well, I’m the only true fighter in this pack, besides you. I’ve no idea why you brought these other two sandbags along.” Mikkel jutted his thumb back over his shoulder. “They never fight closer than thirty feet.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Billip said, glaring back. “I do my fair share, unlike Melegal. Just look at him, he even avoids his own sweat.”
“Hah, you can say all you like, but someone’s gonna have to dig your graves one of these days,” Melegal chimed in from the rear, “… so be grateful. And just to be clear, I won’t do the digging. I’ll use Billip’s money to pay his urchins to do that.”
“Melegal, you are cruel. But I like it!” Mikkel shot him a grin, white teeth gleaming in the sun. Billip scowled and huffed forward over a mossy ledge. 
Chongo appeared at Venir’s side after he stood atop the ledge. The shaggy brown mastiff licked his face as he poured water into his meaty palm. The dog was lapping it up when he suddenly stopped, ears perking up, and began scurrying back and forth, barking in low puffs. 
“All right … Chongo’s found something. Let’s step it up. I got a feeling we’re about to happen upon the brigand army.”
“Great, so when you gonna share your plan, Vee?” said Mikkel. “Or do I have to come up with one myself?”
“Bad idea, we know how your plans turn out,” the scout said. 
Mikkel folded his arms over his powerful chest.
“What you talking about, Billip?” 
“Oh, well, how ’bout the time you wanted to—”
“Silence, Billip!” Mikkel retorted. “Venir, what’s the plan?”
“If we get caught, I say we just act like we’re interested … play dumb is all. Hopefully we won’t arouse any problems. I figure we can get a closer look first.”
“Well, don’t expect me to act too friendly with the kobolds,” Mikkel said, clutching his studded club. “If they get too close, I’ll crack their stupid little skulls.”
“We know!” they all replied, causing the man’s light blue eyes to widen in his face. 
As quiet as cats, they followed after Chongo, deeper into the belly of the southern forest.


CHAPTER 4

It had taken almost thirty minutes of diligent pursuit for the weathered group to catch up with Chongo. The dog's growl was low and excited, as its stiff tail whipped back and forth. The men crouched down. The sound of clashing steel and raised voices traveled from not far in the distance. The trees and broad foliage muted the battle sounds, and the men glanced at one another. He could see their faces drawn taut, as Billip and Mikkel readied their missile weapons. 
Using hand signals, Venir directed Billip and Chongo to scout ahead, followed by him and Melegal, with Mikkel in the rear. They moved like big gray foxes through the flourishing green, ignoring the briars and bugs. They stopped and waited in a small clearing while the archer and dog disappeared. He could now distinguish the voices of men crying out in battle. He gestured to Melegal, How many?
The rogue’s eyes were closed; hand cupping his ear and with a slight shrug he flashed ten fingers. 
We can take them, Mikkel mouthed back. 
He wanted to laugh when he saw Melegal’s scowl deepen. Venir had no intention of engaging anyone, even if his companions liked to attack first and think later. In nervous anticipation, they waited in the agonizing heat. He took out his short bow and rubbed a dab of oil along its taut string. Ten men were a lot to take on, and they would need to be ready to fight at a second’s notice—or flee if necessary. 
As a trained ranger with seasons of hard soldiering, he knew better than to take things head on; sometimes it paid better to just watch and report. The seconds dragged as the sounds of pain and agony droned on. Concern showed in all of their faces when the dog appeared with the scout running behind. “It’s safe to talk low,” Billip said, slightly out of breath. “Ten Royal foot soldiers are already dead, and about six are left, heavily armed and battling four gnolls and an armored woman.” Billip pulled out his canteen, shaking his head. “The soldiers have their hands full. They’re below this ridge; looks like they got trapped.” 
“Any others?” Venir asked.
“I took a good look. No signs. But that woman fights better than two gnolls together. Never seen anything like it. What do we do? You want to go around?” 
Everyone looked at Venir.
Venir didn’t want to risk anyone, but he couldn’t stand the thought of men falling to the gnolls. The tall, wolf-faced humanoids with canine teeth were dreaded warriors. They killed for pleasure and were known for their lengthy torture of prisoners. Despite their hairy, wolf-like appearance, gnolls spoke the common tongue well and could track like dogs. They were not vast in number, but were well-trained, armed and formidable warriors. The fact that a woman fought with them suggested to him that he was about to encounter the brigand army. A wave of excitement overcame him, turning his guts. “Let’s all take a look. I have a feeling this is what we came to see.”
Billip the archer led, drawing from his quiver, as they fell behind in a small column. They crept to the edge of a ridge, flat on their bellies with weapons drawn, bolts locked and arrows nocked. Below, the battle was furious and bloody. The seasoned Royal soldiers battled with gleaming longswords and crested shields. Their breastplates and battle helmets were battered and smeared red. 
Corpses of hacked down men littered the scene, gashed and punctured, still as logs on the ground. Venir watched as more soldiers were cut down with swords and hacking axes, overwhelmed by greater speed and power. He fought the urge to charge down into the fray. He kept his bow ready, rising to a knee. At times like this, the inhabitants of Bish had to weigh their own odds of survival before getting involved. What’s this?
A striking female warrior was carving up the soldiers as if they were just boys. The impression the woman made on him was unforgettable. She wore only a sleeveless chain mail dress of bronze, ending high above her knees. Her sinewy arms and legs were blood-splattered, and long jet-black hair flowed from beneath a spiked helmet of an ornate design. The only other protection she wore were iron-banded bracers around her forearms. He had never seen the likes of her before. But most impressive were the pair of battle axes she used with intense ferocity. One in each hand, she commanded the matching weapons as easily as a jester tossing apples. Her strikes were viper-like, powerful and devastating. 
He watched from above, in awe, uncertain how to react. Seeing men die under the banner of a good Royal house was not easy to watch. It was even more so as the evil gnolls were taking part. Anticipation and the passion to act built up inside him. Melegal, who watched from his side, gripped his broad shoulder and pulled him back. Venir eyed the man and nodded. Not our fight. He maintained his position and continued to watch the battle unfold.
The woman warrior’s haymaker axe blades felled her opponents one by one. Her axes, spiked on the back, penetrated their shields and ripped them from the soldiers' grasp, leaving the men to defend with only their longswords. The gnolls were engaged as well, heavy bastard swords swinging hard and deadly, keeping the valiant men from escaping her wrath. She fought each man, one by one, as if there was a personal score to settle. The blood curdling screams she let out after each victory made it clear that she relished what she was doing.
One soldier snatched a second longsword from the ground and began to fight her two-handed. He held his ground in feverish parries and she pounded away at him. The exhausted man was not fast enough to counter her attacks. He stabbed at her only to catch a spike in his skull, finishing his valiant efforts. She slung the gore from her axe and was on to her next victim. Despite the demoralizing situation, the Royal foot soldiers did not cower; they faced her, one by one, with the bravado of the best from the world of Bish. 
Now the soldiers were down to just two, fighting back to back, pinned in by the woman and the remaining three gnoll warriors. Surrounded, they began to defend more than they attacked. From above, Venir could hear the woman cursing and barking at her own; these soldiers were proving more formidable than expected. He heard her demand their surrender, but the exhausted men did not lower their blades. They cursed back and spit on the ground. Fight and die … no shame in that. 
One soldier was bleeding heavily, his leg useless, head sagging under a heavy iron helm. Two gnolls pounced on him, batted away his sword, stabbed his wavering figure deep in the back of the neck, and crumpled the man lifeless to the ground. Now there was just one Royal left, the commander. 
Two big gnolls loomed to the man’s left and right, barring his path, leaving him squared up against the approaching woman. The soldier readied his sword that gleamed bright red in the sunlight. The man showed no fear, his face as hard as stone, ready to take his fate head on. Klatch! A heavy bolt struck a bull’s eye into one gnoll's forehead. The Royal commander flinched, but the woman didn’t. Two more arrows zipped through the air, burrowing into the armored chest of the other gnoll, dropping it wailing to the ground with a thud. Venir charged down the ridge. Bish! 
Uncertainty didn’t slow the helmed woman. She responded, moving in like a panther. Swinging low, she tore out the armored commander's left knee with her axe-blade. The soldier cut back with a powerful two-handed blow, which she deflected with her bracer, skinning her arm. She screamed in fury. She countered with a crunching blow, punching through his breastplate and deep into his clavicle. The sword dropped from the man’s lifeless grip as he fell to one knee.
Venir was charging behind her, yelling for her to stop, but her finishing blow was too fast. She crowned the man between the eyelets of his helm. The soldier was dead. She turned just in time to see him coming for her, and she began laughing.
“It seems you are too late to save this man,” she said, ripping her axe from the man’s head. ”Now, can you save yourself … Yellow Hair?”
Venir paused ten steps away from her, heart thundering in his temples, brandishing his longsword and hunting knife. Beside him, Chongo barked and growled.
“Mmm … dog meat, my favorite,” she said, licking her maroon lips. 
He measured his next move, knowing that he had more support than she. She did not seem worried about the likes of him, though, or the rest of them. She stood before him, tall and proud. Now, Venir was so close that her features captured his imagination. Her dark blue eyes burned from behind the eyelets of her helmet, intelligent and cunning. He yearned to know more about the woman who dripped blood from the axes that hung loose in her hands. 
“Hey … Yellow Hair,” she said in a taunting voice, “… if you see something you like, why not just come and get it?” 
He didn’t know what to say as she added, 
“Seems I have a mute boy here. It’s a shame, all muscle and no tongue.”
A bright white smile grew under Venir’s nose as she stepped forward, then back. He sheathed his sword and knife and folded his arms over his chest. 
“I can’t help but wonder why a woman such as you would run around with filthy gnolls? Surely you can keep better company?” 
“Ah, the boy has a tongue. I might have use for you yet.” 
She stared back and took better measure of the man she faced. Her battle-hardened body began to loosen. He felt her eyes bore into his chest as if she liked what she saw. He was ready for her to spring at any moment, fighting to maintain his composure. He felt something churn inside of him when she continued to look him up and down. 
Rivulets of blood slid off her coated helmet as she removed it. Her face was beautiful, slender and strong. Her dark eyes searched his. Her blood-smeared skin was browned by the suns, her cheekbones high and noble, scarred and somewhat disfigured; but he kept his gaze on her eyes alone. She seemed to like that; a smile kept coming and going from her lips. She walked down the bank, and the closer she came the more he seemed to fall under her shadow. She seemed taller than him. If this woman isn’t the Brigand Queen, he thought, she must be the queen of something. She stopped just out of striking range as he hushed his barking dog and it dropped to its haunches. Danger still prickled the air, but it could wait. 
“So tell me, Yellow Hair,” she said in a voice as polished as silver, “why did you kill my men? They had no quarrel with you … or yours.” She looked around, but there were no signs of his companions.
“My name is, Venir,” he said, “and gnolls are not men. They are beasts that we like to kill. Luckily for you, you are not a gnoll, and we don’t like to kill women, or you would be dead, too.”
“Hah!” she said. “Even if I were a gnoll woman, you wouldn’t be able to kill me.” She waved her battle axes in front of his face. Their craftsmanship was of the likes he had never seen. He found them almost as fascinating as her. 
A few silent moments went by. The tension in the forest seemed to ease.
“I tell you what, Vee-neer. I’ll spare you and your men if you tell me what business you have in my forest.”
“Spare us? Now it’s my turn to laugh. Hah!” he said, not hiding his chuckle. “… anyway, we are looking for some people.”
“What kind of people?” she said, wiping blood from her lips.
“Ones who follow a brigand queen named Jarla. If she lives in your forests you may have heard of her,” he said, not withholding an ounce of sarcasm. “I hear she mates with gnolls and has a butt like an ogre. Ever hear of her, Princess?”
“You are a witty one, Venir, I will give you that. It’s been a long time since a man made me laugh.” She gave him another once over as she looked around. “It seems I’m in need of a new escort. I need to report back to this queen you spoke of.” She rolled her eyes. ”Perhaps I can help. She is very fond of me.” 
“Eh … that would nice.”
“I suggest you watch your tongue in the meantime, Yellow Hair. I think you have seen what I can do to people I don’t like.”
He nodded, not certain what to say, then asked, 
“So … why did you take them down? Royal houses are not often trifled with.” 
Her face darkened into another identity.“It was payback,” she responded. 
Seeing her glare, he backed off the topic.
“So, now what?”
“Tell your two men to come on in. I’ll take you back to my camp and feed you. But, don’t kill any more of my gnolls. Got it?”
“I’m not promising anything.”

***

Billip, Mikkel, and even his dog Chongo were all quiet as they accompanied Venir back to her camp. It was unsettling. Marching a more-than-capable warrior back to her own camp that contained natural enemies among its ranks was not the best idea for survival. Venir, however, was oblivious to those concerns. He didn’t understand that his passion was overcoming his reason as he followed her. He just knew he had to follow her. He paid no mind to the dour looks behind his back, but he would have given the same, in their place. 
Melegal, however, had managed to evade the situation. She had given no indication that she knew of his presence. 
From the trees on the higher ground, the rogue watched them go, shaking his head. Melegal wondered if he’d ever see his comrades again.
“Stupid …” 


CHAPTER 5

She led them miles deep into a wide, ravine-like pass. The farther they went, the more sluggish the hikers became. Few words were said among them. Venir would have followed her athletic figure anywhere across Bish. Watching her long glistening legs pass through the brush and climb over mossy edges made him thirst more than usual. He looked back at his friends, whose faces were grim and downcast. They’ll be alright. 
The ravine was narrow and wet. He felt the aim of notched bows bearing down on his chest as he looked up into the thick tree branches. The singing birds became silent as the pass bottomed out before a massive hill, made up of jagged rocks and vine-like trees, rising toward a flat top. Good place to hide. She crested the hill, disappearing from his sight. A foul smell began to choke the humid air. Doubt grew inside his chest before he scrambled after her, sending shards of rock sliding down the hill, bringing sharp complaints from below. When he made it over the top and crouched by the rim, he stared on in wonder at the brigand camp. 
Billip, Mikkel and Chongo gathered at his side and stared, too. The brigand camp was laid out similar to the army camps they had served in over the years. Most noticeable was the variety of races that grouped together and the slaves they had acquired to serve them—a cruel and despairing life. 
“This is disgusting,” Mikkel muttered as he began climbing back down the hill. 
The archer grabbed him and said, “If you leave, they’ll feather you like a chicken.” The big man frowned but stayed his ground in silence.
Humans, full orcs and half-orcs were gathered by fires, armored and as filthy as pigs in the mud. The stench of sewage and rotting flesh filled their nostrils, and large flies buzzed in their ears. Venir knew at that moment that they had seen all they needed to see—but they weren’t going anywhere.
Venir and the rest stood stupefied as she spoke.
“Make yourselves at home.” 
She strode away, her head held high as all the men of the camp stood at attention and saluted her. Jarla the Brigand Queen. 
A few humans were a welcome sight in the midst of the other brash races. It was clear to Venir, however, that their time in the brigand army had worn down their humanity. Many of the men chewed food and grunted like beasts as they tormented the hapless slaves, women and children among them. He wanted to run the beastlike men through. 
Billip whispered in his ear.
“Just act like we’re new recruits?”
He nodded.
“Vee, what have you gotten us into?” Mikkel asked. 
Venir shook his head. He wasn’t so sure he knew. The suns were setting, so they made a small camp near the edge of the plateau. No one approached them as he watched humans abusing humans. The brigand men didn’t seem to care what happened to their own kind at the hands of the gnolls, orcs, or kobold bandits. He saw them make sport of a pair of human boys that wrestled in the slime of sewage. A gnoll, tall and powerful, barked fearsome commands as one child beat the other child senseless into the muck. They wanted to avert their eyes, but could not. Instead, they looked right in the yellow eyes of the dog-faced gnoll. It snarled and looked away. 
Two days passed while the men did all they could do to blend in while staying removed. It was evident that he and his men were not welcome, but their arrival with Jarla'd had an impact. No one dared approach them, but it was awkward. He watched Jarla busy herself controlling her camp like a field general. The decrepit army was an organized shuffle at her beck and call. She said little to him, but ignored his companions like the plague. 
“Vee, we got to go!” Mikkel pleaded for the hundredth time. 
Venir sat, toying with a log and his ancient hunting knife. If he could only get used to the smell it wouldn’t be so bad, that and the chronic griping. He convinced them that he was still figuring things out, so they had to trust him and wait. 
Venir listened to the hundred different ways Mikkel would kill the kobolds. Those small humanoids looked a bit like halflings, with ruddy, snakelike skin, dog-like faces and two tiny horns on their heads. 
Mikkel rambled on through his sneered lips, “I’ll shoot them in the back of the head.  I’ll bust their little heads. I’ll cut them in the belly. I’ll—”
“Why do you hate them so much, Man?” the somber scout blurted out. 
The big man paused, crooked his neck, and looked up into the starry sky.
“I don’t know … I just do. You don’t have to have a reason to hate anything, you know. Now where was I?”
Billip rolled away from the campfire as Venir let out a chuckle. 
Venir knew his friends were concerned, but he assured himself he had things under control. He told himself he really wanted to find out what this brigand army was all about, but in truth he was infatuated with Jarla. The powerful warrior woman had captivated him in ways he did not understand. He was uncomfortable with it, but wanted to discover what she was about and why he was drawn to her. Indeed, she might be his enemy. It seemed only prudent to keep a close eye on her—a task he hoped to enjoy. 
***
Venir was sleeping by the burning coals of the campfire when a ferocious growl from Chongo stirred him. They all sat up, hands gripping hilts. Two heavyset half-orcs with beady eyes, sweaty snouts and flails approached. They were part of Jarla’s escort.
“Jarla wants to see the one called Venir,” one said as the other spat. “Come with us.”
Venir shrugged and couldn’t help but grin at his men as he followed the pair away. Mikkel and Billip looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then lay back in their grassy beds.
“Venir’s a dog!” groaned Mikkel. “He has all the luck. I was just dreaming about being in the sack with my woman right now.”
“Aye, your woman is something.” said Billip.
“What!” he said, sitting back up again. 
“Go back to sleep; I’m just messing with you. Don’t get me thinking about it, too. Things are bad enough. Even that orc woman with the missing eye is starting to look attractive to me.”
“Well, just you dream about her then, not about my woman—got it?” Mikkel said, giving his friend a shove in the back. 
“Got it, now go to sleep,” Billip said, hiding his grin.
Mikkel rolled over and was fast asleep, but Billip kept churning the whole night. He was ready to leave and determined to convince Venir to do the same. The hills didn’t have walls, but he could feel them closing in. He rolled up, stoked the coals, petted Chongo, and cracked his knuckles. This place is evil, he thought, as he waited for dawn to break. He swore he heard voices laughing at them somewhere in the distance. 


CHAPTER 6

The escorts left him at the entrance to Jarla’s extravagant tent. It stood in the center of the camp, ten feet high, with the makings of a Royal field general. How did she get this? His nerves were on edge. Dozens of favorable scenarios inside her quarters raced through his mind. He pulled his flaxen hair back from his eyes, took a deep breath, and entered with a smile. 
Her tent was plush, filled with purple and red pillows, hand stitched carpets and curtains. Sparkling silverware and china lay out on the tables. The shining candle light was absorbed in the dark tapestries, and there was a fragrance, overwhelming at first, but soothing. It was so much better than the foul air that had surrounded him earlier. He saw no sign of her as he walked toward the center, spinning around on his heel. He wanted to dive into the sofa and guzzle the crystal carafe of wine on a table nearby. He rubbed his filthy hands on his dirty trousers. From behind one of the curtained sections he heard a playful and sultry voice. 
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Venir.”
He was all too eager to find out what awaited him behind the purple and gold curtain. He swallowed the lump in his throat. His temples began to pound, as if he were entering the battlefield to face an enemy he had never seen before. 
After a few more agonizing seconds, she emerged from behind the curtain, wearing thick gold hoop earrings and a sleeveless black silk gown that stopped mid-thigh. Her dark blue eyes were magnetic, drawing into his as she approached him. Her jet-black hair lay over her shoulders, and her wine-colored lips revealed a small welcoming smile. 
She brushed her chest against his and looked up into his blazing blue eyes. 
“Come,” she whispered, lips brushing his ear. Taking his eager hand in hers, she led him farther back into her tent …. 


CHAPTER 7

His growing relationship with the queen began to bear fruit on his men. They were given a decent tent within the camp and were supplied with better rations. Venir and Jarla were not often together, but it was clear that she favored him over all others. As time passed, he felt her bringing him in deeper, but she hinted little about her plans for the brigand army. 
His friends still urged him to leave, but he would have none of it, despite the numerous arguments. The brigand camp was rotten; no amenities could make it any better, and they wanted to go, regardless of his assurances. Every day, he told them they would soon depart, but the weeks still passed. Mikkel had trouble looking him in the eye, and Billip had little to say.
The woman was calling the shots, whether he admitted it or not. She made both his friends uncomfortable, and they stayed busy when she was around. Venir had never met a woman like her, but they were not beguiled like him, despite her impressive looks. He considered himself a good judge of character, and it was against his normal cunning to take up so tight with a woman of any kind. He should have seen that she was not the company to keep, but he did not. He only saw what he wanted. He wanted her.
Somehow, the band of men managed to work through it all, despite the intrusive and unpleasant woman. Before long, they were in it thicker than thieves, moving along trails and raiding merchant caravans that ran commerce south to north. The brigand army and its queen’s reputation had been spreading, and the merchants began bringing along more men-at-arms on their travels. It was not enough. The misfit army continued to grow. Still, the brigand army was forced to plan better, and the merchant trains became more difficult to sniff out. 
Jarla was a brilliant bandit. She planned her raids using resources and preparations unrivaled by the best war generals on Bish. Venir learned much from her and was impressed by her knowledge of the field. He had spent many years soldiering in Bish, but few soldiers were her equal. She would locate the caravans and exploit their weaknesses with uncanny precision. He could not work out how she did it. He asked many questions, but often he was cut short. 
She charged into every melee that came their way on her large dapple-grey steed named Nightmare. Nightmare was a lightly armored warhorse and a force unto herself. He had seen the horse trample bodies under powerful hooves that crushed bones to dust. As if on her own two feet, Jarla fought on horseback, with both spiked battle axes. The carnage she wrought was a spectacle to any observer, but to Venir it was an inspiration. Even he could not match Jarla’s body count in battle, but he was the only one to come close. 
She complemented his fighting skills, and so his acceptance among her ranks grew. He was not comfortable with the bloodlust of the brigands, for it seemed unwarranted. Billip and Mikkel kept their distance from the fray; instead they relied on their wits and their range weapons. No one complained, as they were the best shots among the brigands. He knew they pulled back when they could, as did he. It was a risk. 
Over the passing months, the army had great success and had grown to more than five hundred strong. Jarla’s leadership and battle skills allowed her to control the various races of her army well. She was challenged by one of her commanders, a powerful gnoll of noted repute. She cut him down in a fight to the death. Her victory was quick, her leadership unquestioned. 
Venir had the pleasure of watching her dress for battle. She had her own sequence for putting everything on and taking it off. He watched, eyes intent, as she put on her iron-toed boots, and a sleeveless white cotton shirt, followed by her bronze chainmail dress. The sight of the magnificent warrior woman never failed to capture him. 
She would grab a large, stitched-up leather sack, kneel down, and pull out an iron-banded bracer for her left arm, followed by another for her right arm. She reached in with her left hand, pulling out the first spiked battle axe, and followed with the right. The axes drew his attention because they were as compelling as she was. They did not stand out as extraordinary, but they were special in design. Each was about three feet in length. Their dark steel blades and serrated spikes seemed forged from an unfamiliar metal, and their thick oaken handles were shod with hammered iron. Having set them at her sides, she pulled out the helmet, a similar design and material as the axe and bracers, with a small iron spike on top. She was a sight to behold, like two separate women in one.
When she returned from battle, the blood was gone from her armament. It retained its dim shine and didn't have a nick. Neither was there a notch on the blades. She rubbed them down, never sharpening, then would kneel down and put them back in the leather sack, right first and left last, and toss it beside her bed with a clank. He noticed the sack never clanked except when she did that, and it never appeared big enough to hold all its contents. Is it magic? He wanted to ask, but never did. He was just enjoying being there, and he knew she would tell him if there was anything she wanted him to know. Those comments never came. The pit in his gut still festered, but he ignored it.


CHAPTER 8

Venir’s reassurance left Billip no comfort. Billip pushed for departure every time his comrade came around. His young friend didn’t know the ways of the world as he did … or women. The brigand queen had a smile that could crack a rock, but he swore she had a tail, but somehow concealed it. He jammed an arrow in the ground as he strung and unstrung his bow. Stupid boy. 
Stupid, but brave and loyal as well, and Billip knew he had no fiercer friend than the tall-shouldered ranger. The pay of a few silver coins a week, plus some of the additional booty from their raids, appealed to his greedy nature, but the company he kept failed to grow on him. A bunch of animals. Every day, he felt his own humanity slipping away, and he might be starting to like it. Why am I here? He missed the Orc’s Elbow and Mikkel’s mead. 
He eyed the swinging figures near the fringe of the camp. They were the remains of deserters of the brigand army that had been chased down and hung. Those humanoids rotted in the wind, tongues swollen and dry, carrying the stench of decay. No thanks. He had to talk Venir into leaving. 
Mikkel’s overbearing hatred of the kobolds had expanded to include the gnolls and orcs as well. He watched as the big man clutched his studded club and squeezed it in his hands. His arms were thick with cords, like black pythons, as he banged his glimmering skullcap, muttering obscenities. Even Billip, who didn’t really hate anything but losing, found fires burning inside him against these other races and men as well. The two men passed their time finding ways to wound or kill the kobolds, during the raids, without being noticed. He and the big man used quivers other than their own. This had become a contest between him and Mikkel. Mikkel would then argue that his was the superior marksmanship, which was not true, impressive though it was. The sight of a screaming kobold impaled to a tree by one of those heavy crossbow bolts made it great target practice for him, as he shot from horseback. This isn’t so bad. Mikkel took his own sort of pride in it, while the rest did not care enough about the kobolds to suspect foul play. 
Mikkel was squatting by the fire, roasting a kobold's toe.
“You’ve got to get us out of here, Billip,” Mikkel said in disgust. “Venir’s lost his mind over that woman. She scares the slat out of me!” 
Billip wasn’t listening, but contemplating. Their exploits had garnered them respect among many of their fellow human brigands, but Billip felt that Jarla’s longest-standing fighters still held too much close to the chest. He had heard the snickers of gnolls and orcen commanders when their backs were turned, and it was more prevalent when Venir was around. His gut told him something was not right, and it was in his nosy nature to find out what it was. 
He looked at his friend as he said, “I hope you aren’t going to eat that.” 
The basher just shrugged, let out a hollow chuckle, and tossed the burnt toe away. Chongo sniffed it, walked back over and lay back down with a yawn. 
Mikkel said, “Chongo, get your master out of here.” The dog’s ears perked up and flatted back down with a human-like sigh.

***

It was early in the morning when Billip began to snoop around. The cloudless sky left the campground pitch black, except for the flicker from dozens of burning campfire embers. Any mercenaries who were not sleeping were drinking and not paying much attention to anything else. Boredom was the most dangerous element in the brigand camp, but the commanders kept it under control with swift and painful punishment. Billip scuffed himself up and sauntered through the camp, offering slurred tidings and shuffling along. 
His goal was to reach the center of the camp where Jarla’s tent was surrounded by the four smaller tents of her commanders. As far as he knew, only she and Venir occupied her tent most nights, but Venir did not always get the comfort of her quarters. He chuckled at the thought of his pouting friend being kicked out from one of Jarla’s searing moods. 
Billip spent several nights within range of these tents, watching the commanders—gnoll, human and orc—come and go. They would meet late evening or early morning at one of the four tents, and Jarla would attend from time to time, but always without Venir. If he’d gained her trust, he’d be in by now. Like a night owl, he would watch the armored guards with spears standing at both the entrance and the rear of each commander’s tent. During the meetings, one was stationed at each side of the tent. 
Late one evening, he watched Venir stroll into her tent, and not long afterward the army commanders gathered, one at a time, in the tent behind Jarla’s. It seemed sudden and uncharacteristic, and in their haste they had not doubled the guards, leaving the right and left sides unguarded. Billip saw an opportunity. Nervousness set in, turning his hands clammy. What are they doing? It was his only opening after days of recon, and he had to take it. Being a gambler, he did.
The red moon was casting a shadow over the right side of the tent, leaving it pitch black, even to his keen eyes. He crept into its shadow and lay flat on his back. His heart was pounding in his temples so that he could hear almost nothing else. He took slow breaths until he began to focus to listen in. He watched small groups of dark clouds pass over, as tiny insects began to crawl over his warm body and sweat dripped over his brow, burning his eyes. Get on with it, fools. He fought the urge to pee. 
The orc guarding the front of the tent stepped into view and mumbled something in orcen. Slat! 
Thereafter, the other orc guarding the rear stepped around. He closed his eyes, lest the whites give him away. He listened. They were whispering in orcen, but not moving any closer. If they saw him, he would have to run and try to blend in elsewhere. 
They’ll interrogate the whole camp. We’ll be first! 
He heard the foot of the guard in front crunch over the dry grass. Another step came his way, followed by another. The one in the rear continued his chat, stepping farther from the tent corner. Regret flooded through Billip’s mind. 
I should have gotten out of this camp long ago! 
He felt his heart thumping so hard that he was certain the guards would hear it. 
Get ready!
He thought about where he would run first and waited for the alarm to sound at any moment. 
Then another loud orcen voice sounded from within the tent; someone was on his way out. The guards trotted back to their posts, and he overheard the front guard being reprimanded. In defense, the guard pointed out to his commander that the tent was not properly secured with the additional guards at the sides. That only complicated Billip’s problem, for now the commander took it upon himself to check both sides, peering with intent around the corners. After many long seconds, Billip squinted, raising his head just a few inches. He thought he saw the commander shrug and walk back into the tent. No one seemed to be dispatched to find more guards. 
Yes! 
Despite his better judgment, he chose to wait it out, chancing that there was little likelihood of anyone coming in his direction again. Inside the tent, the meeting was heating up. It was being conducted in human tongue, but he did not hear Jarla’s voice. The doggish voice of a gnoll was in control. Billip pulled his hair behind his ear, after flicking a mosquito from his nose. The tones were low, but he could still hear through the thick canvas of the tent. Excitement was rising in the voices of the commanders, followed by cruel laughter. He heard something he could never have anticipated. The ambition and evil plans of Jarla and her commanders … and it did not bode well for humans. He learned something else was behind the army’s exploits that he found incomprehensible. 
Oh no!
The meeting began to unwind; the savvy scout had no time to waste. He rolled out of the tent's shadow and made his way back to the campsite. 
It can’t be!


CHAPTER 9

“Mikkel …” he whispered, poking the snoring man in the ribs, “Wake up!” 
Mikkel sat up as if he’d been shot, his black bearded face groggy and perturbed. Chongo stirred at his side, greeting him with a few licks. 
“You’d better have a good reason, Billip. I was dreaming of my woman, and those dreams don’t come often in this stinkin’ camp. What’s going on?”
“Listen to me — we’re in danger.”
“Me? Why’s Melegal in danger?”
“Not Mee-legal. Blast your sluggish brain! You, me and especially Venir.” Billip had pointed to Mikkel and then himself. “Now get your gear ready, and don’t make it obvious.”
The big man shook his head as he rolled out of his army blanket. Billip watched as Mikkel fumbled around the tent and pulled on his boots. He began cracking his thick knuckles in a chronic cadence. Mikkel’s large hands clamped down on his and then continued rounding up his gear.
“Billip,” Mikkel said, staring down in his eyes, “… tell me what you heard, Brother. You’re worrying me.”
“I will, but keep calm; I know how you get. Hear me out.”
Mikkel gave a faint nod.
“I just listened in on one of the commanders’ tent meetings. They’re planning to attack Outpost Thirty-One in the next few days, and—”
“There ain’t no way!” the warrior was almost shouting. “Outpost Thirty-One has a thousand well-armed soldiers of the Royal house legions.”
“Keep your voice down,” Billip motioned. “Let me finish. They already have help; over two thousand strong are waiting to help sack the outpost—”
“Even with that many, it’ll be hard to take. They’ll have to starve them out, and by then help will have arrived. Besides, no one just attacks a Royal army outpost. It would be suicide—an act of war. Even gnolls and orcs don’t have the numbers to face the humans when you come down to it.” Mikkel sighed, stuffing everything in a sack and looking uncertain what to do. 
Billip nodded. 
“Let me finish, again; it’s not orcs or gnolls or humans or dwarves or even halflings, for that matter.” 
Billip paused, raising an arched brow. Mikkel was giving him a funny look. Billip waited, watching his friend scratch his cheek. 
Mikkel’s eyes brightened, something flicked on in his mind, smacking his hands together he said, “Ogres!”
“… No, Mikkel, not ogres, worse. Worse than all of them combined,” he said through clenched teeth.
 “Will you just tell me?” Mikkel said, loading his crossbow.
“If you’d just let me finish you’d know by now.” 
“Well, if you’d quit arguing, maybe I’d let you finish.” 
“We got more important things to do now than have another stupid argument.” 
Mikkel was chuckling now as he plucked a straggling hair from his head and blew it in the air. 
“Since when?” 
An odd silence fell as Mikkel looked at Billip with a blank stare. He’s as dumb as Venir. The archer caved in. 
“Underlings, you idiot! Jarla’s brigand army is in league with the underlings! And has been for quite some time! It’s no wonder she’s been so successful. And we’ve been helping her!”
Billip crossed his hands behind his back and paced inside the small tent. 
Mikkel sat back down, leaning against the tent post.“Bone … we gotta tell Venir. He’s gonna go berserk. Bish … he hates underlings more than I hate kobolds.”
“Uh … that’s the other thing. I’m glad you’re sitting down for this next bit of news.”
Mikkel looked up at him, his chestnut face fresh with loss. 
Billip squatted down beside his friend.
“It seems Jarla has no more need of Venir’s services. I assume that includes us, too. And I think the last guy that slept with her is dead. And the guy before him … is dead. And so on. You catch my drift?”
Mikkel was clutching his skull. 
“My, she is one evil lady! No wonder those guys always chuckle when he walks by. Glad it wasn’t me, after all. I guess dreamin’s better than dyin’. ”
“Except you’re the one that gets to save him,” Billip said, slapping Mikkel on the shoulder. 
“What? Me?” Mikkel pointed to himself as he stood up. “I’m not gonna run in there and pull him out of her bed! He might as well go happy—I say!”
“That’s not the plan. And shame on you!” he said, wagging his finger.
“Sorry, just teasing. I knew she was evil, though. It’s like she hates everything. I have never seen that woman smile,” Mikkel paused, “… but still, she’s tempting as a fox. Tough break for Vee, though. So what’s the plan?”
“First off, I gotta warn Outpost Thirty-One. I’m gonna need to clear a hole through the wretched Ravine Watch. There are five guards on each side of the ravine, spaced out over a mile.”
Billip drew with his finger in the dirt. 
“They use bird pipes to signal. I’m gonna cut off of the west side of the ravine—here!”
Using a stick, he made an X in the dirt. 
“That’s the side you and Venir will have to take to get out of the camp and past the brigand squadron at the end of the ravine. They’re only orcs, and they usually sleep between the whistles, especially right before dawn. I shouldn’t have much trouble taking them out. If I have time, I’ll take out the other side as well, and you guys will hopefully be able to disappear from camp altogether. Got it?”
“I’m with you,” Mikkel said with a nod, rubbing his club. 
Billip rubbed his scruffy chin.
“It should be dawn before long. I hope Venir will make his way back here as usual, to tell us his exploits. Break the news to him and get the Bone out of here! Meet me at Outpost Thirty-One. Got it?” 
Mikkel nodded again. 
“I’m going on foot, so have my horse ready for Venir. His horse is stabled, so don’t fool with it, it might draw suspicion. And you,” he grabbed Chongo’s face, “make sure he doesn’t screw this up.”
“Good fortune, Billip. You’re gonna need it,” Mikkel said.
“I like my chances better than yours, so hang on to that fortune,” Billip said, grim-faced as he slipped out of the tent. 
Billip drifted like a shadow over the plateau edge and into the ravine. The forest was black and slick as he passed through thickets and hours-old cobwebs. 
Got to do this. 
He had to be at his best and not miss a single shot in the blackness. If he had to, he would sneak up and cut their throats. This do-or-die mission was as frightening and exciting as any he had ever faced, but he was determined not to let down his friends—or the rest of his race, for that matter. 
Men and underlings, why me? He had friends in that outpost; they all did. It was a key stronghold that had helped keep the underlings from gaining control in the north for as long as anyone knew. Without it, the tide between man and underlings would shift. The foul creatures had been gaining ground for quite some time. This might be the strike the foul creatures were waiting for. He had to get there in time. He worried about his friends. 
I hope they make it. 


CHAPTER 10

Mikkel’s forehead was beaded with sweat as he prowled their campsite. Where is he? Dawn was breaking, and Billip had been gone hours. Waiting was agonizing; he felt like a dead duck among the now awakening army. Chongo’s ears kept perking up and flattening back down.
“Bad deal,” he muttered. 
At least he had killed some kobolds. If things didn’t go his way, he might have a chance to kill more. The brown dog sniffed and snuffled at his side, enhancing his frustration. He was ready, though. He didn’t know what for, but if a fight was coming, he was ready. He had packed their gear and loaded the mounts. The horses gave soft neighs. The beasts were well-trained and ready to be ridden out of camp at a second’s notice. That second wouldn’t come soon enough. 
He paced around the tent, countless times, chanting an old war song. 
Come, come ye dire dogs,
It’s time to taste my wrath. 
The bow is strong, 
The battle long, 
As we embrace the throng. 
Come, come ye dire dogs, come!
“Where is he, Chongo? He should be back by now!” 
He clenched his teeth as he tightened the leather cords around his burgeoning biceps. Smears of dark grey paint coated his cheeks and lips. It burned, with a strong scent, arousing his senses and warming his blood. He couldn’t contain himself. 
Wait or flee? Fight? Bone! Billip’s probably in a fort full of women by now. Dog! 
Chongo looked up at him, giving only a low yelp. He began to figure that his friend was already done for. If Venir took much longer, he would have to leave without him. The thought was disturbing, but no more so than the thought of what might be happening to Venir in Jarla’s tent. 
Come on, Venir!


CHAPTER 11

He awakened, refreshed from his slumber, inside the brigand queen’s tent as he had many times before. It’s good to be me. She wasn’t there though, so maybe it wasn’t going to be such a good start after all. Most mornings, she was already up, busy with all the tasks of maintaining command of her army, or her ‘hapless horde’ as he liked to call them. Venir never understood how she kept company with such an assortment rather than the company of her own; but if she could live with it, so could he, for now anyway. 
He knew she was capable enough to command any army, so why she chose this one he could not figure. In the meantime, he made the most of it. He was confident that he had a good handle on his situation and that it would not be long before he gained her total trust. Today is the day.
He sat up, rubbing the thick cords of his forearms, shaking from an unusual chill. Combing his fingers through his thick hair, he spied himself in a tall mirror on the other side of the bed. He ran his fingers over his pale stubble. Time to shave.
He flexed his sinewy arms over his head as he yawned, noting the recent scabs and bandages from the recent slaughters won. His handsome face was lean and chiseled. His chest and shoulders were broader than most fighters his age. He stretched.
He touched the heavy scratches that littered his tan skin. Those might go away. He didn’t like the scars and healed patches of torn skin that had cropped up over his athletic physique over the years, but there was little choice in it. Each one meant he had survived, and he enjoyed the questions women asked about them. It was the scars they couldn’t see that he never talked about. He rinsed his face off in a porcelain basin. Where is she? He wanted her.
There was no sound of the usual activity in the tent. He was used to Jarla muttering like a hermit to herself, but not this morning. He was searching for his trousers and knife when he decided to look beyond the curtained quarters and see if she was there. The heavy tent began to brighten from the rising suns. The candles were expired, and the odd quiet was his only companion. Strange.
Jarla was very thorough with the details of her business. The tent was the same as always, yet something seemed amiss. There was a nagging in his gut. 
His head began to ache like when he drank too much the night before. How late had he slept? Why were there no plans on the tables? Where’s my food? The familiar smell of coffee was not there. Hmmm. But he wasn’t one to be paranoid. He was sure that whatever might be going on had nothing to do with him. After all, she was rather fond of his prowess—both on and off the battlefield—and he had the marks on his back to prove it. If anything important was up, he’d be the first to know.
He wandered back toward the bed and snatched his shirt and trousers. He heard footsteps approaching the tent’s entrance, so he went back. In she came, and he greeted her with a welcoming smile. Clothed in her typical attire, she shot back a rueful smile, nodding as she looked his unclothed body up and down. He responded, ready to crush her in his arms, when two gnoll commanders, Throk and Keel, entered behind her, fully armed for battle. Brazen though he was, he was embarrassed.
Venir shouted at the gnolls.
“Don’t you two ever enter Jarla’s tent uninvited! Now get out of here!” 
Throk and Keel chuckled like jackals, their yellow eyes full of mockery. Venir looked at Jarla, but she did nothing but smile. There was an awkward moment before he turned back toward the two gnolls, regaining his composure.
“So, I guess you two want a closer look at the best looking man, and I emphasize man, in the camp?” He stood, head high with arms wide. “Well, here I am.” Again, there were surly chuckles, and he started to feel uneasy. 
“Jarla, what in Bish are these two doing in here? What’s going on?”“They’re here to help me take care of some business,” she said, in a soft unpleasant voice. 
Another chill ran the course of his spine.
“I’m sure I can help. Let me get some clothes on,” he said, turning back towards the bed.
“No!” she almost shouted, “Stay right there, my pet. I like you as you are.”
Venir’s dander started to rise. He looked her square in the eyes.
“Pet? I am not your pet, Jarla.” 
“Pah! You’ve been my pet all along, Buffoon!” Her voice was as sharp as a dagger. “You’re no different from all the other fools I’ve had before. You aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last. But I’ll give you credit, you were one of the best.”
He stepped back, not expecting such words. The sugar and spice had turned to salt and mud. He felt himself sinking into the ground. What? The uneasiness that had crept in earlier turned into something he had never dealt with before … uncertainty. Her beautiful eyes burned with hate now. Her features twisted into a persona he had never encountered. This was not the woman he thought he knew. She looked at him like he was just another man, among a hundred, who had wronged or spurned her in some horrible way. The tent began to shrink around him, and he felt as helpless as a babe.
He swallowed hard and said, “What are your plans for me, then? Am I to be expelled from your army? I wouldn’t miss it. I’d be happy to leave.”“It’s not that simple, Yellow Hair. No man who shares my bed lives long enough to tell about it,” she said, stepping back between the sneering gnolls.
His body went cold, and his mind numb at the heartlessness of her statement. He knew she meant it and was prepared to end his life with a single command. He felt like a fool as he stood flat-footed with no means to defend himself. He was about to be slaughtered. He felt the sweat break out on his brow. The gnolls' hairy hands dropped onto their sword hilts. He wanted to scream, but who would come? Think! 
“Are you going to at least give me a fighting chance?” he blurted out, unable to mask the defeat in his voice.
She laughed. 
“No. I’ve seen you fight. Giving you a chance is too dangerous.”
Venir broke out in a cold sweat and his voice trembled. 
“So what then?” he shrugged, fighting the urge to vomit.
“Throk and Keel normally eliminate my pets while they’re sleeping, or sometimes as they try to escape. They’ve been begging to kill you and your men as payback for the loss of their comrades and one of my best commanders, Durn. But that’s in the past.”
Venir was agape. Billip and Mikkel! Were they dead as well? A wave of guilt swept over his fear now. He had ignored their warnings. He was a fool whose folly would lead to the death of two good friends. Yet, despite the news she had shared with him, he still found her magnificent. To her surprise, he even managed a grin. Smile, no matter how bad it seems. Who told him that?
“Well, that’s a first, a fool grinning in the face of death. You are something, I’ll give you that,” she said, almost smiling herself. 
“Oh, I know you think at least that much of me, and more,” he answered, managing a wink. 
Throk and Keel chuckled. Jarla slapped Keel in the back. She continued with the bad news.
“But in your case, my pet, there’s a pretty steep bounty on your head,” she added.“What bounty?” A bounty from who?
“The one my outside supporters have put on you, Fool.”
“You have me at a loss, again, it seems. Who is this outside interest, Witch?” he asked. 
Jarla sneered.
“Actually, I’ll tell you. I was careful not to disclose anything to you before, because I know how you feel about them. But there’s been a war going on for a long time … a secret war.” Deep creases crossed her forehead as she stroked her silky hair. 
“I’m part of it—a distraction for the most part—but I’m very well paid, as we all are. And I don’t mind carving into the supporters and forces of the Royals who lead the humans. They put me through great pain long ago, so it satisfies my thirst for revenge. The truth is, I don’t feel much for any race; I just enjoy what I do.” 
She licked her upper lip. 
“I could do it for either side in this war. But right now, I’m on the side that’s gaining on the humans.”
Venir’s neck hairs rose up. Was she about to say something he never would have believed? She mustn’t. He simply could not believe it to be true, and that he too, may have become a part of it. 
“The bottom line is … it doesn’t matter to me who wins or loses. But when it comes to tendering for my services, the underlings pay far better.”
Rage exploded inside Venir’s chest, flushing his cheeks with fire. He had been sharing a bed with this traitor for months. She had been in league with his most despised enemies, had even known how he felt, and had used him anyway. The betrayal was as enlightening as it was overwhelming. It was a cruel twist, but an awakening one as well. 
Still helpless and almost shaking, he gathered his thoughts.
“I’ll make you pay, Jarla! You’d better kill me now if you ever want to sleep again! I will hunt you down!” 
Her scoffing laugh doused his fire. 
“I’ve survived bigger threats. Don’t worry, Yellow Hair; the underlings have agreed to let me be present when they run you through. Apparently, some of the underlings you’ve allowed to escape would like to apply your own methods to you. We’re going to watch them put your head on a Pike. They’re even going to let you lead their army as we take Outpost Thirty-One. Won’t that be an honor, you leading the march on the Royals?”
He didn’t wince at her words. He stared at her with growing hatred. His mouth was dry as he choked out his next words.“They won’t take me alive! You’ll have to kill me! I won’t give you a choice!”
“I assure you, that won’t happen. Give yourself up, Man. You’re unarmed, and the whole tent is surrounded. It won’t be hard to wrestle you down. Be good, and I’ll try to make your suffering quick.”
His lust and pride had made him a fool. He didn’t know who he hated more, her, the underlings, or himself. Perhaps he deserved to die, but not his friends. 
Not Chongo! 
With the desperation of a cornered tiger, he eyed his surroundings for a weapon of some sort. The only object close to him was the large worn leather sack, lying on the map table. He had looked in the sack several times before, unbeknownst to her, and never found a thing. He knew it was futile to try it again, but he felt compelled to—he had nothing to lose. 
“Well?” she said. “What’s it going to be? Do you give yourself up, or do my men wrestle you down like a child?”
He sprang like a deer, grabbing the leather sack off the table and reaching down deep inside it. 
Throk, Keel, and Jarla laughed with vigor. 
“They do that every time,” Jarla sneered, patting Throk on the back. “These poor brutes just can’t come up with anything better.” Venir turned to face them, straw hair hanging over his face, shoulders slumped. 
“Now, put my sack down, Venir. It’s time to end this game.” 
There was a pause, all eyes intent on him, seeing him for a fool. Throk and Keel took a half step forward and then stopped. 
A smile cracked under Venir’s nose.
“Why would I do that … when I have this?” 
The gnolls looked at one another and Jarla’s face froze. He pulled out an object and watched their eyes widen, none more than Jarla’s. For she was not gazing upon either of her twin battle axes, but a much larger one that looked like both of hers put together. Venir felt something incredible and powerful in his grip. 
“Bone!” Venir elated. 
Jarla’s dark eyes locked on his for a moment and returned to the great axe he now wielded.
“Put that back, Venir! Put that back in the sack now! Do it, Venir!” she began to scream in rage. “Do it! Do it! Do it now!” 
He had never seen a woman so angry in his life, and he had seen plenty. Her frenzy almost persuaded him, but he caught himself, realizing that he no longer cared for her anymore than a marsh witch. He flashed them all a hardy grimace.
“I think—I’ll cut you all down instead!” 
Jarla dashed from the tent, screaming at the top of her lungs.
“Kill him! Kill him!” 
Throk and Keel drew their bastard swords in time to parry his attack, but Venir was all over them like lightning in a rainstorm. Blades shattered and bones broke under his fury as the two cleaved gnolls fell dead on the ground in pools of blood. His new weapon felt alive in his hands, and power seemed to course through his body. It felt good, very good, indeed. More soldiers pressed in, but the sight of the convulsing gnolls' bulky bodies blocking the entry caused them to hesitate their charge. 
Venir yanked a helmet out of the sack and put it on. A wave of awareness overwhelmed him. He could sense everything. Then he pulled out a round shield. Great Bish! He then prepared himself for a stand. He felt like he could fight the entire army. It suddenly struck him that the back of Jarla’s tent faced the entrance to the ravine and the path back to his tent. He grabbed his gear. He at least had time to warn Billip and Mikkel. As the guards charged in, he slit open the tent and slipped through the canvas as fast as he could. 


CHAPTER 12

Mikkel had been agonizing on tenterhooks for what felt like an eternity. Through a small spyglass, he had been surveying the rear of Jarla’s tent. He had watched her leave it, seen brigand soldiers surround it, and watched her re-enter it with the two heavily armed gnoll commanders. Son of a Bish! He knew that he was about to witness the assassination of his old friend. No one seemed to have noticed Billip’s departure, and no one seemed concerned with him, either, so he waited, keeping watch for a few more minutes. 
He was about to pack it in and go when he saw Jarla bolt around from the front of her tent and start barking commands. All of the guards converged on her tent’s entrance. The camp was still in a slumber, but many were now alert and sounding the alarm. Then he saw a figure emerge through a slit in the back of the tent: a naked man with a great axe, a shield, and what looked like the brigand queen’s helmet came running out of the opening, straight in Mikkel’s direction. When two orc brigands intercepted his path, the naked warrior cut one in the neck and punched another down. Mikkel saw a big V-shaped tattoo on the big man’s broad back. He snapped his spyglass shut. 
“Its him!”
Chongo bolted to his master’s aid while Mikkel jumped on his horse and led the other mount into his friend’s path. Two more brigand soldiers tried to cut Venir off, but Mikkel shot one clean through his skull and Venir severed the other in two with a wide swipe through its belly.
“Come Vee! Let’s go!”
Jarla’s men were coming, shouting in alarm. The whole brigand army seemed to be awake and on the move, but Mikkel and Venir had the jump on them. Venir leapt onto Billip’s readied horse, and they raced down the hillside and into the ravine. Chongo took the lead. Hard and fast they rode, and to their surprise nothing seemed to stand in their way. 
Mikkel cried out, “Billip did it!” 
They even passed clear of the Ravine Watch at the end of the pass. Mikkel shouted back to Venir, “Billip must have led them on a fox hunt!” 
As they galloped clear of the ravine, he shouted to Venir, “Good thing Billip left his horse for you!”
“Why?”
“There’s no way I’d let you ride with me looking like that!”
Venir had forgotten all about his nakedness.
“We’d better get you into some clothes. If Billip or anyone else sees us now, we’ll never live it down! ”
“I’m just happy to be alive, either way!” Venir yelled.
“I heard that!” he said. 
They rode hard toward Outpost Thirty-One with a large portion of the brigand army in heated pursuit. 


Note from the Author

The story you have just read is the first of many books. How many, I cannot say. I’m not putting a limit on it. The Darkslayer: Blades in the Night (Book 2) is now available as well as The Darkslayer: Underling Revenge (Book 3), completing my first trilogy. The Darkslayer: Danger and the Druid (Book 4) is available, and Book 5 will be released May 2013. Look for updates at: www.thedarkslayer.com

For those of you who might be curious where my stories go from here, seeing how this first book is a free introduction, I’d like to take a moment to fill you in. Where this first story is heavily geared towards Venir, the other books stories are more evenly distributed developing other characters, such as Melegal, underlings Verbard and Catten, Georgio and many others. I like telling the story from many Points of View and from other places, so Venir doesn’t get all of the glory. I like creating characters and watching them grow. 

About the epilogue and additional chapters: I added this material into the story after it was completely written the first time. The original story began with Venir and Melegal running a skim in the City of Bone and ended at The Warfield. I decided that I wanted to go ahead and write a little more about Venir’s past and at the same time I wanted to make the book longer. In earlier editions of this book, I added this as a flashback after Venir was leaving Two-Ten City, having survived his fight in the Pit with those flagrant ogres. However, this confused some readers. Next, I put the meeting with Jarla at the beginning of the story. This didn’t flow well either, so under good advice I moved it to the end and created an epilogue. I hope this worked out better for the readers.

Also, your thoughts are valuable to other readers and myself, so leave a review if you can, wherever you discuss books online.



About the Author

Craig Halloran resides with his family outside his hometown of Charleston, West Virginia. When he isn’t entertaining mankind he is seeking adventure, working out or watching sports. To learn more about him go to: www.thedarkslayer.com

Other works by the author
The Darkslayer: Wrath of the Royals (Book 1) 
The Darkslayer: Blades in the Night (Book 2)
The Darkslayer: Underling Revenge (Book 3) 
The Darkslayer: Danger and the Druid (Book 4)
The Chronicles of Dragon: The Hero, The Sword and The Dragons
Zombie Day Care: Impact Series: Book 1
Zombie Rehab: Impact Series: Book 2
Jerk of All Trades: It’s not him; it’s them

In the works by the author
The Darkslayer: Book 5
The Chronicles of Dragon: Book 2

You can learn more about The Darkslayer and my other books at:
Facebook – The Darkslayer Report by Craig
Twitter – Craig Halloran

***BONUS MATERIAL BELOW***


EXCERPT FROM THE DARKSLAYER: BLADES IN THE NIGHT (Book 2)


Beneath two blazing suns, the restless man known as Venir frowned as he trudged along. His hair was pulled back in a thick braid that ended just below his brawny shoulders. Venir’s bright blue eyes contrasted with his tanned skin. He wore nothing more than a light set of tanned leather armor over outdoor garb, with a white cowl around his neck. A long hunting knife hung from his belt, the sheath’s tip tied down against his lower thigh. His dark leather pack seemed small hanging from his expansive back. 
 Venir pulled a grimy hand across his forehead to wipe away the sweat. He swore his already reddened skin was cooking. Looking up toward the two fiery orbs in the sky, he longed for the night, but felt compelled to press on. The Outlands could send an unprepared person into a delirium—especially in this kind of heat—but Venir was prepared. He still had his bearings. 
Stopping and kneeling, he took off his backpack and extracted two canteens. He chugged a few thick sips from one, then set it down beside the empty one. Venir waited, watching the breeze create tiny whirlwinds over the sun-baked surface. Mirages shimmered in all directions as far as he could see. Greenish brown cacti of all shapes and sizes, some poisonous, stood scattered over the landscape. He knew what he was looking for, and none of these would aid him. He needed to travel farther east for water, but he would not. Venir’s mission was to cut down the underlings, and he knew they were close. He had to find them, and he had to do it on his own.
The underlings were not accustomed to the broad daylight. They would stay just below the surface until the time was right. Venir knew how they used their magic to burrow into the ground, where they would wait, spying, before killing at will. This was one of the reasons they were such formidable enemies. 
If he could just find a burrow, Venir would have the jump on them. Just like any other beast, underlings left signs of their movement. Few knew their signs or cared to know: who would want to follow an underling, anyway? But Venir did—he always did. He and a handful of others knew that the underling burrows formed a network throughout the hard surface of Bish. More caves and tunnels went far below the burrows for safety. 
The dwarves, too, kept tabs on many of these tunnels. Underlings tended to travel on the surface only at night and in small groups. Their tunnels were small, more like giant snake holes, and on occasion one might find an abandoned one on the surface. Over the past few days, Venir had found several, hoping they were traps he could spring, but there had been no shred of life in any of them.
Wiping the sweat from his brow again, Venir reached into his backpack. He pulled out a large, worn leather sack and dropped it down with a clank. He began to unroll it, then held it in both hands and stared at it. A sour expression crossed his grizzled face. I don’t need you. 
Yes, the contents of the leather sack would give him what he needed to find the underlings. And he knew the contents of the sack would not be in his possession forever. What would he do then? Before he’d gained the items, Venir had survived fine without them while hunting underlings—better than any other man alive. Yet the sack gave him what he needed to make it much easier and even more … delightful. 
He shook his head. I can do this on my own. He rolled up the sack and stuffed it back into his pack, along with the canteens, then slung it onto his shoulders once more. Venir walked southeast into the empty landscape. The Red Clay forest wasn’t far away, but he would wait until night to stop and camp there. 
Then he felt a tremor beneath his feet, and a large hole opened up before his eyes. He backpedaled, but another hole began to open behind him. As two gigantic sand spiders emerged, his gut told him to run. But four underlings scurried out of the holes and surrounded Venir. The small humanoids wore black leather armor and were armed with short swords and crossbows. Their fingers were clawed, their teeth sharp, and they had coarse black hair and colorful wicked eyes. 
“Bone!” Venir cried, whipping out his hunting knife and charging toward the two closest underlings on his left. 
His incredulity at their sudden appearance was only surpassed by his hatred of them—a hatred that he knew had blinded him into waging this fight without his prized items. As Venir bounded forward, his mind wondered: how had he ever imagined that he could take them on alone, without the help of the armaments that remained tucked away in his leather sack? 
Pride had overcome instinct. Venir should have known better. But it was too late now.
Caught off guard by the rushing warrior, the two underlings dropped their hand crossbows to draw their short swords. His long knife sliced through the neck of the first like the underling was a chicken in a slaughterhouse, but then the other lunged at Venir’s armored chest. He side stepped the attack and drove his knife straight through the underling’s heart, pulling it out again and again with a bellow of triumph. Black blood splattered onto him and spilled over the dusty ground. 
He whirled toward his other attackers. The remaining two underlings had mounted the pony-sized sand spiders. They attacked. He ran. The sand spiders, Venir knew, were far worse than underling hunters, and it would take more than a hunting knife and courage to handle a single sand spider. The enormous, tarantula-like arachnids bore down on him. He could hear them chittering at his heels. They were fast. He was faster. Got to make it to the forest. 
Pushing himself beyond his known limits, Venir increased the distance between himself and his pursuers. Pride be damned. He needed time to get out his mystical armament from the leather sack. Slowing down would be his end, so he sprinted onward. 
 Venir hear a shrieking sound, and he knew there had to be more underlings in the area. His legs pumped faster and faster, toward the edge of the Red Clay Forest far off in the east. His best chance was to lose them in the forest—if he survived that long. His legs and lungs felt ready to burst. 
Then he saw the forest’s edge shimmering in the distance. Might make it. But then sand began whipping into a small storm all around him. He ran on, sure at first of his direction, until the wind picked up and confusion beset his course. Then he could not see to move. Underling magic! Hot sand tore at his skin. His frustration and frenzy mounted. He couldn’t breathe amidst the swirling thick sand. He pulled his cowl over his face and stumbled on until he could walk no more. 
As he crawled forward, Venir saw that four more lightly armored underlings—wielding odd swords and small crossbows—had surrounded him. They chattered back and forth in cruel mockery, knowing that their sandstorm would suffocate him and render him unconscious—if not kill him. They began banging their short swords together in triumph, loud screams erupting from their twisted faces. 
Venir heard it all through the whipping wind as he struggled to breathe. His felt his blood coursing through his thick blue veins. They had him; he knew it and so did they. He fought through the storm, the sand and dirt stinging his skin like a thousand bees. He only had one chance. He yanked off his backpack, pulled out the leather sack, and reached deep inside. 



***More Bonus Material Below***

CHAPTER 1000

Character Cards

I had these trading cards made up for book shows and signings that I do. I normally give them away with a purchase of a book. I didn’t see any reason to keep it out of the hands of the eReaders either.  If anything they should be bigger.  I hope you enjoy all 8 of them. 

A quick note, Ernie Chan was the artist on 6 of these cards. He did the interior illustrations as well.  Sadly he passed away in 2012 and he is missed.  I like to share all of his work that I can. I continue with Ernie’s interior illustrations in Book 2, but that’s the last of them.  You can learn more about Ernie and see his work at www.erniechan.com. I also wrote something about him on my blog, Remembering Chan. 

Dan Gorman, another comic artist, did the last two images. He’s still alive and well in Ohio.