Date: 2012-11-25 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Sword And Sorcery; Magic; Dark Fantasy
Description: FIGHT OR DIE ... As Venir wanders aimlessly through the Mist trying to find his way home, the Underlings, led by Lord Verbard and Master Sinway's son Kierway, hatch an underling assault on Bish. Meanwhile, back in the City of Three, Kam has her hands full with her new baby, as well as keeping tabs on Lefty and Georgio, whose friendship is splitting apart. Palos, the Prince of the Thieves Guild, has it in for Kam, and he won't let anyone stop him from getting what he wants, which is her. Detective Melegal remains neck deep in Royal Games, trying to hunt down the Slergs, who have Venir's son Bra
Publisher: Two-Ten Book Press

DANGER AND THE DRUID

The Darkslayer Book 4

CRAIG HALLORAN

THE DARKSLAYER (Book 4)

Danger and the Druid

By Craig Halloran

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

Amazon Edition

TWO-TEN BOOK PRESS

P.O. Box 4215, Charleston, WV 25364

ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9884642-3-0

ISBN eBook:       978-0-9884642-4-7

THE DARKSLAYER is a registered trademark, #77670850
http://www.thedarkslayer.net

Cover Illustration by David Chen

Edited by Cherise Kelley

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.

Publisher's Note

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.

DANGER AND THE DRUID

The Darkslayer Book 4

CHAPTER 1

Venir’s fingers ached with every step. The imp had left his mark, a painful one at that. Despite the healing provided by the armament during his battle with the giant, the remaining stubs below his missing fingertips were misshapen and dark, like the wounds he suffered at the hands of the Vicious he battled at the Warfield. Those memories seemed like a lifetime ago, a hundred years. He thought of Georgio, the boy who could heal from such things. He hoped the boy was safe.

He sat down at the edge of the river, facing forward, or at least where he thought was forward. He dipped his blackened fingers in the cool water while he stared across the expanse. There was little to note: blue-gray water as far as the eye could see and a rolling fog floating over the top of the waters. The view across the river was much better than that he was surrounded by: Mist. It surrounded him just like before. His wet hand was shaking as he rubbed his face.

“Bone.”

How much farther did he have to go to get back to Bish? The farther he walked, the more time escaped from him. Doubt assailed his mind. Boon the Wizard had told him how much the giants lied, tricking men as men tricked them. Had the giant lied, leading him down a path of death through starvation or exhaustion? He scooped up a mouthful of water, catching a glimpse of himself. His face was haggard, his hair wild and his beard almost reached his chest. He punched his fist into the water and spit.

“What manner of madness is this?”

WHUMP! WHUMP! WHUMP! SNORT!

Every fiber of his body stiffened. The sound had been ongoing since he followed himself into the mist. The image of the black dragon invaded his mind. He pictured rows of giant razor sharp teeth outlining a gaping red maw with an orange furnace burning down its throat. His entire body began to warm as the battle heat spread out to every fiber of hair. He reached over, clutching his leather sack, and craned his neck. Nothing. He sat, the sound of his labored breath filling his ears as he cupped his battered hand behind one ear. He remained still for another hour or minute, he did not know. The flapping of wings had been coming and going. Bedeviling. He remembered fangs as big as his forearm and fire as hot as anything he’d known. He splashed more water on his face. Sometimes it sounded like one massive beast, other times one hundred. The sounds came and faded, leaving him to wonder if they were real or just more tricks of his imagination.

“Come and get me then!” He reached into the sack and withdrew Brool. The axe was warm in his grip, tingling what remained of his fingers, taking the bite from the mangled flesh. He rose back to his feet. “We got to get out of here.” He could have sworn the axe replied … Indeed.

Again, like so many times before, he donned his helm and shield and walked, one foot splashing on the edge of the water, the other on the soft bar of sand. The helm did little to amplify the sounds of the waters, and his vision was just as obscured as before by a field of feathery cotton that remained in his path, never ending. Venir had walked another mile or two when he began to stomp and rave. Madness was creeping into his thoughts, mixed with festering anger, frustration and rage. He swung and screamed, growled and howled. Not even an echo greeted him.

Onward, forward, unrelenting he walked, jogged and ran. His legs were heavy, and his weakening body begged for rest, sleep. He lay down with his legs in the water, and in a moment he was dreaming of walking along the endless river in the mist.

He snored.

SNORT!

He jerked up, wiping his nose, just as exhausted and weary as before. Was that me? The sounds of dragons came again. He replaced the armament into the sack, only to don it again and again. His mutterings and ramblings became more frequent as he conversed with the living and the dead. He laughed, cried, sobbed, lied, thirsted, drifted and starved. Yet somehow he was sustained.

“HELP ME!” he begged and pleaded.

“FIGHT ME!” he raged.

“KILL ME!” he dared.

None replied.

The water that sustained him never quenched his thirst, and the tiny minnows did not fill him. Kam? Who was she? Bone? Where was he? Venir was losing. Bish’s ultimate survivor was being whittled away by forces he could not smell, touch or see. A fighter through and through, Venir moved on without day, night or hope, only instinct. His aching legs carried him on, step by step, mile after mile, league after league.

Plop.

He stopped, head whipping around. His mind muttered. What was that? Nothing. He grumbled and continued on.

Plop.

“Huh …” Venir clutched at the stringy hairs in his beard. The sound was nothing like anything he'd experienced before in the Mist, foreign to his mind and senses.

Plop.

Whatever it was, it was ahead of him. A vision formed in his mind of a smooth stone being dropped from a pier into a lake, and then the vision became a drop of rain water dripping from a rooftop into a puddle of mud. Something was going on in the Mist somewhere; it had to be. The tricks his mind had been playing on him were getting old, and his maddening visions must come to an end. Move or die. Someone had told him that once.

Plop.

The sound might as well have been a war-hammer smiting him in the ear as the clarity bore into his brain, screaming, maybe warning him that something was out there. He leaned forward, creeping alongside the wet bank, his foot no longer splashing in the water, angling for the next sound. Another twenty steps … plop … thirty steps … plop … ten steps … plop plop … his heart raced … five steps … fifteen steps …  thirty steps … nothing. A hundred steps more he counted … nothing. Had he missed it or passed it? He did not know. He punched himself in the head and fell to his knees. He punched himself again and rushed into the river.

“This is hopeless!” He screamed at the top of his lungs.

Venir’s feeble mind was breaking. He clutched the sack inside filthy and once powerful hands. He had once been a cunning and crafty warrior so long ago, before the sack. The armament within changed his life forever. The power within changed him, hardened him like stone, not so much as a man but as a minion, a killing machine, a menace to evil. He didn’t ask for it, but he had it and hungered for it. He exacted vengeance with it a thousand times, but his hunger was never satisfied. Underlings. There was a time in his life when for every ten he killed he wanted to kill a hundred more. That fire and fury was no longer there. All purpose was gone.

Plop.

He turned back towards the bank. Venir swore the sound was only thirty feet away in the mist.

Plop.

Head down, he dragged his dripping wet body onto the bank, hauling the sack out of the water behind him. The plopping sound was steady now, so close he felt like he could touch it. There had to be something, anything out there making that noise. He had to find its source. He left the river on foot, the giant’s words still lingering in his mind. Follow the river. He had done that. The giant must have lied to him, and there must be another way out.

Plop.

The river was his only friend and ally, and he had left it. He looked back one last time, watching its silent waters flow, realizing he would never see it again. He realized something else: he hated the giants.

Plop.

Without fear or hope he wandered back into the mist.

CHAPTER 2

It was pitch black behind Castle Almen. A delivery depot stood in the view of a shadow pressed into the gloom. A glimmer of pale moonlight reflected in a puddle in the cobblestoned road a few feet beyond Detective Melegal’s nose with drizzling rain shimmering the image. For months, on and off, he had crouched in this very spot, alert to the comings and goings of the castle. At his back was the encompassing wall of the City of Bone, nearly five stories high, a monolith of rock, imprisonment and safe-haven.

His mind gave an inward sigh as his skinny knees began to ache. More than thirty yards ahead of him, a secured wagon rumbled over the road, making its way downward into the dock below the castle. He saw hapless faces, small and dark, pressed against the bars of the windows:. urchins, some with talent, others without, all scraped off the streets to serve the unforgiving Royals. His heart didn’t skip a beat at the thought of what awaited them, knowing full well he had little more advantage than them. He now—the mighty Detective of the Royal Almens— was little more than a slave himself.

He rubbed his knee. I’m not old enough to ache. Yet he did. The memory of himself as an urchin—kneeling in silence, hour after hour, inside the castle, either holding a goblet of wine or a candlestick during another one of their pompous and overbearing ceremonies—swelled the anger within him. The fate of those children would be no worse or no less, but he no longer cared. Without him realizing it, every ounce of compassion had been almost entirely driven from him by none other than Lord Almen, complimented by his Lorda.

A pair of rats crept over his toes where he hunched inside a nook within the city’s giant wall. Each sniffed the cuff on his pants. Looking for a crumb, are we? Melegal’s steely gaze scanned the backside of the castle's reinforcements, noting three heavily armed sentries with halberds dragging in the urchins while another half dozen stood watching from a stone balcony, wearing steel helmets and clutching small crossbows to their chests. All eyes were on the wagon when he made his move.

Jab. Jab.

Two dead rats were skewered on the end of his razor thin dagger's blade. A thin smile formed on his tight lips as he slipped up into a standing position along the way. I still got it. Indeed he did. There was little room for error working for Lord Almen, and his training—something forced upon himself, by himself—came from fear and necessity. He studied the two rodents for a moment before flicking them away. The Rat. His deceased mentor McKnight had called him that, many times. The image of McKnight’s face was permanently etched in his mind when he drove his double hilted dagger in one side and out the other. He had figured life would get much easier in Bone for him after that, but it had only become more complicated. Vastly so.

He stood in the solitude of the drizzling rain, careful to look away from the castle lantern's glow, pondering his demanding charges. Lord Almen wanted results every week when it came to tracking down the Slergs and any others that crossed his path. Every week, death and torture had been led by Melegal's hand. He'd never had much taste for blood, considering it nothing more than leaky filth that would stain your garments. Now, drawing it had become routine and numbing. Results. Results. Results! Lord Almen demanded them, and the tall powerful man would have them. Not in all of his life had Melegal been intimidated by another man, but Lord Almen had managed to shake his core.

As the wagon disappeared beneath the castle, another one emerged, driven by a slouched over silhouette of a single man, drawn by a single work horse, filled with barrels, crates, sacks and other misshapen things. No sentries escorted them out. Same time every week. Melegal craned his neck. He could hear the murmured greetings of the sentries on the upper balconies changing shift with their fellow guardsmen. This was what he had been waiting for. Tonight’s the night. He tucked his dagger away as he pulled his cloak tighter around him and slipped along the shadows of the wall.

The wagon, unlike many this time of night, did not have the glow of a lantern on its backside. The sound of the hard wheels rolling and the drizzling rain comforted Melegal on his trek through the darkness. The driver led the wagon another fifty yards past the lower wall courtyard and into a wide alley that ran between the walls of Castle Almen and Castle Kling.

The area between the two was vast, large enough for three wagons, but not heavily guarded.  It was unlikely that any rogue or rebel would attempt to traverse into the private outer corridors of the castles. Many heads had been spiked, and many necks had been stretched for even the mildest of trespasses. And the last city-wide rebellion had resulted in live bodies being catapulted, on fire, over the walls. Melegal was still a boy when he witnessed that. He remembered it being one of those rare moments when he and his fellow urchins were laughing. The lashings were worth it for some sick reason that day.

His fingertips were tingling. He watched and waited for his chance to dart from the wall and into the alley. If the Kling or Almen sentries saw him, crossbow bolts would pin him like a cushion. As his keen eyes scanned the ledges of the upper balconies, his keen ears listened for any artillery sounds. The wagon was rolling deeper into the alley, loud and lonely in the night. Usually a head or two would peek out from above. Melegal waited as the wagon disappeared from his sight. Move.

His black shadow dashed over the cobblestones, through the moonlight and into the alley. He waited for his heart to stop pounding in his ears and then moved on. It was another fifty yards to the end of the alley, where the wagon had stopped. Before Melegal caught up, it had lurched forward again. From the darkness he watched as the sentries, one from the Klings and another from the Almens, exchanged words before returning to their posts. The lanterns on the guard shacks and on the main street offered ample light to the corridor. No chance he’d slip by unnoticed there. He had to move quicker. He focused as he crept to the end of the alley and peered around the corner.

Look up. Look up. Look up.

His mind illuminated, and his hair tingled. He slipped behind the Kling guard shack stationed on the corner of the castle wall and rounded to the other side. The sentry was staring straight into the sky as he spun around slowly on his heels. Perfect. The wagon with its cargo was heading into the bowels of the upper city districts, passing underneath the colorful district banners that sagged down towards the ground. It wasn’t the only traffic, either. The roads, though not as busy as daytime, still thrived with workers and commerce. Melegal walked backward into the road looking upward, and it wasn’t long before he, the sentries and small passing groups of people were doing the same. Fools and followers.

“Heh-heh … ” he said, rubbing his cap, before turning back after the wagon.

***

Block after block, turn after turn, he kept his eyes glued on the wagon. A full hour must have passed before it stopped. Something was moving. Melegal crouched along the wall. Yes. Finally. Tonight is the night. The silhouette of a robed man emerged from under a heavy canvas. The person rolled off the back and fell onto the street as the wagon rolled forward. Hah. Melegal smiled as the figure rose to its feet with a groan and rambled forward. He followed, closing in on the lumbering figure block after block, turn after turn. The smell of fish oil wafted into his nostrils, the sounds of wheezing filled his ears, and vengeance filled his heart as his hand clutched around the hilt of his dagger. The feverish eyes of Sefron the cleric peered back over his hunched shoulder from time to time, but Melegal kept himself concealed in the shadows. Where are you going, Fatty? I’ve got a surprise for you.

The man he hated, Sefron, was little more than twenty steps away, and the urge to slip his dagger into his neck consumed him. He had more disdain for Sefron than he had for McKnight and Lord Almen put together. He respected them as much as he hated them. The creepy cleric, filled with sickness, driven by defiling, had nothing redeemable to offer anyone as far as he was concerned. Lord Almen felt otherwise, but Melegal was determined to prove him wrong.

Don’t lose him. Focus.

Another hour of cat and mouse was played in the drizzling rain until Sefron cast one final glance over his sagging shoulders and ducked into another alley. Four seconds hadn’t passed when Melegal crept around the corner and found himself staring down a long and empty corridor filled with an overwhelming smell of excrement and fish oil. He has to be here. He pushed his cloak up to his nose and followed the alley to a dead end. No doors, no ladders, no windows and no Sefron. The cleric had disappeared … again.

“Sunuvabish,” he exclaimed under his breath.

An eerie voice from behind him replied, “No, son of a whore is more like it.”

Melegal ducked and rolled as a long blade ripped through his cloak.

CHAPTER 3

Snow and ice.

“Rah-OOOR!”

A wooden club slammed into the ground where Fogle Boon’s mirage had stood. The image shimmered and faded as an ogre, covered in furs, with hairy white arms and an unforgettably ugly face, grunted in alarm. It raised its club high once again before bringing it down in the same spot, sending shards of ice along the icy path. Fogle Boon's teeth were chattering as he fought to form the words of power for his spell. Blasted cold! Where is Mood?

The ogre—a full eight feet of bulging brawn and belly—snorted the air. Its yellow eyes widened on a head as big as a barrel of ale, that turned his direction. Fogle Boon felt so cold on the inside, and now his veins turned to ice as the ogre stormed his way, heavy steps thundering into the ground.

Fogle fanned his frozen fingers outward as he shouted, “KRYZAK-SHO!”

The power warmed inside him. Four radiant darts of energy slammed into the ogre’s chest, drawing a howl of agony. Not good. The angry ogre was still coming. His spell had misfired. A single syllable from his chattering teeth had slipped, and a barrage of needles designed to enter the face and pierce the brain had simply bored into the thickset muscle and bone of the massive humanoid. The effect would do little more than leave a scar on the monster's smelly hide, but Fogle didn’t have time to worry about that now. DUCK!

The ogre swung over his head as Fogle rolled through the snow, fumbling inside the pockets of his robes. He grabbed a small rod of steel and thrust it before him, catching the next blow that glanced off a field of energy of bluish hue. Fogle’s fragile arms shook under the force, loosening his numb fingers along the rod. Focus, mage! FOCUS!

He clutched the rod in two shaking hands now as the ogre pounded away. His body shook to the core. It gave him some idea of what actual fighters went through. He had previously only heard them discuss melee. The spell within the rod only had so much it could take. The transparent field of magic was chipping and cracking like the shell of an egg. He caught his first close-up view of the ogre as it snarled in his face. His razor sharp mind noted the large canine-like teeth, jutting chin and protruding brow. Its expression was evil, cruel and without compassion. The smell of salt and manure didn’t mix well with the pure cold air he was growing accustomed to. The smell was pungent and unrelenting, and his eyes watered. The humanoid continued to pound away, not a mindless beast, but a cunning creature that was going punish him before it ripped him apart and ate him. Fogle screamed.

“MOOD!”

His shield was fading, the fragments falling and dissipating in the air like blue crystals. There was nothing he could do at this point to save himself except cry out for help. His arms began to sag because his joints ached. I don’t want to be an adventurer any more! He wanted to say it, but he didn’t have the wind to say something that long.

“Mood!” he managed, as the next blow punched him deeper into the snow, wracking every joint in his bony body.

Futility. Fatality. He was going to die. Any second now, the next blow was bound to smash through and crush his skull. It made him more mad than fearful. A stupid beast was about to crush his brilliant mind. Even worse, he would die a virgin. He seethed.

“MOOD!”

It was too late. He never thought about his own family until this very moment, and all of those years of studying, ignoring the social pleasantries of his kind. The fun oh-so-many had and bragged about, he'd passed on for knowledge and power. And all for what? To be squashed like a bug without his own seed ever sown or spilled.

“MOOD!” BONE!

The ogre raised up its stubbed club one last time as the last shards of magic faded away from Fogle’s shield. The ogre showed a growing leer of triumph. Anger and shame swelled inside Fogle, raced from his mind and into his booted leg. If I can’t procreate – this mindless bastard shall not either! He launched the heel of his boot into the beast's harry crotch, drawing a howl of alarm. Fogle fell back in the snow, exhausted, laughing and muttering.

“No celebrating with your ugly counterpart tonight!”

The ogre snarled with rage as it raised its club once more. Fogle’s eyes widened as the club reached its zenith and began its downward arc. Well, if you can crack my skull you can crack anything.

Slice! Somewhere a hand axe began to sing.

Howling, the ogre reeled backward.

Slice! Slice! Slice!

A streak of blood splattered across Fogle’s face and robes. He noted the warm syrupy feeling and the smell of boar’s blood. He’d seen Mood gut one back in Dwarven Hole. There was a sickening sound, like an axe chopping into a rotting log, as he managed to force himself up on his elbows.

There was Mood, standing over the dead ogre, ripping his axes from its skull. The Blood Ranger was coated in dark blood, unlike that of his hair and beard. He was big and grizzly, his emerald eyes blazing like fire underneath his bushy brows. His head shifted left and right above his thick shoulders, wild and frightening. Fogle still wasn’t used to it, the Blood Ranger's odd way. But, the King of the Dwarves was the only friend he had. Fogle let out a trembling sigh, and his warm breath fogged, reminding him of how cold he was.

“Yer going ta need a bath, Ogre Bait,” Mood said, slinging the blood from his blades into the snow.

He managed to sit all the way up, happy that his cold arse was still a part of his living body, and to say, “Me? Look at you, Ogre Slat.”

Mood glanced over his shoulder, checked the blood on his clothes and laughed. The dwarf was coated in blood from head to toe. “Hah!” The husky dwarf walked over and pulled him up off the ground like a child. “Never seen that before.”

“What? Ogres? That’s the seventh one we’ve fought since we’ve—“

“Tenth!”

Fogle gave a quick nod of his head. “I see, so the tenth since we’ve been wandering these mountains. What are you talking about? ‘Never seen that before’?”

“Never seen no wizard kick an ogre in the family jewels before!”

“Is that so?” he replied, rubbing his hands feverishly together. I hate this cold.

“Aye,” Mood replied, “saved your life, it did. I’s coming over ta bank, too late, certain ye was gone.”

“Where were you anyway?”

“Killing ogres, Wizard. I thought you could handle them by now.”

“I thought I had back-up!”

“Ye did, er ye’d be dead,” Mood stated. “Ho! Ho!”

Fogle’s teeth were chattering again.

“What are you so ho-ho about?”

Mood lit up a cigar and said, “Ye did good. Saved yerself. Fought til’ the end. Venir'd liked to have seen that. I like it. Glad you still be.”

The ancient Blood Ranger's words warmed him, leaving him with a sense of pride, unlike his old kind, but the new kind, something good. He reached out his two quivering fingers.

Mood smiled and said, “A smoke eh … well, Ye’ve earned tis day.”

“How about a fire, too?”

***

The fire was warm, but Fogle was still cold and miserable as his victory, albeit a small one, did little to warm his spirits. Now here he was, traversing icy mountains filled with avalanches and monsters, all to help find a man that he hardly knew. Mood had led him on ice cold feet in and out of crevasses, caves and over the tops of mountains for weeks on end. Every step was just as treacherous as the last, and if Mood saved him once on this trek, he’d saved him over a dozen times.

He shivered as he rubbed his hands over the fire and said, “Mood, tell me more about your dwarven women.”

Mood’s bushy red brow perched in the firelight as he asked, “Whatcha want to know?”

He didn’t want to ask any questions at all. He had always assumed he knew everything he needed to know, but when it came to women, the subject was as foreign to him as the Nameless Mountains.

He pulled a thick woolen hood over his head and blew out a long puff of white breath.

“I was just reflecting on the colorful stories that Mikkel and Billip shared. I was wondering if what I heard was true, or if it was more of the same ole’ orc's slat men like to tout."

“Hmmm …,” Mood tugged at his beard, “I see. Yer sounding more likes an adventurer now. Ho! Ho! That’s grand. Almost dyin’ gets many men thinking about women, children and such.”

Fogle glowered at the Blood Ranger. Answer my question.

After a long moment Mood sat up saying, “Oh. Ah, well, dwarven women are frisky sorts, so I’d say what ye heard was true. But, don’t be disrespectful of them. They’ll get you back. Kin of mine once woke up hanging naked by his beard over top a pile of hot coals.”

Fogle cringed as the image formed in his mind.

“And another kin with his—”

“That’s enough. I get the picture. Be nice and courteous. I got it. Ah … Just forget it.”

Fogle stood back up and headed for his tent.

“Don’t worry, Wizard. I’ll have my wives take care of your needs when we get back,” Mood rumbled.

The offer, as generous as it sounded, didn’t seem quite right. Fogle turned and said, “Would there be any unmarried ones available instead?”

Mood slapped his knee and said, “Ho! Yer a funny one. An unmarried dwarf! That’s silly.”

Fogle pulled the flap of his tent open.

“See ya in the mornin’.”

He entered, sat inside the darkness and muttered a spell. The canvas of the small tent began to warm and glimmer. Ah, that’s better. It was a small cantrip, not powerful but effective. He’d been using it on and off, trying to get used to the cold, but the icy air was barely tolerable. Inhospitable! Mood told him he’d need to toughen up, but he wasn’t Mood. He was a scrawny man with frozen toes. He sneezed, pulled out a cloth handkerchief and blew his nose, remembering something he needed to ask Mood. Reluctantly, he peeked his head outside in the cold saying, “Mood, do you really still think we’ll find a druid up here? I’ve almost lost track of the weeks.”

Mood was gone, the fire was out and only the petite figure of an alabaster woman clothed in a snow white fur toga remained. Behind her was a pack of large wolves, shoulder height, with saliva dripping from growling teeth. Not possible! Fogle rubbed his eyes as she turned to face him. Two pink eyes, buckled in anger, ran over Fogle as a sudden chill raced through his spine. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and she scared him.

Her voice was haunting and powerful as she spoke:

“You killed my ogres … now you will die.”

CHAPTER 4

Two babies cooed in the nooks of the underling Lord Verbard's arms: one with emerald green eyes like his mother, the other with golden eyes like his uncle. Verbard snorted lightly through his nose, and the two underling babes clutched at his chin with their sharp little fingernails and sneered.

A seductive voice from behind him breathed in his ear.

“Glad to be back among your family, I see. Aren’t your babies so adorable, Verbard? Were they not worth the all the suffering I put you through?”

The green-eyed one was tugging at his finger when he cleared his throat and said, “Dearest, I’d rather walk barefoot on the sun-scorched land above for another year than spend another single moment with your over-pregnated hide.”

Her fingernails tugged into his shoulders as she squeezed them and replied, “That’s my Lord. A heart like a rock and a tongue like a forge. Oh …  how I missed it.” She snickered as she came around him and scooped up the babies, draped in midnight-colored cloth. “Now, now, little ones, we can’t have you getting too attached to your father. That would make you soft and weak, like humans.”

Verbard’s silver eyes glimmered under his mate’s playful and penetrating smile. Her rose colored eyes, long silky white and black hair and gossamer slip stirred the blood within him. Her figure weeks earlier was a monstrous thing unworthy of an ogre. Ghastly. He shuddered at the thought, for he’d never be able to shed the horrific image from his mind. His passion didn’t come as easily as before, but in a few decades he was certain he would overcome that. His mate, now back in her prime, was hungry and lonely, but his new duties from Master Sinway kept him on the move, much to his relief.

Two underling women entered his den and took the children away. Not what I had in mind. His mate wrapped her arms around his neck as she slid her lithe frame onto his lap. Not again.

“Lord Verbard, there is one way to escape me: you only need to impregnate me.”

He groaned and hissed under his breath.

“Your urgings are getting thin. Perhaps it is not me you long for, perhaps it is my brother that you miss.”

He studied her eyes, hypnotic and unmoving, capable of hiding the darkest secrets about any mental inquisition. No, she would never reveal what he suspected, not that he cared, but somewhere within he did. He shoved her from his lap and floated away, robes dragging across the black marble floor.

“I’ve responsibility.”

Her hiss was cut off as he flicked his palm, slamming the doors shut behind him.

***

Things had changed for Verbard in the Underland. His kin—brothers and sisters one and all—treated him differently than before. He and his brother Catten were of the highest order, well regarded and feared, but it had been his brother, the more astute politician, that garnered the majority of their admiration. Now that had changed. Verbard was not only feared, but now admired as well. He liked it and all of the additional pleasantries that came with it. After all, it was he who had rid his people of the pesky but formidable menace, The Darkslayer.

Everyone bowed or nodded as he passed them on the streets of the city. The underlings traveled on foot, along narrow black roads that led up and down the caves and around the spires in the bowels of Bish that hung up and pointed down in cones. Commerce: fruit, meat, some cooked and some raw, were skewered on sticks. The smell would rot an urchin's nose, but to the underling pallet it was quite salivating.

Verbard paid his greeters little mind as he made his way to Master Sinway’s Castle, which overlooked the Underland City. There was no need for a road to get there, but there was one. A crossing of sorts. It turned around the hard rock like a coiling snake, defying the odds of engineering, instead consisting of magic entwined with minerals and glowing with the bluish hue of the underlight. Verbard had no need for roads, unlike most underlings, as he sailed upward to the mouth of the cave castle entrance and proceeded through a portal over thirty feet in height.

There were guards, at least a hundred, if not a thousand, how many he did not know, but he often wondered. No challenges came—though his heart did beat a little faster—as only a fool would challenge the Master inside his own castle. He knew where to go. Through the iron doors to the iron throne. He hated iron. It was such an ugly color and a tasteless metal. The rat-like fur on his arms began to rise as he proceeded, remembering that last time Master Sinway's iron-irises almost bore out his mind. He saw no need to challenge Sinway any more, not without Catten. Besides, he had done it more to piss off his brother then to challenge the master. Ah Catten, tis not the same without you.

He floated by the humongous iron doors, landed at the empty throne and kneeled. He hated this part most of all: being there at the appointed time and waiting. He was careful to shield his resentful thoughts. He thought of death instead, death of mankind above. His body began to relax.

***

Little more than an hour had passed when the air began to shimmer around him. Verbard opened his eyes and fixed them on the floor at the sound of cave dog nails clicking over to the sides of the throne. The cave dogs weren’t alone; another strong presence was there. The Vicious? He had not seen one in months, but he did care. The mystic bodyguards of Master Sinway were not something he was comfortable around. It wasn’t a fear of them, but rather his lack of command over their power.

“Rise, Verbard,” a voice as ancient as the ore of Bish spoke.

He rose to his feet and found himself face to face with a Vicious: smooth black skin wrapped over a body of corded muscle, sharp teeth bared in a grin over crossed arms. What is this? His underling heart, as black and fearless as it might be, began to pump quicker in his chest. Its black eyes with white pupils met his, boring into him as if he were some kind of meal. It leaned a little closer, almost touching his chin. Verbard didn’t like it, but as he brought up the energy to defend himself against it, it backed away, stepping alongside the arm of the throne.

Sinway looked to be smiling within his deep black robes, iron colored eyes gleaming in the dark, fingers needling his chin. The cave dogs, four in all, grey with matted hair, sat four feet high, to the tops of their heads. The fearsome beasts looked ready to tear him apart at a single command. His heart pumped faster still. Let them try and eat me. They’ll be worm food in an instant.

Master Sinway’s voice echoed softly as he spoke.

“I know it isn’t customary of me, Verbard, but relax. I didn’t bring you here for slaughter, instead for celebration,” he said, snapping his fingers.

Verbard’s heart flinched as his ears popped. A fine table of hardened wood appeared, encircled by chairs wrought in gold and silver. A vat of wine and pewter goblets were the centerpiece. His silver eyes flitted between the display and his master. What is he up to? He stepped back, bowing, as Master Sinway eased his way over to the table and sat.

“Underling Port, isn’t it?

“Yes, Master Sinway.”

Suddenly, Verbard felt like a boy, helpless before his father, or grandfather, both of which had creative ways of initiating punishment. He swallowed hard and hoped his robes hid it.

“Sit and drink with me,” Sinway said. “We’ve much to talk about.”

He moved to the table, sat and picked the goblet up in his hand. He could smell the port, full and rich, salivating to say the least, and if he ever needed a drink to ease his tensions it was now.  He was in uncharted waters with the most powerful underling of all.

Sinway cracked a smile as he hoisted his glass and said, “Drink Verbard, vanquisher of The Darkslayer. Drink and be fulfilled.”

The Vicious, lone and dominating, had slipped behind his chair as the cave dogs surrounded the table.

You first, he wanted to say as he brought the cold rim of the metal goblet to his black lips. Poison is such a cowardly way to kill me. He could at least tell me what I fouled up this time. Bottoms up, then. He drank. Sinway let out an unsettling chuckle as his world was turned inside out.

CHAPTER 5

CLONK!

White spots burst into his eyes, and pain lanced back into his brain. Georgio’s legs wobbled as he fell hard onto his butt. He clutched his stomach and head, fighting the urge to retch, fuming at the giggling sounds of halflings followed by Mikkel roaring in his ear.

“BOY! If you don’t cut that out, I’m gonna skin you!” the large black man said, jerking him back to his feet. “That’s not what I meant by using your head, Stupid!”

The little giggles ensued.

Georgio tried to shove Mikkel away, saying, “Get off me.” He turned and faced off with his opponent, a mintaur, ram-faced and horned, and a full five feet of fight. He stood taller than the hooved creature and sneered down at him.

“Get him, Georgio,” Lefty cried, sitting on top of a wall nearby, eating an orange pear.

The halfling wasn’t alone. A small brood of halfling children, all barely two-feet tall, were scrambling around with sticks, attacking one another in joy, screaming aloud and laughing. It had been like this all day, hot and annoying.

“Wrestle, Boy!” Mikkel said, shoving him forward.

The mintaur charged, rounded horns catching him under his chin and driving him onto his back. He wrapped his arms around the mintaur's waist and fought to regain his feet.

Mikkel huffed in his ear.

“No! No! No! That’s not what I taught you. Get up! Escape!”

He grunted, twisted and forced himself upright only to be slammed into the dusty ground again.

“Oooooh!” the audience exclaimed.

Georgio fought to suck the air in through his teeth. His lungs were thinning, and his own sweat was stinging his eyes.

“COME ON! GET UP!”

He clawed at the dirt and screamed in frustration. The mintaur was tying his legs in a knot, and the pressure was beginning to hurt.

“Are you just going to sit there and let him break your legs? Huh? Do something or die, Georgio!”

It wasn’t fair. He was a boy, or a teenager, but the mintaur was a man, older, smarter and more experienced. He wasn’t ready to fight. He’d been training all morning, and he didn’t want to any more.

“Come on, Georgio,” Lefty cried again, “you can do it!”

“Aye, Boy, ye’ can do it.”

Gillem!

Ever since the older halfling had arrived, Lefty had never been the same. Georgio hated Gillem. Something inside him began to boil over, and his ears began to steam. He cast an angry glance at the little cheerful pie-faced man, sat up and began wailing on the surprised mintaur's face.

“Stop it, Georgio! You’ll break your hands!” Mikkel warned.

They didn’t break. They hurt, but he didn’t care.

Whap! Whap! Whap! Twist!

As the creature loosened its grip, Georgio seized it by the horns and twisted. The mintaur's neck was like iron, not meant to be broken, but it happened. The creature cried out like a sheep, thrashing left and right. Georgio held onto the mintaur, his stare never leaving Gillem.

“RRRRAAAAAH!!!”

He hoisted the mintaur over his head and tossed it to the ground at Gillem’s leaping feet, scattering the tiny children like flies.

Georgio was heaving in the silence as all eyes, man, halfling and mintaur, looked on him as if he had gone berserk. The mintaur snorted, breaking the awkward silence, shaking its head as it regained its feet. Lefty was pale. Mikkel held his hand on his head, mouth agape, while Gillem dusted off his boots and lit his pipe with a nod. Georgio wanted to shove that pipe down the man’s throat.

“Very impressive, my boy,” Gillem said with elegant cheer. “Did you children see that? Georgio the strong one!”

The little halflings looked at him wide-eyed, then burst into applause and cheers.

Georgio shook as his eyes began to water. He covered his face and ran.

***

Mikkel slapped the mintaur on the shoulder and said, “Sorry about that.”

The ram-faced man patted the big man on the back, nodded, gathered his gear, and departed.

“Same time tomorrow then?” The mintaur waved.

Lefty was numb: smiling outwardly, but in turmoil inwardly. He’d never seen such fury on Georgio's face before. It was frightening to see his once cheerful friend so grim. He felt responsible. He didn’t know why, but he felt responsible somehow. He looked over at Gillem, who was handing each of the children a copper talon to spend in the markets. In a moment their existence in the small proving grounds was vacant, leaving only Lefty, Gillem and Mikkel.

“Think I’m pushing him too hard?” Mikkel asked of Gillem.

“Never.”

Mikkel’s smile broadened.

“Maybe I’m going too easy on him.”

“Seems likely,” Gillem winked. “Very well then, I’ll see you two later on I assume, but if you don’t mind, try to stay away for a few days. Georgio loses his focus with all of you halflings running around.”

“You’re the boss, Master Mikkel.”

Lefty was silent as Mikkel walked away. He was sad, too. He didn’t see enough of Georgio as it was with all of the demands of Gillem and the guild. His own thief training was intense, even rigorous at times, but he liked it. He liked Gillem, too.

“Don’t worry about yer friend, Lefty.” Gillem said, stroking his long fingers across his back. “He’s getting to the age of puberty. Young men start acting strange, is all.”

“What’s puberty?”

“Er … nothing you need to worry about for another decade er so. Now follow me.”

“Where are we going?” Lefty said, hopping from the wall.

“First, we have some stealing to do. Then, it’s time to pay Palos his dues.”

Lefty’s chin dipped as Gillem passed him by.

***

“Georgio, slow down,” Kam ordered.

The teenager stomped through the kitchen, his face turned away.

“Don’t you dare walk through my tavern looking like that: a frowning, sweaty little dirtball—get back here.”

He stopped with his back still towards her. Kam wasn’t in the mood for another of Georgio's fits. She couldn’t relate. She looked over to Joline, her confidante and full-time "boys growing up too fast" sitter. Joline’s pleasant face mouthed the words, Be nice.

“Hungry?” She asked.

Georgio turned and gave her a sheepish look.

“Yeah.”

When wasn’t he hungry? Georgio was a big boy going on big man. She was taller than most women, but now Georgio’s head was up past her chin, and that was big for a fourteen or fifteen year old. At least, that’s how old she thought he was. Joline put a steamy bowl of soup and half a loaf of barley baked bread on the table before him.

“Thanks,” he mumbled before shoving in a mouthful from the loaf.

She pulled a stool beside him, grabbed his chin and lifted his eyes to meet hers. She loved his big brown eyes and his thick mop of brown hair. He’d be a handsome man one day, any day now at the rate things were going. Some of the waitresses had already expressed keen interest in him, batting their eyelashes, brushing against him, everything but removing their amply-filled blouses before his innocent eyes. She shook her head.

“What?” he asked, frowning.

“Oh nothing. You know, I’m starting to miss those chubby cheeks of yours. Are you sure you’re getting enough to eat? Joline, bring him some more food: cheese and milk, lots of it.”

“Huh?” both boy and woman replied.

“Eat, it’s good to have a belly full for your nap.”

Georgio gave her a funny look and said, “Are you right in the head, Kam? You’re acting strange.”

It was a fair question. For the most part she was feeling as good as ever, strong and fearless, but busy. Deep down she had come to accept that Venir was gone. He was hard to forget, but without Georgio and Lefty around so much, it was getting a little easier. She wiped his mouth off with her apron.

A waitress came inside the kitchen: a few years older than Georgio, long legged and pretty, her bright eyes attaching themselves to him.

“Pardon me,” she said, smiling. “Need some frupp steaks, onion skins and deer broth, Joline. Hi Georgio.”

Georgio stopped chewing, grinning from ear to ear.  “Uh … hello …”

“Get your arse out there and wait tables!” Kam blustered.

The girl’s face turned ashen as she said, “Sorry Kam,” and scurried out the door.

Kam squeezed his face in her hands and said, “Don’t be anywhere alone ever with my girls. Do you understand me? Not ever!”

“Sure, Kam. But what’s the harm in it and all?”

She summoned up her energy; the rims of her green eyes began to glow.

“Never.”

Georgio had a bewildered look as he shook his head.

“I  … Said … Never!”

He nodded over and over.

“Good. Now, tell me what is wrong, and don’t lie. Be honest; I need to know. Is Mikkel being too hard on you?”

“No.”

“Are you still mad at Lefty?”

“No.”

His eyes flitted, though. Even she had a hard time with Lefty. Her sickness, so sudden and strange, by all account might have killed her. Little Lefty, for some reason, seemed to know more than he let on. Call it women’s intuition, but something was no longer right. Not after that encounter with Palos, the prince of thieves. She was certain that their encounter was far from over, but what that had to do with Lefty, she didn’t know. She kept her eyes open. Billip and Mikkel were very helpful look-outs.

“Is it one of my waitresses? Do you … uh … have feelings for one of them in particular?”

“No Kam! Can I just eat and go? I mean, thanks and all, but I’m not hungry any more. Can I please go? I’ve got chores to do.”

“Just tell me what’s bothering you. Don’t be hard headed. I don’t want you stomping around here any more, so let’s fix this and be done with it. Tell me, Georgio!”

“NO!” he yelled, jumping out of his stool.

As Kam drew her hand back, Joline wrapped her arms around her with a hug and said, “Georgio, go and do what you have to do, but don’t you ever do that again.”

“Pah!” he said, storming away.

Kam was shaking. “Did he just yell at me? At me? I’m gonna kill him!”

Joline squeezed her even harder. “You’ll do no such thing, Kam. The boy's growing up and missing his friends something terrible. You don’t see it so much as I do, being so busy with little Erin and all. Now take a deep breath.”

She inhaled and exhaled deeply.

“Oh my,” Joline said.

“What?”

“Looks like you’ve got a hungry baby to feed,” Joline said, glancing down at her chest.

Kam’s breasts were soaking through her blouse.

“Aw, I hope Georgio didn’t see that.”

“I’m thinking he did,” Joline giggled. “No hiding those things. Now get up there and feed that baby.”

Kam muttered a spell—concealing her clothes—before she cut through the tavern and made it up the stairs. Her chest was aching. Someone’s awfully hungry. As soon as she opened the door there was the awfullest scream. Oh my!

CHAPTER 6

(The Past: 5 years earlier, after Venir escapes the Brigand Queen)

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

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

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

Jarla’s brigand army was busy taunting the confined Royal soldiers, sending kobolds close to the southern gate to deposit the mutilated torsos, heads, arms and legs of the fallen. The tiny horned humanoids cowered behind small wooden shields, but occasionally an arrow from a vengeful archer would pierce their small bodies, adding to the stinking heap of flesh and flies that lay baking in the suns.

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

Not only had he stolen her magic armament, but he had also embarrassed her by escaping her camp, slaughtering her commanders, and evading the underlings' bounty on him. Her alliance with the underlings had never been on solid ground; now it was falling apart. She wanted to break the alliance and disappear. She had even felt her grip on her army loosening not long after the young warrior slipped from her side. She spat at the thought of his cocky grin. But, the worst was he had taken her precious, powerful weapons, or they had taken him? For the first time in years she felt vulnerable, rather than invincible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yer an idiot,” Billip retorted.

Venir stepped between them.

“Do we have to do this every time?”

“Yes!” they both insisted.

Venir shook his head.

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

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

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

“It almost did.”

Billip jumped in his face.

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

Mikkel kissed his club and pointed his sausage-sized finger at the much smaller man.“It better not happen. If it does, you better hope it kills us … or Skull Basher and me are gonna smash you.”

Billip rolled his eyes and walked away.

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

The men had exited the storm drain, and were once again headed down into the plunging gulch. They navigated the rugged terrain like mountain cats. No leaf rustled in the inert heat. Sweat stinging their eyes, they tried to suppress the sound of their own breathing. Even the panting of Venir's little dog Chongo was undetectable.

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

Nothing, the archer's white hands signaled back.

Venir’s gut told him they needed another accurate volley tonight. Things were just too quiet this time out. His mind began to wander as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

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

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

“We have company.”

A white grin flashed in the darkness.

“How many?”

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

Five, was signaled.

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

Only a few days ago he had wrangled the magic weapon. He had given little thought to how it now came to be in his hands. The large leather sack it came in was a mystery. When Jarla reached into the sack it contained two smaller axes, a lighter helmet, and metal arm bracers. Yet, for him it had yielded the large helm, shield, and a war axe unlike anything he ever imagined. He remembered the moment she was about to kill him. He smiled a tad. The shock and fury he saw on her face when the mystic arsenal came to his aid had been glorious. Grasping the weapon and feeling the power surge through his hands almost made him laugh, it was so delightful.

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

“Better put on your helmet,” Mikkel said, putting on his own metal skullcap that sloped down the back of his neck.

The warriors didn’t like to wear armor unless they anticipated a skirmish—or full battle, as in this case—and even then they still opted for lighter armor than most of the Royals around the fort. Venir hadn’t yet bothered to extract his helm from the sack. He felt no need for it and feared it would obstruct his vision. And so far the situation hadn’t been too risky.

Twenty underlings!

The archer’s fingers and elbows were frantic.

Fifty paces. Moving fast. Now what?

The sudden change of circumstances demanded a decision. Venir had been setting up ambushes by letting small underling squads move between them, but this was no small group. It seemed that the underlings had become privy to their tricks and that larger numbers now made those impossible. That tactic would cut Billip off, leaving the archer overwhelmed without an escape route. Indecision began to churn in Venir’s belly. He had to decide whether they should retreat while there was time. They could make time to alert the rest of the fort as well, or fight. He wanted to fight, but wisdom prevailed.

Run, Venir signaled Billip.

Hit and run? Billip returned.

When facing a larger force, scouts needing to buy time would drop the point men of the enemy’s front line with bolts or arrows. This slowed the enemy and made them more cautious until they could ascertain the strength of their assailants. It also provided critical extra time for a hasty retreat. But twenty was a large group of underlings. Venir didn’t want to alert them to their presence. There could be still more underlings as well.

His keen eyes detected several dark silhouettes in the distance. Billip was signaling again for a reply. The underlings were armed with small round shields and curved swords, similar to the bulkier tulwar swords of men. It was a heavier force, and judging by their additional weapons and armor, a full-scale assault was underway. The axe burned in his grasp as the underlings approached, but he made his decision and signaled back.

Run!

Venir could make out the shape of Billip and the smaller shape of Chongo creeping back up the ravine. The archer’s arrow was nocked along the shaft of his new bow.

Clatch—Zoop—Thunk!

Mikkel’s heavy bolt ripped through the air, clean through the neck of an underling and imbedding into the chest of another. “What are you doing?” Venir said, shoving Mikkel's crossbow down. “I said run!”

“Sorry, Vee. I must have missed that,” Mikkel shrugged. “I thought it was hit and run.”

Venir knew better. Mikkel wanted the first kill, and Billip was moments from releasing a few arrows as well. The pair couldn’t have cared less about the risk. Their passion to kill underlings took over reason. All three were guilty of this affliction.

Billip began his own onslaught. Two more underlings found their throats punctured with feathered shafts, their warnings gurgling in dark blood. He watched as their hit proved to be a mistake. The underlings scrambled up the ravine like hungry wolves, and thick webs began to form, spreading over the trees, surrounding them from behind and cutting off their escape. In an instant they were trapped.

“Helmet on,” Mikkel reminded Venir, picking up his studded club.

Venir felt foolish for a moment. The webs had grown further up the edges of the ravine, trapping the archer and his dog below. He groaned. The underlings had the jump on them.

Venir opened the leather sack and pulled out his helm. Its eyelets had an eerie glow that unsettled his stomach. How would they make it out of this jam? The odds were against them. A superior force approached, and they had nowhere to run or hide. He had a single burning thought: kill all you can before they kill you. Oddly, when he pulled the spiked helm over his blue eyes for the second time in days the odds of survival seemed to shift back in his favor.

As he strapped the thick leather chin strap under his grizzled jaw, he felt a heightened sense of awareness he hadn’t noticed before. His mind became razor sharp, intent on the task at hand: to find and decimate the underlings. He felt he could handle the score of them alone. Excitement rushed through his body, tingling from fingertip to toenail. Better yet, his vision, far from being obstructed as he had feared, was enhanced. Not only could he see the underlings, he could feel their presence … it was awesome.

Dusk had passed, and the thick forest was almost pitch black, which made battling the creeping underling warriors more difficult. The cave-dwelling creatures could see as well at night as in daylight, an advantage shared by only a few other races. But the men on Bish had no such ability, except now for one man.

Venir’s head peered around, and he could make out the details of the landscape before him. This is good! He noticed the warmth of the bodies of Billip and Chongo not too far in the distance, and then he saw Mikkel’s worried look.

“Vee,” the man whispered, “what are we gonna do now? I hate this dark. Can you see them?”

“Yes,” he said in an unfamiliar voice.

Mikkel fell silent for a moment.

”You better be able to see them, cause I’m following you.”

Venir tapped his helm.

“Trust me, then. It’s time to take them head on, no choice.”

“Sounds good.”

“Stay close, and watch out for those webs.”

Quiet as shadows, the two slipped deeper into the ravine. In his hunger for battle, he moved faster than normal, and a big hand had to nudge him back. The underlings were holding their positions less than thirty paces away, but the thick vegetation kept the pair out of sight. Concealed on the ridge of the ravine, Billip waited, not moving a muscle, his bow aimed on his next approaching target, his brow and hands slick with sweat. Venir knew the archer’s fire would offer them scant protection once combat began. It would have to be enough.

He motioned for Mikkel to stay put, then crept alone toward the underlings. He heard the man mumble in protest, clutching his club from behind. Like an iron panther, he crossed the forest floor. He came within ten paces of the oncoming underlings. He squatted before them like a tree trunk as they came, slow and quiet. Hadn’t they seen him? His blood rushed in his ears. He could see, hear and smell every sickening aspect of them. Now they were five paces away. He didn’t budge, legs tense, ready to spring. He almost gasped as the underlings passed by. They hadn’t even noticed him. The underlings' colorful eyes were dim sparkles in the dark as they glanced back at him and moved on. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t resist their exposed backs, either. His hatred overcame all reason.

There was a flash and a whistle in the air as Brool ripped out the backs of two underlings in one swipe. They dropped lifeless to the ground as the third underling whirled to attack. A whizzing arrow struck the back of the underling’s head, pitching it forward. He could see Mikkel’s white teeth coming his way as the battler charged along his side.

“Let’s do it, Vee!”

He felt the underlings swarming from all directions, chittering loudly, shields low and curved blades high. It raised his fervor more. Underlings surrounded him and Mikkel; their slashing blades were quick and deadly. He parried in broad sweeps, holding the smaller race at bay. The underling blades slashed and licked at his skin like razors.

“Hit ’em Mikk!”

“Bashing time!”

Mikkel burst into assault, his first overhead blow smashing an underling’s shield and arm. As the fiend howled in pain, Skull Basher’s studs caught another’s nose with a sickening smack.  Mikkel whirled to block the third one’s slash, but too late. The underling punched a hole deep in his thigh, sending him down with a groan. The black warrior’s blood flowed, but the man responded by bringing his club down hard and fast, pulverizing the underling’s skull like a ceramic vase.

Venir heard his friend scream. He dodged as he jabbed his spike deep into the leg of a charging underling, ripping muscle from bone. He eyed the two other underlings that flanked him, and slammed his shield edge into one’s chittering mouth, slicing through the neck of the other. Venir charged the other two hobbled underlings and hacked them down like saplings. As he turned, he saw Mikkel break the other arm of his first victim, then bust its ribcage like a crate of melons. Six underlings were dead now, but more were coming. Let them come, he thought.

“You all right?”

Mikkel grimaced as he tied a cloth around his bloody wound.

“Leg’s bad, but I can fight fine. No running away from this.”

“Stay low while I check what’s coming. We need to get out of here,” Venir said.

“Don’t go far,” the bleeding man said, but he didn’t even hear it.

***

Billip had his hands full. Several underlings were closing in on his superior position. He pressed back into the brush. The high ground was an advantage, but the thick vegetation made it hard to track their small, dark bodies. If not for the occasional glint of their colorful eyes he would have lost them. He relied on his excellent hearing to help pinpoint their whereabouts. He fired away. Their howls of pain and anger gave him relief.

Focus. That ain’t all.

His eyes strained in the darkness.

Three maybe?

He had killed one, maybe two, but more still bore down on his position. He heard a painful bellow from Mikkel, but the sounds became muted. Would he have to start swinging steel soon as well? He edged farther up the bank. Dreading the thought of melee, despair crept over him.  He knew he was trapped. With nowhere to go, he dug in.

He watched the dark figures continue to press upward through the brush.

One more shot.

He had to make it count. He nocked two arrows this time and drew them back. It was a trick shot he often used to infuriate Mikkel and gamble against Melegal. He had never before considered using it in combat, but now it seemed his life might depend on it.

He took a quick breath and held it, watching two underlings, side by side, moving fast up the hill, shields raised for cover.

Bish! Too far apart!

The shot was difficult. The underlings were tacticians of terror in confined spaces, and darkness was their forte. He knew they thrived in it. Just twenty paces were left between him and his assailants. He had to fire. Sweat dripped from his nose. At least one of them had to go, so he let loose into the nearest one.

His arrows whizzed through the air. One imbedded itself in the raised wooden shield, the other streaked straight and low into the underling’s exposed belly, knocking it down the hill.

Yes!

The second underling warrior was closing in fast. He nocked another arrow. The wicked face was upon him and shrieking. Billip raised his bow, blocking the underling’s slashing sword, jolting his arms and driving him into the ground.

At close quarters now, the ferocious underling warrior had the advantage, and he had no means to defend himself. He tried to draw his sword as the underling lunged at him. The pommel of the underling’s short sword caught him on the head, stunning him, bringing a sharp pain as blood trickled in his eyes.

The underling launched a chop at his head. He ducked just enough to avoid a split skull, but it took a slice off his right shoulder. Gasping in pain, he managed to plunge an arrow into the underling’s thigh. It staggered back. Dropping its sword with a hiss, it didn’t back down, but beckoned the man for closer combat. He had no desire to wrestle the creature, knowing full well it could tear him to shreds. He’d seen that happen before. Underling fingernails were like steel files. His right shoulder drooped, forcing him to draw his broadsword with his left hand. Billip jabbed at the wounded creature, each futile blow glancing off of its shield. Its leg stopped his upward press as it chattered back in mockery. More must be coming. He pressed hard, growling in return, shoving the creature downhill. Chunks of the wooden shield were chipping away, but the skill of the underling was too swift. It taunted and clawed at him in anger.

Reaching the bottom of the ravine, Billip disengaged the creature. His arm felt like lead, and his shoulder burned. He sucked in a deep breath. Exhaustion and frustration beset him as the emerald-eyed underling raised its shield in triumph. A shadow raised behind the unsuspecting creature, drawing a grin on his face. A studded club smashed down on its skull, erasing its wicked grin, shattering all of its teeth. It fell over dead in a pile of its own ooze.

Mikkel was almost laughing as he wiped the gore on the grass.

“It’s about time you started fighting like a man, Billip! I didn’t even know you had a sword, let alone the strength to use it.”

Billip struggled to spit out his words but said, “They’re everywhere, and regrouping for another attack. We have to get away. Where’s Vee?”

The big man shrugged. Billip could make out the bloody bandage on the man’s leg. Their bleeding would hobble them in a further fight.

“Come on,” Billip said with a groan, heading back up the hill.

Mikkel grunted and followed.

“If I can get to my bow we can hold them off for a while.”

Billip trudged up the bank as fast as he could, pulling Mikkel over the slippery spots. He could hear more chittering nearby. Wherever Venir was, he was on his own now. He wouldn’t wait around like a crippled calf to see when he might return. He recovered his bow as they reached a small outcropping of mossy boulders, where they hid.

He could see the walls of web billowing at their backs. He turned cold. Nasty. This spot would have to do. But it gave better cover, so for the moment they were safe. He checked his wound. A nasty sliver of meat was taken off of his right shoulder. His leather armor saved it.

Maybe armor isn’t so bad.

His jerkin sleeve was soaked to the cuff. The men patched each other’s wounds, staunching the bleeding the best that they could. Billip’s heart thundered in his temples as he listened for the next wave of comers. As the howl of distant battle reached his ears he wondered if they would see Venir or anyone else ever again.

***

Venir had forgotten the wounded man he left behind. He was hunting now, and his comrades weren’t his concern; his enemies were. Gripping Brool's oak shaft with white knuckles, he felt invincible. The helm heightened his awareness. He had questions ... Why hadn’t they seen him? ... but that could wait. He moved on with caution, over the creek and through the dense foliage.

He wasn’t alone; Chongo had found his side. The pair had tracked underlings together for years, and now they both had heightened senses to serve them. The dog stopped, ears perked up. He hunched down. He saw the silhouettes of underlings coming up the mouth of the ravine. Keep coming, vermin!

Bloodlust stirred inside him, and his compulsion to kill them was overwhelming. He could smell their oily stench, almost burning in his nostrils. His hatred of these foul creatures that had destroyed his life so many years ago began to boil over. The helm amplified his senses as the eyelets burned blacker than the night sky. He no longer cared what happened to him, only what happened to them.

Destroy them!

Thought and magic intertwined into a focal point and down the ravine he bounded. Rushing their flank never occurred to him, nor did an ambush. He padded over the wet stones and braced himself along their path.

He counted six underling warriors moving up the gorge. Some of them crept in a staggered column, while the others covered the ravine banks to the left and right. Their faint multi-colored eyes glinted as their heads moved, left and right. He heard their low chittering commands escaping their narrow lips.

In place of physical battle prowess, underlings preferred to trap and outnumber their opponents. Their magic, combined with their cunning and callousness, made them a formidable force, and difficult to kill. Their warriors were as big as an average human woman, bigger and stronger than ordinary underlings. Their bodies were hard from decades of battle that gave them strength that belied their smaller size.

Several footfalls away, the foremost underling stopped and gave a signal. Venir watched them turn still and almost disappear. He could see them clutching their curved blades, waiting to pounce. Like a four-legged ghost, Chongo padded down the path. He followed, like a wraith, watching their gleaming eyes focused on the lone dog. Could they really not see him?

The underling in the front, donned in chain mail, hissed at the growling dog. It’s not even looking my way, Venir thought. His body was bursting, the axe white hot in his grip. He let out a blood curdling yell.“RRRAH!”

Venir sheared the bewildered lead underling's head from its shoulders. The others stared in astonishment as he appeared from the darkness and descended on them like an angry minotaur. His appetite for blood unsatisfied, he pressed his attack like a steel tornado, deeper into the brood. Yelling like a berserker and chopping like a lumberjack, he came down on the next two underlings, hacking their small shields into splinters and mutilating them with splattering swings. They rushed in. His anger rose. Hurling his shield, he caught one in the ankle. A series of cuts and stabs drew his blood before he battled them away. The iron shod of his great axe shattered an underling’s chin, and another fared still worse as he jabbed the long axe tip into its throat. He tore the spike out, ripping its neck open.

He was ready for an entire hoard, his mind one step ahead and his body responding in kind. He watched in slow motion as another underling charged toward him, a curved sword in each hand. He leapt right over the bewildered creature, swinging his axe deep into its gaping maw, splitting its face before he descended to the ground. Blood from his gory axe dripping on the ground, he awaited more attackers. Where are they? He could feel them.

He was picking up his shield when he saw one scurry away. He cursed, and then scanned the area. Somewhere nearby he heard his dog yelp. He rushed to its aid, finding the shaggy brown pooch ensnared by forest vegetation. Underling magic! He had encountered it before.

He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. As he approached his dog, his boot snagged on the vines, tripping him. He watched smaller roots and grasses reaching upward like tentacles, encircling his legs like serpents.

“Bone!” he yelled, tearing and twisting at them. The foul foliage had engulfed the dog entirely, leaving only a trace of muffled whimpers. His skin crawled with the evil presence he felt bearing down on him.

Two dark-robed underlings, armed with small double-shot crossbows, descended towards him from the ravine bank as if on air. He jerked his shield up as the closest one fired at his chest.  The bolt ricocheted away, drawing an angry hiss. He heard murmurs echoing somewhere in his helm. Above him he noticed long fingertips pointed his way, glowing red. He had to free himself.

He sliced at the roots with the edge of his axe. To his surprise, the vines recoiled and began to wither at the blade's touch.

“Chongo!”

The other suspended mage fired another bolt into the foliage where the dog was engulfed. Chongo yelped and fell silent. Venir lost control and charged the airborne assailant. It blasted him with a volley of burning red missiles that bore into his flesh. He cried out in agony. The air filled with the stench of his singed skin. The pain strengthened his rage. He kept going, climbing up the bank, jumping up and catching the cloak of the floating figure. He pulled it to the ground. It chittered, trying to crawl away. Its strength was no match for his weight as he crushed into it, bringing a groan. Pinning the little figure down by the arms, he smashed his helmeted forehead several times into its gnashing face. Its evil countenance burst open like a rotten pumpkin as it died. He fumbled for his axe and turned back toward his dog.

The remaining underling uttered something. The air seemed to be sucked away in the gap. Shock waves blew through the trees, bending the saplings, slamming into his body and down his spine as if he were being pummeled by a hundred hammers. He fell to his knees, face dripping blood, unaware of his surroundings, lost. The pain was something he never recalled. His hands and feet were numb, burning, cold and limp.

Somehow he got up, stumbled towards his pet and fell just close enough to reach the snare with his axe's spike. He could see the bonds disintegrating as the dog lay prone, panting and bleeding.

Rising up on one knee, he found himself between the dog and the lone underling mage, now hovering twenty paces away. He saw its mouth moving, thick black hair covering its head like a shroud. Raising his powerful arms, Venir slung his axe over his head with a scream. Straight as a spear it sailed, the tip crunching deep into the underling mage's chest, driving its floating body to the ground. He staggered over to its crumpled body. The spike was wedged deep into its black heart. Its gemstone green eyes stared blankly at the sky.

He spat the blood from his mouth, wrenched out the axe, and checked for more enemies. He pulled out the wooden bolt from Chongo's hindquarters. He tasted the tip and spat. No poison. Unable to feel his legs, but desperate to save Chongo,he lifted the dog in his arms and got a lick in the face as he backtracked up the ravine. The forest was quiet, but he knew underlings were still everywhere. His battered body forged ahead.

***

Trapped behind a massive rock on the steep hillside, Billip felt his neck hairs prickle. He could see the sweat dripping off Mikkel’s body like rain drops as water trickled down the bank. The forest was quiet other than occasional sounds of the skirmish deep in the ravine. His shoulder ached. He craned his neck, but his comrade’s ragged breathing hindered his ability to detect approaching assailants. They could be anywhere.

He had fought underlings often over the years and knew their tactics well, but it did little to quell his terror. Unlike Venir, whose hatred for underlings blazed as pure as the suns, his was still like all other men on Bish. Billip’s hatred for cave dwellers was at times surpassed by his fear of them.

Glancing at Mikkel, he managed to make out the whites of his eyes. The big man was nodding his head. Billip kept his arrow nocked, bowstring straight, resting his shoulder while his friend clutched his club.

Several feet above the forest floor, two cloaked underlings floated undetected in and out among the trees, their clutching hands motioning in the air with intricate patterns. A soft blue glow wavered in their palms.

Where are they? Billip thought.

He scanned what he could, oblivious to the floating figures in the trees. He was certain if he could not see them, they could not see him. Not far from his hiding spot, his ears didn’t detect the faint whisper of an underling chanting through its thin black lips. His instincts told him something was going on; he just did not know what.

The low hum of tiny wings caught his ear, and he crouched down as the sound grew. A plague of mosquitoes had found its way among the rocks where they hid. The whining of their buzzing wings increased inside his ears. It seemed as if every mosquito in the ravine began swarming around the men.

What is going on?

The mindless insects consumed the men in a frenzied search for human blood. He could see them, tiny and large, gathered all over Mikkel, who brushed at them in frantic alarm. He could feel them sink their needles into him a hundred times and drink his blood. It has to be magic... his mind reasoned. He choked down the urge to run. He knew they were being flushed out. Don’t panic. Tiny welts appeared on his corded forearms as the insects tapped into his veins. Mikkel was covered from head to toe, tormented by the little fiends. Billip tried not to flinch, but his will was tested beyond the limit. He could see Mikkel biting his lip and covering his nose. It was time to act. He mouthed and gestured the words to Mikkel.

Run. Flush them out. Find cover. I’ve got one shot. Go. The tortured man turned to face down the bank. With Billip readying his bow, the larger man charged out from behind the rock and down the ravine like a maddened bull. Through his swollen eyelids, he caught a flash of light blasting into his powerful friend, who fell down in a scream.

There in the trees.

Down below, he could see the brawler’s silhouette engulfed in a mysterious blue flame, drawing forth a sound of searing skin. Mikkel fell to the forest floor, screaming before rolling out of sight.

He wondered which fate was worse, the bugs or the fire. Only Mikkel would know now, but he thought he’d prefer the fire. A smell of charred insect bodies and smoldering hair drifted in his nose. He feared his friend might be finished. Billip heard a throaty laughter below. Mikkel appeared, rising to his feet, only to fall backward as a small crossbow bolt struck his belly. He lay in a singed, motionless heap, Skull Basher still in his hand. Billip couldn’t believe it. He scanned the trees; he couldn’t let his friend die for nothing.

He replaced the arrow he had nocked, drawing another from his quiver. It was unique with blood-red feathers, a blue-black shaft and a ruby-like arrowhead. The old warrior who had given him the bow assured him he would know when to use it. That must be now. He nocked the special arrow with his mosquito-covered hands. He took aim in the trees, scanning back and forth. The arrow tip twinkled as he did so. Maintaining his poise, he searched for any sign. Nothing showed of their concealed assailants. His eyes moved with the arrow, left, right, up and down, but the whining flurry of insects piercing his arms, neck, face, and eyelids was distracting him. As he swept up and across the ruby arrow tip flashed.

He swept it down.

Nothing.

Then back up, and it flashed again.

He lined up the tip so that it glowed steady in light. A silhouette began to form in the tree tops. It was an underling, floating near the upper branches of a willow tree.

Got him! Center mass. An excruciating surge of pain dug into his shoulder when he pulled back the bow string, but he let the shaft fly.

Twing! Zip!

A streak of hot red light punched straight through the sternum of the hovering underling and out of the other side.

Bulls’ eye!

The underling still came toward him, chittering with rage. Had he missed? No, he knew he had hit it, yet it came. He fumbled for another arrow, brushing the ravenous insects away. As the underling began descending toward him, a look of horror crossed its features. The underling began to glow, eyes and mouth catching fire from the inside. Suddenly, it  exploded in a bright red flash. A cloud of black ash filled the air. Billip crouched back down, noticing the mosquitoes losing interest in him as well. He wiped the creatures away, and gathered his thoughts. Got to check on Mikkel!

He ventured down the ravine, bow ready. Another shadowy figure descended on him from above, and he dropped his nocked arrow. He clutched after it as the cloaked underling drifted toward him. Terrified, he watched it touch the ground and crumple in a sagging pile.

Billip inched closer and noticed his red-feathered arrow lodged deep in its brain. Shivering at the sight, he marveled that the arrow had somehow found two targets from his single shot. Powerful magic, indeed. Did the same apply to the bow? He reached for the arrow, noticing that the feathers were now blackened and dry, its magic spent.

He slid down the ravine and soon came upon Mikkel on the ground; his breathing was shallow and raspy, lips caked with blood. The man groaned as he sat him up. He put his canteen to Mikkel’s lips.

“How is he?” an eerie voice said from behind.

He turned and saw a startling figure of muscle and metal splashed with gore. Vee?

“Not good. I haven’t seen him this pale since his wedding. We need to get him away from here.”

The sounds of battle grew louder all around them. A full-scale attack must have begun.

Venir handed Chongo over to Billip and hefted Mikkel over his shoulder.

“Agreed—let’s move … they’ll be on us in no time.”

The thick webs peeled away as Venir’s axe sliced through them. Gasps of pain escaped labored lips from behind him as they treaded back up the ravine. He was exhausted, body wracked with pain. Holes had burned in the mail that covered his belly, singing his flesh to metal. The men reached the bottom outpost wall and entered through the same steel storm drain they had been defending. He locked it down as they headed inside the bowels of the outpost.

Three stout Royal henchmen in scale armor guarded their path, but moved aside with wary glances. Venir could see debris falling from heavy activities above. He led the way upward through the wide tunnel of rock and soil while the sounds of chaos grew. Dim light filtered in at the far end where a steel ladder led twenty feet up through a man-sized hole.

A lanky figure in pale green terrycloth robes and ankle-strap sandals descended the ladder at a brisk pace, hopped off the final five steps and rambled towards them. It was a tall man, near seven feet in height, his narrow face light-skinned and boyish beneath short sandy hair. His voice was soothing, somewhat childlike, his light blue eyes showing a wisdom and compassion that was rare on Bish.

“I knew you would be here.”

“No surprise you knew that, Slim.” Venir said.

Slim was a man who had answers and seemed to know more than most men, despite his youthful appearance.

“I know you. You never miss a party,” Slim said, raising his eyebrows. “Mikkel looks bad." The boyish man began inspecting the brawler with his fingers, motioning his hands downward.

Venir lowered Mikkel to the ground and started to take off his helmet.

“Leave it on,” Slim gestured. “You’re not out of the woods yet.”

The young man noticed the archer's load.

“Ah, it’s my favorite pooch … how sad.”

He laid his long slender fingers over Chongo’s hip.

“Be still,” the man whispered.

Venir could see Slim’s face twist in agony for a fleeting moment before returning to normal.  He grunted.

“Ah,” the cleric said with a smile as Chongo licked his face. “That wasn’t so bad, was it, Boy?” Slim then turned back to the man laid out in the tunnel and said, “Now the big man. Hold him still, you two.”

Venir pressed down on Mikkel’s shoulders and  watched the young man work. He couldn’t believe their good fortune. Slim always reminded him of a young Melegal, except more friendly, something the thief resented. Billip helped him pin down the listless man’s powerful arms and legs. Here we go.

The long-limbed man grabbed the shaft of the small bolt lodged in Mikkel’s belly. The iron warrior’s mouth and chin were covered in spit and blood. Slim's slender lips muttered a fast cadence of words, and as he spoke, power radiated into his glowing and elongating hands. The bolt blazed in his hand like a furnace poker as he extracted it inch by inch. The warrior screamed and writhed. The smell of burning flesh filled the tunnel as the charred bolt turned to ash.

Mikkel groaned, his light eyes flitting open and closed. The cleric placed his hands on the man’s hard belly and gashed thigh. Again, Slim’s face distorted in anguish, but this time he aged before their widened eyes. The wounds closed, and it was over as fast as it had begun. Slim gasped for air, his now withered face full of hard lines and cracked teeth. Venir thought Slim looked like the oldest man he’d ever seen.

“He’ll be all right,” the cleric said in a ragged voice. “He should be able to walk in a minute, but he’s not up for fighting for a while.” Slim stood up, hunched over, and cracked his skinny neck. “Ah … man, sometimes I hate this.” “What’s going on up there, Slim?” Venir asked, looking at the shaking ceiling above. “They need to know that the underlings are bringing more forces now.”

“Too late; it’s over. Outpost Thirty-One is already lost. And if we don’t get moving, we’ll be lost, too.”

His and Billip’s eyes met as Slim continued.

“You don’t want to go up there. It’s overrun. I’ll fill you in.”

Slim stretched out his long arms, and Venir watched the older face slowly regain its youthful vigor. The young man now inspected Venir's wounds and began chatting in the quick.

“Here goes—the brigands stormed the east gate. Three hundred Royal horsemen rode out to battle them, or so we thought, but they just kept on riding, giving the brigands clear access to the outpost. I’m not sure which Royal general it was, but he clearly betrayed the rest. It won’t be long before all the gates are compromised and we’re up to our elbows in underlings. Now, we’ve got to go back out that way.” Slim pointed his long index finger toward the south grate where they had just entered. “No choice.”

Venir saw Billip’s dumbfounded look. It was a heck of a story.

Mikkel groaned and sat up.

“Man, my stomach hurts. What did you do, Slim?”

“Saved your life, that’s all. The tummy ache’s a side effect. It’ll go away,” Slim said, patting the man’s charred head.

“Thanks,” Mikkel muttered as the healer helped him onto his feet.

“That’s a heck of a haircut, Mikkel!” Billip said with a faint chuckle.

“What?” The warrior reached for his head, feeling the singed remains of his black hair.“It might grow back,” Slim said with a shrug. “… one day. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” the archer said, tugging the man’s robe. “We need a plan. And I can’t even pull back a bowstring.”

“Man, what did you guys do out there? And what’s with all the bug bites? That’s gross!” He said it with his face drawn, hands on his chest. “You got whipped by a bunch of little underlings, didn’t you?” Slim now ran his ginger fingers over the archer’s shoulder, then reached into a pouch and pulled out a small jar and applied a pasty blue salve to the wound.

Billip’s face lightened up.

“What’s that amazing stuff?”

“Pigeon dung.”

Billip’s face turned sour.

Slim had a childish grin and said, “Just teasing, it’s a little something I whipped up. I haven’t named it yet. Good thing your wound was only cosmetic. It’s just a little make-up to match your cheeks. You’ll be fine.”

The chuckles came, but were hollow, none more so than Venir’s. He wasn’t so sure he could get them safely out of there.

Billip rolled his shoulder, releasing a brief smile, cracking his knuckles. Touching the scar that had already formed over the wound, he said, “It’s closed up!”

The healer slapped his tender shoulder, bringing a grimace.

“And don’t worry about the scar. Get a nice tattoo over it and the ladies will love it, especially the orcen ones.”

The tunnel was silent for a moment as Venir watched all eyes draw on him. Other than Slim, the bunch looked ragged and beaten. He wanted to collapse. His belly burned. His body ached from head to toe. It seemed there was no other way out. One choice, Fight or flee.

“Let me take care of you, Big Man. That’s a nasty mess in your belly.”

Venir’s voice was harsh.

“No, let’s go.”

The cleric stepped out of his way.

***

Slim tried to convince the sentries at the outer grate to come along, that remaining would be to their immediate peril. They laughed. They were hard and loyal men who would not abandon their duty. The soldiers made it clear they would rather die than run, wished the men good fortune and turned away. Closing the storm drain behind them and then sealing it shut, one yelled out.

“Bish be with you!”

Now the men stood in the forest, listening. Venir could hear the rising crescendo of bloodshed ringing in his ears. He could picture the underlings and the brigand army spilling inside the outpost and blackening its interior. The gates were compromised. The shouts of Royal orders were silenced by magic, missiles and manslaughter. Plumes of fire and smoke filled the sky.

It was clear that the onslaught was overwhelming and no Royal man or beast would survive. A great chunk of evil would follow the valiant soldiers into the bloodied ground, however. That seemed clear judging by the roar of the fighting above, but it would not be enough.

Mikkel was nodding his head.

“What’s the plan?”

“The last plan was to get word to the northern cities for assistance,” Slim said. “So let’s head that way, or else I’ll go alone.”

Venir said, “No, we go south. They won’t be looking as hard there. The northward route will be the most heavily guarded. The underlings will be thick for miles.”

“The underlings will be everywhere—period!” Mikkel retorted.

Slim had something to offer.

“I have magic that should conceal us all. But, I don’t want to use it until the last possible moment. It won’t last long. We’re going to have to move like the wind to get clear. I’ve got other ideas, too. Are you with me?”

Having ventured with Slim before, Venir had some idea of what he had in mind. He wasn’t keen, but they had little choice other than to trust his magic. It could do more than heal.

“I’ll take the point. For some odd reason they can’t see me. The rest of you should be fine. I just hope there’s nothing worse than underlings out there looking for us.”

Slim tightened the cords on his sandals.

“That's grand, Venir. You just gave me another idea. By the way, nice helmet or whatever that is. It makes you look mean … like Melegal.”

Venir barreled down the ravine with Chongo at his side. The others followed not far behind, all thoughts heavy on the downfall of Outpost Thirty-One. Mikkel managed to recover his heavy crossbow as they passed by the ambush site. Venir maneuvered through the thick foliage like a metal apparition, striding through the dark like a bobcat. He could sense underlings were all around, but not close enough to pinpoint. He fought the urge to find them, as the helm's awareness made the battle very compelling. He began to realize that he could lead them all out of harm’s way if he could stay focused on fleeing, rather than killing.

Nevertheless, the spiked helm on his brow beckoned him to make contact and destroy the underlings. He had to stop more than once to regain his composure, rather than succumb to the battle lust. His will was strong, but only his loyalty to his friends prevented him from giving in to his reckless desires.

He led them through the forest, minute after minute, stirring little more than a muskrat. His nerves were on edge as every unfamiliar sound seemed amplified. He looked back time and again, but Billip signaled they weren’t followed. They were already a full mile down the hill. Almost free. He kept them moving.

At this pace the great hill that held Outpost Thirty-One would soon bottom out; they were almost halfway down. He felt something strong ahead and froze.

Slim fidgeted beside Mikkel.

Venir signaled back, Nothing.

Venir began moving again. He heard the lanky cleric sigh in relief. Their careful footfalls through the humid, bug-filled forest became agonizing; they had been creeping along for almost an hour.

Again he stopped.

They all went still. Small underling patrol! he signaled. Straight for us. Hide!

Slim began muttering soft chanting words.

Venir turned to watch. The air around the three men and the dog thickened. Next, all he saw was a small grove of trees where his comrades had stood. The illusion worked.

Venir sunk beneath a thick willow tree. The silhouettes of three underling hunters, armed with light crossbows, stood in a small clearing not far from him, chittering in the quiet.

Venir’s bloodlust plagued him like a growing migraine. They were right in his path. He should sheer them like sheep. He quelled the urge with iron will, controlling his burgeoning lust and watching them begin to move on up the ravine his way.

Don’t move.  Don’t breathe.

They passed him and were standing beside the grove of trees that were once men. Venir heard one sniffing the air into its hawkish nose. Venir tightened his grip on Brool.

Here we go.

Another underling shoved its comrade along the way, more intent on the sound of the fracas farther uphill, and they passed onward. The throbbing in Venir’s head subsided after another long minute, and he started moving again with more haste. The odd grove of trees followed him. Within the hour they were at the bottom of the hill, safe and facing the open plains to the east.

“Wow!” Slim exclaimed, checking the looks of his tree-like arms and hands. “I can’t believe we just waltzed through that nest of evil. Insane!”

They all shook their heads, stretched their limbs, and basked in the red moonlight. Such moments as this didn’t often come without consequence. “Now what?” Mikkel said, rubbing his tender thigh.

They all looked at Venir. The outpost had fallen. Good men would die. He wanted to take an army in himself and drive the underlings back into their caves. Mostly, he wanted to find Jarla and make her pay. He swore he would hunt her down and kill her, but now was not the time.

He took off his helm, dropping it into the sack, feeling the warm night air soothe his aching head. He ran his fingers through his thick locks of blond hair.

“Two-Ten City … we’ll spread the word as we go.”

CHAPTER 7

(The Present)

Plop.

Louder and closer. Venir was blinded to everything but that steady sound. A beacon of death or a beacon of hope, which he did not know, nor did he care. Move or die. So be it.

The ground beneath his feet had turned to blackened shale as he treaded steep inclines only to slide downward again. His despair was replaced by anger only to turn back to despair again, but the sound kept coming.

Plop.

What was that sound? It seemed familiar now, like streams that rippled over the rocks where he fished as a child. Those days—singing in the sunlight, sucking down fish eggs and washing in the streams—seemed ancient and impossible now. Blood and body parts littered the water like rotting logs, and his days had been darker ever since, no recourse, no choice. Fight or Die.

“URK!” he gasped as his body pitched forward, and then he tumbled downward over the shale, each tiny rock cutting under his skin like broken glass under the force of his momentum. His fingers clawed into the ground. His feet kicked, but he did not slow. He slipped off the edge of something. The wind whistled through his ears as he fell.

SPLASH!

The water was cold, dark and unfriendly. The weight of  his helm and axe was pulling him downward as his feet paddled for the top, but he had no idea which direction that was. In the back of his mind he figured he was back in the river and just needed to find the bottom. How deep could it be? He could walk back ashore. He sank. His body began to labor for air, twitching and jerking in the murk. Brool glimmered with life as his lungs began to collapse with death. Drowning, what a pitiful way to go. Bloody lying giants! Then again, maybe he should have taken the advice he was told.

He closed his eyes, letting the icing waters slow his struggles, and thought his final thoughts of Kam, underlings and grog. Ah, but to have at them all once more. Something burst through the water, wrapped around his body and yanked him out. He gasped for air, writhing against the grip that had his arms pinned to his sides. As the icy water cleared his eyes and ran down the rivulets of his helm, he found himself face to face with another foe. A giant with a boyish face, bald and one-eyed, held him like a child’s doll in its mighty grip. The face was pitiful and scary at the same time. Its skull, as big as a boulder, was misshapen at the top, one ear sticking out and the other looking melted on the side. Its breath of seaweed and fish wasn’t the most unpleasant he’d encountered, but the split blue-green tongue rolling in its mouth might've been the ugliest. Venir was certain he was about to be eaten.

It screamed in Venir’s face.

An army of orcs couldn’t have been any louder.

Venir screamed back.

It screamed again, louder than the last, shifting his helm on his brow.

Its grip loosened, and Venir took in a full swallow of air.

“RRAAAWWWW!”

Its brown uni-brow perched above its one good eye.

“Hur-Rah?” it said.

Venir gazed at his foe. A deformed giant with only one working eye was standing knee deep in dark water that was surrounded by a lake shore, encompassed by rocky ridges that jutted from the mist. A cone of mist went up as high as he could see before it stopped again in the clouds. Rocks jutted left and right from the smoky spirals, but near the shores there was green, brown and life. A drop of water, as big as his head, fell in the water beside him.

Plop.

Venir warmed at the thought of the small victory, but it was short lived as One Eye started to carry him away. The one big brown eye stared at him, with admiration it seemed. Venir’s head whipped around. Must escape. But there was only water, rocks, a mile long shore line, if that, and more mist. If he killed the giant, then where would he go? Think Venir.

“Where are you taking me?” he yelled.

Its working eye squinted, and its split tongue rolled as it gave him a curious look and spoke.

“HUNG-GAREE.”

Venir gulped as its enormous belly groaned.

CHAPTER 8

As Melegal sprang back to his feet, his short swords, the Sisters, were gleaming in his hands. The leather wrapped around the pommels was reassuring as he crouched and faced his unseen foe. Two small figures, decorated in wooden masks, were blocking his path back into the street.

You can’t be serious.

“Coin or death, Whore Bred?” A long steel knife flashed in one urchin's hand as the other flanked him with a notched and rusty longsword. Melegal was in no mood to laugh as the renegade urchins adorned in ruddy red robes and bare feet closed in. They were members of the guild, one of many that bred thieves, liars and whores. You can’t be serious. This bunch in particular called themselves the Wastrels of the Rose, he recalled, a peasant lot of cutpurses at best. They leaped back as he made a quick lunge at them.

“Come now, children. Run, before I have to skewer you,” he warned.

Each masked face turned toward the other before returning their weird little gaze back to him. I should kill them. Stupidity is a crime, in some cases. How did they sneak up on me, though? Melegal shouldn’t have been surprised, ever, but his focus on Sefron had almost proved to be his undoing. A more formidable stalker might have been successful in putting his life to an end. He’d have to be more careful.

“Coin or death—”

Melegal swatted the flat of his blade on the front of the boy's mask.

“Yes, I know—Whore Bred. Is that the line your guild master has you using when you rob the honest and stupid folk?”

“Yaaaaar!” the other one lunched.

Clang! Melegal smacked the boy's blade from his hands.

The other charged. Really? Melegal cracked the flat of his blade on the other urchin's mask, knocking it clear off. The Sisters became a blur of steel in the twilight.

Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap! Whap!

The pair, one boy, one girl, both ugly and pitiful, fell to the ground clutching their heads as they tried to crawl away. Melegal’s booted feet pinned their robes to the ground as he warned them, “Keep moving. Start crying or screaming and the next strikes will be with the edges of my blades. Got it?”

They nodded as their elbows scraped over the pavement.

“Mercy!”

Tears of pain and fear dropped onto the stones below them. It was uncharacteristic for these little thieves to try and take a full grown man like Melegal. They tended to work in small groups, strike fast and bully younger or elderly people, but times were as desperate in Bone as they had ever been. There was a clamor coming from the other side of Bone’s massive walls that the underlings were coming, coming to kill them all. Of course, it might have been rumors alone, but there were more desperate people being taken in than ever before. However, Melegal had other things to worry about.

“Tell me something, urchlings. Are more of you nearby? Cause if there are, I’m going to carve a hole in you both this big,” he said, making a large circle in the air with his blade.

They both shook their heads.

“Good, so tell me this: how long have you been following me?”

It was the girl who spoke.

“Just a few corners, M-m-master.”

That’s more like it. Maybe I should keep them around.

“Ah … I see,” he said, slowly strolling around them. “Tell me, did you see a man enter this alley before me?”

They both shook their heads.

He kicked the boy in the head. “Don’t lie to me! Did you not see a man shuffling like a snail over the ground, a mere twenty paces ahead of me?”

“No Master, I swear!”

“No, no such man. Only you!”

He wanted to kill something, anything or anyone. He touched the tips of his blades into their empty bellies, drawing blood as he grimaced with rage.

“Don’t lie to me! Where is the man you saw before me?” He looked down the alley, a dead end one way, a street up the other. He didn’t miss anything, not one single detail. Studied the walls, not so much as a portal, ladders, or ledges to climb along, not Sefron anyway.

“P-Please don’t kill us, Master. Mercy!”

Melegal’s voice was cold as ice when he said, “Why not? You’ve nothing to live for.”

“We don’t want to die,” the girl said. “We want to live to see the morrow. Please don’t kill us. We’ll help you find the one you lost.”

Stupid urchins.

Melegal sheathed his blades. He knew the difference between a lie and the truth when he heard it, and these pathetic waifs had not lied. But, he was still certain they’d be better off dead. “Pah! Go rodents, and remember: if you cherish the morrow so much, make sure I never see you again.” He stomped their wooden masks to splinters. “I’ll not forget your faces, not now nor twenty years from now.”

He could hear their scampering feet as he headed toward the dead end of the alley and began his search. He was seething inside. Sefron had slipped him again, it seemed. He ran his delicate fingers over every niche he could find. Nothing. That left only one other option, and the thought left him uneasy. Magic,and maybe he was on to me. Melegal stuffed his hands in his pockets and began the long walk home. I guess I’m gonna have to kill him in the castle.

***

Sefron took one feverish glance over his shoulder after another as he lumbered down a steep series of narrow steps. He labored for breath and wheezed through his nose as he stopped and looked back over his shoulder. Paranoid. He waited a few more moments, confident his spell worked, before he continued his descent. Good. Good.

He was oblivious to the fact that Detective Melegal had been following him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t take precautions whenever he slipped outside the castle walls. For over a decade, almost two, he had been avoiding the prying eyes of the Royals. A spell he had mastered, an apparition of himself, had unloaded itself from the wagon, hours earlier, and in his guise wandered the streets until it expired. Not just one, but two shades were out there before he made his own secretive trek. If someone had indeed been following him, he would not have known, but that didn't matter. What did matter was that no one, especially not the Almens, knew where he was going or who he was about to see. He peeked over his shoulder again. As much as he enjoyed watching others being tortured, he had nightmares of it happening to himself. A betrayed Almen was as merciless as merciless could be. Hate em’. Hate them all!

As the light faded above him he muttered a quick incantation.

Shazal-ong.

A copper ring on his middle finger came to life with a soft glow as he stood on a landing barricaded by an ancient door covered in rust and grit. A new sense of security washed over him as a pair of rats scurried over his feet. He pushed his way through. A cool damp breeze cut though his clothes and raised bumps over the clammy skin on his neck. He swallowed hard. Slow and easy. His frail legs ached. His lungs wheezed. It took another twenty minutes for him to reach the bottom of the slick rock stairs that bottomed out in what looked to be an unfinished room that opened into a cave.

The light from his ring did very little to expose his surroundings, and anyhow, the curiosity that bred a need for exploration evaded his being. What lay beneath the City of Bone was of little concern to him. Humans feared what was beneath the ground, always assuming it was filled with ghouls, trolls or underlings, at least at the subterranean levels. The sewers, almost another two hundred feet above, were another matter, but even those desperate enough to try the sewers never crossed to the deep levels, and they hoped whatever lived in the ground never crossed them. Yet it happened. There were monsters that wandered below. Sometimes they reached the sewer levels, and rarely one would creep into the city, but most witnesses never lived to tell about it.

Sefron wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief as he waited and waited. The sounds of dripping water echoed from everywhere. He began to pace back and forth on his aching and shaking legs, his wheezing just as heavy as ever. He knew he wasn’t late. He never had been, not once over the years. He was in the same place as the last time, a place no one would ever think to look: cool, damp, deep, dark and dangerous.

With a raspy sigh he sat down, allowing his lids to close over his bulging eyes. This trek took a lot out of him, and he was grateful that he only did it once a year. His thoughts drifted to the castle's serving girls. They’ll have much work to do, massaging my sagging old muscles. His dry mouth began to water.

“Taking a nap, are we?” A sinister voice cut through his thoughts.

Sefron shouted out in terror at the sight of the horrifying face before him. It was an abomination of cat and man: black, twisted and cunning, layered with muscles from its toes to its shoulders. It hoisted him off the ground by the neck with a single hand. Sefron could feel its steel file-like claws digging into his neck as it choked him. The smell of piss wafted in the air as he soaked his robes. The monster, unlike anything he ever imagined, sneered at him with fiendish eyes.

Sefron’s legs twitched. His eyes bulged like boiled eggs as his slimy tongue writhed inside his mouth. He watched in horror as the creature opened its large mouth, revealing fangs and rows of razor sharp teeth. He must have failed his master. His time had come, his efforts undone. But he wasn’t going to die without some kind of fight. He stared into the eyes of the monster, channeled his thoughts and energy. Let me go. Let me go, he commanded. The monster's gaze filled his gut with despair as its grip tightened around his throat. No! It’s not working! Laughter echoed and began to fade.

CHAPTER 9

Underneath an ancient snow covered pine, Fogle Boon’s knees shook beneath the ropes of ice that bound him. He had been there for hours, his shivering beyond control, without so much as a sound or visit from his gorgeous captor or her pack of wolves. He strained to hear something, anything, but he could only feel the icicles growing on his earlobes as the howling wind continued to rip through him to the bone. He had been miserable before, but nothing compared to this. I can’t go like this. Not without a fight. Yet, he still felt his chances for survival dwindling away.

Nearby was Mood, frozen up to his neck in a single block of ice, head down, unmoving. Fogle tried to imagine which was worse, his situation or the Blood Ranger's. He’s probably enjoying this. Bloody dwarf!

He tried to focus on what magic he had left within him, probing his superior intellect to see if there was anything he could use. His hands were bound, and his mouth was gagged with a dirty piece of cloth that tasted like sweat. He was all alone with his only remaining weapon: his mind. Yet she, whoever she was, some strange guardian of ogres and wolves, was careful not to catch his eyes. Instead, two men as tall as small pines, bearded like dwarves and armed with picks, had bound and hauled him away. Two ogres shoved along the block of ice that kept Mood imprisoned.

It was a long trip that led them deep inside a cavern, a veritable garden where vibrant plant life of many colors was bursting through the ice and snow. Flowers, trees and streams filled with jumping fish were abundant in his field of vision. As spectacular as it was, Fogle was far from impressed. It was still cold, colder than a lich’s tit, and all he wanted more than anything was fire and a blanket. He groaned a pitiful sound as his teeth clattered together. He was certain they were about to break like ice tablets at any moment.

Another sliver of fear raced down his spine as the pack of wolves appeared from behind him. Their coats brushed along his knees as they growled and barked in low puffs. He watched the saliva drip from their fanged mouths. What a wonderful coat you would make. A fearsome sight, the wolves, each one's back stood almost four feet at the shoulder. He thought of Chongo and wondered if the giant two-headed dog could make quick work of them, or if they would tear him to pieces. Chongo, the reason he was here and freezing in the snow.

As the dogs sat, the two tall men reappeared, one carrying a short log as thick as a man on his shoulder, the other a heavy blanket. Gently the man set it on the snow in front of him, and the other laid the blanket on top of it. They both then stood on either side of the log, arms crossed over broad bearded chests, unmoving. Nice blanket. Fogle would have fought them both bare handed for it. He looked up at them, each standing taller than even Venir, eyes straight forward, hairy and scary. That’s when Fogle noticed the heavy blades with long hilts on their hips. Bastard swords. The heavy picks they had earlier seemed more adequate to the conditions, the swords more out of place because the rough hewn mountain men looked more like executioners. He swallowed a frozen glob of snot. That’s when she came. Oh my Bish!

She was back, her pink eyes almost glowing in contrast to her soft skin and snow white hair.  A tiara of twigs and small flowers adorned her hair while her toga flapped loosely in the air. She eased her rear end onto the blanket, and without a word the two men lifted her from the ground, holding her a head’s height above Fogle’s frozen face.

She pulled the rag from his mouth. “Tell me, Wizard, why did you kill my ogres?” Her powerful voice was not as threatening as it was before.

Fogle searched for her eyes, but he could not find them. They looked out above him as if he wasn’t there. Deep inside of him a pot of anger stirred. It was one of the stupidest questions he had ever heard. He wanted to tell her that, and less than a year ago he certainly would have, but now things were different. Still …

“Cah-ca-cause they were trying to kill us,”  he somehow managed to sputter out.

She looked around, making an eerie sound as she did so, before she made her reply.

“My ogres protect me, my brethren, my haven,” her voice rose, “they are sweet creatures to be cherished, not slaughtered.”

Sweet and ogres didn’t mix, not since the dawn of any timeline. Any fool knew that. This witch, or whatever she was, was crazy. Be wary of the crazy ones, Venir had told him once.

“Not in this world. Anyone knows ogres are every bit as evil as their armpits are smelly. What I can’t understand is—”

“SILENCE!” she yelled. Her wolves began to snap and pounce. She lowered her palms, and they all sat. “Tell me then, why have you come here? What is it that you hunt?”

“I hunt nothing. We’ve come to help a fah-fah-fah-friend. We need to find a druid.”

Fogle thought he saw her eyebrows perch for a moment and noticed her shifting a little on the log. He started to continue, but she cut him off.

“Liar! Men have no use for druids. I have no use for liars,” she said, slipping from the log, her feet landing softly on the snow. As she started to walk away, she made an order. “Chop off his head, and feed him to the wolves. Stab that Blood Ranger in the brain.”

The thought of losing his head at the swing of icy steel made his teeth ache. He always figured he’d have a peaceful death in bed. His head was cast down in failure as he murmured his final words, “I guess I’ll be dying a virgin after all.” Fogle cringed as cold steel was scraped from sheaths. Freeze and die.

CHAPTER 10

The inside of Verbard’s head twisted inside out. Poison! He was certain it was in control. Before him, Master Sinway’s image stretched, contorted, swirled into a pinwheel and exploded. The urge to vomit came, but it never played out. Instead something else happened, very unexpected. Everything came to a halt: his heart, his brain and his breath as he took in his new surroundings. He was back underneath the blazing suns of Bish. He was mortified. Banished!

“My, my, Verbard, you almost look as pale as a human,” Master Sinway said, standing at his side. “Feeling a tad uneasy, are we?”

Verbard turned his back to the suns,  clutched at his sides and retched, but nothing came out.

“Pah, Verbard, you are not in your body; you cannot vomit. My, Catten would be ashamed. An underling mage vomiting from a dimensional spell. Well, I suppose powerful magic is not for everyone.”

Master Sinway floated away, tall and foreboding, but in a different light now. The bright suns brought out features of the underling, who looked like part man, part wraith in his fathomless black robes. Verbard went after him, trying to acquire his senses. He felt nothing: no heat, no air and worst of all, no magic. I live.

Master Sinway stopped and turned. His ancient face was magnified in the sunlight: intelligent, cunning and omnipotent. His iron eyes were deeper than a mineshaft, his shoulders broad and his hands gave Verbard the impression his master had broken necks before. His master wasn’t one to hide from the suns or the moons or anything above. Verbard had the feeling that—if anything—they should hide from him. Master Sinway’s evil countenance seemed invigorated, almost cheerful.

“Have you adjusted?”

Verbard nodded.

“Good then. Try to keep up; I’ve much to show you and little time.”

They seemed to move as fast as thought, in a fashion that reminded Verbard of Eep’s eye, but this included more sights and sounds. This spell was powerful, dangerously so, something he'd never imagined Sinway had control of. He felt small. Then, Verbard wondered if Master Sinway was defenseless in his home now. Who’s protecting him? Can he be in two places at once? His idea was fleeting, as his respect for Master Sinway grew. He looked down as they soared through the sky where a plume of heavy white smoke was building. Dark ranks of creatures became more distinct as they fell closer. He gasped. How glorious! Judging by the terrain, Verbard was certain of exactly where they were, but this was south of the Great Forest of Bish, somewhere between there and the jungles. Crops, miles of them, had caught fire, but that wasn’t all. An army of underlings, a thousand or more strong, were killing men, women and children like sheep.

He and Sinway stood in the center of a village now as underlings on spiders and on foot decimated human flesh like fresh poultry. A woman’s head was tossed through his ghost- like form, and that brought forth a chuckle from Master Sinway.

“When, Master? I beg of you, why was I unaware?” He was very careful of his tone.

A man wielding a pitchfork tried to defend himself from the attack of one underling only to have a crossbow bolt shot point blank into the back of his head by an armorless underling. It was strange, euphoric, being in the center of the melee as all sorts of creatures passed through their forms, screaming in terror and glee. Verbard was enthralled, but he needed his questions answered, too.

“Come,” Master Sinway said.

In a single step they moved miles. In a field he stood, once vibrant with full crops, now burned to the ground and converted into a graveyard of sorts. Pairs of legs were sticking from the ground, some clammy, some bloody, some twitching as far as his silver eyes could see. Underlings, diggers they called them, were dragging living corpses from all directions, leaving smears of blood over the green and blackened grasses. Verbard began counting. It was unlike anything he imagined. Simply beautiful.

He looked over at his master and said, “There’s over a thousand, practically an army of men dead. How? When?”

“Ah, that’s the best part, less than a couple of months, not a day more. Consider it a tribute for what you have done, Verbard. With the Darkslayer gone, the small towns and villages are so much easier to burn.” Master Sinway whirled slowly over the muddied ground then let his eyes rest back on Verbard. “I assume you have a question? Your eyes do not show the glee I anticipated.”

Verbard took in a sharp breath as his chin dipped.

“Master, am I to understand the Darkslayer prevented such carnage all alone? He was one man. It seems unlikely that he could have stopped an entire army. There has to be something more to this force than just the Darkslayer's demise.” He hated to say the next line. “I could not be the one to take all the credit. Surely your hand is in all of this.” When he looked up again, Master Sinway’s broad back faced him.

“Heh … is that humility I hear?  From my most impudent and challenging servant of all?”

Verbard began to speak but was cut off.

“Don’t pretend to think you are undeserving, even when that's the case. Humility is not your way, Verbard. My, without your brother you’ve become uninteresting. I don’t like it.”

The sharp words somehow stung his black heart. Sinway continued:

“Now, come alongside me.”

“Certainly.”

“Hmmm …” Sinway glanced at him, rubbing his chin, then looked away. “You’ll figure it out. Now, as for you observations, yes, you are right, this isn’t all because of the fall of our foe. But, it did play a key part. These wretched humans lack the will without his presence being totted. The Royals, our greatest enemy of all, squabble amongst one another and let their world fall to ruin. Without man helping man, well, you see the result."

“So, we burn their crops, kill their people and little more than a few hundred soldiers have been sent to stop us. All dead.” He fanned his hands over the crops. “The orcs, dwarves and ogres are naught to be heard from. We’ve hardly been challenged. Our treks of terror began in the twilight, just to see if your words were true. Just to see if the man would come. He did not. Now, we press into the day and strengthen our grip on the South. In a few more months, everything below the Great Forest will be ours. By the time the Royals make a show of force, it will be over.”

Following Sinway over forests, jungles and cities large and small, Verbard could see people in large caravans heading north and other humanoid races moving south. He could see fear, worry and starvation on their ugly faces, and his hatred fed on their destruction. He felt stronger.

“What are your thoughts, Verbard? You’ve been so quiet. It’s unlike you,” Sinway said with a twinge of annoyance.

“How many of our kind roam the lands?”

“Five thousand.”

“That’s a huge force for us. The humans can summon armies as big as ten thousand on a moment’s notice. We could be slaughtered,” he said matter-of-factly.

Sinway hissed.

“But they have not! They sit, whine and wallow in riches, fighting over the next bauble or glimmer of power. It’s an opportunity like none from ever before.”

Verbard wasn’t so certain. The death of thousands of humans was always a good thing, but the way it came about seemed unnatural. Century after century, underlings and humans chipping away at one another had become a ritual. What he saw now was a slaughter. He liked it, but it seemed too easy.

“Oh so many months ago, Verbard, did you not feel a shift in your powers? A quake, a shimmer, an ebb? It was like the entire world of magic we know wobbled and flipped.”

He had, several times, and it terrified him. Had it jolted his master as well?

“Indeed, it almost cost me my life more than once. But, it filled me with power so great I sometimes could barely contain it. Like a rich well of energy deeper than our caves. That feeling was indescribable, but the feeling is still with me, just more faint.”

“And you brother felt this as well, did he not?”

“He did.”

They were hovering over the mirages of the Warfield now, the place of fight and die. Far below, from the ledge of a giant hill, two pairs of unseeing eyes were watching them: the Nameless Two. From within their cave they could see all coming and going, no matter the dimension. Verbard could not contain his grimace as his clawed hand rubbed the heavy scar on his chest. It ached as the agony of dying settled in. In that moment in the cave, when he and his brother felt so invincible, he'd been quickly humbled by the single thrust of a blade. He winced again.

“Problem, Verbard?” Sinway said. “You almost look pale.”

“No, Master.” Just you.

“Then keep up,” Sinway almost spat. “We’ve little time left.”

His master sounded stressed. Perhaps the spell was fading; he could only assume.

In merely a few more moments they were hovering just outside the City of Bone. Verbard had last seen it months ago, a fleeting moment in Eep’s eye, but his memory didn’t serve it justice. The city of Bone was enormous, black against the shades of the suns, spires and lookouts almost ten stories tall. The miserable place was filled with humans, and all Verbard could think was how much he wanted to see them all burn alive. That would be grand.

It was strange though, being so close to his enemies, inside the former home of the Darkslayer. His little black heart began to pound even faster. Why were they here? As they floated closer, the multitudes of people on the outer walls began to thicken. They were coming from the Outlands, in droves, crowding the walls and fighting among themselves.

“Master,” he hissed with a twinge of joy, “the exodus is, well … masterful!”

“Indeed, Verbard, indeed. They fled the south like drowning rats, causing their own disorder. The soldiers within can barely depart without trampling their own kind like rodents. They are weak, weary, broken, sick and starving. All coming to seek refuge in the great City of Bone. Hah! They can’t even bring in rations.” Master Sinway’s iron eyes glimmered with glee. “They have themselves under siege without even the necessity of our presence.”

“How long do you think their reserves will hold them, Master?”

“Ah, well, they are prepared, but less than a year; I am certain. Hardly a blink for us, but long enough to kill off  thousands more of the humans. In a few more weeks they’ll be eating their dead.”

Elation filled Verbard, and even Master Sinway’s satisfaction was abundant on his hardened face. Verbard sensed that his master had been waiting on this for a long time. He pulled his shoulders back, lifted his chin beside his master and observed the deteriorating throng of people. Deep down he felt satisfaction that he had something to do with this. Not his brother, not Sinway nor any other underling. Him. I rule!

Sinway turned to him, almost with a smile on his face, his flattened teeth bared. “I’ve not brought you here just to bask in glory, Verbard. We both know how quickly things can change, so we are seizing the moment. I wanted to share something else with you about this grand city that you don’t know.”

Sinway gazed down on the city, shook his head and pointed.

“The City of Bone, as men would call it, was not always so,” Sinway said, lowering his ethereal self to the ground.

Ugh, Verbard thought as the filthy people passed through him with pitiful looks and wallowed around with screaming babies. Verbard looked up the rock walls, so tall and formidable up close. Impenetrable. He wondered who had moved such massive rocks and was certain it was the giants or the dwarves. If Sinway was contemplating attacking it, then they would need many siege machines, a full army of soldiers and all the magic powers at their disposal. Outpost Thirty-One was one thing, but the City of Bone was quite another.

“When I was young, Verbard, the City of Bone was what the underlings called home.”

Verbard silently mouthed the words, “What?”

But Sinway wasn’t finished.

“The time has come to take it back, and I’m placing you in charge of that.”

Verbard tried not to stammer as his nails dug into his palms. This is my reward. I’d rather eat urchling slat first. Slat on that.

“It would be a great honor,” he bowed, “Master Sinway.”

CHAPTER 11

Kam rushed through the door, her nerves jangling with danger at the sound of her baby’s screams. A man was in the room, stout and wiry, his face aghast, her baby in his corded arms. The man was patting the baby’s back, while bouncing the baby on his knees, his face distraught.  It appeared nothing was working to shut off the baby’s screams.

The little baby’s face was red, its small mouth widening into a gaping hole. Kam’s moment of panic subsided as she eased the baby into her arms and allowed the little one to latch onto her breast.

“Ssssh. Sssssh. Sssssh. Your mommy's here, you hungry little thing,” she said, taking a seat on the couch. She winced. “My! Easy now, Little Girl, I’m not a cow.”

Kam gently rocked her baby girl, Erin, back and forth. She felt Billip's heated gaze on her and looked up only to see his eyes quickly flit away. He was a nice enough looking fellow for such a hardened man, shifty and nervous at times, but she still caught an ornery look in his eyes now and again. He popped his knuckles, looked down in her eyes, then lower and away again. Her cheeks turned a little rosy, which was odd because over the years she’d become calloused to men’s wanton eyes caressing her features.

“Eh … Kam, I’m sorry about little Erin getting so excited. One second she was fine, then the next she sounded away like a banshee.” Billip twisted his black goatee and added, “Can I get you or the baby anything? Milk … er, I mean tea or some plum juice? I’d be happy to fetch you some.”

“No thank you, Billip. I can take things from here, and I apologize. I should have come up sooner. I just got caught up with things down there,” she said, shifting away from him.

Billip had been a great help since day one, but she had let herself get to a point where she relied on him, as well as Mikkel, too much. It didn’t help that both men, each with his own rugged brand of attractiveness, had been more than willing to cater to her every whim. It was nice, though, having two men that appreciated her in a different way than the City of Three’s more scholarly types did.

“Perhaps I should head on downstairs, “he said. “I’m sure Joline could use the help. It’s been busier than a hive of flying toads these past few weeks. Good for business, but maybe not so much for babies. Poor little gal missed her momma something awful, even if it was for just a few hours. She’s a light sleeper, that one.”

Billip gave her a quick bow and turned to walk out.

“Billip, what do you make of these crowds? Do you think the rumors are true, that the underlings are taking over the south?”

A nervous look was in his eyes as he said, “There’s something going on; I’m certain. Mikkel and I talk about it much, and we’ve been hearing lots of things, nothing like we haven’t heard before, but up here in the North, well it’s unheard of. Mikkel’s worried—er—”

“Worried? About what?” she demanded, rising to her feet. There was something in Billip’s voice that worried her.

“Er, nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“Tell me, Billip. Tell me!” she urged.

He rubbed the back of his neck and said, “I’d rather not; it’s personal and all. Mikkel would kill me. Man’s honor.”

Now it would drive her crazy, not knowing what was being spoken about. She couldn’t stand it, but she was certain she couldn’t force the man to give in to her every whimsy. Or could she? As Billip stood there, eyes shifting back and forth, she shifted Erin from one breast to the other, taking her time in doing so.

“Billip,” she said, parting her perfect full lips, “tell me what is on Mikkel's mind.”

He blushed.

“All right! But promise you won’t say anything.”

“I won’t,” she assured him, recovering herself.

“He’s worried about his boy, Nikkel.”

“I didn’t know he had a boy. Where is he?”

“Two-Ten City.”

Kam felt a mix of anger and shame. Too many people were protecting her for her own good and not protecting themselves.

“How old is Nikkel?”

“About the same age as Georgio.”

She wanted to slap somebody.

“Is there anything else I should know? Is the boy with his mother? Are there more children? And what about you, Billip? Certainly you have some children of your own.”

He sucked in his breath and said, “None that have claimed me as of yet.”

“Why doesn’t he just go? Both of you? You don’t need to stay around here. Go get Mikkel’s boy and bring him back here where it's safe.”

“I’ve tried to tell him it would be well, but we promised Venir.”

Kam frowned, and her eyes began to water.

Billip cleared his throat and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say—”

“It’s, it’s fine, Billip.”

But it wasn’t. The mere mention of his name sent shivers through her. Sometimes, down in the tavern, she thought she heard his voice or laughter among the crowd, only to be left with a hollow feeling a moment later. That’s why she liked to stay down in the tavern as much as she could, hoping he might swing back in the door, but she’d never admit that to herself.

“You all right?” he asked. She didn’t even notice that he was sitting beside her with a hand on her knee.

“Billip, I know what you promised Venir, but the boys will be fine. Don’t you think he’d understand?”

“Well, he always was pretty understanding. But, what about you, Kam? And baby Erin.”

“Your promise was to take care of the boys. You’ve done that. Besides, seeing how I am the mother of his child, I think it’s fair for me to reserve the right to speak for him in his absence. Don’t you think?”

Billip tilted his head as he stroked the long hairs of his mustache

“I suppose, but—”

“Good. Now, I’ll bring it up to Mikkel later—”

“No, you can’t!” Billip stammered.

“Don’t worry, Billip. I’ll let him convince himself it was his idea. I’ll fool him into asking me.”

“Now, that’s my kind of thinking. Cunning like a fox you are! Very well, then.” Billip got up with a squeeze on her knee. “I’ll be downstairs, then.”

As he closed the door, Kam let out a heavy sob. She grabbed a handkerchief and blew her nose. Her life had been so much simpler before Venir had come and turned it inside out. Even though she had Erin, she still didn’t know whether she was happy or sad.

“Ah, finally,” she said, pulling the drowsy looking little girl away from her chest. “I see all of that screaming took a toll on you, you sweet little thing.” Baby Erin cooed at the sound.

The little baby girl was sweet, with a thick mop of dark brown hair and light eyes that were opening and closing. Unlike Kam’s little nose, Erin’s was more broad like her father's, but the rest of her was petite, with little hands and feet topped off by a pink ribbon tied into a long braided lock of hair.

She hoisted Erin up in the hair.

“Whee!”

Erin’s eyes widened before she let out a sweet little giggle on the way back down.

Kam felt all of her problems leave her in the moment as she stared into her daughter's bright little eyes. She was in control. Erin was happy. She was happy, but why couldn’t she stay happy? She ran through the list.

Venir, Lefty, Georgio, Fogle, Billip, Mikkel … all men.

She nuzzled her baby’s warm little body into her chest, patted her rear end and said, “I hope you fall for a much simpler kind of man that me, Erin because I don’t want that little heart of yours breaking. They’re hard to put back together.”

Over by the windows she took notice of a rocking chair that had been a gift from Lefty and Master Gillem. The wood craftsmanship was worthy of the interiors of Royal castles, simple yet distinct. She hadn’t used it yet, but the others had, from Billip to Joline. Master Gillem had been nothing but the perfect help in mentoring Lefty, and therein lay the problem: too perfect.

She patted Erin on the back, bringing forth a hearty burp.

“That’s my girl.” She hadn’t lost her soft spot for Lefty, the tiny fair-haired halfling boy, but his not-so-innocent charms had not eluded her. He was hiding something, but it didn’t bother her so much as it did Georgio. She kept telling herself they were teenage boys and that teens make mistakes, but that justification was a poor excuse on her behalf, and deep down, she knew it. Some days it was better not to try and resolve any problems at all than to bother with any of them. Some things have to work out on their own. So she told herself.

Outside, she could hear the carriages rolling over the cobblestones along with the usual greetings and pleasantries. Below the window sill was the entrance to the Magi Roost, and she recognized many patrons' voices sauntering in from a day of work in the magical city. Erin had gotten used to those sounds, and before long she was fast asleep. Kam laid her head back, closed her eyes and meditated.

She opened her eyes feeling at rest, with baby Erin still sound asleep on her chest.

Coffee.

Raising her arms up over her head and extending her fingers, she mouthed a silent incantation.

Snap-Snap.

The coals inside the stove fired with life, and the metal canister began to percolate. Two minutes later the aroma invigorated her as she laid Erin down inside her purple and olive colored cradle. She muttered another incantation, and the cradle began to rock and hum a soothing ancient tune.

“Nothing's quite like an invisible baby sitter,” she said as she walked over and filled her ceramic mug. “You can thank your grandmother for that. Hmph. She even said it was the same one that I used to fall asleep to, but that was awfully long ago.”

She stood near the cradle, sipping her coffee and looking out into the street. Where is he? All of the murmurings about the underlings had gotten to her, and the stories she overheard Billip and Mikkel telling Georgio disturbed her. She was convinced that Venir being missing had something to do with all this. Only he could manage to piss off an entire host of underlings. She let out a short giggle before she reached down and put her warm hand on his daughter's face. She wanted to Erin to know her father. She wanted him to come home and hold her in his arms. She wanted to kill him before anyone else did. She kept assuring herself that he wasn’t dead, but every day made it seem more likely he was. Even Billip and Mikkel seemed to have resolved as much, judging by their subtle advances.

At some point you are going to have to let him go, Joline had begun to say.

But for Erin’s sake she couldn’t do that yet, and another thing bothered her as well: Where on Bish was Fogle Boon?

CHAPTER 12

Strapped to a tree like a frozen log, Fogle Boon awaited his inevitable death shivering his last moments of life away in utter misery. He didn’t even bother to look up into the eyes of the mountain man coming his way gripping a gleaming bastard sword in his hairy hands. Deep down he felt shame, realizing his only friend left in the world was about to die as well. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, watch his friend die first. Instead he was ready to go.

Keep your chin up before you die, Venir had said someone told him once.

“Bish!” he managed. His head felt like a block of ice as he raised it. At least he could try to volunteer his life first and maybe give Mood more time. He opened his mouth to speak, one last time, as the blade rose over his head.

“Did you say, ‘I guess I’ll be dying a virgin after all’?”

The woman stood there, beautiful and cold, pink eyes filled with curiosity.

“I suppose,” he said, then sneezed. “Aw … even that hurts.”

Her next question caused his brilliant mind to thaw.

“So, you came up here to lose your virginity … to a druid?”

Fogle took a moment to reassure himself that she had said what she said she had. Lying wasn’t his thing; he'd never needed it until now.

“Y—y-yes,” he managed.

“Get me my log!” she ordered.

The big men looked at one another.

“NOW!”

Snow fell from the tree, coating Fogle as the big men burst into action. In a moment they had her propped back up before them.

She folded her arms below her ample and pleasing breasts and said, “So, why am I to believe that you—unlike every pig of a man in this world—have not been sleeping with harlots and treating uncommonly good women like whores?”

What a highly uncommon question! Fogle felt some of his inner strength return, and he was going to need every bit of it to pull off the rest of the lie. He was no story teller, but he was going to have to spin one if he wanted to make it through the day.

Here we go.

“I’m not so certain that it is possible to prove whether or not I am still a virgin, but I am, not that it matters at this point.”

She kept her eyes away from his as she seemed to ponder his words.

“So, you seek to lose your virginity to a druid? Why? Certainly a common woman would do. What man travels so far to lose his innocence, a man of your age at that?”

Fogle felt his mind begin to smile from one side of his brain to the other. She’s a dolt? Is this possible? Go along with it.

A woman beautiful, formidable and exotic sat before him, as picturesque as the great falls in the City of Three, and he had her undivided attention. The trick was keeping it.

“As you know, I am a mage of sorts, and I’ve been told that magic runs strongest in the veins of druids because they are the purest magic users of mankind. I want my legacy to be pure and strong.” He bragged. “My mentors shielded me from my physical needs and desires until my time had come. My time is now they said, to find a druid woman, a gift of nature, and offer myself to her. If my seed is strong and she wishes to bear my child, then it shall be a strong, formidable force that even the underlings would fear to reckon with. It’s—”

“Shut up! That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. You are a lousy liar, but I still, for some reason, “her eyes twinkled, “suspect you are a virgin.” She rubbed his delicate chin. “Hmmm. Now, tell me, really, why you have sought me out, or I’ll have my men pierce your eyes with an icicle.”

So much for that, but at least she admits she is a druid.

“Any chance of being warm one last time before I die?”

She reached over and cupped his face in her ginger hands. A feeling of warmth slowly made its way through his face and down to his toes. Her breath was hot steam on his face, and it had the sweet scent of honey. Feeling the urge to kiss her pale lips, he leaned forward.

Slap!

“Seems you want more than you asked for, Virgin,” she said, but her tone was not one of anger. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m a virgin, but that’s not why we are in these, or rather, your mountains. We have a dog, a giant one with two heads, named Chongo. He’s sick, and Mood,” he caught her eyebrows perching as she took a quick glance over her shoulder. Maybe he said too much. “…said only a druid might be able to heal him.”

Slap!

She could have slapped him a hundred times, and he wouldn’t have minded. He was still warm. She’s amazing. He smiled.

“Why are you smiling and lying?” she demanded.

“I’m smiling because I can feel my toes again and because this is the only foreplay I’ve ever had,” he said, offering a grin.

The fingers on her hand transformed into an array of long sharp sticks that reached over and dug into his shoulder.

“Is this foreplay amusing to you, Virgin Liar? Shall I dig a little deeper into your heart's desires?” she said, squeezing.

“Gah!” he blurted out as the wooden finger punctured through his robes into his skin and began to burn. “No, I swear it! There is such a dog, and that is why we are here: to heal it!” He was getting angry now. “Kill me if you must, but know that you are killing an innocent man! Your ogres, every smelly arsed one of them, needed to die! Oh, why does a woman as glorious as you consort with the likes of them?”

She released him.

“Druids don’t pick and choose between the races. We each have our purpose. The ogres are no more good or evil than men.”

“That’s a bunch of slat! Does the same go for underlings as well? How is your consorting with them treating you? It seems to me that you are about as far away from them as anyone could be!”

She made no reply.

He didn’t notice one of the mountain men whispering something in her ear. Fogle just stared into the ground.

“Humph,” she said to the mountain man. “Are you certain?”

He gave a quick nod.

Once more, she addressed Fogle, “Describe this dog, then.”

Fogle spilled out every little detail, from Chongo’s two whipping tails to his large dangling tongues. He told her about the albino urchlings and the wounds they had caused. The druid hung on his every word with a growing look of concern on her captivating face.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Fogle … Fogle Boon. And yours is?”

“Cass,” She replied. “Virgin Fogle, did anyone ever tell you that you are a strange looking man?”

“Not to my face. Did anyone ever tell you that you are the most perfect thing they ever saw?”

“Flattery. Hah, you're as as good at that as you are at lying. Cover his face and bind his hands,” she ordered, turning away.

“But—”

She was gone. He was gagged, and a smelly sack now covered his face.

I’m not very good at this woman thing.

CHAPTER 13

The more Venir struggled, the more the ghastly one-eyed giant squeezed, pinching his ribs to the verge of cracking.

“S....top it!” The creature slurred out of deformed lips.

Venir would have none of that; he wasn’t about to be a meal if there was anything that he could do about it. The monster, waist deep in the water, traversed from one side of the lake to the other. Ahead, Venir noticed the mouth of a cave. A black cavern over a hundred feet high loomed. Not good. Perhaps One Eye was planning to feed him to something else, or roast his skin in there.

Brool was still wrapped in his tight grip, the shaft warm to the touch, and if he’d get enough wiggle room he promised himself he would slice the giant's fingers off. Wait and fight. He let his taut muscles begin to slacken, but the grip that held him did little to subside as they entered the dark mouth of the cave.

The light of the mist disappeared as One Eye sloshed deeper into the darkness. Venir looked back for the glow of the mist, his memory flickering as to what illuminated the mist to begin with. Reason told him the mist should have blocked out the light, yet it provided it.

His eyes strained in the black behind the eyelets of his helm, but wherever he was, it was devoid of walls. How did the giant see in the black, with only one good eye no less? Something began to hum a tune, throaty and strange. It was his captor, whose belly continued to groan like an enormous bullfrog.

There was a loud slosh of water, followed by another that jolted Venir. Wet steps slapped on slick rocks he was certain he was hearing.

“Mmmmm-mah … almost time to eat,” it said.

Venir’s own stomach growled.

“Great Bish …”

“What you say, Little Giant?”

“I say,” Venir yelled, “I’m gonna make your belly sour.”

He bit his lip, drawing blood, as the giant shook him like a rattle. Miserable, maniacal and mortified at the thought of being eaten, Venir fought against letting his efforts subside. Patience. He glanced up one last time into the hot, rotten breath of the giant that was now shadowed from an unknown source of light. As he twisted around, his eyes beheld something he never would have imagined: a forest, filled with an odd assortment of strange vegetation. Green, purple and white leaves hung from branches of trees that stood taller than the giant. The ground was a familiar red, red clay.

It could not be.

No, it was not the Red Clay Forest, but it could have been, aside from the fact that it was inside of a cave and illuminated by a million speckles of yellow and orange lights that littered the sky. There was fruit hanging in abundance: green apples, purple pears and deep red cherries the size of his hand. The deformed giant stuffed him into the high branches of one of the trees. His big ugly face had a smile as he patted his big belly.

“Hungry, little giant must eat?”

Venir fought the urge to stick his axe spike into its other eye, opting to stick it into the knotted grey branch instead. He crunched into the first fruit that he could grab. It was succulent and filling. Delicious. Three bites into it and the only thing left was the core. He climbed down along the trunk and plucked another apple from the branches. Nearby, the giant was stuffing handfuls of the tiny fruit into his big jaws. Venir kept his distance as he ate, Brool gripped at his side. He looked around the wondrous cave and felt just as lost as ever.

“Good? Belly full?“ One Eye said, with a throaty child-like voice.

Venir nodded.

“Now we play?”

Venir’s mind began its trek back into reality. As his ravenous hunger and thirst were quenched, his strength and sanity began to return. He had a choice: chop the scary looking giant down like rotting timber or let his insane journey in the Under Bish play out. He ran his thumb along Brool’s keen edge, drawing blood. Must be real.

He scanned his surroundings: trees as far as he could see, the ground covered with soft mosses, thick grasses and beds of flowers. It all had a dim hue, unnatural but not foreboding. He had the feeling he could live here for a while, in peace, not harming himself or anyone. He looked at his twelve foot tall captor and thought of Georgio, Kam, Lefty and even Melegal. He took another bite of fruit.

“What kind of game do you want to play?”

The giant stood up, big eye blinking and hands clapping.

“Name game,” he said, rubbing his belly.

“All right, what is your name?” Venir asked.

“No, no, we don’t play like that. You have to guess my name. I have to guess your name. See? Fun. Fun like that.”

Stupid like that.

“Well then,” Venir said as he swung Brool onto his shoulder and began to walk around. “If I guess your name, what do I win?”

“You get to play another game with me.”“No, that’s not good.” Venir rubbed his aching ribs and sighed. “I’ll need something better than that.”

“Like what?”

“I need to go home. To Bish, the world above this. Can you take me there if I win?”

“The river will take you there, but it’s a bad place. Don’t go there.”

Venir gawped. The other giant hadn’t lied. All he had to do was follow the river after all.

“BONE!” he swung his axe into a tree.

“Hey, don’t do that!” The giant warned him, storming over. “No hurt the tree.”

Venir ripped the axe out. His patience was lost as he bore down on the giant and stabbed it in the foot.

“OW!” It yelped, jumping up and down. “Why you hurting me?”

Pity and remorse for his action fled Venir as he looked upon the distraught giant’s ugly face.

“I need to get back to BISH now! Can you take me there? And remember, if you lie, I’ll cut your tongue out.”

Leaves and fruit fell from the trees, the giant’s ghastly scream was so loud. Venir covered his ears, but now was not the time for mercy. He would have his answers.

“I feed you, Little Giant, and you stab me. You don’t play nice.”

“Can you take me to Bish or not?”

“Not if you don’t play with me first,” the giant said, holding his bleeding foot.

One Eye cringed as Venir hoisted his axe over his head.

“S......top it! S...top it! Mean little giant!”

“You’ll live, you big one-eyed baby.” Venir poked him in the leg with Brool. “And no tricks.”

“I take you, you play with me.”

“NO! You take me and I promise I’ll find you someone to play with. I’ve got things to do.”

“Let me guess your name first.”

“It’s Venir.”

“No! Don’t tell me! Drat. You stink, Venir. You worse than the giants that don’t play with me cause I ugly.”

“Are you a runaway?”

“NO!”

Venir shook his head. He didn’t have time to deal with this nonsense. He wanted to go home.

“Just take me out of here.”One Eye pulled his knees up to his chest and buried his face. Venir sighed. Perhaps he needed another approach, and seeing how he wasn’t starving to death he could exercise a little more patience. He grabbed a purple pear that filled his hand and took a hearty bite. Fruit wasn’t ever a steady part of his diet, just an occasional substitute for meat and bread when he was out on the hunt. It was tasty, not juicy like a steak of venison, but just as satisfying.

As his aggravations began to subside, the taut muscles in his broad shoulders began to soften. He stuck his axe in the ground.

“So, Giant, what is your name?”

The big bald head waddled back and forth.

“Nothing.”

“Is it Big Baldie?”

The giant grumbled a no.

“How about Dragon Rider?”

His head popped up, his big eye glimmering.

“No like that!”

“Ah … Dragon Crusher, then?”One Eye rose up from the ground to his full height, arms raised over twenty feet in the air, fists clenched. Venir grabbed Brool and stepped back into the trees. Oh no.

“Barton like that!” he bellowed, pounding his chest.

Yes! I’ve got his name.

“Ah …then it’s Barton the Dragon Crusher!” Venir yelled.

“Barton hate the dragons!”

“What about the one called Blackie?”

Barton’s eye widened beneath his uni-brow as he flopped to the ground and faced Venir.

“You know Blackie?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I clipped his wing with my axe after he tried to scorch my flesh from my bones. I sent him wailing into the mist yelping like a wounded dog.”

Barton poked his log sized finger into Venir’s chest.

“You not lie?”

“No.”

“Baron hate Blackie. Blackie always bring Barton home. That’s why I hide in this cave. Blackie no come in here and take me away. Barton safe.”

“Barton,” Venir said, “you also told me your name.”

“Huh … ah, stupid me!” he slapped his head.

“You have to take me back to Bish now, Barton. I won the game.”

“No,” Barton huffed.

“Barton, do the giants break their word to you?”

It frowned and said, “Yes.”

“Does it make you mad when they lie?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’re doing the same thing to me. You don’t want to be like them, do you?”

Barton got up, scratching his chest, big eye blinking. Venir searched the eye of the giant. It was an odd creature, humanoid, scarred and misshapen, that moved more like a child than a man.  Venir felt some sorrow for it, but now was not the time for compassion. Now was the time to find freedom. Come on, you lout, be honest this once. I don’t give a slat for the rest of the time.

“Barton, you get me out of here and I’ll tell you where to find a friend.”

It’d be pretty hard to sneak up on underlings with you around.

“You be my friend. I stay on Bish with you.”

“Sorry Barton, but I’ve got things to do there. I can’t take you where I’m going. All I can offer is a friend, here, that you can count on. He can take care of you, assuming he’s still alive.” He lied. Boon the wizard was dead in his mind by all accounts. He’d seen the giants swat him on the wall, and he figured if anything, he’d splattered like a bug. Of course, there was the were-rat too, a sly female of silky gray fur. The question was, had  any of it at all been real? Barton seemed to confirm that. But, was Barton real? For all Venir knew, he was still walking along the river. Maybe he was even dead or imprisoned somewhere, for that matter.

“What? You try to give me a dead friend. What kind of friend is that? I’m not stupid!”

Yes you are.

“Either way,” Venir placed his fists on his hips, “you still have to take me home.”

Barton pounded his chest with his meaty hand, shaking his belly and saying, “I have honor.” A large tear dripped from his eye and splashed onto the ground. “I take you home, Venir, little giant.”

“Why do you call me that, little giant?”

“Hmmm,” Baron rubbed his chin and said, “maybe tiny giant better. You smell like a giant.”

Ew.

“I hope not.”

Venir didn’t understand the entire giant thing. It wasn’t the first time he had heard that, and he couldn’t help but think there was something to it.

“Hee hee, you funny, Venir. Mean, but funny.” Barton had a devious look in his eye. “Uh … Venir, I can’t take you with your stuff. Giant magic not like metal. You must leave it behind.”

The hairs stood up all over his body.

“I can’t do that,” he exclaimed.

“Then you have to stay,”  Barton said, eyeing his axe with a keen interest.

Venir had the feeling the giant was lying and wanted the armament for himself. Toys to play with for an under grown man. Not so stupid after all, Barton had shown he had another card to play. What choice did Venir have but to believe him. Think. He had an idea.

“Tell you what, Barton: since you are helping me I’ll leave it all as a gift, to remember me by.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but first, one last game, for fun. I’m going to hide them in the forest here, so they’ll be safe. When you get back, you can have some fun finding them.”

“That does sound like fun. But don’t hide them too hard. Barton has trouble seeing sometimes.”

“All right, well can you turn around while I go and hide them? And no peeking.”

“Hee hee, this is fun. I’ll even count,” he said, turning his back to Venir.  “One … Two …”

As Venir clutched his axe, he had the feeling now would be the best time to brain the brute. Maybe he didn’t need Barton after all Gonna have to trust him.

Venir dropped the armament into the sack along with several fruit. Why not. He folded the sack and stuffed it beneath his shirt.

“Well enough, I’m finished.”

Barton whirled around, dumbstruck.

“Already?”

“Yep, I made it easy,” Venir said, arms folded across his chest. “Can we go now?”

Barton pushed up some branches as he peered deeper into the grove of trees and said, “This will be easy.” He looked over at Venir, stroked his hair and added, “You look much better now. You have pretty hair like a girl, but you still make an ugly girl.”

Venir bit his tongue. You still make an ugly giant.

Barton extended his hand and said, “All right, it’s time to go. Hang on tight. I’m not very good at this.”

Venir grabbed the giant around the wrist and held on for dear life as he felt his body turn inside out.

CHAPTER 14

“Must you still be here?” Melegal slung his cap onto the mantle where a small fire blazed from underneath.

“You keep saying you’ll change the locks, but you never do,” Haze picked up his cap from the mantle and dusted it off before hanging it on a small nail beside the fire.

He sneered as he pulled off his boots and sat down in a pillowed high-back chair that sat in the corner near the fire. He didn’t give Haze a single glance as she pushed a stool beneath his feet. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, tracking every movement of Sefron in his mind. Magic. The sloppy cleric had foiled him again, and his head ached for it.

As he ran his bony fingers through his salt and pepper hair he could hear Haze creeping through Detective McKnight’s former apartment that he now called his own. A smell of spiced soup was in the air, and he heard a cork being pulled from a wine bottle. His face allowed the ever slightest smile while the fire began roasting his toes.

Haze sat beside him on a much smaller chair, holding out a bowl of soup and a goblet.

“I tell you to leave, threaten your paltry life and there you sit like an urchin offering me more piss porridge. I’m beginning to think your sisters are the brightest of the three nitwits.”

He sat up in the chair and sniffed the air.

“They haven’t been in here, have they? It smells like the fat one's sweat and armpits.”

Haze sat there, plain and serene, quite content among his insults. She’d been like this since the day he diddled her like a trollop: fawning and obedient, like he was a Royal of sorts. Despite his reminders that she was of as little worth to him as a field mouse in a cat house, she stuck around like a stubborn child that wouldn’t go home. She had even painted her nails, combed her hair and worn more revealing clothes that offered little more than a pair of skinny legs below a tight little rump. She even smelled good.

“You look tired,” she remarked.

Melegal swiped the goblet from her hand, swished it around his mouth and spat it into the fire, bringing a sizzle. Octopus rumbled from his spot on the hearth, his back muscles rippling beneath his black coat before lowering.

“Are you trying to poison me, Woman?” he exclaimed, pulling the bowl from her hands.

She blanched. “I thought you might like something different. I’m sorry. I’ll get your usual.”

She scampered away to grab another goblet, a look of worry in her grey eyes.

He sipped the soup. It was good, not Royal good, but better than his usual fare. He hated to admit it, but she was pretty good at making soup and some other things, too. He grunted.

“Wine please,” he said, handing her the bowl.

“Ah,” he sipped and swished, “so much better. What was that drivel you gave me?”

“It’s called port. I heard many people talking of it in the city. I thought you would—”

“Please don’t think on my behalf, understand?”

“Yes Melegal. I’m sorry. I’ll pour it out.”

He waved her off and said, “Nay, perhaps I’ll serve it to my enemies one day. Port, you say?”

She nodded, a half-smile cracked over his thin pale red lips.

“Never heard of it,” he lied.

Haze reached over and touched his feet. Her touch was light as a feather, almost soft enough to tickle.

He sighed.

“Must you maintain this obsession with my glorious feet? Do you miss those days beneath the castles, rubbing the feet and arses of the self-glorifying and vain?”

Without saying a word, she twisted and rubbed, while he drank, frowned and enjoyed.

As much as he wanted to give in to the moment, his mind began running over his checklist.

Kill Sefron. Find the Slergs and have them killed. Do what Lord Almen says. Do what Lorda Almen says. Don’t get yourself killed. Kill Sefron. Uncover threats to Castle Almen. Find valuable information and deliver it to Lord Almen. Avoid the Castle. Avoid the Almens. Drink more wine. Sample more port.

“Ah! Easy now, I’m not one of your hooved sisters.”

She rolled up his pants legs and rubbed his calves.

“So, Melegal, have you found what you’re looking for?”

“No.”

Without looking at him she said, “I can help.”

“No, you can’t help, and quit asking.”

“But I found some Slergs,” she reminded him.

She actually had helped. He hated that.

He pushed is pants leg down and said, “Yes, but I could have paid any urchin a silver booger and that would have yielded the same results.”

“I’m not finished,” she said as he stood up.

“My feet are fine,” he said, removing his vest and shirt.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“I’m not talking about rubbing your bloody feet!”

In a single motion he had her wrist twisted behind her back. He made a throaty whisper in her jeweled ear saying, “What are you talking about?”

She pushed her hips back into his and said, “I think I know where the rest of the Slergs are.”

He twisted her wrist a little harder and whispered, “You lie!”

He felt her chest begin to heave.

“No, I can prove it!” she squealed.

With his other hand he grabbed the back of her hair and began to pull.

He didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but it didn’t matter. His blood began to run hot as she let out a soft moan.

“Tell me everything you know, Haze, or I’ll take my belt to you.”

He saw the goosebumps rise on her neck as she shuddered.

“There is a price, Rogue. Either pay it or kill me,” she panted.

“You better hope I don’t do both,” he said as he pulled her into a small candlelit bedroom and slammed the door closed with his foot.

CHAPTER 15

A small group of ragged men carrying small torches traversed the tunnels beneath the City of Bone. Each was wrapped from head to toe in torn and tattered clothes, their faces covered in dirty cowls, some feet bare, the others sandaled. Their soft steps and breathing could barely be heard except for one in the rear, a large one that seemed able to plug the narrow corridor with his bulk. He was bigger, significantly so, his breathing heavy, his footsteps loud. He was drawing the ire of another who continued his complaints from the front.

“Leezir, your giant urchin continues to slow us,” Hagerdon said with a sneer in his voice. “It’s time to cut bait and run.”

“Must you be so dramatic, Fool?” Leezir replied, pushing his way through a massive water pipe that was as dry as a bone. “Can you even count, you moron? How many heads do you see?”

Hagerdon pulled his cowl down, revealing a shaven head in the dim torchlight as he hurried along. They all were shaved now; it was the best way to conceal their identities from the searching eyes above, as well as those below. Hagerdon hated it. He loved his thick locks of glorious hair, and he missed the feeling of painted finger tips running through it. All his leader Leezir could offer him was that he wouldn’t have to worry about lice, or dandruff for that matter. He scoffed; he’d never had a flake in his life.

“I know, eight Slergs, but we have an army of man-urchins at our disposal,” he said, now crawling over a patch of wet and sticky muck on his knees and elbows. Even worse were the comings and goings of abhorrent stench, but he’d managed to get accustomed to them.

Leezir shook his white cudgel in Hagerdon's face.

“You are such a fool, Nephew! Two weeks ago there were fifteen of us. The man-urchins have suffered even greater losses taking bribes for our cause, and now you, still impudent and young, want to abandon a fighting man who is three in one? Was he not the one who pulled you from your grave a mere week ago when the City Watch had us by the balls? And now you want to cut loose the only redeemable man, er boy, er whatever from us?”

Hagerdon was adamant.

“Yes.”

He could see Leezir’s eyes blaze like fire underneath his black cowl as he swallowed hard and stepped back. When the cudgel began to glow there was a gasp from behind.

The last few months had been hard. The once mighty Slerg House was being dwindled away. Not one Royal house, not even the lowest on the tier, would give them audience. If anything, they gave them away. Lord Almen would not end his hunt until he was certain every single threat was gone.

Leezir added as he turned around, “It’s days like this that I wish it was you who died and not your brother Creighton. He was sensible.”

His hand clutched the pommel of his sword, but Leezir was already hurrying down the dingy corridor.

“SLAT!” Leezir screamed from up ahead.

Hagerdon and the rest caught up and groaned at the source of their leader’s aggravation. A five foot iron grate barred their path, its iron bars eroding but thick.

Leezir kicked. Hagerdon pulled.

“We’re just going to have to go back up top,” Hagerdon said.

“Is that so?” Leezir walked up on his toes. “Then you go back and lead the hounds from our trails. I’m sure they won’t devour your scent.” He smacked his cudgel into the stone walls. “Does anyone else want to go back and face the City Watch or suffer an inquisition of Detective Melegal and his brood of Almen thugs?”

No one said a word, until Hagerdon broke the silence.

“It seems we have no choice but to go another way. Certainly we can double back and find another course or wait until night and take our chances on the streets. Leezir, we can’t hide forever down here.”

Month after month they had stayed down below, stealing from above like common orphans. The man-urchins did most of the work, but the results were paltry. Hagerdon had his fill of the stink, rot and filth that was now his life. Just one more time he wanted to take a shower, adorn clean clothes and swing his steel in one last battle to the death. There was nothing dignified in living like a rodent, but Leezir, in his obsession to avenge himself on the Almens, insisted on this course. And being somewhat of a coward, Hagerdon followed those orders. Life is preferable to death after all, no matter how slatty it gets.

Leezir let out a long drawn out sigh. His shoulders slouched as he slid down the wall onto his haunches. The others followed suit except Brak, who stood like a golem at the end.

“Perhaps, brothers, Hagerdon is right. Our time may have run its course. Jubilee, dear, have we been followed? And please say your pepper left the dogs from our trail.”

A small figure crept forward, naked feet pushing through the grime before taking Leezir’s hand.

“Aye Grandfather, I’ve lost the dogs, ten tunnels since. But my pepper is low. I’m sorry.”

He patted her ragged head and said, “Well enough, dear one. And, Taggert, are we still on course to the northern most corner of the city?”

“Aye, Leezir. Direction's good. I’m certain.”

“Hmmm … I believe my ears have detected something disturbing,” Leezir said.

Hagerdon frowned as he heard something, too.

A sound of barking dogs was echoing down the corridor.

The little girl’s eyes widened.

Hagerdon’s swords sang from their sheaths.

Rising to his feet, Leezir’s cudgel burst aglow.

“This is it, Slergs! We will survive this, not all but some. Brak, today you live or die a Slerg.”

Brak was coming their way.

“Brak,” Hagerdon said, barring his path, “you oaf, what are you doing? Get in front and protect us!”

Everyone cleared out as Brak waded past them as if they weren’t there. There was nothing but stark determination in his close-set eyes when he wrapped his big meaty hands around the iron bars.

“You idiot! Get back there and fight, Coward. There’s no doorway to run though there.”

Brak’s short powerful arms began to pull.

“Heave Brak!” Leezir prompted in his ear.

The massive man-boy squatted down, putting his arms and legs into it.

“Hurk!”

Hagerdon couldn’t hide his amazement as the metal began to groan.

The yelping of the hounds became louder.

“Pull, Man! Pull and I’ll roast you the fattest sow you ever saw!” Hagerdon promised.

Sweat was rolling down Brak’s forehead as his big face began to turn red and purple under the torch glow. The bars began to bend, the ever slightest.

One of the Slergs said with astonishment, “It’s bending! Bend it, Brak!”

Brak dug his heels into the lip of the grate and tugged. The iron groaned in defiance before giving in to living muscle which had turned to steel. The first bar rolled upward.

“I can’t believe it!”

Brak grabbed the next bar and pulled.

“Hurry, Brak!” Jubilee cheered.

The bar groaned and gave way. The hounds became louder in the distance, intertwined with the shouting voices of the City Watch.

Leezir shoved Jubilee through the gap.

“Quick everyone, go through!”

There was little more than two feet of space to squeeze through the bars, but none hesitated. One by one they crawled through, tearing clothes and skin, scraping sides. Hagerdon was the last to go.

“Come on, Brak! Bend one more and join us. The roasted sow is waiting!” he said, his green eyes glinting in the torch light.

Brak reached down and bent the first bar downward.

“What are you doing, you buffoon? You’ll get yourself killed! Get over here!”

Brak bent the second bar back down and slumped against the wall, chest heaving.

“No!” Jubilee cried. “Brak, no!”

“Go,” Brak gasped. “I’m only slowing you down. Goodbye, Jubilee.” He reached through the bars, wiping the tear from her cheek. “Slat on the rest of you.”

Leezir stood there, face pressed against the bars, his wizened face bewildered. He shook his head.

“Come on, Jubilee. He’s bought us time, no reason to stand around and watch his slaughter. Move with haste now; the Watch may have magic afoot, too.”

Jubilee sobbed as they scurried away, her eyes drifting back then out of sight, but Hagerdon remained.

“Here,” he said, tossing a knife at Brak’s feet. “You’ll need that in close quarters, you lout. Stupid like your father, I see. Giving your life for others.” Hagerdon added a quick salute. “Maybe what I taught you will give you an extra minute to realize how stupid you are.”

Brak sat with a glum look on his face, watching him go.

The barking dogs were echoing with loud ferocity now as Hagerdon bolted down the tunnel, happy to know that Brak, the son of Venir, was about to be eaten alive. At least I gave him a fighting chance before he becomes dog food.

“More sow for me.”

CHAPTER 16

Fogle awoke in darkness, head aching and unable to move. Where am I? He tried to choke down his panic as he struggled with his bonds. He found comfort in the fact that his fingertips were no longer frozen, or the rest of him for that matter. Wherever he was, he was upright, sitting on soft ground of an unfamiliar texture. Mood. Was his lone protector with him or dead? Mood had told him there would be days like this when you adventured outside your home, and he needed every detail he could find of his surroundings if he was going to formulate a plan … to escape.

Mood’s advice had seemed silly at the time, weeks ago, but the Blood Rangers’ wisdom seemed crystal clear. If you don’t have your eyes, use your ears. He listened. There was a soft rustling nearby, and the wind was rolling over a canvas, like a flag. A tent. He balled up into a knot as something growled, hungry and horrible. A picture of the big wolves with those rows of pointed, saliva-dripping canine teeth appeared in his mind. Hadn't Cass said she would feed him to them?

Use your nose, Mood had told him.

“It smells like dogs,” he said out loud. He tightened his lips as something padded by him, brushing fur across the bridge of his nose. He took a deep draw through his nose. “And scented candles?”

Skin, he thought.

It was warmer, much more so, as if a fire was nearby, but the sound of crackling wood was not there. As happy as he was to be able to feel himself again, he could only imagine his situation had gotten worse. The woman, Cass, seemed a little touched in the head. Her voice was eerie, and her pink eyes were shifty. Mood had said druids were tricky, and with this one he was certain she was everything a druid could be: strange, sneaky and magnificent. He thought he could smell her breath.

“Aaaaa-CHOO!” he sneezed.

The wolves barked and growled. He could feel them nipping at his face.

“HEEL!” a strong feminine voice commanded. Cass?

“Don’t make another sound, Virgin Fogle, or my wolves will devour you,” she said, her voice dark, ugly, dangerous.

He didn’t care.

“If I’m going to—”

A pair of jaws snapped at his face.

“Egad!” he cried. His body began to shiver at the thought of the canines crunching his bones. Make a plea.

He cleared his throat.

“Can I at least glance at you on last time, Cass? At least I can dream I’m no longer a virgin in my last moments.”

She made a funny sound. Next, he heard footsteps, like petals coming his way. All of the most wonderful fragrances of nature filled his nose as something soft and plentiful brushed into his face. He swallowed as he felt two petite hands working the knot behind his head and slowly removing his blindfold.

“Happy, Virgin Fogle?”Cass’s chest was inches from his nose. A pink gossamer robe adorned her exotic figure. Her skin was perfect: translucent and soft, and her white hair seemed impossibly curly and long. Another wave of feeling washed over him, not the kind he expected to have when he was about to die, but something else quite unexpected … Lust.

“Hmmm …”, she purred, as she got down on her knees and began loosening the bonds around his ankles.

Fogle didn’t want to take his eyes off of a single inch of her figure, but he fought to do so. His eyes flitted over his surroundings. A tent surrounded them over the top of a bed of green grass. Six large timber wolves had them both surrounded, sitting, licking their chops and other parts as well. Forty one candles of all shapes and sizes were in the room, eleven lit, flames wavering from a draft. Incense sticks burned from a small mantle made of trees. He never imagined he’d experience that again. Three sheep skin rugs. Fifteen pelts of fur. And in the middle, laying over most of the grass, was the pelt of a silverback grizzly bear. He knew, because Mood had killed one weeks earlier. His eyes went back to Cass. His mouth was watering, no longer dry as he began to thirst like he never thirsted before.

“Virgin Fogle,” she whispered in his ear, “you are here for a reason. It can only be, because I too am a virgin.”

He tried to find the words to speak but could not as she pressed her finger to his lips.

“I’ve rejected the world of men, Fogle. They can’t be trusted, but I know your words are true. His legs trembled as she pulled him up from his chair. “I want to help you, and I want you to help me. I’ve waited so long for this.”

Oh my!

He searched for her eyes, but he could not find them as she pulled him down onto the grizzly pelt. As his heart thundered throughout this body his brilliant mind fought one last time to regain control. Druids can’t be trusted, Mood had warned.

“Take me, Fogle,” she said, pressing her full body into his.

All of the passion buried inside him exploded as he kissed her..

She tugged at his hair, pulling him down on top of her. He glanced at the wolves one last time and said, “This isn’t how I imagined it.”

“Me either,” she added, pulling off her robe. “Disappointed?”

His smile was as broad as a rainbow.

“No, it’s an adventurer’s life for me.” Her chuckle was low and wicked, but he didn’t hear a thing.

***

Outside the tent, Mood awakened inside his icy cocoon. Nearby, two mountain men were sharpening their blades and chatting. One said to the other, “Shame he won’t even have time to enjoy it.”

CHAPTER 17

For the first time in his life, Sefron saw pure evil. It lurked behind the black eyes of the Vicious that squeezed his life from his throat. He managed a sickening gag as his tongue rolled inside his mouth like a salted slug. His mental pleas to be released quickly gave way to despair as he began to slat on himself.

“Release him,” a cool voice said from somewhere.

Sefron fell hard to the ground, both knees cracking on the stone as he fought for a breath of air. He hacked, wheezed and sat confused for over a minute before he managed to compose himself. He pulled his skinned up knees to his chest and looked up.

The black creature, inhuman, cat-faced, a monstrous hulk, was now standing behind a much lither figure. An underling stood tall in his black chain mail, a pair of sheathless swords hung criss-crossed on its back, their gleaming edges keener than the sharpest razor. A bandolier of knives was wrapped around its chest. Its eyes were like copper ore, its hair short, almost shaven to its head. The underling was known to Sefron as Kierway, a black ranger of his kind, he had boasted, and the finest swordsman of his craft. The underling man seemed every bit as formidable as the newcomer, but in a different sort of way.

Kierway had his hands on his hips as he said, “Do you have it, Human?”

“Nay, Master,” Sefron said, falling to his knees, “but I am close.”

Something flashed through the air, and Sefron wailed in misery. A small throwing knife now protruded from his knee.

“Human, I have ten more of these, you know, some poisoned, others not,” Kierway said, juggling three in one hand. “I’m beginning to question your loyalty. Perhaps your needs are being fulfilled above, and you no longer desire what I have offered.”

Sefron’s arm shot out despite his agony.

“No Master Kierway! I am close. Oh so close. The key shall soon be yours. I know where it is, but I don’t have the skills to acquire—YEE-OUCH!”

Another knife buried itself deep in his shoulder.

A cave moth fluttered in the dank air only to be cut down by Kierway’s longsword in one fluid motion.

Sefron blinked hard.

“Did you see that, Human? Fast, wasn’t it?” Kierway began to saunter around. “My, it’s been a long journey, only to wind up here and find out that you have been an utter failure. Hmmm … I can’t help but wonder how long it would take me to cut your leg into twenty pieces.”

Sefron’s blood went cold as he watched in helpless horror as Kierway’s swords buzzed in the air like humming bird wings. He had to survive. He would survive. He would have vengeance on all of those Royals who had used him for decades. The City of Bone would be run over by underlings, and he was promised a castle and all the human slaves he wanted of his own.  All he needed was the key.

“Y-yes, Master Kierway. May I beg of you, this key, will you share with me what it does?”

“NO!” Kierway said, plucking his blades from Sefron’s wounds.

“Ah …,” he stammered and groaned as he tried to speak, “But …”

“Time is running out, Human,” Kierway said as he and the Vicious walked back into the darkness. “When you get it, we will know. Get it soon, or I shall find someone else to gain the prize.”

NO!

Sefron stiffened as he sat up. Grimacing, he pulled out a small jar and applied ointment to his wounds. It burned, sealing the wound shut, but he was used to it. Kierway had stabbed him many times over the years, just not this many times at once. Sefron fought his way back to his feet and began the painful walk back up the stairs. He thought he knew where the key was, but he would need help trying to get it. Who would he have to fool to get it? Maybe Detective Melegal can be useful after all.

CHAPTER 18

It was a gruesome scene, a man and woman, neither more than a day over thirty, torn and broken in broad daylight. The City Watch, decorated in their brown and gray, mired with hate and grime, remained casual about their business. They had seen death in the streets of Bone before, although this situation was a little more unique than the rest. The dead man, a well known labor boss of the 14th District, lay in a pool of blood, his head missing.

“I’m telling you, I saw the man twist his head from his shoulders and toss it up on the roof.”

“Hrmph,” the watch sergeant said, “and what about the woman? How come she’s still got her head?”

The residents murmured. They didn’t normally fool with the Watch, and answering questions usually got you into more trouble than it was worth, but this time things were different. This time, they were under attack and needed protection, of some sort, anyway.

“The monster hit her so hard with its fist I heard her neck snap like a busted pallet. The man pulled his sword and lunged, but the murderer was much faster. Grabbed him by the neck by one hand he did, lifted him from the ground and squeezed.”

Another chimed in.

“The man, the dead one, he was big, too, and the other, picked him up like a child, rattled him in the air, then twisted his head off.”

The watch sergeant spit brown juice on the ground and wiped the sweat from his brow on his sleeve.

“No man twisted his head off! That’s impossible. That’s a cut! Idiots!”

“Did too!”

The sergeant nodded his head saying, “Well, did any one of you get a closer look at this big monster of a man? I’m hearing lots of stories, but not many descriptions. And by the way, where is the man’s sword that he drew? Which one of you stole it?”

“The monster stole it, not us!”

The watch sergeant grabbed the uppity man by his shirt collar and said, “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“I pay my fees, I’ll say what I—oomph!”

The man crumpled in a heap under the force of the Watchman’s punch.

“Any more of you want to discuss your fees?”

The small group backed away, but one remained. An older woman, heavy set with deep wrinkles in her forehead, jutted her hip out and said, “That’s ten murders in the past few months, and they not so much as stopped yet. An I hear the other districts got murders, too.” She spat juice on the road. “What’s you gonna do about that?”

He slid his watch stick from behind his belt and began to slap it into his hand.

“Heads up!” a voice yelled from above.

Clonk.

A man’s head bounced off the cobble stones and rolled at his feet. It was the labor boss, his long yellow hair matted with blood.

The woman said, “He kinda looks like you, Blondie. Seems the monster-man doesn’t like pretty hair like yours. Ain’t it true, all them dead men had straw colored hair? Big fellows, too, same as you, except I think your belly’s a bit fuller.”

The Watchman gawped a bit, his Adams apple rolling under his chin.

The feisty woman began twisting her fingers in her blonde hair and added. “What about that other man, two roads over, everything chopped up from his neck down to his toes? Wasn’t he one of yours?” She cackled, but she wasn’t alone. It wasn’t often that the citizens got a chance to poke at the City Watch. “It’s a shame you all aren’t yellow headed, then that monster would be a hero.”

The lead Watchman looked up on the rooftop and yelled, “Get down here, Clovis. The rest of you,” there were four watchmen in all, “get a cart and take them to the morgue, and we’ll give the family a day to claim them.”He straightened himself up and said, “You fine citizens of Bone better get your stories straight. Whoever is doing this is a man, not a wight, underling or ghoul. It’s just some crazy bastard with a sword that is touched in the head. Lock your doors, don’t go fooling around at night. As of now there’s a curfew.”

They groaned.

“And it starts now. Whoever it was must be close; this just happened less than an hour ago. If you see anyone strange, just whistle. In the meantime—”

Somebody whistled.

“Fine, I was being kind, but if yer going to be a bunch of pigs arses—”

Clovis shouted from the roof top.

“Hey! It was me! Look,” he said, pointing down the roadway.

A man stood tall and broad a little ways down the road. A bastard sword stained in blood was gripped in his hands. His armor, partial plate, had the insignia of a Royal, and the rest of his body was draped with a dark cloak with a cowl wrapped over his head.

Most of the crowd gasped, but the woman screamed.

The sergeant drew his sword and yelled, “You’re under arrest!” The other watchmen followed suit, swords in shaking hands. Clovis watched unblinking from above.

“VEE-MAN!” the man in the road cried.

“Get him!” the leader ordered. The City Watch charged.

CHOP! One Watchman’s head was split in twain.

CLANG!

SWIPE! Another fell, writhing in his blood, screaming for mercy as his entrails were spilled.

CHOP! The third turned to run a split second too late.

The leader fell back on his footsteps, gawping in horror.

Fear managed to pull his tongue from the roof of his mouth as he screamed, “Someone go for reinforcements!”

Only the sound of running feet and doors slamming shut greeted him, then he stood there all alone.

“VEE-MAN!” He slipped and fell as he turned to run. The man snorted a laugh, coming his way on heavy legs with armor and weapons creaking and clanking.

***

Tonio saw a big man with straw colored hair falling to the ground and screaming something at him. What the man was saying didn’t matter, as he assumed they could only be more insults from Venir. He thought he’d killed his adversary, if not once, a dozen or more times, only to see him back on the streets again, gloating and mocking him. His broad face and yellow hair was always mocking and taunting him.

He swung into the man’s leg and watched it skitter a bloody trail across the road. He followed up with a deep swing into the man’s heaving chest, oblivious to the blade that was thrust into his side. It was a pinch at worst in his deranged mind as he swiped the blood from his mouth, knocked the man's cap from his head, pulled him up by the hair and chopped off his head. Somewhere nearby a man screamed, and he peered up on the roof and gazed at a man covering his mouth, tears filling his eyes.

He looked at the face of his vanquished foe, Venir, or so he wanted to believe, and hurled the head through a window.

“Vee-man!”

Bloody sword in hand, Tonio departed from the scene, still hungry for vengeance. He would kill them all if he had to, and make his mother proud. The once empty streets began to fill as he went, and not one person crossed his path. The whispers of horror and sounds of pursuit became loud in his ears as he disappeared into the tunnels beneath the City of Bone. How many more times would he have to kill Venir before Tonio could return home to Castle Almen?

In the darkness he huddled inside a small cell, a former home of other miscreants that all now were dead and washed away in the sewers. He pulled at his hair and mumbled. He knew he didn’t always used to be this way, that he had a home, a mother and father. He had eaten at the finest tables, and beautiful women had filled his bed. Everything was confusing though, distorted, blurry, vague and twisted. He snatched a rat and bit into it.

Where was McKnight? That man could help him, give him guidance to something, but without direction all he had was vengeance on his mind, and he would enact it over and over again until the last Venir was gone.

Bish have mercy on the fair-haired citizens of Bone.

CHAPTER 19

“The black fiends from the Underland have come!” a warrior, fortyish, with a beard touched by grey clamored.

Mikkel and Billip had the man pinned up against the wall near one of the corner fire places in the Magi Roost. The warrior wasn’t any slouch, either. His arms were like hammered iron, and his wounds were fresh, but dried. His eyes were darting back and forth, his cracked lips yearning to speak more, but Mikkel kept his forearm shoved in his throat.

“This isn’t the place for spreading rumors,” Billip warned. “You’ll be moving your bad news elsewhere, or you’ll be dead or in the hole.”

The Magi Roost was in full swing, and the scholars as well as the racial variety of merchant had gathered a keen interest. The serving girls began refilling goblets, batting eyes and swinging their hips, drawing away the customers' attention. But not all the girls could hide the nervous look in their painted eyes. This wasn’t the first time a dark tale of underling hordes found its way behind the walls of the tavern. It was just another one of what had become many over the passing weeks.

“Let me go,” the man managed. “I’m a warrior, such as you both, and you know my words ring true. I must tell these people what is going on.” The warrior’s voice was strong and convincing. “The Royals sit in their towers and castles doing nothing while we sit here like sheep waiting to be slaughtered.”

Mikkel and Billip eyed one another. They both knew what the underlings did to men. It didn’t help that most of the stories that were spreading around the city were for the most part, accurate. Mikkel lowered his arm from the man’s neck and said, “Keep it low, Man, and sit. I want to hear more.”

Billip raised his eyes in objection, then directed the man to a table tucked behind the bar in the front. As they sat, Mikkel sat down with a pitcher of ale and one of the waitresses brought over a half loaf of bread and cheese.

“Thank you, men,” the warrior said. “I’ve not had real food in a month, and three days travel to here seemed like an eternity.” The warrior said it while stuffing his mouth with bread and washing it down with ale. “Sweet Bish, I swore I’d perish before I ever tasted this nectar again.”

Mikkel filled his own mug and said, “Tell us more, and keep it down. There’s nothing but magi with big ears in here.”

“Maybe underling spies, too,” the warrior offered.

“No, couldn’t be,” Billip disagreed, craning his neck and popping his knuckles.

The warrior shrugged. “I’m crossing over from Hohm, part of a heavily guarded merchant train, not a day any different than before. Over twenty well-armed men bringing in the goods, wagons full of spices, seeds, grain, gold and other things. My face is known here, my comrades as well; you can check.”

Mikkel rolled his wrist before leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

“It was hot, the landscape full of mirages, and tricks began to play on our minds as the first dusk began. We were setting up camp when the horses began acting funny, snapping and stomping men and one another. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen horses bite one another like that before. Then the wind came, a crying howl, like a woman in pain, stirring the dirt and blinding us from seeing anything.”

The warrior finished his first mug with a loud gulp and whipped his sleeve across his mouth.

“Ah! So, a storm was all, and we’d been through over a dozen land squalls like that before, so we hitched down what we could and prepared to ride it out. As suddenly as it started, it stopped, and that’s when the screams began.”

Billip re-filled all of their mugs, itchy fingers twisting at his goatee.

“The second dusk had settled, and our camp was swarmed with dark figures, at least two to our one. Some of them rode spiders. Others walked in the air, like living nightmares. I never could have imagined something so terrible if I had not seen it for myself. The underlings, thick furry little faces and bright gemstone eyes, chittered in elation as they began to chop us down. Webs sprung up in the air, taking my men down like helpless flies only to see their throats cut.”

Billip interrupted saying, “So did you stand there and watch, or did you fight?”

The man’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know you, Man, and you don’t know me, but I didn’t stand around with my sword up my arse. I split the skin and bone of two or more. Either of you two waiters ever seen an underling before?”

Mikkel and Billip nodded.

The old warrior placed a folded up piece of cloth, stained in dark blood, on the table.

“Perhaps you’ll recognize this, then,” he said, unwrapping it.

Two small bolts of a crossbow lay there, the tips a dark metal and the shafts stained black.

“And that isn’t all.”

The warrior produced a knife and slid it over on the table. It had two sets of blades and forked edges around the pommel.

Mikkel knew underling steel when he saw it. He tossed a dish rag over all of it. Immediately his thoughts went to his son Nikkel, hoping that Two-Ten City hadn’t been over run and his boy slaughtered.

Billip pressed on with more questions.

“So I merit that you killed all of the underlings before you managed your return?”

“Why are you mocking me? Of course I didn’t kill them all. I gathered a horse and escaped. Those bolts were in my armor—see—here are the holes.” The warrior stuck his fingers in the pierced leather shoulder. “Then, I grabbed that blade from a dead one's grip when I lost my own knife.” The warrior rapped his fist on the table and got up. “Pah … you two dimwits wouldn’t know an underling if you saw one, but I’ve warned you.” He grabbed the underling weapons and tucked them away. As the warrior reached for the bread, Billip pinned down his wrist.

“You’ve had your fill here. Now, we’ve been good enough hosts, so if you want to spread more of your stories, do it elsewhere, Scavenger.”

“What? I’m no bloody scavenger. I ought to cut your throat,” he said as his hand fell to the pommel of his sword.

Billip rolled his eyes, but Mikkel got up and looked down on the warrior.

“Time to go,” he said, taking another step towards the man, “quietly.”

“So be it,” the warrior said, turning and marching through the door.

Returning to his seat, Mikkel rubbed the back of his head and watched the man go.

“Billip, this isn’t good, not good at all.”

The archer sat with a glum look on his face, cracking his knuckles.

“Our time has come, Mikkel,” Billip said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. We need to head back home to Two-Ten City and check on Nikkel.”

Mikkel slumped over his big forearms on the table. "Ah … I’m sure he’s fine.”

He didn’t believe that, though. He was worried, and every day got longer and longer as the swirl of rumors of the underlings in the South added more fuel to his concerns. “Besides, we gave Venir our word to keep check on these boys and such. And Kam … she needs our help.”

Billip said, “Mikkel, it’s time to assume that Venir’s gone.”

Mikkel frowned. It was too sad to even consider, but it tugged at him anyway.

“Besides, the boys are in good shape here with Kam and Gillem. You’ve got your own to look after. You know Venir would understand, and you know we can’t sit around on our butts when underlings are starting to crawl all over.” Billip pushed away his mug. “We’re fighters, you and I, and we aren’t meant to sit around and watch babies grow. Tell Kam about your boy, and we can both go.”

Mikkel sighed. Billip was right. There wasn’t a whole lot left that he could do here, and he couldn’t sit around and feel guilty all the time. He needed to get his son and bring him back to the City of Three, if need be.

“It’s going to be a long ride, Brother,” he said, taking a drink. “And the bountiful women will be pretty scarce on the trail.” He allowed himself a broad smile.

“Agreed,” Billip hoisted his mug of ale, “and there won’t be much strong drink to take with us, either, so I suggest we round up a cask and head to the nearest brothel.”

He clonked his mug on Billip's.

“Ssshh,” he grinned, “Don’t be so loud. You don’t want Kam and Joline to hear. All of these women have big ears,” Mikkel said, looking over his shoulder.

Billip hoisted his brows and added.

“And bigger breasts to boot.”

***

From a balcony above, Kam heard every word. A tear ran down her cheek. She wiped it from her rosy cheek and blew her nose in a handkerchief. Her simple suggestion spell was powerful, a bit risky, but it had worked. She'd managed to have Billip do all the dirty work, and he hadn't even known it.

Before he'd left her room, she had already planted the question to ask Mikkel in his mind. That part had been easy, very unobtrusive. The next part had been a little more difficult, opening Mikkel’s stubborn mind to the suggestion. His mug of ale, mixed with a part of hers and a part of his, entwined with magic, had done the rest with a little mental prodding.

The whole process left her exhausted, sad and even worse … lonely. Her fingernails dug into the rail, and her heart began to race as she looked down on the two impressive men. A brothel. I could show them a better time than that. She almost felt possessed as she pulled back her shoulders and headed down the stairs. She needed companionship as much as they, and if she went another day longer she might explode. Why not. It’s the least I could do.

As she made her way to the bottom floor, a loud commotion began to stir among the patrons.  Shouts and screaming were coming from outside as she watched Billip and Mikkel bolt from the table and head out the tavern’s door. Without even realizing it she was running, squeezing through the patrons as she pushed her way outside.

People were running and screaming from all directions like they were being chased by a swarm of bees. Amid the throng of panic stricken faces she searched for Mikkel and Billip, and that’s when she saw them, up the road, facing a small force of unlikely assailants. Her blood ran cold as she cried out their names, but her voice failed to rise above the sounds of chaos.

“NO!” She shouted when a group of patrons began pulling her back inside the tavern.

She saw Billip and Mikkel and a few others one last time, squaring off against the dark skinned and black clad brood of underlings.

CHAPTER 20

Verbard felt like his stomach was in his chest as he rubbed his aching head and his silvery eyes. Across from him sat Master Sinway, broad and serene in his chair, and beside him stood a Vicious, its long clawed hands clutching open and closed beside his throat. Apparently, Master Sinway wasn’t taking any chances on their little journey. Master Sinway was exposed, or was he?

As Verbard collected his thoughts, Master Sinway stood up and smoothed over his robes. He didn’t ever recall seeing his Master act this way in all of his years, relaxed and poised. Master Sinway’s fearsome disposition was gone, but the edge of his iron will was still there. He made a quick chit sound. The Vicious returned back to his master's side, and the cave dogs sat up and padded his way as well.

“Take it all in, Verbard. The charge I have given you is a big one indeed, but all the forces you need are at your disposal. Your time for greater glory has come. You can help us take back the surface world,” Sinway said, almost smiling.

He groaned inside. His stomach was still a knot of writhing worms as he fought back the bile building in his throat. He forced himself upright in his chair and tried to assess how much power Master Sinway had. The trip, as marvelous as it was, had left him dumbfounded at Sinway’s power. He and his brother combined couldn’t possibly have achieved such a feat. He wanted that power.

“Perhaps, Master, I can finish this port? It should help me conjure a plan.”

“Have all you want; it induces creativity.”

“And you?”

Sinway waved his hand and said, “I haven’t the craving. So … Verbard, I’ll offer you my wisdom at the moment if you wish. You have questions … ask, or else I’ll go.”

Verbard took a swallow and felt his tongue begin to melt in delight. The underling port was unlike anything he could have ever imagined. I could sit and drink this all year, but instead, I have to evict an entire city of humans.

“I would ask how you would have me go about it, Master. And please forgive me, my knowledge of human settlements is somewhat vague.” He hated to admit that, but placing a siege on a human empire wasn’t something he would consider to be his forte. His silver eyes went from Sinway’s chest to his back, as the Master of Underlings paced the floor like a man, robed arms crossed behind him.

“So long ago it was, Verbard, like a dream, when I lived within the city. The stone walls were not there, nor the spires and towers, nothing but the ground and the waters below, an oasis in the Outlands. Underling Lord Master Sidebor was the Master then, my mentor …”

Verbard let out a short cough at the mention of Master Sidebor’s name, the one considered to be the greatest of all underlings. Master Sidebor had vanished at some point in time, no one really knew when for sure, as the new Underling Master kept his matters very private and exclusive. The only remaining trace of Sidebor—so the underling sages said—was the robe that Master Sinway wore. It seemed strange that Sinway chose this moment in time to bring it up at all.

“… who led us below ground. Mankind has driven us from our home, our caves, our water, our structures. They—with the help of wizards, giants and dwarves—drove us from that land. They sealed off the waters and choked the ground, which was once fertile, but is now what they call the Outlands: barren, wasted and dreadful.”

It seemed unlikely to Verbard that any of this was true. The lands of Bish always had been and always would be what they currently were. The underlings lived in caves and not dwellings above the ground, as they found the heat and bright light uncomfortable.

“So you ask how I would take the city? By siege? By deceit? Magic? Alchemy? Mayhem?” Sinway goaded.

With his stomach settled, Verbard rose from his chair. “I like the sound of them all. Chronic attrition?”

Sinway gave a little snort.

“Yes, you have observed what we are doing on the outside, Verbard, but we need to begin the pressure on the inside as well.”

The pressure in between Verbard's eyes was rebuilding. Please don’t tell me you want me to go inside there.

“Verbard, I want you …”

He felt his black heart stop for an instant as be began missing his quest for The Darkslayer.

“… to work with my son, Kierway, on this.”

I’d rather play in cave dog dung.

“It would be an honor.”

“I thought so,” Sinway sniffed. “Kierway has intimate knowledge of the City of Bone, as did Oran the outcast. You see, despite our hatred for humans and the human hatred for us, we have many allies out there.”

“Certainly, Master, hence the demise of Outpost Thirty-One.”

“Yes,” Sinway began to smirk, “and being such, we know that men can be manipulated just as easily from the inside as the out. There is a key, a magic relic, something Master Sidebor left behind in his failures when he forced us to abandon our city.” Sinway’s face formed a deep frown. “I believe it was done purposely. That key possesses many secrets to the city and all of its long buried wonders. Kierway has worked dutifully for generations in trying to re-aquire it.”

He began to simmer inside. How many things were going on that he didn’t know about? He was one of the most powerful underlings in the Underland, but it seemed he was naive when it came to his kin’s plans in regards to the domination of mankind. He couldn’t help but wonder how much his brother had known that he didn’t. There had always been something between Catten and Sinway that he never understood, until now.

Sinway continued.

“And I’d have you rendezvous with Kierway and help him acquire it, but if you feel there is a better way, then before you move on, I would like to hear it.”

Patience. It was the underling way, but the tone in Master Sinway’s voice was beginning to shift, reverting to his normal demeaning and demanding self. Verbard was beginning to suspect that it wouldn’t be up to him after all on how to take the City of Bone, that once again, he’d be another instrument of his master. He hated that.

“Shall I meet with Kierway first, or shall I begin this conquest on my own … Master?”

Master Sinway removed something from within his robes that Verbard had never seen before: a brass amulet, intricate in its works, with a clear crystal as big a the palm of his hand in the middle. Sinway said, “Take this. You can use it daily, if need be, and keep me apprised of your situation. Keep your reports short and accurate, that’s all I require,” Sinway finished, setting it on the table. “Now, your time to depart from me is here, and your time for greater glory has come. Follow.”

They floated through the castle cave of rock and stone back outside to a ledge overlooking the Underland city. Ranks of underlings stood in formation on a stone plateau below. Soldiers stood, solemn and striking with polished steel spear tips pointed skyward. Some were adorned in armor, others cloaks, crossbows and steels. Albino urchlings were mixed in there with cave dogs, giant spiders and lesser magi conjurers. Badoon underlings headed the ranks, well over a hundred strong, some bald and barren, the others covered in leather, mail and chain. In all, the host looked to be over five hundred underlings strong. It was an army that would bring a new meaning of terror to the world above.

Is this all I get to take over the largest city in the world?

“Your army awaits your orders, Lord Commander Verbard,” Master Sinway said in his ear. “See to it that they do not perish, and do not return until the City of Bone is ours once again.” Master Sinway departed, leaving him alone on the ledge, staring at his new army. I’m a fool. He’d just been handed an army to destroy humans and wipe them from the world, but it didn’t seem right. If Verbard ever missed his brother, Catten, he missed him now, as he floated down to greet his commanders. How did I get myself into this? I don’t even have the Vicious. I’m going to have to find an easier way. But he knew in his black heart there wasn’t one.

CHAPTER 21

Lefty and Gillem stood beneath the City of Three's spires. Long and ornate, the clay shingled towers twisted upward towards the sky. Lefty marveled, as always. Gillem was at his side, guiding him through the streets, a satchel of flowers strapped to his back. Again Lefty peered upward, gaping at the smooth surface and long length of the tower, which was part of a different type of castle system than that which held the Royals, much more elaborate and sophisticated than the rough cut rock of Bone. I’ve got to get in there.

“Come, Lad,” Gillem said, “stare too long and the magi will come after you.”

Lefty followed along Gillem’s side, still looking back and up over his shoulder.

“Do you really think they know we are watching?” He asked. “I mean, I’ve never seen anyone come and go from one of them. How do you know they are even in there?”

Gillem bumped into a woman carrying a package wrapped in decorative ribbon. She snorted.

“Watch it, Halfling,” she said, sneering down at him.

He produced a purple carnation with a long blue stem and bowed saying, “Apologies, Miss.”

“Oh … well, there’s no need,” she remarked, reluctantly taking the flower from his hand.

Lefty sauntered along Gillem's side, smiling.

“And some baby’s breath to go with that, young lady.”

“I, uh, very well. Thank you, little halflings, but be more careful. I wouldn’t want anyone to call the City Watch, which I was about to do.”

Lefty sneezed as she grabbed the flowers.

“Goodness!” she said.

“Pardon me, Miss … uh, you were saying?”

She took the baby’s breath, combined it with the carnation, and said, “Oh, be careful of the Watch. People don’t like how halflings always pester us, but in your case, you’ve been nothing but pleasant.”

Gillem added, “And you are as forgiving as you are lovely, and me and my boy, we promise to be more careful.”

Both Lefty and Gillem bowed as the woman smiled before she turned and walked away with a spring in her step.

Lefty felt Gillem Longfingers massaging the top of his head.

“So, Lefty, what is it I’ve acquired?”

“I must admit, you were quick, but not quick enough. All you got was a silver talent from her pocket.”

Gillem led the way, flipping the coin and saying, “Is that all you saw?”

He and Gillem Longfingers had been hard at it the past few days, roaming the streets, selling cheap flowers and gifts while picking pockets and running small skims. Lefty liked what he learned, but he was becoming bored with it all and lonely, too. Georgio would hardly speak to him, and Kam didn’t seem to like him anymore. He missed learning magic from her, but with the new baby, Erin, she was too busy. Of course, Gillem saw to it he was busy, too. He just wanted things to go back to the way they were, before he and Georgio met Gillem and Palos.

“Yes,” he said, “Is that all you saw?”

Gillem stopped and looked down on him and asked, “What do you mean?”

Lefty dangled a small golden bracelet in front of Gillem’s puffy eyes that grew like saucers.

Gillem snatched it from his hand and stuffed it inside his coat in one fluid motion.

“Too many eyes, Boy … but impressive all the same.” Gillem shook his head. “My, you are picking up on this stealing too quick. Ho! The sneeze, that’s brilliant, never thought to use that. Come on now, we’ve got enough booty to report back to the Nest. Prince Palos will be expecting us.”

Lefty tried not to slump as he followed Gillem through the busy midday streets, still trading and selling flowers and carrying on. He hated Palos. The man was pushy, demanding, demeaning and cruel. Palos talked to Gillem like a dog and treated Lefty like an infant. The Nest however, was a little more to his liking, as it reminded him of Bone, but with dwarves and even a few halflings. He thought of Melegal often and wondered how he was doing. He wondered what Melegal would do if he had to deal with the likes of Palos and Gillem.

By the time they made it back to Gillem’s flower shop Lefty was droopy-eyed. They gathered their hoard of about six pounds of coins and trinkets of gold, silver and tiny gem stones  and slipped through the streets, down the alley and into another underground dock where the gondola waited. He rubbed his eyes as he lit the tiny lantern.

“You’ve not spoke much today Lefty,” Gillem said as Lefty rowed. His shoulders were already aching, but not so much as his heart. Things just weren’t right.

“I’m in good order, Gillem. No worries.”

Gillem lit his pipe and puffed away.

“Now, no sense in lying to me. Just come out with it, Lefty. You and I, well, our kind need to stick together. The thief’s life may not be honorable, but you’ll still have to trust one of us in order to survive. That might as well be me. Who else do you have down here?”

Lefty felt himself begin to shrink. No one. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and continued to row, the oars splashing into the dim waters. The trip to the Nest was never as pleasant and soothing as when leaving it, but he had gotten accustomed to the quiet and the calming effects of the surrounding waters. Today however, he wished the trip was already going the other way, for there was no telling what deed Palos would have lined up for them next.

“Gillem, have you ever thought about doing something  … elsewhere?”

He could see a frown form on Gillem's abnormally cheerful face before he replied with the usual zeal in his voice gone.

The elder halfling sighed. “I gave up such thoughts long ago, Lefty. You would be wise to do so as well, and let me warn you, Boy: Palos will decide when it’s time for you to go, and he’ll have a new home waiting for you.”

As they made their way through the final passages, Lefty took a look over his shoulder at the smoldering lit windows of the underground city. His little heart began to beat faster as the smell of decay became stronger.

“Take us over that way, on the other side of the docks. I want to show you something.”

The little muscles in Lefty’s back bemoaned the effort as he realized he had to paddle farther than he normally would. After a few dozen more strokes, Gillem held his hand up.

“This is good, Lefty,” Gillem said, puffing his pipe.

He rubbed his aching shoulders and back. Thank goodness.

Gillem motioned at the small lantern hanging behind him.

Lefty grabbed it and held it in front of Gillem.

“These lanterns, did you know they work in water? A little something we acquired from our favorite customers, the magi. Of course, the light is not so bright, and they don’t last so long.” Gillem peered over the bow and motioned Lefty closer. “Now, go ahead, drop it in the water.”

Lefty gave Gillem a funny look and said, “It seems like a—”

“Drop it!” Gillem ordered.

Splash.

“Now watch.” Gillem's voice was dead and hollow, smoky eyes obscuring in the darkness.

Lefty got a funny feeling in his feet.

As the green glow of the lantern drifted downward, strange shapes began to take from: bloated men, tethered by chains, hands crossed behind their backs, mouths gaping open as their flesh was separating from the bone.

Lefty gasped and turned away. How horrible!

Two strong hands gripped his tiny face and forced him to look downward again.

“It is the Nest or this watery grave that Prince Palos has to offer, Boy! Nothing more, nothing less! Look!”

Terror filled his heart as his eyes remained affixed and frozen open. It wasn’t just men, but women, boys and girls, halfling, mintaur and dwarf. He began to shake, but he did not cry as the lantern continued its slow decent into the murk and the illumination of horror expired.

“Take us to the dock,” Gillem said as puffed on his pipe.

Like a zombie Lefty moved, his heart pounding, his thoughts frozen. He didn’t even realize he was rowing until they pulled alongside the dock. I’m going to die here. He looked upward for a sun ray of hope, but of course there was none way down here.

The usual greetings from the inhabitants of the Nest were null. Gillem seemed to be shoving him over the planks as he walked along on numb legs, head hanging down. He felt the others staring at him as if this were his funeral procession. No more games, no more illusions. They all knew his secret and he knew theirs. Palos was the prince and executioner of every man and woman of the Nest. Where were Melegal and Venir when you needed them?

CHAPTER  22

He was on his hands and knees, eyes squeezed shut, head reeling, trying to figure out how his body had been turned inside out. It was an awful moment, wrought with despair as he vomited all over the ground. Venir could smell the bile, and as malodorous as it was, it was relieving.

“Ha! Ha!” A booming voice laughed. “You are barfing, Venir. Do it again; it’s funny.”

Venir groaned out loud, wiping the milky saliva from his chin. Slowly he rose to his feet, searching for Barton’s voice. There was nothing but white cottony mist.

“Blast.”

And no sign of the giant. Another trick perhaps.

“Where are you, Barton? We have a deal,” he said, not holding back the anger in his tone.

He felt a pair of hands wrap around his chest and lift him from the ground.

“I’ve got you, Venir.”

The mist was wispy around Barton’s big nose, his face fading in and out of his field of vision. Venir could still make out the eyes, one eye as big as his head, brown and dull, the other sealed shut. He tried to wriggle free, but Barton’s fingers were like hammered iron.

“You promised to take me from the Mist, Giant! What treachery is this? I’m no farther than where I started.

“You are almost out. I can see your world, Venir. But first you promised me a friend. You tell me where that friend is right now, or Barton will crush you.”

Venir’s eyes bulged as Barton squeezed. He let out a dry gagging sound, and something snapped, somewhere inside him, piercing his lung with pain. Another rib, he supposed. How many of those could break, anyway?

“Ease up,” he managed to croak out, “ so I can speak.”

Barton’s fingers eased around him, but his prison of flesh and bone was still secure. Barton said, “Now tell me, Venir. Barton needs a friend.”

Now was the moment of truth. He suspected Boon was dead, but that was the lie he had told Barton: that he knew of a friend who still lived within the giants' stronghold. But what if Barton already knew about Boon and his demise? He was certain Barton would crush his body like a yellow tomato and stomp his bones like glass. There was another option he had not considered.“Barton, do you know what a Lycan is?”

Barton responded with a fierce shake, cracking his teeth.

“DON’T PLAY GAMES. NO LIKE THOSE PEOPLE.”

Bad idea.

“Do you know about a wizard, like me, who lives with the giants and does tricks?”

Barton tilted his head.

“No … but I like tricks. Tell me more about this wizard.”

“His name is Boon.”

Venir waited for a throttling but nothing happened.

“Can he do tricks for me?” Barton asked, curious.

“Well, he made me as big as you.”

“He did?”

Barton set Venir on the ground.

“Do you think he can make Barton small like you? Hmmm?”

“Well, yes, or even bigger if you wanted. Twice as big. Think what you could do to Blackie the next time he came for you. You could break his neck.”

Barton began clapping and stomping all around.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

The ground was shaking beneath his feet, and his eyes began to pop with every loud clap. “Where is he? Where is he?” Barton demanded, picking up Venir and swinging him through the mist.

Venir felt himself turning green.

“Stop! Stop!” he yelled. “Let me down, I’m going to—blecht!”

Barton fell down laughing.

Venir had to fight the urge to pull out Brool and begin whittling the giant down to bits. Instead, he fumbled through the mist, found Barton and jammed his heel into his groin.

“Ow! What did you do that for?”

“Do you want the find the wizard or not?”

“Yes. Yes, Venir. Tell Barton now!”

Venir clutched at his aching ribs and said, “His name is Boon. He is in the castle with the maze. He guards the prisoners that fight in the labyrinth.”

Barton sounded elated.

“I know where that is. I go get him now.”

Venir tackled Barton’s legs and hung on saying, “No! Wait!”

Barton began peeling him off.

Venir said, “Your end of the deal, Barton! Send me back to Bish.”

Barton laughed as he picked Venir up by the ankles and dangled him before his eyes.

“You are right, Venir. Barton send you back to your Bish now.”

The giant flipped Venir over his back like a pack and began running, jostling Venir all over the place.

“Good-Bye, Venir! And in case you lied, I want you to know I’ll come for you and you will never leave the mist again.”

“URK!”

Venir’s neck snapped forward as he flipped head over heels through the mist. He swore he kept going higher and higher as the sound of giant laughter began to fade away. As the icy wind whistled and nipped his ears the snow white mist turned to black. His time careening in the air came to a brief stop. Oh slat! The wind whistled through his ears as he plunged into the darkness. He braced his body for what he knew would be a mighty long fall.

CHAPTER 23

“Which one do you want, the man or the dwarf?” One Mountain Man asked the other.

The other, with a long face and yellow beard full of frost, snickered. “I’ll be killing the Blood Ranger; not many men live to tell about such a feat.”

The other one, hefty and surly, covered in pelts, frowned as he said, “Nay, I saw him first, so I get to kill him. Or … we both say we both killed him.”

Mood, still warm within his icy cocoon, kept his bushy eyes closed.

“So, if we kill him, do you think the other Rangers will come after us?” The taller one said as he tested the edge of his bastard sword.

“They’ll never know what happened to him up in these mountains. We’ll bury him in the lake of ice. Not even the best trackers could find him there.”

The one with the brown beard had a worried look as he said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea, killing him in cold blood. The Blood Rangers will find out. They say they know anything and every thing, that they can find a needle in a snow storm.”

“Har!” the other one laughed. “Those are just stories. This one here, Mood, is the King they say, and he couldn’t even find a druid. She found him. Blood Rangers, pah. I’d be surprised if he wasn’t the only of all of them. Look, he’s just a big man is all. There ain’t no such thing as a dwarf that tall.”

The mountain man nodded his head, a look of satisfaction enlightening his cross face.

It was true; not many men had even seen the Blood Rangers, and if they did, it was most likely only one, in passing. The Blood Rangers came to the aid of man from time to time, but for the most part they kept to themselves in Dwarven Hole. Only for the most treacherous of events in the world did they venture out.

Mood began to feel the icy block biting into his fingertips. Need to move. His skin, thick and protective like wool, was turning cold. Not a thing on him was ever cold, not even his nose that usually snorted the air, until today. It was time. Move or die.

“Have ye ladies decided whose gonna kill me yet,” he rumbled, “because I’m getting tired of ye squabblin’.”

The two mountain men whirled, their faces aghast. The brown-haired one's sword slipped from his grip. The men looked at one another, then back at Mood. He could smell their fear. It strengthened him. He let his inner power go.

Both men stepped backward as Mood's fists began to gleam red hot from within the ice. Their jaws dropped as he spoke.

“Fools. Did ya’ really think I couldn’t find you or your wily leader? I wasn’t slaughtering the ogres for fun, even though I enjoyed every bit of it. No, I was drawing you fools out, and now I have you! Ho! Ho!”

The bewildered men raised their swords and charged.

Mood’s muscles thickened and bulged inside the block of melting ice. There was a popping sound as shards of ice broke free. With a fierce growl he pulled his shoulders back.

Crack!

Chunks of ice fell to the ground as he shivered and shook his shoulders. In one hand a razor sharp hand axe was free; the other hand was still a block of ice. As the two wary Mountain Men came on, Mood tried to lift his feet and return their charge.

“Huh?”

His feet were still frozen in a solid block of ice when he looked down.

“Ah … who needs em’ anyway. Come on, Fools!”

He failed to notice the Ogre’s club rising above his back as a black shadow fell over him and the Mountain Men's yellowish eyes gleamed in relief.

***

Elation. Euphoria. Exhaustion. Fogle Boon never imagined anything could have been as exhilarating as this. His skinny chest heaved in and out. Her fingernails ran down his spine, raising goosebumps from his toes to his eyelids.

“Everything you imagined it would be?” Cass said, her voice a silky purr.

He was shaking as he nodded, ashamed for doing so, but he resisted the urge to pull away when she hugged him from behind, wrapping her legs behind his waist. It was the warmest and most magnificent feeling he had ever felt: hot flesh, soft and firm in all the right places like a blanket that had so much more to offer.

She nibbled at his ear and said, “I thought you were wonderful. You were so, oh, how should I put it … creative.”

He perched his eye brows as he managed to say, “Well, I have given it a moderate amount of thought over the years. Of course, there were never any wolves in my fantasies … or any other creatures, for that matter.”

“Not even another woman?” she said, twirling her finger in his hair.

“Hah … well, no I suppose.”

Woof!

The timber wolves' ears perched up as they growled and stammered on their paws, the thick fur rising on their backs. There was a commotion coming from right outside. He felt Cass unwrap her body from his and watched her wriggle back into her robes. She made a funny sound, her pink eyes leering at the four massive dogs, and Fogle found himself surrounded again.

“What is that?” he asked, rising to his feet, gathering his nearby robes.

But the druid was gone, the tent flap closed.

“Great!”

One of the wolves, black and dark grey, barked and snapped in his face. That’s when he heard Mood’s thunderous bellow smashing through the canvas. “HUZZAH!”

Something that sounded like a battering ram slamming into ice rocked the air, followed by the sound of silence. Fogle’s gut began to churn. Something was wrong. He had to do something and help out his friend. He’d failed him once, and he couldn’t let that happen again, but how was he going to get past the wolves without being eaten alive?

“Blast it!”

The wolf snapped in his face again.

He closed his eyes, letting his mind peel away the layers of mystic energy that were lying dormant within him. No longer was his mind numb, but rather rejuvenated. Every wizard had power within that didn’t require components, wands or scrolls to activate, but just a disciplined and powerful mind that could tap the mystic energies of the world without losing his sanity.

He put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

The wolves barked and snapped, coming closer and closer. He could feel their hot breath as their snouts nipped at his robes.

Just enhance the sound.

He opened the gate inside his mind and let out his reserves.

The whistle went from a feathery twill to high pitched shrill.

The wolves howled upward.

It’s working.

Fogle blew harder.

The wolves' ears flattened; their howls looked to be cries of pain.

He could feel the energy within begin to grow into a monster of a force, as the high pitch twisted into the roaring forces of a storm. The sound waves were twirling around him, slinging the pelts through the air, grinding the grasses to the ground. It felt good, cutting it loose like that.  He saw the wolves' feet lift from the ground, their bodies twisting in the air. Then the canvas walls of the tent buckled and rose, the stakes that held it ripped from the ground as the final ear shattering sound came.

BOOM!

Fogle's knees sagged, his energy spent, and then he fell to the ground.

***

Mood heaved himself forward a split second before the ogre’s club came down.

Crack!

The blow smashed into the frozen block of ice that imprisoned his feet.

“Thanks, Stupid,” Mood said, swinging his giant axe into the ogre’s exposed skull. Blood spurted up as the heavy blade penetrated bone and punctured brain. The ogre twitched, sprawled out and stopped moving.

He wrenched his axe free and rolled left.

Swish! A long blade almost severed his leg. He rolled right as the other Mountain Man stabbed at his belly, clipping the outer edge of his gut. His frozen axe crashed into the towering man’s legs, sweeping his legs from beneath him.

Chop! The big man howled in alarm, his foot detached, his leg stump gushing blood.

“Curse you, Ranger!”

Quickly, Mood rose to his feet and squared off with the lone standing Mountain Man.

“Yer a fool to trifle with me, Mood, King of the Blood Rangers!” he snorted. “HUZZAH!”

The Mountain Man let out his own cry and charged. High and low his sword point stabbed.

Mood parried.

Clang.

Another thrust clipped the hairs at his neck.

Clang.

He knocked it away.

“Ha, working up a sweat before you die I see.”

“The Bone with you, Dwarf!” the man yelled, swiping at Mood’s side.

The sword and axe crashed with a terrible sound of grinding metal. The bigger man leaned into him, pressing him downward, eyes blazing with battle. Mood rammed his head underneath the man’s chin, rocking his head back.

“I bet that hurt, but don’t ye worry, yer not be feeling the pain for long!”

Mood clubbed the man over the head with his half-frozen hand, breaking what was left of the ice block that froze his axe to his wrist. Blood began to spurt from the busted nose on the man’s face as he howled in pain.

With both hands free, Mood stepped in for the kill.

“Gah!”

Something seized hold of his feet. He looked down, thinking to brain the man with the missing foot, but instead he watched the ice begin to crystallize and grow up and around his feet.

“Ah, not this again,” he said, launching his hand axe into the chest of the last mountain man.

The man fell backward, dead.

He chopped at the ice that was up to his knees now.

“Save your energy, Dwarf,” the druid woman said, “and perhaps I’ll show mercy on your friend. As for you, however, I think you’ll make a nice frozen ornament for me—what in Bish?”

A shrill sound erupted from inside the tent. The druid woman pressed her hands over her ears. She wasn’t screaming, but whatever it was, Mood could not hear. He chopped into the ice, trying to block out the foul noise. From the corner of his eye he watched the tent rip free from its tethers and blow away with the force of a gale. Pelts and wolves were flying in the air.

BOOM!

Mood felt like a giant just smashed him in the head. He fell to his hands and knees, struggling to regain his feet. All around him was some form of devastation. The snow was gone from the leaves of the trees; smaller growth was ripped from the ground, and the druid woman lay quivering on the ground, clutching her head. Where the tent once was a man now stood, his big bearded face pale, his bright green eyes exhausted.

“Yer just full of surprises, aren’t ya Wizard?” Mood said.

Fogle raked his brown hair back from his face and said, “As impossible as it seems, sometimes I surprise myself.”

Mood gathered his other axe from the Mountain Man’s bloody chest and said, “So, I take it you’re a full-fledged adventurer now?

Fogle smiled as he looked over at Cass’s voluptuous form.

“I guess you could say that.”

Mood snorted, pulled a cord of thin rope from his pouch, and tossed it as Fogle’s feet.

“Bind her hands, then. It’s time to go.” Cass mumbled something, but didn’t resist his binding.

“Should I gag her?” Fogle asked. “And what makes you think she’ll help us?”

Mood procured a cigar and lit it up, saying, “Wizard, ye’ve whipped her. She’ll not be crossing you again. At least not until this deed is done. After that, anything goes I suppose.”

As Fogle pulled her up from her knees she spoke.

“My word, Fogle and Ranger, I’ll carry out this quest, just don’t release that awful sound again. If I had pants I swear I would have pissed them. So take me to Dwarven Hole to see this two-headed dog. I promise I’ll do what I can.”

***

It didn’t seem right, marching a woman he had just bedded hours earlier through the dangerous mountains like a prisoner. Still, Fogle had been warned by Mood several times already, Ye can never trust a druid. He couldn’t help but wonder if they all looked as incredible as her.

Mood led the way, dragging a small sled that secured their gear. The Blood Ranger was a determined juggernaut, his thick back and heavy set shoulders unusually broad, with his blood stained axes criss-crossed on his back. Fogle couldn’t help but wonder if he saved Mood, or if Mood saved him … again. And where had all that magic and power come from, which had leveled the druid’s fragile home?

He looked over his shoulder. To the right and left, a pack of humbled timber wolves followed. For whatever reason, he was glad they were there. The journey home, Mood promised, wouldn’t be any easier than the journey there.

He guided Cass forward, his hand pressing into the small of her back.

“Feeling frisky again are we, Fogle?” she said, stopping and somehow grabbing his hands in hers. “Unbind me and I’ll make this trip  … more interesting.” Her pink eyes looked deep into his. “Or just take me as I am.”

A flush of red washed over his normally pale face. One thing was for sure, the journey back seemed much warmer than the journey there. Still, a question hung in his mind.

“Are you sure you were a virgin?” he asked.

Mood’s gruff voice cut in.

“Of course she weren’t no virgin, Wizard. What do ya think she kept those two brutes up there for, protection? Now pull your brains out of your groin and get moving. Storm’s coming!”

Cass giggled as he pushed her away and frowned, thinking of the two brutish men that both lay dead, frozen blood mixed with snow. She had not even mourned their loss.

“Ah, don’t believe the dwarf. He’s just jealous. Of course you are the only one to lay with me, my defiler … er … deflowerer,” she said with a hint of discontent.

Fogle just shook his head and moved along. The sky was darkening with his attitude. He wanted to believe one thing, but he knew the truth was another. Was Cass just a common slut, the kind his mother warned him about? Some men could make the most of that, but he was pretty certain that he could not.

CHAPTER 24

“Detective! Detective!”

Melegal had been driving the City Watch beneath the City of Bone for hours, closing in on his prey, all thanks to a skinny little bird whispering the Slerg whereabouts, among other things, in his ear. And now, after preaching and disciplining the men of the Watch, all Bone had broken loose. The dogs, loud and slobbery, had gone into a frenzy when a family of sewer cats crossed through the tunnels.

“Shut up! Shut these mangy mutts up before I slit their throats, you buffoons,” he ordered, shoving one unsuspecting Watchman from his path. He sucked in some air through his teeth, resisting the urge to kick a dog—choked tight on his short leash—in the throat. He had come to hate dogs, all except one, he supposed, giving the fleetest of thought to the two-headed Chongo.

The men pressed along the slopes of the dank tunnel walls, heads down, eyes averted. A City Watch sergeant straddled his long legs on both sides of the tunnel, peering through a portal that was a little over two feet in diameter. The sergeant was long and stringy, too tall to enter a common door, now bent over almost unnaturally, seeming to be quite uncomfortable. Sweat was dripping from the man's long slender nose as he sucked in his raspy breath to speak.

“I sent my hound, Oggie, in there. He made it back thirty feet or so, let out a bark and yelped.” The man shuddered a sob. “That was it. I think something got him. I never heard him yelp like that. It must be those Slergs, I tell you. They better not’ve killed my Oggie.”

Good, one less noisemaker the better. Hmmm. This might work out well for me.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Send in the rest of your hounds. Avenge your beast!”

“But Sir,” the sergeant started to speak, but stopped. “Ulp.”

Melegal stuck his dagger half an inch up the man’s nose.

“This isn’t a booger picker, Dolt. Now, shall I give the order again? Am I so low as you that I must order dogs and not men?”

“Apologies, Detective! Apologies!” the sergeant blinked rather than nod.

Melegal withdrew his blade and said, “Shut up and do your job.”

The man looked confused.

Melegal warned him, saying, “I’m going to kill you, Fool. Now speak and do your job.”

The lanky man nodded his head, turned and yelled down the tunnel.

Don’t yell!

“You heard em’ men—Release the hounds!”

***

Brak loved dogs. He had played with them all his life, all kinds, big and small. Some were herders and others hunters, and now one lay unmoving at his feet, a herder and scout. He could tell by its calico coat. He wanted to cry, but there was no time for that. At least three more were coming, and they sounded different than the last: ferocious and hungry for flesh. He didn’t want to hurt any more of them, not innocent animals, anyway.

“I surrender!” he yelled. “I SURRENDER!”

There was a series of sharp whistles, and the dogs came to a halt.

Someone in the background was saying, “Did you hear that? That ain’t human.”

“Shut up, Fool!” a hateful voice sounded. “Unarm yourself, then, and come forth so we can see you.”

Brak lumbered down the tunnel and let out a loud sigh. The dogs, four in all, growled at his side. “Easy boys,” he mumbled.

“Any sudden moves and those dogs will tear you to bits.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” Brak said.

“He’s coming. Be ready; it might be a trick.”

“Shut up already!” the hateful voice came again.

“I’m tossing out my weapons,” Brak said. One knife and two swords, one his, the other his dead mother, Vorla’s. He wished she was still here, caring for him. He dreamed of her often, and it was of very little comfort, but it was something.

Slowly, he began to squeeze back through the portal, into the torchlight, where many men with swords and torches  waited. He wondered if he would be heading into the furnace to join his mother and so many others. So sad, he had failed in his quest to find his father, Venir.

***

“Sweet Mother of Bish. Look at the size of his head,” the sergeant exclaimed.

In his life, Melegal had been surprised a few times, but even he could never have anticipated Brak’s big droopy face popping out into the torchlight. He was at a loss for words.

“Do we kill him?” someone asked.

Everyone moved backward as Brak’s form began to slowly fill the tunnel.

“How’d he fit in here?”

“I’m not carrying him out. We’ll have to cut him in pieces.”

“What do we do?”

Brak’s lazy face showed no emotion or expression as he stooped inside the unyielding confines of the corridor. Melegal’s thoughts raced to Venir, the Drunken Octopus, Chongo, Lefty and Georgio. Everything good he remembered washed over him as he felt compelled to grab Brak and run. This is not good for the boy, er man.

“Detective, shall we gut him?” the sergeant said. “We’ve still got more pursuit. They’ve left this one to slow us.”

Slap!

It stung Melegal’s hand as much as the man’s pock-marked cheek, but it felt good.

“Are you doing my thinking for me now? Is your tongue privy to things that I am not? Are you the detective or am I?”

Slap! Slap! Slap!

“Who is making the decisions here?” Melegal demanded.

The truth was, he enjoyed tormenting the City Watch. It was one of the few perks left of his job, better yet he could see to their demise from time to time. The City Watch were not of the Royal families' fabled sentries. They were chattel, nothing more. He liked their disposability.

“Y-you are Detective, Melegal, Sir.  Apolo—”

“Piss on your apologies, and shut your ignorant hole. Now …” Melegal gestured to the nearest Watchman, “you two pissants crawl through the hole and see what lies ahead, and take your stupid little dung eating pets, too.”

He felt Brak’s heavy eyes on him, but he ignored his gaze. Maybe the young dolt won’t remember me. Pah. I better gag him …  and blindfold him, before it’s too late.

“You—Wart-face! Blindfold and gag him. Gag him first.”

“Y-yes, Detective.”

Melegal looked through the portal now, satisfied Brak was well under control. If this man was truly Venir’s son, then he had to be careful. Such knowledge would be valuable because Venir was still, for all purposes, a wanted man by the Royals, regardless of Tonio’s involvement. He’d watched over Venir before in his own kind of way, and he didn’t take much comfort in taking his son in. It can’t be his son. It just can’t be.

A voice shouted from up ahead.

“Detective, there’s a grate here, bars, no way through.”

There was a lot of barking going on, too.

“Shut those beasts up! I can’t hear you, Fool! What’s this about bars?”

There was a yelp followed by the man’s voice resounding off the rock walls.

“The bars on the grate … er … well they look bent, but there’s no room for someone to crawl through, not even a pooch.”

As Melegal made his way through the portal, he poked the lone remaining Watchman in the chest with his dagger and said, “Don’t lose my prisoner. Fail at your peril.”

“Aye, Detective.”

That’s the same dolt that lost the last one. Run man-child, Run.

Making his way to the men, he ran his slender fingers along the stone corridor. His keen eyes searched for any disparities in the architecture of the walls. He noted none.

“Well,” he said, folding his arms across his chest, “step aside, torch bearers, so I can investigate your brilliant discovery.”

The men shuffled away, eyes nervous and averted.

“My, well look at this. You’ve indeed found a grate. A barrier of some sort, agreed?”

They nodded.

“I tell you, it takes more than the brain of a gnat to make such a discovery. I’ll be sure to report this to your superiors.”

Melegal swooped his cloak around his back and over his knee as he squatted in front of the bars.

“A little more light, please,” he beckoned with is hand and pointed.

As the Watchman lowered his torch along the rim, he made a startling discovery. The wrought iron, thick and ancient, had been bent. Fresh debris. Interesting. Small chips of stone lay along the edge of the grate's metal rim, but worst of all were the markings. The scratches in the iron were fresh, and he could feel the tiny jagged edges around the bottom bars where something had pulled them out and pushed them back again. He looked back down the tunnel. Through the portal he could see Brak’s bulk dimming the torchlight from the other side.

One of the Watchmen cleared his throat and said, “How’d they get through there?”

“Huh,” Melegal sort of laughed, rising back to his feet. He’d seen Venir bend bars as thick as these before, but he never saw him bother to bend them back. Wouldn’t that take more energy? My, what a seed he has sown!

He shifted his hat on his head and motioned for the men with torches to step away from the bars. Look. Listen. He closed his eyes and opened his mind to the magic with his cap. It was something he’d been practicing which he was becoming quite fond of. Winding through the darkness of the endless corridors were footsteps, confusion and something else unexpected. Something breathed, evil and luminous, beckoning to him and picking at his mind. Something dormant was now awakened, and it was hungry. Slat!

Melegal flattened himself on the ground.

Clatch. Clatch. Clatch. Zip. Zip. Zing.

He was running.

Son of a Bish!

Ignoring the impaled faces of the City Watchmen, Melegal dashed down the tunnel and leapt through the portal. In the next instant, one dog after the other was piling on top of him and yelping in a frenzy.

“Get off me, hounds!”

“What was it?” The alarmed sergeant cried out, ducking along the wall.

Melegal was wiggling his finger through the hole inside the hood of his cloak.

“Just cornered Slergs, is all. It seems they can’t find a way out.”

The sergeant scratched his head, pushing his back to the wall, while peeking back and forth through the portal.

“Your charming friends are dead, but they died valiantly, discovering a murderous sewer grate. Now, take our prisoner to interrogation. You, Dear Sergeant, will get the glory of continuing this pursuit from the other end.”

“Y-yes, Detective.”

Melegal tried to contain his inner shivers as he made his way out of the tunnels. He couldn’t find the moonlight fast enough. Something was down there: evil, insidious and powerful, and he had no desire to find out what that was. He’d heard stories about hoards of ghouls and other monsters that lived within the catacombs of the ancient ruins of Bone. Now he had an overwhelming fear that he had just awakened something that didn’t want to be woken. I am already having enough trouble sleeping.

***

Brak didn’t know what interrogation meant, and he didn’t care now that he could smell the clean air above the ground for the first time in days. Maybe, just maybe, without anyone one's help, he could escape. Maybe the skinny man called Detective might help. He could dream, dream of many things vast, unnatural and wild, but those dreams had not come lately. The dreams of his father were gone.

CHAPTER 25

“Bish!” Mikkel cried out as the multi-bladed knife of the underling clipped his nose.

He ducked and dodged, shaking off the rust, back pedaling back and forth between the two underlings as he parried with his club. It was the fighter's instinct that rushed him back into the battle against man’s most ancient of foes. He wanted to retreat, his mind recoiling, the frightening countenances of the underlings boring into his flesh: fearless, merciless and cruel. They came at him, one striking high, the other low.

Get it together, Man!

Clumsily he batted their blows away. How long had it been since he’d been in a fight, anyway? Perhaps it was the old warrior, the man they turned away, who cried out the first warning and charged into the fray. The weathered warrior now lay in a pool of his own blood, face split in half like something had just hatched from his skull. Mikkel couldn’t shake the sadness that crept though his skin and chilled his bones.

Bang!

Clank!

Whomp!

Bang!

People were screaming, running in all directions, falling prey to the fearless little hoard that invaded their sanctuary. There were at least ten of them, but Mikkel wasn’t making a count. He found himself pinned up against a wagon. The underlings chittered, their rat-furred faces and beady emerald eyes unblinking, cold and bright as they began to whittle him down.

Smack!

Billip caught one of them on the wrist, drawing an angry howl.

That’s more like it! Now fight like a man!

The underlings weren’t any different than any he’d faced before. Small like women, hairy grayish skin corded in knots, fluid in motion, confident in gait, evil in intent, their jagged blades—cruel tortuous devices—licked in and out like striking snakes. Bandoliers of knives and darts and small swords made an eerie jangle on their hips, and even without that armament the rest of them was just as scary. Sharp teeth that could rend flesh like a wild animal and claws that could shave the bark from a tree allowed the minions of the Underland to kill and hunt at all times.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a young woman and her boy trapped beneath a carriage. Two other underlings, blood dripping from the blades in their hands, screeched, rushing towards the helpless prey.

Nikkel!

The reminder of his own son’s life and safety tore away his fears, unleashing his dormant fury. Mikkel roared. The sluggishness of his long powerful limbs had burned off, turning his defensive actions into a bludgeoning fury. His club, long, studded and heavy, twirled high in the air a split second before he brought it down with a skull-cracking blow. Parts of the underling’s brain oozed from its nose as it fell over, leaving the other's serrated maw of teeth agape as it turned to escape the black warrior's fury.

“Where do you think you’re going!” Mikkel yelled, giving chase, twisting back away at the sound of the woman and boy screaming. “Bish!”

There was a thrashing of blood spilling out from underneath the wagon. The underlings were a tangled mass of black flesh and leathers, claws clutching as the woman and boy kicked and flailed. Mikkel caught one underling by the foot and yanked it squealing from under the carriages.

“No you don’t!” he said, dropping his club and pulling the underling away.

Dark black finger nails dug into his wrists. Mikkel cried out in pain, releasing the fowl underling that scurried away.

He looked under the wagon. “Bone!” The woman and boy lay dead, throats torn open and eyes gouged out. A swell of emotion formed in his light watery eyes. “BLAST THEM ALL!”

Mikkel whirled around at the growing sounds of chittering underlings. His club, Skull Basher, was nowhere in sight. The cobblestone road he defended was smeared in blood where Billip stood, coated in black blood, brandishing a blood-soaked broadsword. He wasn’t alone: a dwarven fighter, stout as a stump of oak, black bearded to his knees, grasped a blacksmith's hammer in his hand. Beside him, another dwarf was on his knees, choking up blood and fighting for his breath.

“How are you holding up, Billip?” Mikkel asked, rushing to his comrade's side.

Billip swayed where he stood; a jagged gash in his pants was soaked in blood.

“I’d be better if I had my bow in my hand. This melee’s exhausting. Bloody underlings!”

“Aye man!” The dwarf interrupted. “You’d be better fighting from afar, bow or sword. I’ve seen one-armed halflings swing better steel than that,” the dwarf gloated, “but at least, being a man and all, you tried.”

Billip said to Mikkel, “This must be a friend of yours.”

Mikkel said, “No, never seen him before, but he seems to know you pretty well.”

But the time for jokes was over. The streets were cleared, all of the fighting men were dead as far as they could tell, and the underlings, with superior weapons, armor and numbers, had them surrounded. A dark cloud had descended on the City of Three.

“So, you going to go down barehanded?” Billip commented, wiping the blood dripping in his eyes on his sleeve.

“Just like the day I was born, I guess.”

“We dwarves are born with hammers for hands. Here, soft black man, take this,” the dwarf growled, tossing his hammer to Mikkel. “You’ll be needing it more than me. Now, by Mood’s blood red beard, who wants to pummel these underlings!”

“Come on, Dogs!” Mikkel yelled.

Billip remained silent, sword up, eyes forward.

“It’s time to crush some skulls!”

The underlings chittered with mockery, small crossbows aimed and ready. Mikkel could see the wet dew of poison reflecting on the bolt's tip. There were many men on Bish that could dodge a crossbow bolt, but he wasn’t one of them. All he could do was hope he got one last swing.

Billip muttered at his side, “It wouldn’t be so bad if I had my bow in my hand.”

“You two ladies run, I’ll cover you,” the dwarf said. “Those little bolts won’t hurt—”

Clatch-zip.

The bearded dwarf caught a slender six-inch dart in his burly arm and fell over dead.

“Slat!”

Every underling bolt in Bish looked to be pointed their way.

Clatch-zip.

Clatch-zip.

Clatch-zip.

Clatch-zip.

Clatch-zip.

Clatch-zip.

***

Everything seemed to be moving in very slow motion. The bolts, each and every one of them, he swore he could count. Three were bearing down on him, agonizingly slow, all center mass, one left, one middle, one right. If he twisted and turned either way it wouldn’t matter. He was flat footed and ready to die. He glanced over at Billip, and to his surprise Billip was glancing at him, eyes wide as saucers. He turned back to look at the deadly missiles, each and every one twice as close as it had been before. Huh? Then he heard a familiar voice bellow.

“MOVE, YOU TWO IDIOTS!”

Mikkel dove to the left, Billip to the right.

Whap. Whap. Whap. Whap. Whap. Whap.

The bolts juttered as they embedded themselves in the cart behind him. The underlings howled with outrage, their bewildered faces searching the ground and sky.

“What in the—”

“TAKE COVER!” A woman said it in a convincing and powerful voice. She was gorgeous, radiant, and dangerous all at the same time. Her wavy tussles of auburn hair billowed in the sky. She was no ordinary woman, rather an extraordinary creature, an angry mother whose nest had been disturbed. Mikkel sucked in his breath as he caught a glimpse of her warm glowing face.

“Kam!” he exclaimed.

And she wasn’t the only one.

Two men, one robed in pure white, the other robed in a color of blue he had never seen before, dropped down behind the pack of underlings. The one in white, older, hair yellow as a bale of straw, held out a slender long black staff, inches from the nose of an underling. The creature grasped the staff in both hands and tried to yank it away. Mikkel gawped. The underling turned white from head to toe and then its body collapsed in on itself.

“Sweet Mother of Bish!”

The blue wizard scattered a cloud of silver and dark purple dust in the air. The agitated underlings began to snort and wheeze. Mikkel almost laughed as they fell to the ground in writhing spasms, kicking clawed feet over the cobble stones in agony, twitching and lurching like fish out of water until they moved no more.

That’s when Kam came. Her wrists were entwined with ropes of white lightening as she unleashed her tendrils of energy. The remaining underlings clutched at the burning energy that wrapped itself like a snake around their necks. The mystic snake slithered inside one underling's mouth. It disappeared for an instant, then the underling's eyes flared with white hot light. Slowly at first, Mikkel watched in astonishment as the energy passed through one ear and out the other. Again it raced, passing in one underling and out the other underlings, boring new holes, faster, gaining blinding speed and fury.

Mikkel shielded his eyes as the brilliant light continued to grow.

FOOMPH!

When he turned to look, nothing remained of the underlings but several piles of black ash. The three wizards, Kam, the White and Blue ones, methodically gathered up the dead underling bodies, hoisting them with unseen hands, guiding them through the air and piling them all together. A crowd of citizens now gathered, murmuring in amazement. The blue wizard, his features ageless, handsome and dark, muttered something unintelligible to the common man. The pyre of black underlings blazed to life and burned green with black smoke rising to the sky.

Mikkel covered his nose, eyes squinting when he noticed Billip standing beside him. They both shrugged as they returned their gazes back to Kam.

A cry rose up from behind the crowd, and each of the wizards faces turned. Someone was pushing their way through the crowd with a dead underling hoisted over their shoulder. A pair of underling blades was jammed in its black-haired skull. As he tossed the underling into the fire, Mikkel could hear the young warrior say, “You missed one.”

Mikkel couldn’t contain his smile.

It was Georgio.

Someone screamed from a nearby window.

CHAPTER 26

Hohm City was considered to be the most dreary city of all. Tucked in the northwestern most corner of the word, Hohm remained in chronic seclusion from the sunlight. A thin veil of fog rolled over the city and through the streets, bending over window sills and corners, a constant companion of those who preferred the seclusion.

The marsh itself, leagues long as it was wide, kept any curious people or invaders away. The willow tree roots were sunk deep in the mud, but their height rose over a hundred feet in some places. Black backed crocodiles rested on massive lily pads, and swamp toads were as big as a man’s head. Every crawling, climbing, murk dwelling creature was ten times bigger than anything you’d ever known. So the people of the City of Hohm said.

Morley Sickle, a man of age, long forgotten by his neighbors, had lived in the City of Hohm all of his life, with no desire to go elsewhere … until now. He had come across a stranger of the most amazing character, weird and undeniable, when taking his wares, a very potent homemade wine he called Jig, to sell in the general store. The stranger, handsome beyond reason, asked to sample his Jig, and they’d been talking almost incessantly ever since. This all started months ago, and it had its benefits … at first.

“Morley,” the newcomer said, his tone pleasing and demanding, “tell me, how many pickles do you think are in that jar?”

Morley, pinching the upper bridge of his nose, eyes squinted, tried not to think about it. I don’t give a slat!

“That’s not a number,” the man said, raking his fingers back through his long locks of blond hair. “Really Morley, you need to do better than that.”

Morley scooted towards the burning hearth in front of the tavern fire, trying his best not to think. If he could stop breathing, he would. He rubbed his bejeweled fingers as he stared at the brilliant gold and precious gems that adorned his hand. They were worth a hundred times more than anything he ever wanted. A thousand times if that. He groaned. What good were they when he was under the steady watch of his unavoidable new companion?

“Guess, Morley. Guess, I say!”

Morley lurched up in his seat.

“One hundred twenty, Scorch! One hundred twenty!”

Scorch grabbed him by the face, perfect hands squeezing his saggy cheeks up on his fear filled face, shaking his head.

His heart was thumping like a drum behind his ears, and a drop of water slipped from his eye duct and ran down along his nose.

“Hah! Morley, there’s only fifty one. Fifty one pickles in that jar. But, after you go fetch me four of them, then there will be just …”

Morley swallowed a glob of spit and said, “Forty seven?”

Scorch released him, sat back and slapped his crocodile boots up on the table.

“Of course, you dullard. Now, fetch more jig while you're after it.” Scorch snapped his fingers, popping Morley’s ears, “and some more of that mossy cheese, too. I love the smell. I don’t know why I love the smell of cheese, but I do. Ah yes … cheese, pickles, and jig. Mmmmmm. …”

Morley shuffled away, taking his time as his feet creaked over the floor boards. Every day had been like this, one nonchalant meaningless task or question after the other. But, he dared not think that. I need to die. If there were only a way to kill himself without thinking.

“Morley,” Scorch chimed, “I don’t like what you’re thinking. And no, you can’t make me angry enough to kill you, either. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I can even become angry, but I think I can become drunk.”

Scorch hoisted his strong chin up towards the rafters, closed his eyes and slowly brought each of his index fingers to the very tip of his perfect nose.

“Er, well, I think I can be drunk, but still very formidable all the same, unlike your kinfolk. A bunch of sots they are, except the dwarves; now they are good for mixing.”

Get the pickles. Get the wine. Get the cheese. He repeated over and over in his mind, casting his glances at the empty tables and chairs of what used to be one of the liveliest places in Hohm. The most colorful men and women thrived in Hohm despite the dullness of its gray atmosphere. The strange fog from the marsh softened the tones and features of everything procured or living. It gave people a permanent sense of privacy, and the Royals, with their own dark and mysterious ways, didn’t seem inclined to interfere so long as the people behaved themselves and paid taxes on time.

A man, head shaven, tall and brooding with a jagged scar between his lips, twisted the top from the large jar of pickles and handed him a wooden tong.

“I like the big ones, Morley, much juicer, and don’t forget the cheese or the jig.”

The sound of the man’s perfectly strong and tranquil voice had the effect of a tack hammer tapping on his head. The barkeep returned with a rather large block of greenish and yellow cheese on a plate with a thin layer of white fuzz coating it.

“Ah, it smells wonderful,” Scorch continued, tapping his fingernail on the table.

Morley flinched. The sound of Scorch’s voice did that. He couldn’t control it.

“Thanks, Sam,” he muttered, returning back to his table with a plate full of rank smelling cheese, tongue assaulting wine and big bumpy green-blue pickles.

Scorch licked his lips as he tucked a handkerchief under his chin.

“Care for some?”

Morley shook his head.

Scorch carved off a chunk of moldy cheese and stabbed it onto a pickle. Stuffing it into his mouth, he said, “Where is everyone?”

“It’s after curfew, the dark of night time. No one can leave their homes during this season. The marsh gets edgy. Dangerous,” he said, hiding his trembling hand under the table.

Scorch pointed his fork in his face and said, “Are you certain it’s the marsh and that they're not just terrified of me?”

“No,” Morley admitted.

“But Morley, explain: why would these people be frightened of me? Am I not as handsome and charming as a man can be? Do I not fight like ten men in one? Did I not vanquish that horrible creature, er … what was it called?”

“A slog dragon.”

“Yes, that ugly thing. Big as a pair of ogres it was. Breath like a sewer. Did that not bring comfort among your citizens?”

If Morley could've bitten his tongue off he would've, but he hated pain and blood, and tongues for that matter. He stammered as he said, “No.”

Scorch rapped his fist on the table.

Morley banged his knee on the table.

“Why don’t they like me, then?” Scorch said, stuffing an entire pickle in his mouth.

“Because you challenged so many people,” he said, thinking pickles.

“Such contests are considered enjoyment and profitable by your kind, are they not?”

“Yes.” Pickles. Pickles. Pickles.

“So what happened?” Scorch said, washing down the remaining cheese with a tankard of jig.

“You won the contest.”

“So I did, and that’s a good thing.”

“But they all died …”

Scorch frowned as he rubbed Morley’s shoulder. “So they did.” Scorch then smiled. “But only because I am so … oh what is the word?”

“Marvelous?”

“Yes! Marvelous. I like that word,” Scorch said, standing up from his seat. “Now, let’s take a walk in this marsh, shall we? I can’t have anything more dangerous than me running around out there.”

Pickles. Pickles. Pickles.

It was all Morley thought as he dragged himself along behind the most powerful man on Bish.

CHAPTER 27

District Twenty Seven in the City of Bone wasn’t the same as it used to be. Tucked behind the enormous wall of the north-eastern most hemisphere, it was known as the lost city within the city. Vagabonds and murderers ran the streets, along with the most indecent and dangerous of guilds. The Royals, whose City Watch patrols maintained a presence just about everywhere to some degree, had avoided this place entirely. It was foul, abandoned, the streets broken, store fronts rotting, every other piece of glass shattered and every corner a harbor for violence or deceit to some degree. It was the place where people went when they had given up, the most desperate of all people, which was rare, because quitting was not part of the make-up of the people in the City of Bone or in all of Bish, for that matter. Trinos had made it that way, but things had changed and she didn’t like it.

Trinos stood in the street like a magnificent piece of china displayed in a butcher shop. Her platinum hair cascaded over her elegant shoulders. Her deep luminous eyes were probing and curious, her clothes of the common sort in design but woven with materials one could not discern or describe. When she spoke, everything moving or crawling stopped to listen, for when her lips moved it was like watching red porcelain lips pouring wine.

“This is not good,” she said, shaking her perfect chin. “I need more able people to continue this work.”

A large group of men surrounded her, bowing and nodding in acknowledgment. They might as well have been hairy ogres among a new born child, each as rough in feature and texture as a man could come. Their clothes were little more than rags, but every button was buttoned and every stitch had been stitched. They bore scars, marks, burns and some were even missing one of their murderous eyes, but something was different among them beyond the appearance of their character. They moved with purpose.

Trinos lifted her hand and said, “Find me twenty more able men.”

A man with a bent nose and wavy black hair that was combed to one side of his head, his calloused fingers fidgeting with the mismatched buttons on his shirt lifted his head to speak.

“Trinos, all of the men we have are rebuilding the castle. All the rest are our sworn enemies.  We’ve betrayed our own to follow you,” he swallowed hard, “and our pleas of compassion have gained nothing more than open hostility. Falcrum died by his brother's own hand, and Valcor was poisoned by his own mother's hand.” She had brought food, built shelters, bathed children, and yet still the hostility remained. She had even parlayed with Royals only to be rejected with open mockery and disgust as she petitioned for them to take better care of their citizens. Most of them had laughed in her face while others just gaped at her in fascination. The men, their minds as vile as snakes, had peeled off her clothes before her first toe crossed the door’s threshold. When she departed, for the first time in her infinite existence she had been concerned for her safety.

She nodded in a graceful motion.

“I just said find me twenty men, and I shall take care of the rest.”

“But where?”

“Anywhere you think you can find them. Now go,” she commanded.

District 27 was changing. The old was being used to rebuild the new. The citizens, the most pitiful lot in the entire city, smiled on occasion at the sound of the troubadour that played a small gold-painted harp and sang. The ramshackle storefronts displayed a vase of flowers or two. She liked flowers. And fresh food was being baked nearby, which was necessary because she had become very fond of pie.

Her toes didn’t seem to touch the ground as she walked and settled herself on a bench near a dried up fountain centered in what used to be a very active plaza. She peered up into the sky, filling her lungs with air behind her perfect breasts, and pondered the suns she had created. She wondered if Scorch was experiencing the same resistance she was or if he even cared. She could do just about anything that she wanted with material things in her world, but she didn’t have that kind of power over the willful people. It was frustrating.

“Men,” she said, addressing a hapless looking crew that was working on the stonework of the fountain, “are the repairs complete?”

A young man with blue bags under his eyes pulled off his cap and replied, “Yes Trinos, but if I may: there is no water in this place. It’s not run with water since I was a boy, and even then it ran with very little.”

She rubbed her hands on her skirt that covered most of her voluptuous thighs and said, “The water is coming, and this fountain will return to its original vitality for all to enjoy.” She smiled.

The man stammered, saying, “But the Royals—You can’t steal their water! They’ll wipe us out.”

All of the workers blanched as Trinos let out a pleasant little laugh and said, “It’s not their water, Corrin. It’s mine.”

CHAPTER 28

There was darkness, familiar sounds and pain. Voices, more than one, like shattered crystal, penetrating the recesses of his hazy mind, speaking in a language he swore he understood. There was wheezing and a bubbling sound coming from his busted face, and when he tried to open his mouth to speak it felt like a stake was jabbed in his head. He tasted blood and gravel.

“What now?”

Venir heard that. He strained to open his swollen eyes. One remained shut, heavy as a stone. The other cracked open the ever slightest, catching what he believed to be a moon's blue light. He coughed hard, and his entire body lurched in pain.

“He lives, so let him live,” a voice as rough as rusting iron said. “Times like this we need all the help we can get.”

“Blast you and your ideas,” said another whose voice was full of irritation. “We’ve no time or supplies to be tending to some stranger, clearly left for dead. He probably has more coming after him, and it’s just more trouble for us, as if we don’t have enough already.”

Venir heard the man spit and curse.

“We take a vote then,” a reasonable woman’s voice offered. “It’s only fair. Look at the man. He’s a fighting man; his size is even greater than Baltor’s.”

Somewhere, a man who sounded as if he had a mouth full of food complained, “What do you mean? Baltor’s bigger than that cripple and stronger than any man. Yellow hairs are weak, like women.” He sounded stupid, too.

The woman continued.

“Finish your meal, Baltor. I only meant he was almost as big. Your belly and head are far superior.”

Baltor made a sound of satisfaction, but a few others laughed quietly and snickered. Venir wanted to laugh himself, but it hurt to even think about it.

“Listen,” another man interjected, “I’ve drug this lout for three days already. He must be three hundred fifty pounds, and I’ll not take him a foot farther. My back's killing me. Let the vultures and wolves have him, I say. He’ll not be fighting anything but misery for weeks, maybe months. I certainly doubt he’ll ever walk again.”

Lazy Bastard!

“I’ll pull him,” the woman said, “and a good bit quicker than you. You might as well ride the stretcher as well. Those stumpy legs of yours aren’t worthy of a dwarf.”

“What did you say?” The man said with a sneer.

“Maybe you can ride Baltor's shoulders and get some fresh air to fill that big nose of yours, seeing how you’ve had it shoved up Caralton’s arse—”

“Enough!” The voice of the first man who had begun the conversation interjected. “We vote, then. There are seven of us, and I’ll break any ties.

“I want to make a plea for the man’s life first,” the woman decried.

“You’ve made your case clear Adanna, and we haven’t the time to be slowed any longer. We are days away from the nearest Outpost.”

Outpost!

Venir’s mind was on fire with elation. Men, women, the smell of stew, the taste of Bish’s dirt, a hooting owl, the smell of a fire, crackling embers and the metallic pings of a heating metal pot. He was back, back on Bish, and judging by things he was in the south. If he could only speak or pull free of the bonds that had him strapped to a man-made stretcher.

“What about Outlaw's Hide? It’s closer,” one man said.

“And filled with orcs and gnolls,” the woman responded.

“And men just as well. For all we know the Outpost is wiped out. You’ve seen the fields. The Royals have fled the south, and no word of aid has come,” the leader added.

What are they talking about?

“We don’t know that!” she disagreed.

“Silence! We’ll vote now! Let me see a show of hands of those who think the man should remain in our care and custody.”

The voices were coming from behind his head, only adding to the agony that he could not see them. He was propped up at a low angle, leaving him an unfortunate field of vision as well. It was as if he wasn’t there, his fate sealed by a council of accusers that he could not face. Venir’s dry mouth and swollen tongue were yearning with thirst. Water. Maybe that would loosen his jammed up jaw.

“Hmph! Only two votes to care for the man, I see.”

SLAT!

Venir began to struggle with his bonds, but he could feel little more than his fingertips moving.

“I’m sorry, Adanna. It seems you and your mother have lost out again.”

“Father, this is an outrage! That man deserves life. He’s a fighter, I tell you. We’ll need him.”

“Sit down, Girlie,” one of the other men chided. “The man will last little more than a day at most. No man can live without taking in water for more than four days, and I’ll not be givin' up any more of mine.”

“No, Father! At least loose his bonds and leave him to die with whatever he has left.”

“Adanna, let go of me. I’ll not leave the man, a criminal so far as we know, to be a prone meat basket and be ravaged by coyotes or bugbears.”

“More likely underling scouts will take his head and parade it like the rest in their horrible fields.”

Underlings!

Venir’s hands clenched in and out, pumping more life into his broken body. After all, it had been an underling that cast him in the Mist. Underlings that slaughtered his family. Underlings that slit Georgio’s throat. And Underlings that he lived to hunt and kill. He hadn't made it this far and escaped the madness behind the Mist to fail now.

He heard the scrape of a sharp blade coming out of its sheath. His blood surged behind his temples.

“Someone hold his head down while I slip this into his heart. Baltor, start digging a hole. Rogue or not, he deserves a man-made grave.

The sound of sobbing women was drowned out by his instinct to stay alive. Venir summoned every fiber of remaining strength and heaved at his bonds.

Snap! Snap!

He growled in pain like a wounded beast.

There was a sharp gasp behind him when he sat up, half-blind, and began to rise to his feet.

“Great Bish!” someone exclaimed.

Venir winced as he felt a pair of hands wrap around his waist and steady him.

“Someone help the man!” the father commanded.

“But we voted!” One said.

“Yes!” Another agreed.

Venir got a better look at them now, a well-armed but ragged bunch of strangers. Straightening his knees, he pulled back his bullish shoulders and rose to his full height.

“Eek, he’s tall, like an oak.”

“But can he walk, or follow? He’ll slow us down.”

Venir grimaced as he stepped forward.

“Easy, Man,” the woman said.

He was trying to say, "Let go," but it came out as, “Wetgrowr”.

A man, tall and lean, in trousers, bearded and with a strong chin eyed him with suspicion, the short blade in his hand rapping on his pants leg. He, as well as the rest, appeared to be of a better ilk than outlaws or Brigands, but one could never tell for sure. He spoke with more patience in his voice this time.

“Man, can you speak or not? We don’t need some mute that can’t sound the alarm tagging along.”

“Aye,” he said, managing a half-hearted smile. He lived, back in Bish, southern Bish to be exact. “Need g-grog.”

“Hah, well some water will just have to do. No grog or ale for leagues, Man, just a ragged bunch of mercenaries scurrying along the safety of the Mist. No safer place than the edge of the world right now; the underlings have seen to that.”

A moment of panic seized him as his hands fell to his chest. He groaned. His body tamped from head to toe in agony. Something pinched his insides. Busted ribs and splintered bone. Suck it up! The sack, once safely tucked in his shirt, was gone. He looked at his fingers, where one appeared to be dislocated. He pulled it back into place with sickening pop. On his other hand, the left, the tips of his outermost fingers remained blackened and gone.

“Sack,” he mumbled.

“I have it,” the woman said, “but it was quite empty.”

“Smother him with it!” someone said. Venir turned away from them all, looking into the mist that was less than a mile distant. He wanted to be as far from it as far could be.

“Get me my sack, and I’ll leave you to yourselves,” he said, the weariness still heavy as wet canvas. He could barely stand, and walking more than a dozen feet seemed an impossibility at the moment. Pain was something he’d become accustomed to over the years, but being immobile was not.

The woman that was helping him stand up looked up at him. She was a stocky woman, a short-haired red head with round and caring eyes. She said, “Your injuries are too severe, Stranger. You’ve a busted shoulder and ribs, and your leg seems to be broken.”

The leader handed him a canteen of water, eyeing him with concern. “Don’t drink it all.”

Venir gulped in a mouth full, then another.

“Ah!” he said aloud, his voice rich and robust once more. “Now that’s good water, and I’d kill a hundred underlings for more.”

“Man, I should cut you where you stand for drinking all of that.”

“Kill him! He’s a thief!”

“A big, giant, stinking crippled thief."

Venir laughed. My, had he ever missed the insults of people. He said, “You’ll do no such thing, my friends. Not without being dragged into the blood and dirt as well.”

They all bristled.

“The fool doesn’t have a weapon, and now he threatens to kill us all? Kill the lunatic.”

“Will you shut up, Lout,” she pleaded to Venir. “My father’s not one to be trifled with. He’s not one for joking; he’s moody.”

“Ha, your father must have been fed breast milk from an orc when he was a child. A big fat one with three tits and two teeth at that. He misses her, I bet.”

No music could have sounded sweeter to his ears than the sound of steel coming unbridled from their beds. In a moment, four men surrounded him as he stood face to face with the leader, but looking down upon him.

The leader said, “Man, your tongue is as twisted as a serpent’s tail. My orc mother had four tits, not three!”

Everyone looked at the leader, then Venir, then back to the leader.

Venir knew they were waiting for their leader to spill his blood. He could feel their fear and anger, but the man before him remained calm, eyes giving him closer study.

“Perhaps, Stranger, if you shaved that beard from your face you might not seem so disturbing. You look like a bugbear's nanny. Of course, I can only guess you are trying to hide the ogre portion of your heritage.”

“Good for me, but sad for you, clearly being bred of two-legged swine, but your eyes are still quite dashing,” Venir said, stretching out his aching limbs, feeling his knotted muscles begin to loosen beneath his skin.

“By Bish,” the leader said, “Venir, is that you inside that busted face and elder’s beard?”

“Aye, the underlings haven’t gnawed the meat from my bones yet, Hogan. I live.”

Hogan came over, clasped his hands and looked up in his eyes saying, “Before, you were almost as big as a horse, but now you are, Venir. It’s been ten years since we last hunted together, and I thought for certain you were dead, Man.”

The rest of the men and women were stupefied. An older woman, Hogan’s wife, handed Venir a small loaf of bread and some wine.

“Ah, you were holding out on me,” he said to Hogan.

“You asked for grog. But Venir, where have you been, Man? The underlings are over running the entire world these days it seems,” he said, guiding him to the fire.

Venir limped over and sat down. The fire's glare seemed to ignite the coals of his blazing blue eyes as he said, “Tell me more about the underlings.”

CHAPTER 29

“How do you expect me to defend myself in these treacherous mountains in these bonds, Fogle?” Cass asked, interrupting his thoughts.

The journey back to the hot ground of Bish wasn’t any less treacherous than the journey there. Fogle’s razor sharp mind had regained its focus with the help of a few feet-warming spells. Still, his head was clogged and draining with snot, and there was little he could do to control that.

“AH-Chooo!”

Cass stopped and turned, saying, “Ah, poor little wizard has a runny nose. Unhitch me and I can help you with that.”

“No thanks,” he said, avoiding her irresistible gaze.

She was a distraction now. The seductive swagger of her hips drew his gaze when she navigated the snow as if she was part of the snow itself. And every hour or so she had another comment to say: playful, wonderful, tempting, suggestive and even evil. Fogle had defeated her, though. He was the smarter person and stronger as well, but her power was in what she offered him, a want once fulfilled but not fully satisfied. He was curious.

She stood there, waiting for him to catch up, offering a smile.

“Fogle, you have won. I’ve given my word. There is no need for these bonds,” she said, pleading, submissive. “The Blood Ranger knows this. You know this, and if something happens to me, then who will care for your dog? I would hate to see your journey wasted, beyond you losing your virginity, of course. And there is so much more exploring we can offer one another.” She smiled the kind of smile that offered many splendors. “After all , it’s going to be a long walk.” She brushed up against him, looking up into his eyes, the snow flakes falling gently on her beautiful face.

He tore his gaze away, shoved his way past her and trotted up along Mood’s side.

“She's witching, isn’t she, Wizard?”

“What do you mean?” he answered.

“Ho! I can hear every little word of yer chit chat back there. She’s controlling everything from your head to your groin.”

“No, that’s not the case,” he denied. “If anything, I’m controlling her. I’m just letting her think she’s getting control. Ah-CHOO!”

A heavy hand slapped him on his back, almost knocking him to the snow-covered ground.

Mood then said, “Keep telling yerself that then, Man, and you’ll be in the grave sooner than expected. Remember where you are; this is Bish, yer never in control.”

Fogle disagreed. He was always in control.

“No, I have control over my own actions, regardless of the circumstances.”

“Is that so, Wizard? Then tell me, were you in control when you slept with her? Was that part of your plan, or hers?”

“That’s different. I was trying to seduce her,” he said, immediately feeling like a fool after he said it. Cass had caught up and was laughing along with Mood's robust ho’ ho’s.

“Bish on you both!” he cursed. “You outland peoples are impossible.”

He walked away, hiding his blushing face and fighting to ignore the soreness of his icy nose.

“She’s right, you know,” Mood growled back at him.

“About what?” he shot back. He watched Mood slice her bonds apart.

“She has to be able to fend for herself if needed, and we have a long way to go.”

Great! Fogle kept on walking over the frozen and rocky tundra. He didn’t bother a glance at Cass when she knelt down to nuzzle with the wolves, but he could feel her pink eyes on his back, stirring the memory of her soft lips pressed against his.

“Whoop!” he cried, as his boots slid out from under him and he crashed to the ground. BONE! He tried to scramble back to his feet but slipped again, this time jamming his knee into a jagged piece of rock. Pain jabbed into his flesh, and he felt his anger and frustration swelling. Mood’s words were loud and clear in his mind for some reason, Remember where you are; this is Bish, yer never in control.

A strong pair of arms lifted him back to his feet.

“Thanks, Mood,” he said, limping forward.

“Hah,” Cass grinned, “is that an insult or a poor attempt at humor?”

Fogle turned to face her, unable to hide his surprise. She locked her fingers around his and held him tight. He tried to pull his hand away, but her firm grip would not give. A moment of panic surged within him. “What are you doing?” he said, “Let go!” He summoned his energy, but her next words subdued his efforts.

“I am your prisoner,” she said, kissing his hand.

A lump formed in his throat. His embarrassment at her being stronger than him, physically, began to fade, and he allowed her warm flesh to become one with his.

Mood stood before them with big meaty hands on his hips, a burning cigar hanging out of his mouth.

“Sheesh, just try in’ keep up. I’m starting to miss my home already.”

But for the time being, Fogle Boon was in no hurry.

CHAPTER 30

“I’m going, Kam!” Georgio yelled.

Kam shot back, “No, you certainly are not!”

The Magi Roost was empty except for a handful of people including Mikkel, Billip, Joline, Georgio and herself. The madness that consumed the City of Three the prior day had finally come to a close, and now the morning suns of the new day were on the rise. The underlings had brought not only chaos, but fire to the safe harbor of the city. The damage was minimal at worst, but the impact the presence of the underlings had was devastating. For the first time in decades, so far as anyone knew, almost every window and door was locked.

Georgio rose up to his full height, a young man now, but a man nonetheless, and said, “I can do whatever I want. I have family in the south, too, and I want to check on them. I can take care of myself, and I’ll have Mikkel and Billip with me. You can’t make me stay!” He rapped his first on the bar.

Kam’s green eyes were like burning emeralds, and she was shaking with anger and guilt.

“No you won’t!”

“Yes I will!” Georgio jumped in her face.

Her eyes fastened on his, blazed with anger, and she began to mumble a spell.

Joline’s perspiring face came between the two of them.

“Enough, you two!” Joline stammered, unable to hide the shock on her face. “This isn’t the right way to settle this,” she said, voice shaking. “Georgio, you are way out of line, talking to Kam that way. She’s only done the best by you.”

Georgio sulked and turned away, but Joline caught him by his earlobe.

“OW!”

“Sit down, Boy! And don’t make me raise my voice again.”

Georgio frowned as he plopped down on the nearest chair and brushed his long curly locks from his face.

Mikkel stood up, mouth beginning to fill with words, drawing Kam’s glare. He closed his mouth and resumed his seat on the groaning stool.

I can’t believe this. She took a deep breath and rubbed her forehead. Her nose was running. Mere hours ago, she had slaughtered a small host of underlings, yet now she was struggling to maintain her wits against the will of an elder boy. She raised her fingers and a half-moon bottle of Muckle Sap floated her way—and was intercepted by Joline.

“Joline,” Kam warned, “now is not the time.”

As the older woman’s lips parted, Kam snatched the bottle from her hand.

“Don’t you dare do that again!” Joline fired back. “I can still turn you over my knee!”

Mikkel and Billip's brows perched.

“I’m hungry,” Georgio said.

Kam felt her mind unraveling. Things seemed to be happening all at once: underlings had invaded her city; Mikkel and Billip were leaving, and now Georgio wanted to go. Venir was either dead or had abandoned her and his daughter Erin. She tilted the bottle to her lips and drank. Pull it together.

“Kam,” Joline said with shock, “you aren’t some commoner. You’re a Royal.”

Kam handed her back the jug and said, “And I just killed a hive of underlings, so I think you can give my bad graces a pass.” She wrapped her arms around Joline and said, “And I’m very sorry, too.”

The brief awkward silence was broken when Billip offered a suggestion, saying, “I think she still deserves a spanking.”

Kam let out a little laugh, quiet and pleasant. Joline started to get the giggles. Before she knew what was happening, everyone was laughing, even Georgio chuckled a little. Still laughing, she pulled him up from his chair and said with tears in her eyes, “I’m sorry.”

“Me, too,” he admitted, hugging her.

Now that the mood had softened in the room, everyone gathered at a big round table by the largest fireplace. Kam was exhausted. Joline looked exhausted, and for the first time since she knew them, Billip and Mikkel’s energy seemed drained. Only Georgio remained bright-eyed as he dug a wooden spoon into a large bowl of Joline’s stew. Billip and Joline sat beside one another, shoulder to shoulder. It seemed Kam wasn’t as aware of things as she’d like to think she was.

“Now, let me be clear,” she said to all, but looking at Georgio. “I don’t want you to go, but I can’t make you stay, any of you, and,” she fought back a choking sob, “I don’t like it.”

“Ah Kam,” Mikkel said, “I’ll stay.”

“No. No, you won’t. You have to get your son, and you’ll need help. Bish, this is so hard!”She had always figured that things would be simpler once the formidable men parted ways and the boys grew up, but this was painful. Her heart ached. And underlings, ghastly creatures unlike she ever imagined, were waiting out there. She didn’t understand how they had the courage to risk their lives going back, knowing full well what was out there.

“Also,” she continued, “what about Lefty?”

Georgio looked away, arms crossed over his chest, frowning.

“Don’t you want to say good-bye, Georgio? He’s your best friend.”

Georgio mumbled something.

“What was that?” she said.

“Was—I said!”

“You don’t mean that,” Kam frowned.

“I do mean that. His best friend is the freakish fingered Gillem now. I swear I don’t know why all of you like him. He’s evil!”

Georgio started to get up, but Mikkel’s stern look sat him back down.

For the life of her, Kam hadn’t found a single reason to distrust Master Gillem. She’d been paying attention, but maybe not so much as she thought. After all, there had been more than enough distractions lately. As for Gillem being evil, it was absurd, but Georgio was young, and he and his best friend had clearly drifted since Gillem’s arrival. Her sudden sickness and the relief Gillem brought did seem a bit too timely.

“Men,” she said to Mikkel and Billip, “is there any reason to distrust Gillem? Do you think he’s posed a danger to our dear Lefty?”

Mikkel shook his head and said, “No, he’s been more than helpful.”

“And not overtly so,” Billip said, popping his knuckles.

“Stop that,” Joline said, wrapping her fingers around Billip’s. “Will you ever learn your manners?” The older woman let out a squeal as Billip wiggled his fingers around her waist.

“I think Georgio's just missing his little friend is all,” Mikkel continued, rubbing Georgio’s head. “But, it’s just part of growing up, and halflings are a different race. They have their own ways.”

Georgio shoved Mikkel’s thick wristed hand away and said through his teeth, “You are an idiot, Mikkel. And so are you, Billip. If Venir were here, he would know better.”

Joline gasped, saying, “Georgio!”

Kam slammed her hands onto the table as she rose, saying, “What has gotten into you, Georgio? You're the one acting evil!” She would have done anything to retrieve her words, and if there were such a spell she would have used it. Georgio’s handsome round face was now pitiful and sad. His brown eyes watered, and he began to snivel. She reached over to touch him, but he turned his chair away.

“Everyone ease up,” Billip suggested. “Georgio’s upset and mad, and he’s entitled. Besides, It’s not like I haven’t been called stupid before. Well, at least I don’t think I’ve not been called stupid, so far as I remember.”

But no one seemed to be listening to his words, least of all Kam, who felt like dirt. Venir. Where is that handsome lout who caused all this? She dabbed her nose with a dish rag and blew. It was an awful sound.

In the meantime, Mikkel reached over, grabbed a handful of Georgio’s curly hair, pulled him half out of his seat and said, “You call me an idiot again and I’ll bust your fat little arse, Boy.”

Georgio’s eyes enlarged like moons before Mikkel let him back down.

“Sorry,” he managed. “It’s just that, I know Venir is out there, and I want to go find him. Maybe he and Chongo are back in Bone—or Two-Ten City? He has to be fighting underlings. Maybe that’s why they're leaving the south, because Venir’s slaughtering them like he always does.”

Kam blew her nose again. She saw Billip and Mikkel give each other hopeless looks. Georgio was a long way from letting Venir go, unlike the rest of them. If anything, the underling assaults were the result of Venir being dead, not alive.

Joline then said, “We can’t be parting ways like this, and I can’t stay up all night, either. Georgio, I’ll keep tabs on Lefty and Master Gillem. I have to say, no man or halfling should be so charming, and he is a bit too nosy for my liking. I love the flowers, and his words, and the way they trickle from his tongue like honey, but … well … I’ll leave it at that. I think we all need to be more careful … times are not as they were.”

The roasting fire behind Kam did little to warm her spirits. Her friends were leaving, and like Venir and Fogle, she didn’t know if she would ever see them again. She scanned the Magi Roost and was overwhelmed with memories. For over a decade it had been her home, and she knew every inch of its fabric from the creaking floorboards to every glass and goblet behind the bar. It was all a part of her. But it had never been so filled with life as it had been these past few months. She looked at the bloodstain on the floor, one table over, where Venir and Fogle had held their legendary Mind Grumble. She whimpered inside. She wanted him back. She wanted them all back to have things like they were before, even if only for one more day.

“Kam,” Mikkel’s deep voice interrupted her thoughts, “are you well? You look a little lost over there.”

“I’m fine. I just realized that, like so many people, I’ve never been anywhere else before.”

Joline kicked her in the leg.

“Do you think you’re going to run off and leave your baby? Or me, for that matter?”

“I’ll take her with me.”

“You set one foot outside of this city with baby Erin … well … neither of you might ever come back again. I can’t handle that,” Joline got up, flushed, and rushed off to the kitchen.

Kam felt foolish for even suggesting such a thing, and the looks in the men’s eyes were ones of grave concern. Georgio had the most worried look of all.

“Clearly I am the only idiot here,” she said, standing up. She walked over to Billip and Mikkel, hugged their backs and kissed their heads. Then she did the same to Georgio. She was numb as she walked away and said the rest: “See me before you go. I’ll have something for you.”

For now, all she wanted to do was crawl in a hole.

CHAPTER 31

The Nest had many wonders one would never imagine … a secret city beneath the golden thrones above. Not many men, or women for that matter, knew of its existence. Even the highest ranking Royals in the City of Three did not know of the location, nor did they care. But there it was: private, quiet, with as many amenities in its crowded nooks as the world above, except for the burning suns and eerie moons. As a matter of fact, it would be a great place to live, if it wasn’t full of thieves.

That bothered Lefty as he hurried alongside Master Gillem with a nervous look in his eye and a rapid little heart pounding behind his breast. The novelty of stealing had begun to wear off. It was one thing to make a few ends meet and quite another having to do it against one’s own free will. He rubbed his running nose. Something about the moldy air in the dank city bothered him.

“Gillem,” he said, “are we going to see Palos now?”

“Prince Palos,” Gillem responded, strutting the streets in a long gait, nodding to all of the cohorts they passed by.

The last few hours had been out of the ordinary. Something was going on, and every crooked spine in the Nest had an urgent gesture about it. Whatever was going on, Lefty wasn’t being filled in.

He pulled at the long sleeve of Gillem’s cotton white shirt and said, “Will you tell me something? What's going on?”

Gillem rubbed his blond locks with his skinny, man-sized fingers that reminded Lefty of Melegal. “Lefty Lightfoot, now is the time to be silent, follow and listen. Yes, something is going on, but that is no matter to us. We serve the Prince of Thieves, and that is all that matters. He will tell us what we can worry about and what we cannot. Now come along.”

Lefty didn’t like the sound of that. He rubbed the goosebumps on his arms, but they wouldn’t go away, not since he'd seen the trove of bodies in their watery graves. He knew, right then and there, he had to make a change. But how? Palos would kill him, of that much he was certain. The Prince of Thieves had made that perfectly clear on more than one occasion. What would Melegal do? When will Venir get back? He had convinced himself he wouldn’t need them anymore, but on days like this he was reminded how much he did.

“Come on, Lad. We don’t need to make the Prince mad,” Gillem said as they entered the tavern home of Palos. Gillem didn’t offer a single word to the handful of patrons as they made their way up the steps to the balcony.

There stood Thorn, tall and gruesome, big arms crossed over his broad chest, short swords dangling on his hips, blocking the door to Palos’s haphazard throne room. Behind Thorn, leaning on the balcony rail, was the other man, small crossbow in hand, toothpick dangling from his mouth, whose name Lefty did not yet know. The man’s mousy eyes fixated on Lefty as he stood up and leveled the crossbow at his chest, winked and turned away. Lefty slid a little farther behind Gillem.

“He summoned us, Thorn,” Gillem said with an agitated tone, “so open the door, Cretin.”

Thorn let out a little snort as he glared down on them like rodents and pushed the door open, taking his time before he stepped aside. Without hesitation Gillem entered, and Lefty stayed on his heels. A brush of air bristled his hair as Thorn slammed the door closed behind them. Lefty let out a sigh. Here we are again. How dreadful. The room was empty of life other than the blazing fire inside a marble mantle made for a Royal, with a great sword hanging over the top.

“Have a seat,” Gillem gestured toward the table that was half covered with piles of silver and gold coins among other trinkets and jewelry.

The older halfling pulled out a small sack and dropped it with a clank in front of Palos’s chair at the head of the table. Lefty saw Gillem’s face bunch up as he drew his long fingers away in slow motion. Two weeks of work was in there, a small fortune, a bag of trinkets and trophies, all gone to where? Lefty couldn’t help but wonder where it all went and how Palos could possibly spend it all.

Gillem sat down beside him and poured a goblet of wine.

“Thirsty, Lefty?”

My throat is as dry as a cup of Outland sand.

“No.”

“Don’t be rude, Lefty. If Palos drinks, you drink.”

Lefty crinkled his nose. Wine and ale weren’t anything he cared to indulge in, unlike the rest of the populace of the Nest, who took a great deal of pride in swilling wine and telling foul jokes. It was fun at first, until the women came, carousing the tavern and stirring the men into a frenzy of hooting and hollering beasts. Lefty never knew the meaning of the word appalled or that such a feeling existed until he came to the Nest. Now he found himself feeling appalled every time he came back. He wondered if Gillem ever felt the same, but the master thief didn’t ever seem to be bothered by anything, except by Palos.

Gillem slapped him on the shoulder, causing him to raise his head from the table. The warmth of the fire began to seep into his little bones and fill his head with weariness. Palos’s bedroom door creaked open, and there the Prince of Thieves stood in a long flowing black silk bathrobe with a belt tightly wrapped around his rotund belly. Palos had put on a few pounds since the first time they met, but he still moved with grace that belied his girth.

“Little thieves,” he said, taking a seat at the table, “literally, and with little purses, I see.” Palos snatched up Gillem’s sack, tested its heft and tossed it aside with all rest. “Really, Master Gillem, that’s hardly a day’s work, if that.”

Lefty watched Gillem’s shoulders draw back. It was double what they turned in two weeks before, if not more, and it had been a prosperous couple of weeks.

“You two wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you?” said Palos, like a slithering snake.

Lefty looked into Palos's pale probing eyes that were filled with an unnatural, tireless energy. It was as if the man was too greedy to sleep for fear of a rat snatching a golden crumb of cheese. Gone was the charming man he met above, now permanently replaced by something maniacal and greedy. I can’t do this.

“Certainly not, Palos,” Gillem shot back, his fingers falling to his pockets.

“Oh Master Longfingers, I remember our days when you mentored me. Did we not return with more booty than this little sack?”

“No, we did not,” the halfling disagreed.

You tell him, Gillem!

“Huh, it seems you are getting old, Halfling. As I recall, we returned with at least two sacks this size,” Palos said, stretching out his arms, fighting a yawn.

“In two months maybe,” Gillem said, standing up in his chair. “Lefty and I got this in two weeks. I was a master thief then, I am a master now, and I was a master before you cut your first purse.”

Lefty couldn’t find his breath. Something was wrong. He had never seen Gillem upset before. He grabbed his mentor by the shirt tail and tried to pull him down, only to be swatted away.

Palos fired back, “Sit down, Gillem! Else I’ll have Thorn come in here and skewer you like a fat little pig.”

The man meant it, every word; Lefty could tell. He tugged at Gillem again, who to his surprise, sat down with a blank look on his face. It was as if Palos’s threat sucked all the life from the vibrant halfling man, as if he was looking at his own grave in the murky waters. Lefty remained still, his little heart the only thing moving, like a frightened bunny, barely breathing.

“Now, Gillem, I’ll forgive your little fit this once and even this paltry tithe, but one more outburst like that and you both will die! Understand?”

Lefty nodded along with Gillem.

“Now, Boy, bring me a goblet of wine.”

Lefty did as he was told and returned back to his seat. Gillem sat stone faced. Sensing that something was very wrong, Lefty slunk deeper into the confines of his chair.

“So, it seems that our gains are meager, and it’s not just the two of you, even though you are the most disappointing.” He ran his finger around the rim of his bejeweled goblet. “So you both, at my direction, are going to begin playing a bigger game.”

Gillem shifted in his seat, and Lefty sat a little farther up.

“It’s called Ransom. Lefty, do you know what ransom is?”

The word sounded familiar, but he didn’t know for sure, and he was too scared to guess. He shook his head.

“Oh … well done, Gillem. What a fine mentor you are, not telling him about one of our favorite challenges.”

Gillem gave Lefty a sad look over his shoulder that ran a chill down his spine.

“Ransom, little halfling, has a big payday. Maybe ten years worth or even a lifetime if you play the game right.” Palos’s polished and charming tone had returned. “Would you like to learn how it’s played?”

Lefty was curious. He nodded his head.

“Good,” Palos pulled himself up from his chair and leaned on his forearms, eyes intent on his. “First, you need a target, someone of great wealth and passion. Someone who has compassion and a lot of gold. Like a Royal, for instance.”

Lefty nodded.

“You find something of theirs, something very valuable, that they cannot live without. Something that they would die for.”

Lefty nodded again. It sounded like a challenge, and his thoughts went to the Wizard Towers whose smooth spires reached into the sky. Something valuable or something worth dying for would have to be in there. Maybe this would be an opportunity, a dangerous one, but something new nonetheless.

“Or someone valuable,” Palos continued in a whisper, “like a baby, perhaps.”

All signs of life went numb from fingertip to toenail. Erin! Bish! You can’t say Erin! Lefty wanted to run, to hide, to scream or do anything to avoid hearing what Palos said next.

“Yes, Boy, you are going to steal Kam’s baby for me.” Palos’s eyes flickered with evil, his voice as vengeful as a viper and somewhat deranged. “That witch owes me a favor, and I’ll have her groveling on her hands and knees before me, offering me anything and everything I want. I’ll shackle her, defile her and make her beg for more.” Palos slammed his jeweled fists into the table.

Wham!

“I will have her baby, and she will be my whore!”

Lefty couldn’t believe what was happening or why. No! No! No! How had skimming led him down this dark path? It was his fault and his alone. Now he was being forced to do the unthinkable. Something bumped against his chair. It was the crooked-nosed Thorn, as tall and dark as a stormy night sky.

“You, Gillem and Thorn shall execute this kidnapping, and mind you, little halfling: fail in this charge and Kam and all the rest of your companions will be strewn across every dark corner in this city by the entire thieves guild.”

CHAPTER 32

“Impressive, Detective,” Lord Almen said.

It was a compliment; a sincere one that wasn’t layered in an accent that suggested anything otherwise would mean death. Instead, Melegal stood tall, not proud, before the Royal Lord's desk beneath the castle kitchens. It had been almost three full weeks since he was last summoned to the hawking man’s private study, which gave him great relief and curiosity as well. Lord Almen, an image of strength and power, looked drained. His vulture-like countenance almost sagged, as if recovering from a sudden illness. It wasn’t something one would normally notice, but nothing escaped Melegal’s notice.

Lord Almen continued as his ring-clad fingers rolled a strange foreign object over his desk. It was one of the items seized during the capture of the Slergs, perhaps the only thing of value at all. The Royal Lord smiled and said, “This is a great prize:.a Slerg weapon, very potent. Have you ever seen anything like it before in your life?” Lord Almen held it before his own face, eyes filled with admiration.

“No, Lord Almen. I’m not very familiar with the various forms of weapons, especially one of such a crude make,” he said, staring at the white ash cudgel of the one called Leezir, a man he knew from long ago. It looked like nothing more than a club carved from a trunk of wood and shaved down, smooth at the top with a grip carved out for a handle. It had a strange white hue about it.

“Spine Breaker,” Lord Almen said, rising from his chair and toying with the hefty weapon. “Tell me about its acquisition. I’ve heard nothing about this capture of my foes, and I’d like to have some intimate details.”

Almen waved the fat end of the cudgel inches from his nose, like a giant rattle. Melegal fought the urge to step back as images of the battle of the Slergs swelled inside the confines of his mind. Oh, the sick Lord will enjoy this.

He cleared his throat.

“The short version, Lord Almen?”

“Yes, but don’t leave out the interesting parts. I know there must be some,” Almen commented while he poured two goblets of wine and handed one to Melegal.

I better make this good, then.

He thought of Venir, the story teller, the man with as much mouth as he had brawn. Venir had his ways, and Melegal had his own, but he’d never been one to entertain men, as opposed to women when it came to using his tongue.

He took a sip, thinking Oh, that’s wonderful, and began:

“We had them cornered in the catacombs in the sewers beneath the city, between the Northeast passages and the manufacturer’s district. I estimated there were only six of them remaining, trapped between the grates with their only way out being up through the storm drains.  I ordered the City Watch to drop the smokers in. We had the lone rain portal sealed, twenty Watchmen, swords and watch sticks in hand, ready to dispense your will by my command.”

Taking a sip, Lord Almen nodded for him to continue.

“As the smoke billowed from the hole in the street, the first man came out, arms flailing, coughing. An eager Watchmen cut his neck out with a sword, a bit too eager, it seemed. I reminded the dullards we were to take them alive, not dead. So, I had them sheath their swords.”

Lord Almen interrupted saying, “Seems risky. They’ve been a dangerous lot.”

“True, Lord Almen, but I needed to interrogate some of them. I had to make sure we had them all,” he reassured the Lord. The truth was, he was hoping the City Watch, one or two at least, might be caught off guard. The fewer the Watchmen, the better.

He wet his throat with more wine. With grapes pressed such as this I could tell stories all day. Man and babe alike. Delicious.

“The next man burst through the hole in a black cowl, waving that cudgel, which was glowing like the moons. Two watchmen bore down on him, and there was a clap like thunder.” He smacked his hands together with a sharp pop. “One man fell to the ground, in a pile of boneless flesh, and the other gawped long enough to have his head cracked open like a nut.”

“Excellent,” Almen commented, hands caressing the wood.

“About that time another character climbed from the hole, his swords chopping through a small wave of watchmen like they were wheat. He was fast: punching holes in throats and slicing open bellies like a seasoned soldier. Another thunderclap followed. This time it shook the ground, knocking men from their feet. That’s when I let loose your snakes.”

Melegal opened up his palms. Two coiled pieces of intricate metal shone dully in the lantern light as he set them on the table.

“I'm not a mage, and I had my doubts, but I did as you instructed me. Dropping them to the ground made the things come to life, slithering like sidewinders over the stone and wrapping around the legs of the two formidable Slergs like whips. After that, it was over.”

Melegal finished his goblet that Lord Almen refilled.

“Thank you, Lord Almen. At that point, the City Watch overwhelmed them, beating them like a pair of dirty rugs. Really dirty. But the damage had been done. Four of the Watchmen looked like they had just fallen from a cliff and landed on a pile of rocks. Three more were dead from the one Slerg's steels, two others wounded. Blood and guts smeared the road, until the rain came and washed it away. The only ones left of the Slergs were the two and a young girl.”

“And wasn’t there another, a giant brute of some sort?” Almen asked, hoisting the hefty cudgel on his broad shoulder.

“We’d jailed him earlier. Can’t tell if he was kin or not. Seems too big and slow, somewhat mute.” Melegal didn’t want to say too much. Brak’s fate was not in his hands, but if anything, maybe the man could bust rocks for the rest of his life in shackles. Better than being dead.

Lord Almen took his seat, dipped a quill in a jar of ink and jotted something down on a piece of parchment. “So, Detective, how confident are you that there are no Slergs left?”

He didn’t shift or sigh, despite his resentment of the question—How in Bish was he supposed to know? He had poured over every last bit of information that the torturers had extracted from the men. No man, under thumbscrews or bamboo shoots, was unbreakable, and in the case of the Slergs, they had a weak line of faith. He could only assume they did not lie when they screamed. He had to be right. Of course, it was expected that he would be—after all, he was Castle Almen’s Detective—a position he had come to discover offered a degree of reverence, even from the Almen family. Right or wrong, I’ll be dead one day anyway.

“Certainly, Lord Almen. Every lice-ridden head accounted for. All survivors in uncomfortable and agonizing custody,” he said in a reassuring voice.

“Not too agonizing. I have plans for those who remain.”

Is that so?

“Lord Almen, may I ask … Do those plans involve me?”

Lord Almen raked his fingers through his long brown hair, fastened his handsome countenance on Melegal and said, “Of course, Detective. With all the work that you have done, it would seem fitting to let you in on our final farewell to the Slergs. I plan to have you and Sefron work on this little project together, along with my family and other Royal friends of mine.”

Melegal could feel the blood curdle in his veins at the mention of Sefron’s name. He felt his nostrils flaring like galloping horses, even though they weren’t, he still struggled to maintain his accommodating composure. Great, maybe I’ll accidentally kill him. He had already seen the creepy cleric spill more blood in the castle dungeons than most seasoned soldiers spilled on the battlefield. The sick man enjoyed delivering misery, death and pain.

“Excellent, Lord Almen.”

“I think you’ll enjoy it. There will be a coming of age ceremony for several fine young Royals. It almost makes me want to laugh, thinking about Sefron’s plan for the meddlesome Slergs”

“And that would be, Lord Almen?”

Lord Almen raised a brow and said, “I’m sure you are familiar with the Coming of Age ceremony, Detective?”

“Certainly,” he answered. Most urchins that served in the castles were very aware, especially the large and slow ones, like Venir. Melegal’s memory of back then was as clear of the details as if it had all happened yesterday. It had been at least two decades since he had seen the last one, the one where Venir had fought the Slerg brothers, Creighton and Hagerdon. Leezir had been there, too. Funny how things happen, he thought. “So, the Slergs will be the contestants against the upcoming youth, I suppose?”

“Yes,” Almen said, his face showing mild delight. “It’s only for the Almens, and as I mentioned, other friends that lie outside of the constrictions of the Royal Castles. I can’t have word getting out of this event, Detective.” Lord Almen picked up the cudgel that self-illuminated with pale light. “It wouldn’t be viewed favorably among other Royal Castles.”

“Understood. Is there anything else?”

Lord Almen hawkish eyes fixated on his.

Please don’t ask.

“How are you coming along with the Lorda’s investigation of my deranged son … Tonio?”

Lord Almen hadn’t mentioned his son in weeks, and now he was interested again? Melegal had no answers. Except one.

Be bold.

“They say a wild butcher in Royal armament runs the streets. They say he is a ghost or ghoul from below. I say that ghoul is yours, Lord Almen.”

Lord Almen gave him a wary look and said, “Is this what you have told the Lorda?”

“She can’t be as easily convinced, but yes, I have.”

“Can you hunt him down and kill him, if need be?”

“I can on your command.” But I’d rather not. I don’t think he can be killed.

Melegal stood there waiting for the Royal Lord to respond. When his feet began to ache, he asked himself the same old question: How did that big man sneak up on me?

Lord Almen continued to jot down more notes.

Melegal waited.

Oh, not this again.

Minute after agonizing minute passed.

“I’ll be expecting confirmation of what you believe at some point, Detective. Dismissed.”

Melegal backed towards the door and left as quietly as he could. How could he confirm what he believed without bringing Lord Almen proof? Kill Sefron. Kill Tonio? There has to be a way out of all this. Up the stairs he went, stride after stride, with the full realization that he wasn’t going up, he was going down.

CHAPTER 33

Outlaw's Hide was a place of wary faces. Venir welcomed them all, however, offering greetings and salutations as if they were all long lost friends, not a stranger among them, yet there were many.

“Hello, Pretty One,” he said to a chubby half-orcen woman wrapped in tattered robes and carrying a sack of flour.

Adanna, Hogan’s daughter, jabbed his ribs with an elbow. “Will you stop that? You draw too much attention upon yourself. And calling that two-legged sow pretty is sickening.”

Venir reached over and tickled her ribs, bringing forth a squeal of delight.

“Jealous, I see.”

“Hardly,” she said, reaching up to pull the clay jar of grog from his lips, “now give me that. You’ve drank yourself blind.”

Venir dangled the jar high over his head. “And before the night's over I’ll have drunk myself deaf as well, but not so much that I cannot enjoy your soft lips crying for more.” He slapped Adanna on her rump, lifting her to her toes.

“Lout,” she said, slapping him away … with a smile.

Outlaw's Hide was little more than a tent city, the heavy canvasses large, small and some even grand enough to house a hundred people, others little more than a stick and a rug. There were buildings, but these were few and rotting like fallen logs in a swamp. It hardly mattered. The inhabitants of Outlaw's Hide didn’t often stay for long. The Hide was dangerous: even the deadliest criminals and renegades were at risk within its shadowy clutches. Some came and went quickly, others didn’t last through the night. Venir wasn’t worried about any of that.

Venir tossed his empty jug into a small tent, busting it with a crash. A cry of alarm went up, and angry voices stepped out, a pair of stout men, one as scarred and calloused from battle as the other, hands gripping the pommels of their swords. Venir was whistling as he walked by, paying neither man any mind.

“You’re a dead man!” one said, ripping free his sword, its keen edge glinting in the moon light.

Venir stopped, turned and laughed, his big hands falling onto two broad swords strapped around his waist.

The men were almost a head shorter than Venir, yet taller than most men. Their opposing demeanor was criminal from head to toe as they spread apart, both brandishing steel. The murderous intent in their eyes began to fade as Venir’s shadow fell on them.

“Did you jackals say something?” Venir said.

Both men made grumbling sounds, sheathed their swords and returned inside their tent.

“That was strange,” Adanna said. “Oh!”

Venir hoisted her over his shoulder and said, “Let’s give those pretty little legs of yours a rest, shall we?”

Other than an excited sigh, her warm, supple body offered little resistance if any at all.

Venir jostled through the throngs of orcs, men, gnolls, kobolds, dwarves and even striders and halflings as if they weren’t there. He was the most popular man in the Hide, and that wasn’t good.

Outlaw's Hide, on the southernmost corner of Bish, once small and secluded, was getting crowded. The races at most times were barely tolerant of one another, but now they were almost amiable. It wasn’t uncommon to see men and gnolls playing cards, though the dwarves still were intolerant of the handful of half-ogres. The Hide was a remnant of Venir's  time spent with the Brigand Army, another secure location tucked behind the jungles, behind the grasses and atop jutting hillsides.

“Venir, will you please put me down? I’m getting sick,” Adanna said.

He set her down and took a long look in the sky.

The moons in the sky, both a dull reddish hue, stirred his blood. Hogan had caught him up on mankind’s plight and the onslaught of the underlings. The days he thought he was gone in the Under Bish and Mist had turned out to be months, perhaps longer. No, it seemed Bish was upside down. Something was wrong, very wrong. He could tell.

“Are you a'right? You seem lost,” the soft woman said, pulling him into their small but accommodating tent. “You’ve been a bit aloof these past few days.” She pulled his shirt off and began running her fingers over his scars.

The underlings. According to Hogan, they were as thick as weeds in every direction, subjecting their terror on every race with extreme prejudice. But humans, however, seemed to be taking the brunt of the punishment. Venir was happy to be living and breathing among men again, relishing every day of life. He was different, his vitality returned, a spring in every step, and brightness behind every word. He feared nothing. His belly was filled, and other needs satisfied. He was ready to live again, and for now the underlings would have to wait. But something in the back of his mind was beginning to ebb.

Adanna pushed him down onto the blankets, straddled him and began pulling her top off.

He reached for her breasts.

“Venir!” someone shouted from outside his tent.

Adanna dived for her clothes.

“Go away, Hogan! I’m—”

“Shaddup, Man. I know what you and my daughter are doing. There’s no time for that. You need to come and come now!”

Venir stepped outside, the hot night air bristling on his scarred and naked chest.

“I see you trimmed your face.”

“Actually, I did that,” Adanna said, stepping out from behind the tent flap.

Hogan shook his head. It was clear he was perturbed by their relationship. “Baltor is coming.” Adanna’s father waved his hand in front of his face. “Man, how much have you been drinking? You smell like a half-orcen sot. And now Baltor comes, full of fire, wanting to challenge you for Adanna.”

“What!” she interjected. “I’m not some trophy whore. I can choose whom I please.”

“No you can’t!” Hogan warned. “You agreed to be Baltor’s mate, and word bound it. Now you’ve gone and broke your oath.”

“I never made an oath, Father! Baltor was there when I was alone. There’s not some pact between us.”

“Well, the fool does not care, and he’s not alone. Venir, he’s dangerous. Stupid, but dangerous as a gnoll. And I’d be lying if I said he didn’t worry me.”

Venir smiled grimly and said, “Let him come. I’ve fared pretty well against better.”

“At least hide until you can be prepared, Man. You’re swaying like a tree about to fall.”

“Too late,” Venir huffed, rubbing his blurry eyes.

Baltor had arrived, accompanied by a handful of Hogan’s men and another troupe of outlaws and renegades. Baltor was big, his muscles solid as if he were carved from the trunk of a tree, unyielding. His head was shaved on both sides. A strange black collar adorned his neck, and his brutish body seemed unnatural beneath the face, with a sinister look lurking behind his wild eyes.

“Adanna, come with me!” Baltor ordered, thumbing his chest.

She stepped forward, mouth opening to speak when her father pulled her back.

Venir crossed his arms over his chest and sighed, saying, “What’s the matter, Baltor? Are the hairy hind ends of your orcen sisters too much for you to handle?” hic

Out loud chuckles erupted from the growing crowd, gnoll and orc among them.

Baltor rushed up and jabbed his finger in Venir’s face.

“I’ll kill you!” he said, practically frothing at the lips.

Venir, despite his impairment, could see the glazed look in the man’s eyes. Baltor, already mighty of frame, was endowed with something else. Mystic herbs, dark ones, most likely. It was something the black markets from Outlaw's Hide sold. He couldn’t remember what it was called, but it was pricy, something that the Royals were more apt to get their hands on as opposed to common men.

“You couldn’t beat me if my arm was tied behind my back,” Venir said, sneering down on the man. He was getting annoyed. Then he heard Adanna gasp.

“You heard him! One hand tied behind his back! A Challenge!”

A fervor arose in the crowd. Venir’s big mouth had landed him a few challenges already. All of his talk of dragons and giants had branded him as a bit of a loon, though his stories did sound quite convincing and even caused the oldest of crones to swoon.

Unlike challenges in the more civilized establishments in the world of Bish, Outlaw's Hide played by very loose rules. Anything that sounded like a challenge could be construed as a challenge, which was a strong reason why most outlaws kept to themselves. The mildest of disagreements could be turned by gossiping mouths into the bloodiest of contests.

Hogan reached over, grabbed him by his arm and said, “Are you a fool! Baltor’s an induced bull.”

“Hah, more like an induced imbecile. I’ve fought a minotaur, and if anything, he’s a sheep, or a cow.” Hic “You’re a cow, Baltor.”

Adanna stood in front of him, her round face looking up at him like he was a complete lunatic. “What have you done, you fool?”

Hic “I’m taking measures so that the next time we lock legs there’ll be no interruptions.” Venir swept her up in his arm and gave her a hungry kiss. “Hold on to that until this is over.”

Adanna gawped and turned away.

Venir was being shoved into a circle that had formed, of bloodthirsty men, orcs, gnolls and striders. The dwarves and halflings stood in the front. As he peered around, a brief thought of Melegal came to mind, as the coins began their clinking journey from hand to hand. Somewhere, a one-armed troubadour with an eye patch played and sang a semi-rousing tune on his lute.

There was a day when the underlings cameAnd the Darkslayer wasn’t there to Slay the Day …

Instead a loon and bald-headed goon squared off to play a game

Tis the day , where one brute must die.

Bye, bye in Outlaw's HideWhere the liars and the convicts come to live and to die.

The good ole dwarves mix the grog and the wine, singing

This'll be the place that ye’ll die.

Bullslat! Someone interjected.

This'll be the place that ye’ll die.

“Right or left handed?” A gruff looking man with a long piece of rope asked. “Ah … it seems you're right handed,” the man said, looking at the missing finger tips on his left, then proceeded to tie off his right arm. He tested the bonds and yelled out, “He’s secured.”

Venir gave his missing fingertips some study as Baltor paced back and forth like a caged animal, drumming his head with his fists. That’s when Venir noticed a series of very tall and large figures looming farther behind the ranks of the crowd. He was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, someone was trying to kill him.

A tall slender man, long haired and wizened, stepped in the middle of the circle, robed in brown clothes from head to toe. Venir had never seen him around before. The man lifted his hands, and the crowd fell silent.

“You, Venir, have made a challenge against Baltor. One-armed you’ll fight until one of you begs for mercy or succumbs to death. Is this correct?” the man said, his voice loud and tranquil.

“Aye,” Venir said.

“And you, Baltor, you accept?”

“Aye,” Baltor said, his sneering face fixated on Venir’s as he smashed his fists together.

Venir couldn’t ever recall having fought one armed before. How much harder could it be?

“ONE!”

The rambunctious crowd gasped into a whisper as every eager eye widened with elation.

“TWO!”

CHAPTER 34

Exhaustion. The word wasn’t sufficient. Fogle lay in a bed that was little more than a mattress stuffed with feathers and hay that sat on the floor. It might as well have been one of the finest beds and mattresses in the City of Three as far as he was concerned. He was no longer cold, and that was all that mattered. He yawned, stretched, tossed and turned, but nothing eased his jangled nerves. However, he did find great comfort in the fact that he lived. Even if it was in Dwarven Hole.

“One adventure down … no more to go,” he murmured to himself.

At least I’m warm. His room, consisting of the heaviest wooden furniture he’d ever used, was uncomfortable. But, a sense of security filled him, despite all of the commotion that occurred outside. The dwarves, a more melancholy than mirthful race, were active. Hammers striking steel were always echoing from within the Hole, along with the sounds of a roaring furnace being stuffed with coal and stoked.

The underlings. It seemed the dark vicious little race of creatures had begun to crop up everywhere. On his travels back, Mood had apprised Fogle of their bloody presence and wicked deeds. The most horrific things had happened to several villages and farm towns south of Dwarven Hole. A longtime safe haven under the dwarven wings had all but been wiped out.

It was there Fogle Boon witnessed mankind slaughtered. For the first time, Fogle had been filled with horror. The people, many weeks dead, coated in flies, rodents, worms and decay had even been buried head first in the ground. Their swollen, rotting, gnawed on legs were the most repulsive things he’d ever seen. Jackals and other animals that fed on carrion had picked many of the bones clean. That was far from the worst of it all. The heads of men, women, and children sagged on wooden stakes, mouths hanging open, eyes gouged out. It seemed the vulture hawks considered them a delicacy. And the smell, so horrible, foul and rotting, had made him retch. His stomach became queasy at the thought of it.

Sitting up, he rubbed his weary eyes. Three days had passed since he, Mood and Cass had returned, and for three days, two of which he hardly moved from his bed, he had done nothing. Mood was absent and Cass as well, but his dreams of her had kept him company. Now he was bored and lonely. What was his next move? Remain, or return home? Return home, or resume his quest to find Venir? And what had happened to his ebony hawk, Inky, that he’d sent into the Mist after the brutish man?

A soft knocking rapped at the door.

His heart raced. Cass.

“Come in,” he said, returning to his feet.

The door swung open, revealing two dwarven women, laden with heavy terry cloth towels in their arms.

“Yes?” He said.

They entered, followed by a third, a brown bearded dwarven man pushing a heavy cart that appeared to be filled with a giant tub of water. The dwarven man set two blocks behind the wheels, gave him a gruff look and departed. The two dwarven women remained. One added something to the water that made it sizzle, and a pleasant smoky aroma filled the room. That’s when Fogle realized that he hadn’t bathed in months, perhaps longer. He felt disgusting when the moment he last bathed hit him. What would my mother think?

He rubbed the wiry hairs on his bearded chin and began to wonder if he should shave as he watched the little women get to work. The two stout little figures moved with purpose and grace that seemed odd. Their round little faces were smooth and warm, eyes narrow and inviting underneath thick heads of hair pulled up in buns. They wore tight sleeveless robes of fleshy tones that revealed short muscular arms and well-rounded chests and rears. Fogle swallowed as he recalled the conversation he'd been having with Mood, before they were captured by Cass. It seemed the King of the Blood Rangers remembered. Either that, or he just stunk really bad.

“Eh … I suppose you want me to get in?”

The closet dwarven lady didn’t respond. Instead, she reached over and began helping him out of his clothes. His rosy cheeks did little to hide his embarrassment as the two silent women helped him step up into the tub. As his first foot sunk into the steamy bubbling water, he felt his eyes begin to burn. Oh my, that feels good. A smile broke out on his face as if the last three years of his life had been returned. There was no shame now; his surroundings were as meaningless as the dust on the floor as he sank down into the water feeling like a king. Ah … I deserve this, he thought, letting his heavy lids close. Strong fingers began rubbing the knots out of his shoulders, and the other lady dwarf began scrubbing him into a thick lather. All embarrassment washed away. I could get used to this.

“Fogle Man-Whore! What do you think you are doing?”

Water splashed over the lip of the tub as he twisted his body around. There stood Cass, arms crossed over her chest, her bare foot tapping on the floor with a perturbed look on her delicate face.

“I, well,” he stammered, “I haven’t bathed in months.”

“So, I suppose it’s been so long that you have forgotten how to do it yourself?”

His mind scrambled to find an adequate excuse. I don’t need one.

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m lazy. And there's nothing quite like the hands of a strong dwarven woman to rub out the icicles you used to freeze my thews and bone. And who are you to reprimand me on my bathing habits? Aren’t druids notorious for bathing in nothing but mountain sludge?”

Cass’s jaw clenched on her pale face, and her pink eyes narrowed with a murderous intent.

He didn’t care. She had brought him nothing but misery the entire journey back, offering comfort only to pull it back. Maybe it would have been better to have remained a virgin, after all. Ah, but those pink lips are as delicious as wine. He slunk deeper into the warm watery confines of the tub. “What is it? Have you come to gawk or to torment me more?”

She shoved his head down under the water and pulled him back up by his hair.

“Fool! I’ve come about the dog, and your thoughts are of yourself, Man Whore Fogle.” Cass turned and left, the door slamming behind her.

“Well fiddly-dee,” he said, as the wonderful bath seemed to sizzle through skin, muscle and bone. He felt short fingers rubbing the muscles in his knotted shoulders. Ah …

Wham!

A door slammed into the wall.

“FOGLE MAN-WHORE! Get your arse out of the water and follow me!” Cass stood in the doorway again, her eyes like burning roses. “The dog is about to die!”

CHAPTER 35

They came. Like a black snake Lord Verbard’s army slithered beneath the world of Bish towards the unsuspecting City of Bone. It was agonizing. Verbard stood in the back of the bow of a barge that hosted over fifty underlings. Moving an army, though a small one by some standards, was like pushing a heavy cart through a trail of mud. The barges, six in all—each hosting Juegen soldiers that controlled Badoon hunter squads that minded the mindless albino urchlings and ravenous cave dogs—crept over the black waters of the Current with agonizing haste. As patient as the underlings were, Lord Verbard had no patience for this.

I haven’t the faintest idea where to start in the City of Bone. Does anyone? Or, is this Master Sinway’s way of sending me on a suicide mission?

Verbard sharpened the tips of his fingernails with a metal file. Nearby, hunkered between the weapons and supplies, a pair of large mangy cave dogs were ripping troll meat apart. Days ago, his army happened upon a handful of the slimy and brutish race. More or less, the trolls were the ogres of the lands below: rare, unsightly and monstrous. One barge had been tipped over during the surprise attack, the underling bodies either crushed or dragged into the dark. Thirty had been lost, his army already diminished before his battle even started. He had taken precautions to avoid another tipping experience.

I hope Kierway doesn’t plan a head count. The brat probably will. Perhaps I can gather the details from him. I shall have him do my work for me.

It was strange. Verbard was an underling with nothing more than pure hatred towards the race of men. His hatred stoked fires within him, sparking imagination of inflicting the most cruel and twisted things. After his battle with the Darkslayer, he had had quite enough, but now he was pressed into delivering a siege on an entire human city.

Men will not be ready. Men will die. But at what expense?

He reached down into an unnaturally deep pocket inside his robes, wrapping his fingers around the dry parchment of an ancient scroll. It gave him comfort. He knew something about the City of Bone. He’d seen glimpses of its interior before. Would it be possible to conjure the imp once more? Could he control it without the help of his brother? He tucked the parchment back inside his robes. Did I ever even need my brother's help? Verbard’s feet shifted beneath him as the barge came to a complete stop. He made his way to the fore, where two heavily armored Juegen stood, pointing ahead.

As black as it was, there were still faint traces of light to an underling's discerning eyes. Ahead, the wide expanse of the Current’s waters began to broaden, but a dam of rock and stone had barricaded their way through the next corridor. Were they stuck? Not that Verbard was in any hurry, but it would take a day or more to clear the way. The other half of the army, he hoped, didn’t experience such delays by trekking through the caves. It had seemed better to split his forces than to move them all as one. Perhaps he should have split them into three. It seemed that something was intentionally trying to slow them, and it wasn’t men. Trolls.

“Protect me,” Verbard ordered.

The Juegen, covered in plate armor from head to toe, withdrew their long curved blades. Another set, each with a barbed trident in its grip, gathered near as well. A silent word traveled back from one barge to the other. If the trolls attacked again, they would be ready.

Verbard’s silver eyes opened, gleaming with light. He stretched his palms upward toward the cave ceiling. Mystic energy filled him, tingling first around his ankles and spiraling upward around his body, through his neck and into his mind. It was arousing his senses, which began to heighten to another level. Something primitive lurked nearby, dormant, maybe lazy, but strong and formidable. He felt it. It was agitated. But where was it?

The Current, a long series of stagnant rivers that did not flow, ran through enormous lakes and tunnels. At the moment the underling army drifted along the nearest bank. The creature, wherever it may be, could be down in the deep, how far Verbard did not know. He channeled his thoughts, pushing them forward, looking for any formidable life ahead. There were some trolls: stupid and hungry, their tiny minds having little purpose at all, but it was clear they did not like the invasion. Verbard released his spell. It was decision time.

Four albino urchlings appeared at his thought. Small and hulking, with large hollow nostrils and ears, they snorted and awaited his command. With a nod they dove one by one into the water, out of sight, leaving a trail of rippling waves above their path. Verbard watched as they emerged on the barricade of rocks, two crawling over the pile, disappearing over the other side. The others began pushing rocks out of the way.

Verbard let out a little grunt. Something was wrong. The normally quiet Current was even more so at the moment. He couldn’t afford to lose any more underlings, either.

“Ready the lanterns of the underlight,” he commanded.

Light. It wasn’t the enemy of the underlings, but it was of many other subterranean creatures. The underlings and other cavern dwellers tolerated each other because they were mindful of not disturbing one another, but in this case, it seemed, something else had already been disturbed.

A faint blue light warmed from at the bow and stern of the lead barge. The next barge illuminated to life as well, followed by the next and the next and so on. The underlings, each and every one, were staring abroad, their colorful gemstone eyes filled with a degree of uncertainty. The only things Verbard could hear were the cave dogs slobbering quietly on the troll bones. Irritation mixed with worry.

Scanning his surroundings, he got his first look in a lifetime at the ecosystem of the Current.  Enormous stalactites jutted from the ceiling like teeth, smooth and round in some places, jagged in others. Verbard became anxious. One single formation falling would capsize a barge, not just one, either, but possibly all. It seemed too perfect not to be a trap.

The albino urchlings were moving the rocks from the corridor ahead, but their efforts would not be enough. Some of the boulders were huge, maybe over a ton, and it was going to take more than muscle to move it quickly. It would take magic, a great deal of it, too.

“Fetch the magi,” he commanded.

Suddenly, the barge pitched and rocked over the waters. Verbard watched the lake come to life, waves rolling and splashing into the barge. Something enormous emerged, rising higher and higher, towering twenty feet above the waters. Verbard hissed.

“Ready the harpoons!”

It was like nothing he’d ever seen: grotesque, humanoid, more fish than man, coated in weed and sludge. It stormed through the waters, a mindless juggernaut of fins and scales. Verbard summoned a protective spell. I hope it’s alone, he thought as the first barrage of bolts, arrows, spears, tridents and harpoons bounced harmlessly away.

Waves of water crashed over the bows, filling the barges, as the creature roared like a dozen trolls gone insane and smashed its arms into the ceiling. A stalactite fell, splintering wood and crushing underlings. Verbard shouted out another warning as more trolls spilled out from the mouths of the caves. They were trapped.

CHAPTER 36

Gone. Mikkel, Billip and Georgio had all departed with all the supplies they could handle in tow, helped by the shaggy pony, Quickster. That had been weeks ago, and Kam had barely been able to contain her emotions since.

She sat in her apartment above the Magi Roost, baby Erin propped up over her shoulder, as she patted the small of the baby girl’s back.

“Come on now, little girl, let it all out,” she said with a sniff as she rubbed her watering eyes on Erin’s pale blue blanket. She kept on patting, every minute seeming longer than the last. Baby Erin wouldn’t sleep without a thorough belch, which meant Kam wouldn’t get any sleep either, and sleep had been hard to come by since the underling invasion.

“Oh come on, Erin. I need rest; you need rest,” she said, patting harder.

Buuu-urp!

“Thank goodness,” she said, looking into Erin’s twinkling little eyes as she wiped her baby’s mouth. “That’s a big girl.”

Erin smiled with toothless delight, letting out the tiniest of giggles, melting Kam’s heart.

She hugged her little girl tight. She had never adored anything like her baby girl. Laying Erin down in her bassinet, she whispered a word and the gentle side to side rocking began. It was late in the day, the time between work and play, those precious moments before all of the worrisome patrons came to spread gossip and rumors.

Kam lay down on her sofa, pulled a blanket over her legs and closed her eyes, now too tired to cry.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Who dares! She swung her legs to the ground, hoisted herself to her feet and checked on Erin, who was fast asleep. Thank goodness. She swore under her breath as she wrapped a blanket around her barren shoulders. I’m gonna kill someone. Joline was the only friend she had left, and the older woman never would have bothered to knock, seeing as how she was the only one besides Kam who had a key.

“Who in Bish is it?” She tried not to yell.

A peppy voice from the other side of the heavy oak door responded by saying, “It’s just yer favorite halflings, Master Gillem and Lefty Lightfoot.”

She slapped her hand to her forehead. Gillem and Lefty had been hanging around more often now that the other men were gone. They were helpful, in an annoying and pestering way, offering to do things one normally wouldn’t want done or showing up during the most inappropriate times. Like right now.

“Go away,” she ordered them. “I’m taking my nap.”

There was an odd silence on the other side. She checked the lock. Just leave! Something about Gillem and Lefty was just plain odd.

“Kam,” Gillem said, “we don’t want to be any trouble, but we wanted to share a concern.”

“Blast,” she muttered under her breath. They were both full of concerns and suggestions, like two old hags who knew how to do everything but were too old to work. One day the food was served too hot, the next too cold. The flowers needed more water, and then they needed less. Dwarves should have their own section, outside, and men taller than six feet should always have to sit, not stand. She’d had enough.

“I don’t care. If you don’t like something, just go somewhere else that you do like, if that is at all possible, you two festering ear aches!”

That ought to do it. She leaned towards the door, brushing her hair behind her head as she did. Now, please go away.

Of course, insults only seemed to encourage the halflings to do better.

“Eh, Miss,” said Gillem, “ er Kam, we don’t mean any trouble. It’s just that … there’s a man, a strange looking fellow. He’s, well, he’s frightening.”

Ah yes, he’s probably seven feet tall and rides a rabbit the size of an ox. Little idiots.

“Have Joline take care of it. Now go away.”

“But, Joline went to the market.”

“Not this time of the day,” she argued.

“She ran out of onions,” Gillem said.

“And shrooms,” Lefty added.

Kam outstretched both of her arms on the door and fought the urge to slam her head into it.

“Why didn’t you go to market for her?” She asked through gritted teeth.

“She insisted,” they both replied.

Their voices were as reassuring as a grandfather’s hug.

“Just give me a minute.”

“Excellent, we’ll be right here.”

“No, I’ll meet you down there.”

“But I’d like to watch Baby Erin,” Lefty pleaded from the other side.

Kam shook her head. “Send up two of the girls.”

“But yer very short handed down stairs, it seems.”

“Get them now!” She said, kicking the door.

***

Lefty felt like a nest of baby snakes were churning in his stomach as he and Gillem headed back down the stairs. The moment had come, despite all of his attempted delays. How did this happen? Why me?

Georgio, his best friend, was gone. He didn’t even get to say good-bye. Now, his best friend, who he had put up to so many devious tasks, had left him for the Outlands, leaving him with no one to turn to, not even Kam. His head was aching, and his heart was broken. All he had was Gillem.

He felt Gillem’s long fingers squeeze his shoulder, and he fought the urge to cringe. He’d suppressed many things, bottling them all up within, turning his core to stone. He was starting to understand that was what they wanted.

“Yer doing fine, Boy,” the halfling man said. “It’s almost over.”

Lefty nodded, but didn’t’ agree. If anything it was only the beginning of his career as a criminal, a hardened one, slavery without a personal cause. But he had to do it, so he thought, to protect Kam and his friends. Now they were all gone, and it was up to him. The lives of Kam and Erin now were solely in his hands. He wanted to save them, warn them, but visions of his own horrible watery death froze his tongue inside his head.

While making their way down the stairs and into the main floor, Lefty noticed The Magi Roost hosted few patrons, which was odd for this time of day. He sat down near the bar across from Gillem at a small table made for halflings, thanks to many pushy suggestions. Lefty hated that table, small chairs on long legs, surrounding a round table. Being small was bad enough, but sitting at a small table seemed ten times worse. But it had been just another distraction, not for him or Gillem, but for Kam and Joline. It was a devious game.

“Let’s have something to drink, shall we?” Gillem said.

No thanks!

“That would be good,” he said.

It was getting easier, the lying, cheating and stealing. His hands were steady, his mannerisms cool, and he swore he even had Gillem fooled. He rubbed his hands on his trousers and combed his fingers through his curly blond hair. Gillem’s eyebrow lifted the ever slightest. Good. He’d been practicing for days, adding a subtle move here and there, figuring Gillem would think he was nervous. That would be normal with so much at stake, but he could control it, turn it on or off as easily as sheathing a sword in a scabbard.

“We’ll get some cheese, too,” Gillem said quietly. “It will help settle our stomachs.”

Lefty nodded as Gillem motioned one of the girls over. The serving girl rolled her eyes before she made her way over, the sway in her hips gone. It was the one that had been quite fond of Georgio, and she was outwardly sad these days. As Gillem placed the order, Lefty cast a quick glance over his shoulder.

There was Thorn. Tall and leering, the man strolled throughout the tavern poking his crooked nose in everyone’s business. Several patrons, including a dwarf, had already left, and more were certain to follow as the dangerous looking man in sheepskin vest and trousers continued to tap his ringed fingers on the metal pommels of his swords. It was all part of the plan.

“That’ll be all, Dearie,” Gillem said, slapping the girl's rear as she turned to walk away.

In the passing weeks Lefty had been involved with the kidnapping plan that was designed to wear Kam down to a nub. He and Gillem had become the friendliest nuisances in the world of Bish, and it came so naturally. Lefty had even reached a point where he felt no shame in it at all.  Kam, as strong and alluring as she was, now showed signs of exhaustion. It was a cold reminder of what he was up to, even though he tried to deny it. Deep down, he'd thought someone would arrive in time to prevent all this, but no help had come. Maybe Kam can save herself.

The waitress returned, set a pair of small jugs and a tray of cheese on the table and departed. Gillem tore off a hunk of cheese, dipped it in mustard and ate. Lefty followed suit with a smaller portion, and after many long minutes the entire tray was gone. The cheese did little to settle the gnawing feeling that was growing inside him. The jug of hot tea was of little comfort, either. Something was wrong.

Lefty looked over at Gillem and said, “Shouldn’t we send the girls up? Kam’s very impatient these days.”

“Give it a moment,” the halfling man responded, leaning back in his chair, long fingers drumming on the table.

Lefty didn’t like the way Gillem said it. There was something he didn’t know. It was at that moment he noticed something else: his feet were sweating. Oh no! Gillem gave him a funny smile. What in Bish? The older halfling looked under the table where his dripping feet were making a puddle on the floor. As Gillem’s eyes returned to his, a sliver of fear raced through him. What Gillem said next astounded him.

“You’ve done well, Lefty. A good student, one of the best, but now the real test begins.”

What is he talking about?

“We will go upstairs, you and me, and pick the lock. Inside we shall find Kam, bound and gagged by magic. Baby Erin will be long gone.”

Lefty could feel his thundering little heart collapsing inside his chest. No! How many days had there been to warn her? How many opportunities had he missed?

“She’ll never suspect us, Lefty. She’ll never suspect a thing thanks to yer damp feet. Thorn will take care of the rest.”

Gillem hopped down from his stool, and on numb legs, Lefty followed.

“Too late to warn your friend now, Lad,” Gillem said glumly. “Ye should’ve done that when you had the chance.”

CHAPTER 37

Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk.

“What is that?”

Tunk-Tunk-Tunk.

Something was pecking on the exterior of Boon’s standing metal cocoon. The old wizard had ignored the first several minutes of the strange sound, assuming it to be another delusion of his imagination. But, the persistent sound remained.

Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk …

“Am I some child's rattle? Another musing toy of a giant simpleton?”

He was talking to himself again. The giants kept a watchful eye on him these days, and he was happy that his lips remained free. His ramblings gave him company, but not freedom. No, the giants were privy to his tricks and his magic, which, for all purposes, was dormant. It had something to do with his cocoon, or sarcophagus; he didn’t know what to call it: an upright metal husk with three bars in front of a face hole.

Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk.

“I’d curse right now if I remembered any curse words! And I know I used to know many!”

His prison didn’t sustain him. The giants did. They let him out every few days for a few hours, which he spent strolling around an abandoned study of sorts: no books, just musty furniture for people ten times bigger than him, and a cold fireplace big enough to burn a village. It was there he sat, ate and drank. There was nothing to do, nowhere to go. He didn’t even get out to toy with the latest captives, assuming there were any. He thought of Venir, on and off, wondering if the man ever escaped the Under Bish. Could he have made it back out of the Mist? It was of little curiosity to him now.

Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk …

“This is obscene. I’ve truly gone mad!”

That’s when he heard the flapping and something bird-like landing near where he now rested, beside the fireplace's mantle. He squished his bearded face into the bars in front of him. He swore whatever it was had landed above him on the mantle. What is it? Boon shifted his weight on his aching feet, back and forth. His metal cocoon bumped against the stone hearth. It was torture, barely moving an inch inside, left to right, his energy within his frail body already spent. I must see it! He put what little weight his meager frame had into it. There was a scraping sound on stone as the cocoon teetered to the ground.

Thonk!

His feeble body paid for it, and his teeth cracked inside his mouth. Warm blood trickled over the wispy hairs on his mustache and into his mouth as his cocoon rolled and rolled before it came to a stop. Painful and nauseating. His eyes flitted open. There was a tiled floor, and the sofa’s mahogany clawed foot could be seen from the corner of his eye. He was facing the wrong way.

He couldn’t muster the energy to speak. He lay still, mentally venting the maddening frustration, trying to block out the pain of his broken nose and cracked tooth. He wanted to know what had been making that noise. He had to find out before the giants came.

Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk-Tunk …

A sliver of the unexpected might just give him the advantage he needed. He might as well try to escape once more before he died. But for now, he wasn’t going anywhere.

CHAPTER 38

“THREE!”

Baltor closed the distance in two quick steps, head down, fists up. Venir shuffled on his feet, keeping his shoulders square to his opponent's, eyes down toward his head.

Whap! Whap!

Baltor slugged two right crosses into his mid-section.

The crowd of people roared.

Venir winced as the heavy blows banged into his arm. His thick blood was beginning to burn.

He jerked back from a haymaker that clipped his chin and slid aside from another body blow, catching it on his back.

“Punch the lout in the groin, Baltor!”

“Make the giant fall!”

“Kill the loud-mouth story-telling liar, and drag his carcass back to the Mist where he can hump giants, dragons and such!”

Pop!

Baltor’s head rocked back on his thick neck, drawing an angry grunt. The man shook off the punch like a dog shedding water.

“Ha! That all you got?” Baltor spat blood. “I’ll have Adanna back in my sack in no time.”

There was something irritating about the man. Stupidity combined with arrogance. It reminded Venir of someone, but he couldn’t remember who.

“Take him to the ground, Baltor!” Another yelled. “Break his neck! You got the juice! Do it!”

Rolling in the dirt with the powerful man was a bad idea. With only one arm, it would be difficult to subdue Baltor. The man looked like he’d wrestled in the Pit before. Maybe the man had even battled in the Warfield. One thing was for sure: Baltor was as tough as he was mean.

Venir shuffled away, his large hand slapping away Baltor’s heavy blows before they got too close. The last thing he wanted was more busted ribs among those that were still not fully healed.

“Come on, Girlie,” Baltor mocked, “take a swing! I won’t bite after your little sting.”

Venir jumped away as the brute ripped an uppercut through the air. A course of boos followed him, shuffling around the ring.

Venir paid them no mind. Baltor was a seasoned fighter, quick and powerful. One punch could land him on his back or in his grave. He had to be careful … or not.

“Fight, you cow sticker!” An orcen hag offered.

Venir’s dander had risen. Fist clenched, he drew his arm back. Baltor’s wild eyes widened as he rushed in and swung. Venir unloaded with all he had.

CRACK!

Baltor stopped dead in his tracks, his nose busted open like a tomato. Time seemed to stop as Venir’s fist retraced its path and came forth like a rod of power.

CRACK!

Baltor’s jaw broke.

The crowd gawped.

Faces were stupefied.

Baltor’s arms flailed in a maddened frenzy, slamming into Venir’s body with little effect. Baltor’s punishment had just begun.

WHOP!

He lifted Baltor off his toes with a punch to the guts.

SMACK!

He felt the bones in the man’s face shatter, followed by the next blow that felled the man like an ox.

POW!

He wasn’t finished. His red rage began to consume him. He had a message to send. Baltor kicked and twitched as Venir kneeled down and squeezed the man’s corded neck in one hand.

“This,” he yelled, “is what happens to bad people! This is what happens to my enemies!”

Baltor’s face had turned purple, and his eyes bulged from his sockets. Venir didn’t care. The man was a menace. The man was evil. The man must die.

“Remember who you bet against, fools! I AM VENIR!”

Baltor’s eyes rolled up inside his head, his last breath spent. Venir rose to his feet.

“Which one of you cut throats is next?” He said it wiping his sweaty locks from his eyes. “Anyone!”

None came forward, and most were gone. Venir took in a deep draw of breath as Baltor’s body was dragged away. He looked around at the remaining faces, each face marred with guilt from countless crimes. It was clear his message had been sent, and he was certain someone wanted him gone, someone from his past, perhaps. Or, more underling treachery.

Hogan shook his head and tossed him a canteen.

“Did you have to kill him?” Hogan said.

“No.” Venir took a drink and said, “but he was an evil bastard.”

Hogan nodded and said, “By Bish Venir, what happened behind the Mist?”

“Giants, dragons and such, I tell you,” he said, a fierce grin coming to his face.

Hogan shook his head and walked away.

The tall man who had run the challenge walked over and unfastened his arm. The skinny man, older, was looking down on him, his pale eyes sparkling with joy.

“Slim?”

“It’s been a long time, Venir. Where in Bone have you been? Don’t you know the underlings have taken over? Where are that axe and helmet of yours?”

Venir was still trying to take it all in. Slim, once youthful and strong, so many years ago, was worn and gray, double if not triple his age. The man’s features were wrinkled, his skin spotted, but his voice was still strong and playful like children frolicking under a spring.

“Don’t you worry about that,” he replied.

Adanna had gathered by his side, arms wrapped around his waist, eyes filled with desire and admiration. Venir’s blood was still running hot, but not for her. The mention of underlings, his helm and Brool, had ignited another fire. Something in Slim the Cleric’s voice told him the fun was over. It was time to get back to work.

“Go get them,” Slim said, his skinny arms pushing him forward.

Venir bristled.

“Easy, Venir.” Slim looked him up and down. “How in Bish do you keep getting taller?” Slim asked, unable to hide his astonishment.

Hogan had returned and grunted, “Aye.”

“I’m not as tall as you, now am I?” Venir said it looking up a little.

“Well, not yet anyway. Now tell me; I’ve got to know.”

Venir shook his head and said, “I don’t know. It just happens.” He felt Adanna’s warm hand playing with his hard belly.

“I bet I can make him grow some more,” she said.

“Sheesh Daughter, is that all ye think about?” Hogan said.

“Only when I’m with him.”

“STOP!”

Everyone jumped but Venir at the sound of the loud baritone voice.

A dozen feet away, an ominous figure blocked the pathway. Wrapped in a brown cloak, his face covered by a cowl, the man stood taller than Slim and broader than Venir.

Venir’s instincts told him it was the figure he had noticed prowling in the background before the fight.

“What is it you want, you oversized scavenger?” Venir said.

The low and throaty voice that responded wasn’t human, more monster than man.

“I have a message for the one called Venir,” it said, pointing a finger covered in coarse black hair.

Venir stepped forward saying, “And what might that be?”

The creature unrolled a parchment of paper and spoke:

“You survived my first attempt. You and your comrades will not survive the next. Leave now or perish.”

Venir noticed a look of concern growing on everyone’s faces as they looked at one another.

“Who’s the coward that sent this message?” Venir asked in agitation.

Venir watched as a large harry hand pulled the cowl from its face. There was a gasp behind him. Can it be?

“I’m no coward, Venir.” The big humanoid's knuckles cracked as it crumpled up the parchment and tossed it at Venir’s feet. “You will leave, or your friends will die. I’ll break their backs like you broke my son’s. I’ll rip their arms off and bury them in the muck and mire. I am Farc!” The half ogre pounded his chest. “You have till nightfall.” The ogre snapped his fingers. A small army of orcs, gnolls, and brigands appeared from behind the tents, brandishing steel of all shapes and sizes.

“And it looks like nightfall has come,” Farc said, following within a rugged snicker.

CHAPTER 39

Legs shackled, hands bound and stomach rumbling, Brak sat sulking on the dungeon floor. His stomach, as big as those of two men, let out a part roar, part rumble. It was misery. He couldn’t remember ever being so hungry before.

The dungeon, vast in size, was superior in facility to his former home with the Slergs, below the city. The stone walls were gray, but dry. The metal bars that housed his cell were clear of rust and debris. Every day, small children, most much younger than he, scrubbed the blood, filth and slat from the floors. They were small and ragged, their faces gaunt, tired and worn. They looked as hungry as him, but fear seemed to propel their skinny little bones with purpose.

The guards, a handful of them, one just as cruel and intolerant as the next, kicked the children around like aging dogs. Brak would have killed them if he could, but he had no energy. He was dry, his tears gone, his fear replaced by apathy. There had been nothing but hardship for him in the City of Bone. His dreams had brought him to the City. His mother, Vorla, was dead now. Cut down. Thrown on a slab of metal. Dropped in a vat of fire. No more mother. A brand new life of survival and misery had begun.

Nearby, Leezir the Slerg, the one who had taken him in, snored. The man had no words of comfort. No words at all. The other one, Hagerdon, lay on rotting piles of hay, quivering beneath a pile of rags. Both men had been lashed a few days ago. Brak had watched from his cell as the men were strung up in chains and whipped until the blood ran down their ankles. The guards left only the little girl, Jubilee, who wailed like a frightened sheep as her grandfather was whipped again and again till the blood ran between his toes. She was flattened with the hilt of a blade crossing the back of her head, gagged, hauled off into a small metal cage and locked inside. It was the last he had heard from her. He nibbled at the skin on his fingertips. His nails were gone from his stubby hands that looked like they could crush rocks into dust. He tried to sleep, but his hunger pangs had gotten so bad they woke him up, and when he did sleep he didn’t dream. The image of his father, Venir, had faded. It seemed that whatever had endangered his father had won. The chains scraped across the stone as he pulled his knees to his chest. His lids turned heavy, his small chin dipped and he fell asleep.

***

“Detective Melegal,” Sefron said, “let us put our differences aside for the sake of the Almen family. After all, what choice do we have?”

You death would be my choice.

Sefron had been both pushy and polite ever since he had been ordered to work with Melegal in setting up the Royal games. He suspected it was only a temporary lapse at best, but Sefron’s efforts, for some strange reason, had come off as sincere.

“None, it would seem,” he said as they walked down the hall, side by side.

Melegal was uncomfortable and very cognizant of the stares. A shady stick and a pasty tub of goo. Something for the stupid sentries to gossip about between nose pickings. The plans for the event were in order. Everything was set in stone, and nothing was left to be done, but still Sefron seemed determined to seek him out. The creepy man wanted something from him. What, he couldn’t imagine, but it was important. Ever since Melegal came into service, Sefron’s words and efforts towards him had been nothing less than poisonous. Why had that suddenly changed? Was it something Lord Almen had said or threatened? Was the castle Lord so pleased with his efforts in capturing and annihilating the Slergs?

Sefron stopped in the hall. Melegal watched the man’s eyes shift back and forth as his snail-like tongue licked over his thin purple lips. It was barely a whisper when the cleric spoke.

“Detective, you and I have much more in common than I realized. We both serve against our desires.”

This was new. Melegal never suspected the cleric to have been unhappy with his work. Still, he struggled to keep his hand from his dagger. One blink. One slice. Ah … must I play this game with him!

“Go on.”

Sefron hunched over, drawing himself near, wringing his hands together. “There is something I seek. I cannot retrieve it. I cannot find it. A key of sorts. It can free us from the Royal powers. Help me find it.”

What is this fool blathering about? He shoved in front of Sefron’s desperate gaze.

“Say no more, Cleric. I’ll not be dabbling with any thoughts of treason,” Melegal said as he turned to walk away.

He felt Sefron’s fingers on his hand and jerked his arm away. The cleric said, “Remember Detective, it is my word against yours. If you keep this between us I’ll remember. If you don’t, you’ll have regret.”

“I’ve had many regrets, but seeing your head removed from your flabby shape would not be one of them,” Melegal said, walking on. “I’ll not concern myself with your problems. I have my own. As far as I’m concerned, feel free to find your key and shove it where the suns don’t shine. Just don’t drag me into it or let Lord Almen find out about it.”

***

Sefron watched the Detective disappear around the corner, and a toothy evil grin crossed his face. The seed had been planted. Now all he had to do was wait and watch it grow. Without even knowing it, Melegal would help him find the key. He was certain his spell had worked, as magic had seeped from his limbs and into the marble floor like mist. He rubbed his hands together and recounted his words. There is something I seek. I cannot retrieve it. I cannot find it. A key of sorts. It can free us from the Royal powers. Help me find it. He’d emphasized his words: Seek. Retrieve. Key. The spell was activated with a simple touch. He kissed his finger.

“Not long, Master. Not long.” He murmured. “As for you, Detective, once it’s delivered you’ll be the first to go.”

He rubbed his flabby belly, smacking his lips as he waddled towards the kitchen.

“All of this scheming makes me hungry.”

CHAPTER 40

Chongo, once a vibrant, dangerous and playful beast, was now a husk. Both of his massive heads were down, tongues hanging with a grayish tint above his saggy chins. Fogle Boon felt a wave of guilt. In the days since they had returned he had not even come to see the giant two-headed dog. Needless to say, when he entered its stable, things were awkward, as every eye seemed intent on him. Cass was down on her knees, brushing her gentle hand over Chongo’s shedding belly. Fogle noticed the scolding look that she cast his way before whispering soothing words into the dwarven setter’s floppy black ears.

He started to speak, but was cut off by Mood’s meaty hand. Instead, he crammed himself alongside Mood within the confines of the stuffy stable. The thick-set dwarf, the size of a man, had a sad look behind his bushy red beard. Even within the dim torchlight, Fogle thought he could see watery green eyes behind the red.

There were others, too. He counted ten dwarven women, adorned in soft grey robes with lavender trim wrapped around their plump bodies. Their sweet round faces had intense looks as they held hands and hummed. Still, the body heat, stuffiness and straw-filled air made him uncomfortable. So did the feeling of death that lingered in the room.

He focused on Cass. She lay atop Chongo’s back, hugging him with her arms and legs, muttering sounds that were not natural for a human to make. Chongo’s diminished body shuddered; the muscle spasms rippling underneath his thinning hair. Fogle felt a swelling in his throat. It was both heads now, one as pitiful as the other. He had to admit: it wasn’t easy being a witness to another creature's death.

He sneezed, loud and awful. Everything lurched except Chongo. Cass shot daggers from her eyes.

“Sorry.” Not good, Imbecile.

Fogle, once again, felt horribly out of place as he rubbed his sweaty hands on his robes. He wasn’t one to sweat, even when put to task, but it happened at funerals. I hope this isn’t a long ceremony. He didn’t mean it in a bad way, but rather a sad one. He had no desire to be around miserable people.

He didn’t want to hear their sad stories or wipe any tears. Well, I don’t think dwarves cry, so that’s good news. He didn’t want to be caught crying, either and wondered if it would be rude if he didn’t. He hadn't cried when Ox the Mintaur died, or had he? It seemed like forever ago. He supposed it was only proper that he was present. After all, he had almost died trying to retrieve Cass in an effort to save the dog.

Cass rolled from Chongo’s back. She had an exhausted look on her face. He hadn't even noticed this when she was up in his room, earlier. He was only thinking about himself these days, it seemed. He leaned back as she extended her hands towards him.

“What?” he said, more defensive than he intended.

Her voice was haunting when she said, “We need your magic, Wizard!” Fogle cocked his head and said, “For what?”

Cass’s beautiful face turned into a pit of anger.

“To save the dog, you FOOL!”

He stood there unthinking for a moment. Why would she think that he could save the dog? If that were the case they wouldn’t need her. It was preposterous. He was a wizard, not a healer. He looked at Chongo and chose his next words without thinking.

“He doesn’t look like he can be saved. Have you not done everything that you can?”

He felt Mood stir at his side. Cass’s eyes became daggers of ice.

“Besides—”

Smack!

Fogle’s teeth clattered in his jaw. The slap stung. His face flushed red.

“Idiot Man!” Cass vented. “Do you want me to stick your entrails in your mouth? Did you drag me from my mountains so we could fail? You little wart on a frog's arse!”

Hands up, Fogle began backing away. Mood’s big frame stepped between them.

“Druid, tell the wizard what you need. No time fer fussin’. Spit it out, Girl!”Cass bit her lip as she pulled at locks of her hair. Fogle realized she indeed cared about the life of Chongo. His concerns were hardly important. The right thing to do was.

“I’ll help,” he said. “But you never disclosed the conditions which required my presence here.”

Cass’s hands were clenched at her sides. “I thought Fogle Fool wanted to save the dog, not play splish-splash with dwarven whores.”

“Hey!” Mood said. “Ain’t no such thing, Druid. Watch yer tongue about me women. Now get on wit it. This pooch is dying. He’s my friend. Ye save him, ta’ both of ya.”

Fogle’s narrow shoulders sagged as he sighed and said, “Cass, what would you have me do?”

She stood there, nostrils flaring, tapping her bare foot and biting her lip. She took a deep breath and said, “The dog has one heart, bigger than that of a horse. I hoped for two, but it only has one. It’s poisoned. These underlings, or the albino urchlings, they are poison. The wounds were deep, the blood lost was heavy, but the dwarves did well with that. But the poison, a nasty thing, black and deadly, has made its way to his heart.”

How do you know that? Fogle kept his mouth shut, however.

“I can extract the poison, but it will take magic, and mine is limited. I need more strength. I need you, Fogle Boon, to tether with me.”

“Tether? I’ve not the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

Cass stiffened. She looked like she was about to explode.

“Is there nothing but stupidity filled in that enormous head of yours? Lock minds with me. Mind Grumbles, you pompous imbecile!”

How would she know about Mind Grumbles? He rubbed his chin. Was Cass from the City of Three as well? Still, he was beginning to understand what she wanted, but it wasn’t something he’d ever done with a woman before. He let out a puffy laugh.

“What are you laughing at?” Cass said.

“It’s just … well … it’s one of those other things I’ve never done with a woman before.”

“Great Bish, will I have to show you how to do this, too?” She said it while taking him by his hand.

Cass sat down beside Chongo and laid her small hand on the big beast's belly. Fogle joined her on the ground. Her eyes fastened on his. My, she’s beautiful.

“Wizard, there is no time for your fantasies.” She squeezed the blood from his hand. “This must be done now. Lock with me!”

It was a simple spell, for a mage anyway: two willing minds becoming one. He remembered the last one, the battle with the golden-eyed underling. He'd been suffocated, dying, his awesome will being crushed like an egg. Somehow his battle with Venir had saved him. Maybe this was important after all.

The dwarven women surrounded them like a cauldron of warmth, locking arms and murmuring an ancient tune.

“Get on with it, Fogle. I don’t like your sweaty hands.”

He looked deep into Cass’s eyes.

“Impre ontu doskst,” he whispered.

A wave of energy rushed through him like a spring. Cass was drawing from him, a warm hand reaching inside and taking hold. It was strong, but he was stronger. With control, he released his power. He saw her body, spinning, contorting and turning black. She plunged into an abyss and was gone.

Don’t let me go, Fogle, he heard her mind say, or the dog will die and I as well.

Fogle's body broke out in a cold sweat. Cass’s hand was burning like fire, and his mind was being stretched down to his toes. Something tugged at his mind, powerful and sinister. The fight for Chongo and Cass had just begun.

CHAPTER 41

It was an enormous thing, perhaps the largest living creature Verbard had ever seen, and he had to kill it, or rather, direct its killing. That didn’t stop the massive stalactite from dropping into a barge filled with fifty underlings, capsizing the vessel. Of the fifty, it could only be assumed that most were dead, and the remaining passengers were swimming for the shore.

“BAAAAAAAAA-HAA-ROOOON!” the creature roared. It was a hulking bi-ped whose neckless fishhead scraped debris the size of boulders from the stone ceiling as it attacked. Another volley of arrows and spears ricocheted off the creature’s armor. It raised its leg and dropped its foot on the closet barge.

This is a disaster! Underling magi respond!

Robed figures floated over the waters, a dozen wielders of magic, their clawed finger tips burning with life. Verbard floated behind them, his mind and theirs one.

Burn his head! He ordered.

Lightning. Fire. Energy.

The entire cavern was aglow from the various explosions of power. The brilliant colors splashed across the fuzzy faced underlings, adding an additional gleam to their bejeweled eyes. The creature bellowed a deafening roar as it staggered backwards. It raised the fins of its thickset arms in front of its face as the mire and muck broiled on its grotesque body.

Don’t let up!

Whatever it was, it was a force. A stupid unyielding one. Verbard took a quick glace into the fray below. The barges were filled with melee. The underling warriors, Badoon, Juegen and urchlings were at odds with a host of Trolls. Not a single underling screamed when it died, and not a single one yelled when it attacked. Instead, the chitters came in precise hissing commands.5 A single troll was drowning three underlings at once. Another underling, a metal-armored Juegen, was being swung like a club. The surprise was becoming an onslaught.

Verbard felt his own black blood begin to boil as another barge was capsized by the trolls. He wanted to scream. Instead, he did something else. Enough of this! He pulled a rod with a fist on the end from inside his robes. It was a two-foot long piece of inch-thick iron, cold and heavy in his hand.

He touched the metallic fist to his lips and muttered an incantation.

Jottenhiem, attention!

A Juegen, covered from head to toe in troll guts, stood at the bow of the barge below him. The underling raised its open hand as it ducked under the swing of a troll that had been rocking the barge.

Catch.

Verbard tossed the rod and watched it fall into Jottenhiem the Juegen commander's eager grasp. The rod burst from two to six feet, a fist at the point. As the troll climbed onto the bow, Jottenhiem rammed its skull with the rod. A flash of light erupted, followed by a notable thunder crack, pulverizing the troll’s head, sinking the monster back into the current.

Much better.

Another troll had a pair of urchlings in his hands, beating them together like dolls. Jottenhiem hurled the fist in a streak of black light.

CRACK!

The troll fell back into the waves, dead as a stone, two smushed urchlings crushed in its  clutches.

Verbard turned his attention back to the other magi. He could feel their energy ebbing. Ahead, in the dimness of the lake, the creature still stood, a smoking ruin of living scales and searing flesh. It stomped its finned legs and punched the jagged ceilings like an angry child. It should have been dead by now, but it wasn’t.

That thing must have a heart a big as a barge.

Verbard’s lip curled over his clenched teeth.

I can’t invade an entire city with half an army.

Another rock formation fell, crushing one underling mage’s skull, knocking it from the air and driving it into the waters.

Follow my lead, magi!

A bubble of yellow energy formed in his hand. A soft blow from his thin black lips sent the warbling globe towards the creature. Another series of the globes followed. Well done, brethren. The creature swung at them, catching them on its arms and legs, while other globes stuck like dew to its chest and face.

Now!

Bamf! Bamf! Bamf!

The creature roared out in sheer agony as chunks of flesh blew from its body.

Bamf! Bamf!

One arm fell into the murk.

Bamf! Bamf!

Its entrails spilled out into the water.

And for the finale …

BAMF!

Verbard added another hole in the back of its head. It wavered, mouth clutching open and closed, then splashed full force into the waters and sank.

***

Verbard sat on the beach holding his head. The trolls, what was left of them, had fled. The rod of smiting he had given Jottenhiem lay at his feet, a charred husk of steel. Sixty seven underlings were dead, two barges sunk, and his siege on the greatest city in the world of Bish had not yet begun. He watched in irritation as the magi levitated one barge from the Current, flipped it over and set it down with a splash. Three barges were ready now. The blockade in the tunnel was almost clear as more magi had begun using magic to remove the boulders.

How? Why?

The entire attack was unprecedented. It left him filled with uncertainty, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Master Sinway was behind this. After all, it had been Sinway’s suggestion to begin the siege from within.

He rubbed his temples.

“Jottenhiem,” he said.

The Juegen commander stood at attention by his side, helmet off, long curved blades gleaming with blood at his hips. “Yes, Lord Verbard.”

Verbard rose to his aching feet and faced his commander. Why they ached he didn’t know, but everything seemed to ache these days.

“What is your assessment?”

Jottenhiem had ruby red eyes, typical of most Juegen warriors. The sides of his head were shaved, and his rat-furred face twitched with muscles. The Juegen, one of Verbard’s longtime allies, was reliable. He spoke in a manner unlike most, deep and less chittering, almost slow.

“A troll trap for troll food.”

“We are underlings, not troll food, Jottenhiem.”

“It seems some of us are troll food.”

“And what to you make of that other monster? Was it hungry as well?”

“I didn’t get a chance to ask it.”

Verbard turned away and watched as the underlings continued their preparations for the remaining journey.

“What do you make of our invasion of the human city?”

Jottenhiem formed a tiny grin of razor sharp teeth.

“It will be glorious and bloody.”

“Assuming we get there in one piece,” Verbard snapped. “Take the helm of the first barge and see to it we don’t fall into more troll traps! Imbecile!”

Verbard floated away, filled with anger and frustration, but there was nowhere to go. He ducked into come caves. I need help. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being set up. Now, he should feel nothing more than elation for the opportunity to slaughter mankind with a single lethal strike. His brethren were almost glowing about it, but why was he not? He was an underling. He despised mankind, but this mission, this golden moment of underling kind, filled him with doubt. His fingernails dug into his palms. His teeth bit into his jaw. Something wasn’t right.

CHAPTER 42

Helpless and alone. Kam’s hands trembled as her stomach twisted inside out. Her baby girl, Erin, was gone. She wiped her eyes and nose as she sat at a table inside the Magi Roost. She did not recognize the man that sat across from her, but she'd caught his name, Thorn. His speech was slow, reserved, scary.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult,” he said in a rugged voice that was far from reassuring. “The ransom isn’t what is important. The return of your child is.”

The tavern was empty, other than herself, the crooked-nosed man, Gillem and Lefty, who sat fidgeting at the bar. It was Lefty that had come to her rescue, a bit conveniently. His story, sweating feet and all, was convincing. Gillem, in all his stock and grace, affirmed the history of halflings with sweaty feet in brief detail. Kam had no choice but to believe them, for now.

“As you know, the Prince of Thieves, Palos, my master, has been expecting a favor from you for quite some time …”

Palos. The name inflamed her anger like a hot iron. She knew him to be crafty, beguiling and deviant. No thief could be trusted, him least of all. His honor had less weight than a feather, and his greed was without rival. It appeared the rumors were true. But kidnapping a child, of a Royal, no less? That was as unexpected as it was frightening. Who was she really dealing with? She pushed her fingers through her hair, aware of Thorn's hungry eyes on her chest.

She couldn’t stop her chin from trembling as she spoke:

“I owe that man no favors. Bring back my daughter, you dog!”

It was there, the magic, a festering blossom of rage ready to unleash itself. Kill this ugly bastard!

Thorn wagged his long finger in her face.

“Now, don’t lose control. This is a negotiation, not a discussion, nor an argument. I’m just delivering the terms.” The chair groaned as he leaned back. Thorn was tall, heavy boned and sinister in expression. He spoke better than his dull eyes let on. There was intelligent life behind his harsh and haggard expression, cunning and without mercy. “Your choices are limited as well as your time, Mistress of the Magi Roost,” he finished, licking his tongue over his lips.

Pop.

Kam jumped as an ember cracked in the fireplace behind the man. She clutched her chest, which was fighting her ability to breathe. Thorn chuckled. It took a degree of self-control to not hurl the man aside. What would she do? Who could she turn to for help? Her family, Royals themselves, would be more than agitated by this attempt. But Palos would not have made such a move if he did not already have something on them. Her family, aloof with politics and position, had made it perfectly clear years ago that she was on her own when she made her choice. She had gladly accepted. If anything, she’d be too ashamed to ask for their help. She'd rather die than hear them say I told you so, even at the cost of her life or her daughter's.

“Palos knows I’ll do anything to get my daughter back. I could not live without her,” she said, her sobs becoming heavy again.

“My master is counting on that,” Thorn said, leaning forward, entranced by her trembling curves. “What Prince Palos offers is more of a gift than a threat. It’s just difficult to present it in any other way. He desires your company. He wants to bask in the glow of your beauty. I cannot fault the prince in his tastes, they are superb. Captivating.” Thorn eased closer. “Even alluring on the darkest of days.”

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Kam pulled her shoulders back and let out a slow shuddering sigh. She watched as Thorn’s Adam’s apple rolled up and down, his eyes filled with fantasy.

“So,” she said wiping her nose on a rag, “how long have you and Gillem been planning this abduction?”

Thorn’s eyes flicked over her shoulder where Gillem sat, then back to her.

I knew it!

“I’ve no business with the halfling other than this parlay.”

Liar!

She let her energy swell behind her chest, a cauldron of boiling power.

“You know what, Thorn?” she said, unable to hide her simmering green eyes.

“Eh …?” he replied, edging back.

“You remind me of something that crawled out of an ogre’s nose.”

The vulture-like man stiffened in his chair, his hands falling to his sides.

Kam held out her palms.

“Wench! I’ll carve—oomph!”

Thorn was thrown from his feet and heading towards the fire.

She felt him fighting against the bonds of her telekinesis spell, fighting to avoid the flames.

“Mercy, you wench!” he shouted.

Her anger swelled her energy. Thorn screamed as he was stuffed into the flames. Harder and harder she pushed. She felt small bones breaking as her power began to crush him like a vice of flame.

“YOU WILL PAY, RODENT!”

Bottles were rattled from the shelves, shattering on the floor. Thorn was wailing, burning and writhing with torment. Someone else was yelling as well. She caught a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. Gillem was making haste towards the door. She released her hold on Thorn.

“STOP, GILLEM!”

A row of plates cut through the air, one by one, making a bead for the halfling's head. Gillem ducked, rolled, twisted and dodged as the air was filled with the sounds of breaking dishes. Master Longfingers leaped toward the window. Kam reached out her painted nails.

“Kye-Noche-Liene!”

Tendrils of white energy whipped out from her fingertips, coiled around Gillem’s portly little body and snatched him from the air. He writhed within the coils, his aghast face aglow from the white hot light. She rolled her wrists, layer over layer, wrapping the halfling into a tight bundle. Gillem wasn’t going anywhere. She let go. The harmless but steel-strong bonds held the halfling tighter that a bear trap.

Gillem rolled into sitting position, a look of bewilderment in his eyes.

“You fool hot tempered woman! What have you done? Ye’ll never get back the baby Erin now!”

CHAPTER 43

“So be it, Farc,” Venir replied, spitting on the ground. “Your stench is more threatening than your words.”

The small throng of Farc’s Outlaws erupted in a sinister chuckle. Venir, despite his blossoming hatred for his foe, didn’t care for the odds. He glanced over at the worried looks on Hogan and Adanna’s faces. Farc’s threats had them convinced.

Farc snorted and looked up into the sky. The second dusk, a glow of radiant yellow light, was washing over the city. Dusk was almost gone. “Look at this human, men! A cheater. A coward. A liar. A murderer. This is the man who took my young son, barely twelve years old, and broke his neck.”

Venir’s neck warmed, his face flushed. He reached for the swords at his feet. The sound of steel scraping from sheaths and a bow drawing back caught his ears. He was as flatfooted as a horse was hoofed.

“Adanna, get our gear. Hogan, break down the rest. I’ll wait.”

Another series of chuckles came as Adanna and Hogan scurried into the tent. The sounds of rattling gear and unpleasant words were exchanged from within the canvas. Venir kept his eyes on Farc’s one. The ogre, once as powerful a warrior as a warrior could be, was diminished. He stooped. His left shoulder dipped, and the fire behind his yellow eye no longer burned. Farc, at least a decade or two older than Venir, was in decay. He watched as the ogre wiped the drool from his jutting jaw. Farc’s hand trembled as he swung it behind his back.

“Venir, I should kill you now.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“You know the rules in the Hide.”

Outlaw's Hide was a sanctuary for the worst that Bish had to offer. There was a code among all, unless you were an underling: no killing without a challenge and don’t rat out your neighbors. There was no judge and no law, but there was an unspoken civil order. Other than that, it was anything goes. Of course, if you were killed, which did happen quite often, there was little to defend you. And if you killed, you were asked to leave, or subsequently killed by a self- appointed militia. But, if you had control, which Farc seemed to have at the moment, you could do whatever you wanted.

“Why not challenge me then?”

Farc let out a gruff laugh.

“Time to go, Yellow Hair.”

Venir looked over at Slim, who was biting his nails.

“You coming?”

Slim’s wizened face looked around at all the outlaws and said with a shrug, “Well, it’s either that or die.”

***

Farc and his men followed as Venir, Slim, Adanna, Hogan and his wife trekked a mile north to the edge of the haphazard city, loaded down with all they could carry. The only things they were missing were the tents, water and rations. He heard Farc’s final words:

“I sent the underlings my personal mattock to dig a grave for you. I only asked for your boots in return.”

***

They traveled almost five miles north of Outlaw's Hide and made a fireless camp. The terrain, grasslands mixed with jungle, posed few problems. They all sat, wiping sweat and slapping away mosquitoes, or holding their hungry bellies. There was no food.

“What do you think, Venir?”

“They’re gone. They followed the first few miles.” He unrolled his blanket that contained the large leather sack. “I’m going to do some scouting.” He tossed his borrowed broadswords on the ground.

Hogan cocked an eye and said, “With no weapons?”

“Too much noise.” Venir stuffed his sack into a pack that Adanna had given him and slung it over his shoulders. “I’ll need your cloak, Slim.”

“But I like this cloak. Take Hogan’s.”

“Too small.”

“First you get us kicked out of camp, and then you abandon us.” Slim slung it from his knobby shoulders and said with a frown, “Fine.”

***

It was past midnight. Outlaw's Hide was in full swing. Heavily armed and cloaked bodies swaggered through the dusty streets singing or crying out shouts of alarm. Venir swaggered as well, cloak hood draped over his face, a jug of wine swinging at his side, vengeance on his mind.

Where is that ogre!

There weren’t too many half-ogres here. The sound and smell of them, a salty mix of manure and urine, would knock you down if you weren’t ready for it. Venir sauntered in and out of the tents and shabby buildings, one muck and filth ridden alley at a time. Farc, like most ogres, would prefer his privacy. The big humanoid preferred caves, mountains and high places. If anything, Farc probably preferred the wide open spaces that Outlaw’s Hide provided.

Venir took a deep draw through his nose.

“Ah!”

Venir followed his nose towards a ramshackle barn where many beasts for slaughter and burden were stabled. A canvas tent, large enough for a host of people, sat catty cornered to the edge of the barn. There was an inhuman squeal of delight coming from within, followed by a series of heavy smacks on bare flesh. Venir kneeled down inside the shadows between the barn and tent, his keen eyes scanning for sentries. An orc leaned against a pile of logs near the tent entrance, hairy hands draped across its bulging belly. It wiped its mouth and yawned, peering around before it tossed another log on the nearby campfire.

Venir pulled out the sack and withdrew Brool. Its razor sharp edges seemed to hum in the moonlight. On cat’s feet he slipped around the back side of the tent and slit open a hole the size of a man. Pulling the edge of the canvas back, he saw the backside of Farc’s hulking form, sitting on a stool. Bent over the half-ogre’s knee was a squealing orcen trollop. Her dirty blonde hair cascaded onto the dirt floor as she squirmed underneath Farc’s heavy wallops. Please don’t be Dolly.

Venir took a breath and waited, avoiding the lantern light as he stepped inside. The shaft of his axe throbbed in his hand. His murderous thoughts began to consume him. His enemies, one and all, must go. Something beckoned him onward towards the removal of all evil. It was him or them. He took another step forward, axe hanging ready over his shoulder.

“Hrmm,” Farc murmured, as his head, the size of three men’s, swung back his way.

The tip of Brool met the ogre’s temple, drawing blood.

“Sssssh,” Venir warned the orcen woman, unfamiliar to his relief, jaw dropped open.

“Who dares?” Farc said in a huff, a nervous twinge in his voice.

Venir applied more pressure. Farc took a sharp draw through his nose.

“Ah … Venir,” the half-ogre said, “come to assassinate me like a coward, I see.”

“No, I came to get a better look at the orc's arse,” he retorted. “Flat on your belly, Wench. Shut your eyes and think about bathing.”

The trollop flopped onto the ground, thick forearms covering her head.

Venir flipped Brool’s blade under Farc’s trembling chin.

“What are you wanting, Venir? You beat me, cripple me, humiliate me, and that's not enough. Now come to kill me?”

“Aye, Farc.”

Farc grunted. The half-ogre sat, hands on his knees, head tilted down.

Venir could smell the big humanoid's fear as he watched the blood drip from Farc’s temple. That’s it. Sweat it out.

“Tilt your big head back,” Venir ordered, lifting Farc’s chin with his axe. “I can’t have you crying out before I get this over with.”

Farc made an audible gulp. The orcen woman went into a fit of squealing shudders and sobs.

“Any last words, Farc? Care to give that hairy arse another good whack before your body’s fed to the other pigs?”

The half-ogre let out a raspy sound.

Venir tilted his head down and said, “What’s that?”

“S-Sp …”

Venir grabbed a handful of hair and growled, “ Spit it out, Ogre.”

Farc trembled as he managed to say, “Sp-Spare me.”

“Say again?”

“Spare me, Venir. Spare my life,” Farc pleaded.

Farc's monstrous shoulders sagged. His fingers were lifeless at his side. He was beaten.

Venir pulled his axe away.

“I’ll need horses. Water. Rations. Your word, Farc. For your life, this grudge is over.”

Farc nodded as he buried his face in his trembling hands.

What was it Mood said? he thought as he departed.

Never trust an ogre.

***

The first dawn’s sun was rising as Venir galloped to his camp.

“Whoa,” he said, pulling back the reins on a large chestnut steed. Sliding out of his saddle, he inspected impressions in the dirt and grass. The smell of blood was in the air, something rotting and foul as well. “Bone!”

On foot he dashed over the rugged terrain, pushing his way over the tall grasses and thick jungle of vines and trees. He donned his helm. Wind, blood and death whirled through his senses. A burning sensation raised the hair on his arms. He moved forward, heavy feet smashing down the thick grasses, his head on a swivel, his heightened senses alert for the unnatural. He heard the crickets, an owl, a slithering snake, buzzing flies, but none of the distant mocking chitter of underlings, far or near. He pulled the helm off and dropped it into the sack as he stood on the edge of the meager camp. His blood ran cold.

Dark stains were smeared over the patches of moss and grass. Hogan’s head, eyes wide with terror, was lying on its ear in the dirt. The man’s clothes and body had been severed in many places and made up into a mound of flesh.

Venir’s knuckles whitened on Brool’s shaft.

One … Four … Nine … Eleven …

The underlings were many. The footsteps of two women, Adanna and her Mother, were intermingled with the underlings. It was clear they had no concern of being followed. Venir cursed and spat, fighting his urge to howl.

He heard the frightened scream of a horse.

“Slat!”

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw as he burst through the brush and into the clearing. A jolt of fear erupted in his spine as he scrambled to dig out the armament.

“Sweet Bish!”

CHAPTER 44

Melegal lay flat on his belly on a mattress of feathers inside McKnight’s old apartment, exhausted.

A key. A key. What did Sefron mean?

Haze straddled his back, her fingers working masterfully over the knotted fibers of muscle on his back and shoulders.

“You sure are tight for a thief,” she said, boring her thumb into the middle of his back.

It felt like the blade of a knife was being driven into his spine. Outrageous. He had never been anything less than supple before. Now, under Lord Almen’s geyser of pressure, he was as taut as a bow string these days. He felt Haze’s warm lips pecking on his knobby shoulders.

“Will you stop, Woman,” he said, not a question but an order. “You know I hate that.”

“Oh, but I like the little goose bumps it makes on your bony back. It’s adorable.”

“Rub, you wench! And don’t ever use the word adorable in my presence again. I’ve removed tongues for less.”

Haze giggled. “As you wish, Detective.”

He felt her gyrating her hips in a rhythmic sway as dripped more oil onto his back. Ah, that’s nice. The scent, something with cinnamon, elated his nostrils, and the warm oil opened his pores like a mild lava. It was one of the best moments he’d had in days. Why haven’t I let her do this all along?

Melegal buried his face inside a small pillow, trying to envision what the key that Sefron mentioned looked like. How could a key free them from the Almen bondage? If there was such a key, one thing he was certain of, he would have it before Sefron. The half-naked pasty skinned cleric would have to fend for himself.

He let out a sigh.

“Feeling better?” she said.

“A little,” he said, words muffled in the pillow.

If I were a key where would I be? Melegal noted every object from Lord Almen’s study beneath the kitchens: A cupboard of maps and scrolls. Two desks, one used, the other abandoned, no chair and four deep drawers. A small armament of weapons in the corner. Nine lanterns. Eighteen Candles. A molding rug on the floor with a hollow spot below that he had noted because of the way Lord Almen always stepped over it. Hmmm. Two shelves full of small decorations and awards. Above, wooden rafters. A drop down ladder. The edges of tapestries concealing who knew what. A box, small as a hand. A chest of cast iron as big as a man.

“What are you thinking, Me?” Haze said, shoving her palms into the center of his back. A notable series a cracks followed, continuing up to his neck.

His eyes popped open. “Ahhh … nothing.” Key. Key. Key. Key. Key.

***

Seek. Retrieve. Key.

Melegal held his hand on his aching head as he crept through Castle Almen. It was always quietest in the hours before the first dawn, long before the city roosters crowed. In the kitchen, a tiled expanse of wood-fed ovens and long maple tables, he’d wedged himself into the dark shadow between two cupboards and settled in. He could hear mice, a pair, their tiny nails scraping the tiles, small teeth nibbling into a silk sack of corn flour. Exterior shudders creaked from a nearby window pane where the two moons' glow added a gentle light in an otherwise dark room.

Listen, Fool.

Everything was quiet and natural, yet ominous and threatening. It was the time of day none should be trespassing within the walls of the castle, not even the heralded detective. Only the sentries and members of the Royal family roamed at night. It was foolish for him to do so. Got to find that key. He rubbed his fingers over his chin. What am I doing?

His compulsion was natural. The urge to find something of value, enhanced by magic, suggested by an enchanted mind, only charged the thief’s natural tendencies. Whatever it was that Sefron wanted, he wanted it more, even at his own peril.

A sound of heavy footsteps made its way up the stone stairwell. Unmoving, eyes closed, Melegal remained one with the kitchen. The sounds of the sentry alone lent a picture as clear as daylight to his mind: a large man with a hitch in his step sauntered through the kitchen and began to rummage quietly through the cupboards. Ah, good. It made things easier. No sentry would dare abandon his post with Lord Almen within his chambers.

The sentry was chewing now, strong teeth chomping into a piece of hard fruit. Melegal could feel a shadow closing over the moonlight that was shed his way, the man’s footsteps only a few feet away and passing.

“Hmmm,” the man said as he stopped, his boots turning over the floor. “What’s this?”

Melegal heard the man pick something up from the table. He cracked an eye open. The sentry held a long kitchen knife, it’s keen edge reflecting the moonlight. The sentry’s head cocked back and forth on his bull neck. Slat. Like a beast in the fields, the man sensed something was amiss. Melegal could feel the tension rise in the man. Instincts beginning to fire. Oily sweat beginning to build.

Slowly the man turned, his sword scabbard thunking against a table leg. Melegal felt his heart begin to race as the sentry reached toward the cupboard he hunkered behind. He pulled his cloak tight and dipped his chin deeper into his chest. A heavy footstep landed inches from him.

Burp!

The smell of apples and tobacco wafted through the air, followed by a strange sounding fart.

“Mmmm … that’s better,” the sentry grumbled, tapping his fist on his chest as he continued to walk by, back towards the stone stair case.

Melegal slipped behind the man, matching him step for step, wading through the funk of odor. One would think you’d get used to it. The man was halfway to the bottom when he let out another burst, louder than the last, echoing within the corridor. The fool could wake the dead with that.

Melegal’s hand slipped down to the pommel of his blade. He eased it from the sheath, making a scraping sound of metal on wood, like a whisper. Ten more steps he followed the man like a shadow, the small torches wavering light against the wall. The sentry stretched his arms high, turned at the waist and farted again. Enough. Melegal raised his dagger and poised the tip on the man’s broad back as he slipped behind and cradled him like a child. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep.

His mind tingled. His thoughts raced. The man swayed. Melegal slid his dagger in the sheath as the sentry’s knees buckled and he teetered forward. Catch him. He grabbed the man behind his girdle and scooped his arm underneath the man’s chest. Heavy bastard. Blasted chainmail. Melegal sagged along with the man as they both crumpled to the landing. Whew. The man began to snore like an ogre. Melegal rolled the man onto his stomach. That should do it. Up the stairwell, the small torches, two in all, offered little light against the black stone walls. He withdrew a pair of steel gauged wires and dropped to a knee. Eyeing the keyhole, he stuck the two thin rods inside and began picking. Melegal was already aware of the mechanisms within as he had heard Lord Almen locking and unlocking the door before. It was a heavy brass key that worked the lock, and turned the tumblers. Still, it was not the average lock. Rather, it was one designed to give the utmost security …  pop … except when dealing with the utmost thief. Unimpressive. Sliding the tools into the pouch with one hand, he depressed the thumb lever down with the other. He took a deep breath. Why am I doing this? And pushed the door open. Have I gone mad?

CHAPTER 45

Fogle’s feet were anchored on the edge of the abyss. His arms and back were straining against a heavy mystical rope that he squeezed inside his grip. He wasn’t the same man now, no longer a weakling of a wizard, but instead a titan of sorts. Inside his mind was another world within, one that he knew quite well.

A woman's high pitched scream echoed behind his thoughts.

Hang on, Cass!

Below him, a vat of vile looking green and black goo bubbled with anger. Little by little it sucked the rope he held, burning the fibers in his grasp. Fogle groaned, digging the heels of his boots into the dirt. He’d been here before. Another world. Locked in a mind grumble of the oddest kind. He liked it, but he was losing control. He cried out.

“Cass!”

No reply.

“Cass!”

He slipped the rope over his shoulder, feeling as if a giant, legs like trunks, filled with muscle, churned back at him from the abyss. Something was pulling back, stronger this time, the weight unimaginable. NO! Smoke rose as the rope slipped through his skin, rending his flesh. He screamed. NO! Think, Wizard!

He screamed for Cass one last time as he fought to hold onto the rope.

***

One second the druid woman Cass was there, wrapped up with the wizard Fogle Boon. In the next second she twisted, contorted and plunged inside of Chongo. It was possibly the strangest thing the King of the Blood Rangers, Mood, had ever seen in all of his centuries.

Mood huddled before Chongo’s dreary heads, holding the beasts in the nooks of his arms. He could feel the dog’s big body shaking, its body writhing with sickening sounds. The wizard, Fogle, sat with his face transfixed on a woman who was no longer there. Sweat was dripping from the man’s forehead, his body straining against an unseen force.

“Hold on, Boy,” Mood said into Chongo’s ear. “Help’s coming.”

In truth, Mood had never seen a dog or anything so sick before. The beast was well past the point where any other beast would have been put out of its misery. Mercy had come to mind more than once. No animal or man should be made to suffer like that. He could only assume that Chongo held on for some reason. The dog was his friend, and he was his. “I got you!”

He looked over and saw the worried look on the lady dwarven faces. Each one was contorted, exerted, and intense. One had her arms around Fogle’s waist, and the others followed suit in a chain from behind. Fogle pitched forward, tugging the entire group with him. Chongo trembled and shook, but Mood held on, feeling that the beast's bull necks were not quite as strong as before. That’s when the smoke came. Fogle’s hands were burning.

***

Agony. Never had Fogle experienced anything on this level. Chongo was the furthest concern from his mind. Cass was foremost. He couldn’t let her go, not with the feelings he had. Not with so much unresolved between them. He wanted to know. He wanted to know how she felt about him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her. It seemed he was about to find out soon enough because his back was being dragged over the ground towards the acidic burbling of the pit. Think or die. Isn’t that what the oaf said? All of this suffering over one man, one dog, one person. What was the meaning of that?

More rope raced through his loosening fingertips. Just win, Fogle. Win!

He dug down into his belly and began loosening the lid off a kettle of energy. There it is! A dormant power lay unused except when his life or another’s was in peril. He'd found it when Ox the Mintaur died. He'd found it when he thought Mood was about to die. A bit by accident on both accounts. It had been there when the underling Catten was shutting his brain down. He didn’t have the control then, but he was gaining control now. The Bone with the lid! For Three! He shoved the deposit of energy over.

Elation. Magic and mind intermingled, forming a coating over his mental body. A shiny coat of metal replaced this skin. His grip became hard as iron. He rolled the rope around his wrist and pulled. The sucking pit of goo let out an eerie wail of anger. Fogle rose to his feet, his face molded in steel, his muscles bulging of hammered iron.

“Cass!”

He tugged. Dug his heels into the turf and pulled backward. One step. Two steps. The pit hissed. Green and black acid erupted in splattering globs, splashing his hardened skin and sizzling into nothing. He took control of his magic, his anger, his will, pulling the rope back, hand over hand, faster and faster. The ground quaked beneath his feet. Something dark and deadly was furious with him.

He called for her again. The rope continued to coil, foot after foot, at his feet. Where was she? He dragged a man-sized gob of something, sticky, green and black, onto the ledge. He rushed over and picked the mass up into his arms, and the world exploded.

***

One second Fogle's hands were burning, the next they were not. Chongo’s entire body writhed with violent seizures that tested the limits of Mood's mighty arms. In the next second the naked flesh of the druid spilled outside of Chongo, coated in a dark green and purplish goo. The smell had the foulness of an underling’s marsh. Fogle wrapped his arms around the unmoving woman. The wizard was rocking her back and forth, saying, “Don’t die. Don’t die, my sweet.”

CHAPTER 46

Smack!

Lefty reeled as Kam’s heavy hand knocked him to the floor. She wanted to kill the little betrayer, but she needed him.

“How could you do this to me, Lefty? After all I have done for you!” She screamed in his face.

The little blond haired boy said nothing, only holding his tiny hand on his reddening cheek. Kam’s fists were clutched at her sides. She let her anger fight her panic. What else could she do? Her baby was gone, somewhere deep in the vile underbelly of the City of Three. Thorn, Palos’s personal messenger, had been pretty clear on what the Prince of Thieves wanted. He wanted her, more so than gold and power. Why? Why me?

She could hear Joline sobbing inside the kitchen. The woman had returned violated and mortified somehow, unable to speak. Her thick gray hair was a mess, and her clothes were torn. The woman fell completely apart at the news of Erin’s kidnapping.

“Fool woman. What do you suppose to do now?” Thorn said, grimacing. His face and body were burnt and broken, but there was still pleasure in his face. The rogue still had some control, bound by magic or not. “You’ve attacked me. Palos will kill you and your daughter for your transgression.”

Thorn’s mocking laughter was cut off with a wave of her palm. The magic cords that bonded him squeezed around his neck.

“Kam, you must stop this and listen,” Gillem piped in, a nervous look in his eye. “We can’t help you with your baby if you’re dead. Just give Palos — urk!”

Similar bonds held the halfling, the sound of leather constricting around his neck. Kam let the halfling's eyes start to bulge from their sockets, his face turning into a turnip.

“Kam!”

Both Thorn and Gillem Longfingers were choking to death.

“KAM!” Joline shouted again, blocking her view of the men.

They both flopped and kicked on the floor, gagging and coughing for air.

Joline grabbed her face that was flushed and streaked with tears and said, “You are not a murderer.”

The words affected her. The urge to tear something apart drained out of her. She released her hold. Gillem and Thorn gulped for air.

“What do I do?” Kam whispered.

“How much does Erin mean to you, Kam?” Joline said softly.

“Everything,” she sobbed, “she’s all I have left.”

Joline gave her a look, and she knew what she would have to do. It was time to make a sacrifice.

She turned around and muttered something in magic. Her mind shimmered, searching for Erin, trying to bring her baby back. Nothing. Her powers, formidable as they were, had limitations in that regard. She had focused more on the aggressive arts, as opposed to the passive ones. She slunk down onto a chair. Her mind and powers were exhausted, and her grip on the two thieves on the floor was beginning to ebb. She needed time to regain her strength. Thorn had already made it clear her time was short.

She looked over at Lefty. He sat on a kitchen stool, his little head downcast, spitting out his nails. What had happened to the once innocent little boy? She cast a glance towards Gillem, the robust halfling, as deceiving as Palos himself. Georgio had been right after all. Gillem was at the root of Lefty’s problems. How had the boy seen it and not she? Perhaps she hadn't wanted to.

She cursed.

Still, the responsibility was on Lefty. His deceit had led to all this. Lies and dishonesty would cost them all greatly. Maybe the boy didn’t think he had a choice, but there was only one choice when it came to right and wrong. One had to discern the difference.

“Joline,” Kam said, regaining her feet, “get me the City Watch. I’m sure Thorn’s time would be better served with them.”

She twirled her fingers in the air, and Gillem’s bonds fell loose. The halfling man couldn’t hide the surprise on his face as he quickly rose to his feet, soft eyes flitting back and forth. His long fingers rubbed at his wrists and neck as he said, “Kam, we must hurry. Palos is ruthless. He’ll kill Erin and have you anyway.”

“Aye, wench, she’s probably dead—”

“Chad-dah kin,” Kam spoke. Thorn's lips and ears sealed shut.

Thorn’s newly deformed face had the most panicked expression.

“We can’t have him blabbing my plans to the City Watch. For all I know they are bought and paid for. That should keep him quiet for now. “ She looked at Thorn. “You’re fortunate I left you your nose holes. As for you two,” she motioned to the halflings, “I guess I don’t have any choice. Take me to Palos.”

***

A Gondola. It was something Kam had never ridden in nor known existed before. Small and wavering, the tiny craft cut through the blackness with only the green glow of the lantern providing light. She held her stomach as she shivered underneath a heavy cloak. Behind her, Gillem manned the rudder, his pie face almost hidden in the dark. In the front, Lefty paddled the craft, its small oars moving the craft over the black waters at what seemed to be an agonizing pace.

“How much farther,” she asked, her voice echoing.

Gillem replied, “Not much longer, Lass. Not long at all,” he said as his voice trailed off.

Erin. How would she save her baby? She was venturing far from her beaten path, below the city, into the unknown, where another world waited for her like an open maw. She had heard rumors of the Nest, but she had given little thought to its actual existence. There had never before been a need to concern herself.

“What is that?” she said.

Lefty gave her a glance. She could see the frown etched in his sad face. What had happened to the happy little blond haired and blue-eyed boy? He seemed so much older now, but filled with despair. She looked away. There was no time for forgiveness now. It was his fault.

“Archways, Lass. We are close,” Gillem offered.

She fought against the creeping doom that was seeping into her bones. She had to be strong for Erin. Closing her eyes, she meditated, ignoring the sounds of the paddles dipping and pushing through the waters and the creaking of the boat. She had a few spells left. She always did. One by one she recalled the steps in her mind. Her vault of energy had strength, but it was no longer full. It would take more than magic to escape from Palos. The man might be greedy, but he was no fool. He’d dealt with the likes of magi and wizards before. He wouldn't have gotten to be who he was if he hadn't been privy to their tricks. She thought of Venir. What would the man think if he knew he had a daughter who was abducted? Would he be as angry and vengeful as she?

She tucked her hands up under her aching breasts. I’m getting closer. I must be. She reached out with her mind for Erin. Nothing. For all she knew her baby was starving now. Be strong. Fresh tears began to stream from the corners of her eyes as the passed underneath the arches. Concentrate. Everything faded away as she stared at the tiny lantern, stroke after stroke. She closed her eyes.

“We’re here,” Gillem said.

Kam opened her eyes. A rotting city awaited them on a mound of dirt. A massive brick chimney was in the middle of it all, smoke seeping from a tiny vent hole on the side. It gave the otherwise hopeless and dreary slat hole the appearance of life. Docks jutted out and wrapped around the entire city where faceless men strolled, stood and talked. Light flickered from torch lit lampposts and the insides of haphazard storefronts and apartments. She couldn’t believe her baby was here, in the dark and murk, among the city’s most notorious ilk.

She glared at Lefty, then back at Gillem.

“Take me to Palos, rogues!”

She ignored the hard and gawping stares as she strode behind Gillem. They would all burn if she had her way: thieves, kidnappers and smugglers, all deserved to die. Many of them would if she did not get her way. She ignored the smell, the rodents and the screams of vile pleasure as they traversed the catacombs of the tiny city's alleys. All she knew was she was getting closer to her baby. Hang on, Baby.

Gillem pushed his way inside two swinging tavern doors. She followed, booted feet clomping on the planks, and came to a sudden stop. A dozen men wielding crossbows and knives greeted her: four on a balcony, the others on the main floor, spread out among the tables.

“Have a seat, Woman,” one said from the balcony, sucking on a toothpick that dangled from his mouth. “Prince Palos will be with you momentarily.”

“Tell that blood sucker I’ll see him now!” she yelled.

Clatch – Zip!

Kam cried out. A small crossbow bolt protruded from her thigh, knocking her to the ground.  An eruption of pain raced through her leg, and humiliation followed on the snickers of the men. She’d never been cut or stabbed by anything before, but she’d stitched a kitchen wound or two. Blast, it hurts. I never imagined. Kam fought to regain her feet. As Lefty reached for her hands she punched him in the chest, filling the room with uproarious laughter.

Two uncomely men dragged her up into a chair and bound her. Her leg was on fire. It was agony. Help me. There wasn’t an honest face in the room to heed her call.

Then, as the man with the toothpick in his mouth reloaded, he said, “Any more blasphemy towards the prince and the next one will go in your neck. That will leave us to take care of your darling little baby.”

CHAPTER 47

The City of Bone. A black monolith shimmering below the burning sky. Georgio wiped the sweat from his brow. Home. He sped up his pace, mouth watering at the thought of a stuffed biscuit and milk.

“Slow down,” Mikkel said, peering through his spy glass. A look of frustration crossed his ebony face, his big smile many days gone. “Get a look at this, Billip.”

“I want to see,” Georgio turned back and headed for Mikkel.

“In a minute, Boy,” Billip said, pushing him aside.

The journey from the City of Three had been nothing short of harrowing. Wind storms came and went; the nights were longer than the days and of all things, underlings. Georgio had killed three himself, and Billip and Mikkel had killed another twelve, but they weren't without casualties. One mintaur and two ponies were dead. Only they themselves and somehow Quickster still lived.

Billip, skin tanned by the suns, his sharp features hardened by battle, gawped as he peered at the ominous city.

“Let me see,” Georgio pleaded. His stomach groaned. He was starving. They had started off with all they could carry, but after that last fight with the underling hunters most of their supplies were left to wither in the dust. He’d had little food in days. He couldn’t ever remember being so hungry. It didn’t seem possible.

Billip tossed Georgio the telescope, turned to Mikkel and said, “Those people are worse off than we are.”

“What people?” Georgio said, “I don’t see hardly anything.”

Billip jerked the spy glass from his grip and hit him in the head.

“Ow! What did you do that for?”

“Wrong end, Stupid.”

“Oh,” he replied, rubbing his head as he raised the spy glass back to his eye. “What the in world of Bish!”

There were thousands of them. People. Huddled in a moving mass outside the City. He had never seen that many people in one place before. It was enough for an army. An army without a banner or siege equipment. An army that was starving to death. His belly let out another loud growl.

“You better get used to that,” Mikkel said, “because we can’t get in there. Bone!”

Billip kicked up the dirt. “Bish!”

Georgio could see the anguish in Billip’s face as he clutched at the bandage on his side. Mikkel sat down behind Quickster's shadow and adjusted the sling on his busted shoulder. Georgio felt a little guilt as the two men baked in the sun, clearly in some type of agony—internal and external agony. He, however hungry he may be, was fine. Sure, getting feathered with a few crossbow bolts hurt like the dickens, but the look on that underling's face before he ran them through almost made it worth it.

I got to have a biscuit. So close.

He walked over to Quickster and stroked his think black mane. If the quick pony was thirsty or hungry, he didn’t show it. The pony seemed as oblivious to the blistering environment as a stone. “We better not take you anywhere nears those people, Quickster. Those people will turn you into a roast.”

“They aren’t the only ones,” Billip said, tossing a knife into the ground.

“Oh no you don’t,” he said. “I’m not eating my friend.”

Mikkel added, “We may have to trade him, Georgio. It’s the donkey or us.”

“No!” He wrapped his arms around Quickster’s neck. “He’s not even mine … he’s Melegal’s”

Billip jumped up on his feet. “The beast is mine, Boy! Melegal stole him from me!”

“Did not!” Georgio screamed.

“Ah, but he did. What else would you expect from a thief?” Billip poked Georgio in his chest. “He stole my ass!”

Mikkel rumbled in laughter, adding, “You can say that again. Did he steal your tender heart, too?”

Georgio slapped Billip’s hand away saying, “He’s Melegal's, and under my care. You might as well try to kill me if you want to take him.” He ripped his broad sword from his sheath. “And just to remind you … You can’t kill me!”

Billip slugged him in the jaw. He dropped to his knees, sword falling from his hand. Then it hit him. He raised his finger. “I just remembered: I know a secret way in!” He fell face first into the dirt.

CHAPTER 48

It was big. Venir stood in helpless horror, his own marrow running cold, at the sight of one of the most ghastly things he ever saw.

“Bish.”

One horse was being weaved into a cocoon while the other’s life was being sucked from it. A spider, the size of four war horses, had its fangs plunged deep into the big horse's haunches. The grey mare kicked one last time as its strong and vibrant body was sucked down to a husk. The enormous insect rose up on four of its eight hairy legs and let out a frightening screech that would have run a giant’s blood cold. Run! His instincts screamed, and he would have if not for something else.

Huddled down in the tall grasses, he strapped on his helm and withdrew his shield. There would be no running from that thing. Hide yes, but run … no. But, that’s not why Venir stayed. It was something else: underlings. Six of them rode atop a basket impossibly embedded on the spider's back. The second dawn's light had risen to reveal the gleaming evil in their bright speckled eyes.

His helm began to burn and beckon. Kill! The black eyelets began their glow. Them! The bond between him and Brool became one. ALL!

Venir’s muscles bulged; his veins writhed beneath his skin as his blood began to flow like lava. He took no notice of his heaving chest or prickling hairs as he fought to hold his position. The venomous spider glided over the grass, its long hairy legs touching the ground as soft as petals. It was the only barrier that came between Venir and the underlings. In order to kill them, Venir would have to kill it. It was time to fight. It was time for something to die.

As the spider tapped around the clearing on its fuzzy black legs, Venir crept forward. Attack! The black body and white-and-black-ringed orb of this spider wasn’t very different than that of the sand spider had been. He was certain there was nothing but gooey green guts in there. From a hole on its tail end, spider silk shot forth, spraying and coating the dead horse. It turned again, the red glow of its eight eyes scanning over the grass and jungle. It felt like thunder behind his temple, exploding in his ear. Attack! The spider reared up on its hind legs almost fifteen feet in height and screeched once more.

The underlings were making short chittering commands as they tugged at many ropes on the saddle. The spider shuddered and shook, knocking one underling off its back and onto the ground. In the next instant, the spider’s front spear-shaped leg pierced the underling in a series of lightning quick blows. Something in Venir quivered.

Avoid those.

The underlings chittered with anger as they jabbed long black rods into the insect, and they crackled with every strike. The spider's feet flailed as it reared and then it dropped and settled down. The underlings had regained control and turned the insect toward him. Venir remained still. His shield was pulled in front of him as he hunkered into the tall grasses and angled himself behind a small grove of jungle trees. Fear and rage intermingled in his mind. The spider was getting closer, each of its steps crushing down on the ground with power. He would have liked to be giant sized again so he could smash the insect under his toe. Attack!

Something bounded past him. The spider turned. A cotton tailed rabbit as big as a man stood up in the field.

A giant rabbit? What in Bish?

Spider silk shot out. The rabbit bounded away in a single leap that took it clear from his sight. The spider turned in pursuit, its rear flank exposed. Venir couldn’t contain himself. The proximity of the underlings was killing him. Attack! Like a metal gazelle he bounded over the grass, closing the gap from him to the spider in two seconds. The spider flinched as he rolled under its belly, grazing its hairy coat. A spear-like tentacle jabbed at his head, glancing off of his shield.

“RAH!” Venir cried, ramming Brool to his knuckles into the spider’s belly, then ripping it free with another bellow. An ear shattering screech followed. Spider guts coated him from head to toe, like spoiled milk or a toxic sewer. Something hit him hard, sprawling him to the ground, throwing spots before his eyes. He rolled onto his back as the spider crashed his way. Move! He screamed in pain as the spider fell down on his legs. He was pinned to the ground.

“Son of a Bish!” he yelled, drawing the bewildered gazes of the underlings. “Come on, you slat eaters! I’ve been waiting for this!” Venir raised his axe, chopping away at the spider’s flesh with fury, black and green chunks of the beast flying everywhere.

As if they had a single mind, the underlings jumped from their saddle, drew their edged weapons and attacked. Venir sat up, catching the ringing blows on his shield. He chopped the legs out from underneath one underling, dismembering it from the knee. It chittered in agony, crawling away. Venir tried to pull his legs free. Move quicker!

The helm beckoned a warning. The underlings were circling behind his back.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Venir fended off the nearest underling then shoved the edge of his shield in its mouth. Move! He flopped to the ground as a blade sliced over the top of his head. He cried out as something stabbed into his leg. He could hardly see from all the goo in his eyes, which also coated him from head to toe. He ripped his legs out from under the spider, rolled over one of the underlings and sprang to his feet.

The underling with a mouthful of busted teeth still fumbled for a weapon as the other three rushed him.

Chop!

One stopped to find its arm.

Stab! Rip!

One clutched at the gaping hole in its chest.

Slice!

The other fell to the ground, black-red blood burbling from its headless neck.

A sharp whistle caught his ears. The last underling, busted mouth and all, had managed a whistle. Brool shot from his arm like an arrow, cutting the underling's alarm short. Venir scanned the area as he wrenched his weapon free. He stepped away.

The spider’s spear-like tendril poked at his side. The creature lived, its red eyes full of an evil intent. He sliced away the tendril. Webbing shot from the front and rear of the dying creature as he tried to force its bulk up from the ground. One at a time, Venir cut its legs off. He jammed Brool’s spike in its skull.

“That’s for killing one of my underlings!”

He whirled at the sound of something he hadn't expected to hear: clapping.

There, among the grasses and the gore, stood Slim. He had the ears of a rabbit sticking up from his head.

“You can’t be serious,” Venir said.

Slim held his finger to his lips and said, “Sssh … not so loud.” The tall lanky man crinkled his bunny nose and added, “That smells horrible, and it’s all over you. We’ve got to find you a river, a big one.”

“Great idea,” Venir said, slinging the goo from himself. “We need to find some horses and our women, too. At least you survived. What happened?”

“What happened,” Slim said, his peaceful face showing a hint of anger, “is you left.”

Venir shook his head. More people were dead or abducted because of him, and he’d only been back in Bish a few days. In trying to prevent one bad thing he’d opened the door to another. He shook his head.

“Slim, it’s probably best you parted ways with me. Most people don’t fare so well in my company these days.”

“Bish happens, Venir. Get over it. Besides, I like you.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

Slim shrugged.

“Because you kill evil. You’re good at it.”

Venir took off his helm, surveyed the dead underlings and said with a smile, “I’d be lying if didn’t say that felt really good. Hmmm, I say we go and find some more." He chopped his axe in the air.

Slim’s ears perked up, and his nose began to twitch.

“I hate to say this, but I think more of those things,” he motioned towards the spider, “are coming.”

“Any chance you can turn into a horse so we can track these kidnapping fiends down?”

Slim’s ears shrunk and returned to normal. An older man, with long earlobes and calming blue eyes, remained. “Not today, but if we live till tomorrow maybe I’ll surprise you.”

In the distance Venir could see three large black things creeping over the landscape. Killing one spider was one thing, but three? Run or die. He looked over at Slim, but the lanky cleric was already running.

CHAPTER 49

A key. A key. A key.

He held the continual light coin in his mouth. It made what otherwise would be a very dark room quite bright. The small, tightly wrapped coin gave off quite the powerful beam of illumination. Melegal had become very fond of it. I wonder if McKnight knew about this key. Lighting a lantern or candle wasn’t an option. The smell of the burning oil or wick would linger and be a dead giveaway.

Melegal's hands ran up and down every nook and crevice of Lord Almen’s office. He’d been inside more than a dozen times over the past several months and noted every detail. He could have done it blindfolded if he had to, but why show off when your life was on the line.

Noting the thin layer of dust on the floor, his keen eyes followed a trail unseen to normal sight. The office, virtually dust free and dry as a husk of corn, still left many signs to his naked eye that was as sharp as a bird of prey's. Holding his chin in the nook between his finger and thumb, he bent down on one knee, eyeing a row of books and baubles on the bottom shelf of a book case.

“Hmmm. …”

Royal Lord Almen, when he was in his presence, rarely moved from his seat at the desk. Instead, the stoic man always remained in close proximity, never venturing far. In all likelihood, his most precious items were probably there. At the same time, it was likely the desk would be booby trapped. Setting a trap off was one thing, but resetting it was another. Melegal didn’t have time to risk it, so he chose to run his search from the outside in.

This is interesting.

He removed the coin from his mouth and fanned his hand up and down the shelf. Tiny particles of dust glittered in his coin's bright beam. Some floated; others remained affixed to their objects. There were golden dragon bookends, precious metal candle sticks, several finely crafted letter openers and so on, but dust coated each and every discarded object of appreciation.

What would the key look like?

Melegal aimed the beam high and low. Its brilliance identified other details that his own eyes in the dim lantern light had missed. Tonio’s sword, for example, was placed within a trove of weapons that appeared to have been discarded. The encrusted jewels on the pommel of the magnificent sword reflected with brilliance underneath the cloth Melegal had recovered it in. The murdering brat. The thought of the horrifying young man left his blood a little cold. What the monster had done to all of the sentries months back had been something he’d set up, the results more grisly than expected. But he lived.

The room itself, a five-hundred square-foot rectangle, seemed more vast than it first appeared as he shined the light around its edges. Another black case, somewhat ominous in its old mahogany finish, sat along the wall askew. The faintest of scratches could be seen at the corner of the case on the castle stone. A delicate breeze nibbled at his fingertips as he ran them along the back edges.

“Clever.”

Indeed. It was one of the better concealed passageways he’d ever encountered.

“And where might you go?” He pulled the case outward, not scraping, but gliding over the stone. A small door, less than his chin in height, greeted him. He pulled on a silk glove, reached down and grabbed the brass knob that jutted out just above his knees. He felt cold metal through his glove. Interesting. The mechanism’s springs pinged his ears as he twisted the knob and shoved it open. A whoosh of icy air nipped at his nose and ruffled his cloak. Chill bumps rose all over his body.

He ducked down and crept inside. A tunnel, tall and wide as a large man, greeted him like a large mouth. Steps carved from the ground descended in a steep decline before dropping out of sight. His beam of light, not withstanding, reached less than thirty feet ahead. The air was musty, chilly and damp. He rubbed his burning nose. Melegal was accustomed to the tunnels beneath the vast City, but this was different.

What am I doing? Why would the key be down here? Fool, I don’t even know what the key looks like. Was this another one of Sefron’s games? He took a closer look at things. On the landing where he stood were a staff, a cloak and a pair of curved swords on belts and in scabbards. Cutlasses. Strange. Two torches hung on the wall, and there was a peg on the wall as well, and hanging from it was … A Key!

It was slender, a hollow head, a row of teeth, as long as his hand and made of dark steel. He wrapped his silk covered fingers around it and removed it from the peg. He checked the brass door knob and the key hole below it. Nope. Blast. This is either it, or it goes to something down there. He craned his neck above the steps and closed his eyes. Something was scratching against the stone. There was an ebb, something like breathing, and dripping water. I’m not going down there. He stepped back inside Lord Almen’s chamber and took a deep breath. His hand clutched at his heart.

No thank you.

He twirled the key in his fingers. It was different, certainly not like anything he’d ever come across before. A human locksmith could have made it, but the design wasn’t human. The teeth were more round than square, and the rivets weren’t smooth, but rough. How long would it be before Lord Almen missed it? Should he give it to Sefron? Draw a picture? Yes.

It was closing in on an hour, time to move. There was no telling how early Lord Almen actually came in. He made his way back through the small door and hung the key back on the peg. With relief he began to pull the door closed behind him.

A disturbance was coming from the other side of the main door in Lord Almen’s chamber room. No! He could hear voices on the other side. One of them was Lord Almen’s, and he was angry. He heard a thumb depressing the lever. SLAT! He began pulling the cabinet back into place. Ow! He pinched his fingers between the stone and wood from the effort.

“Remove that man’s head at dawn! See to it all the sentries are in the courtyard to bear witness. Outrageous! Find his superior and remove his right hand as well. Move, Imbecile!”

Melegal heard another sentry racing back up the steps just as he closed the small door. He could barely hear a thing on the other side. The little door seemed as thick as the stones that surrounded it. That’s when he closed his hand around the bright light of the coin. Bone! He felt for the key on the post and waited in the pitch black. What to do now.

He’ll post two guards for this. Even after he leaves, I’ll never get back out unnoticed. To make matters worse, he had a meeting with Lord Almen. He pressed his ear to the door. He thought he heard a muffled voice from within. It was hard to say. Lord Almen, more than likely, sat at his desk, plotted death and brooded.

I’m dead. He let his boots dangle over the first step. If you can’t go up, than you must go down. The only place I’m going is down.

CHAPTER 50

Cass’s slim, coated body was as stiff as driftwood.

“Somebody, do something!” Fogle cried.

The dwarven ladies removed Cass from his grasp and rolled her onto her stomach. Their strong little hands thumped all over the druid’s back while another dwarven woman wiped the goo from her mouth. Fogle brushed his gooey fingers through his hair.

She can’t die! She can’t!

Death wasn’t something he’d come to terms with. Ox the Mintaur had been the first friend he'd seen die, and that had been hard. Seeing this exotic woman—perfect in features and form—seeing her perish would be unfathomable.

“Do something, Mood!” he said, shooting the Blood Ranger a pleading look.

Mood stood, his solemn expression unchanged, unmoving.

Cough!

Cass’s body shook and shimmered. The dwarves lifted the woman into a sitting position and continued their heavy taps on her back. Fogle watched her fingers writhe and her arms sling. Her body lurched upright as her head heaved forward to retch. Something vile, muddy, brown and black gushed forth like a geyser from the druid's petite mouth. She stopped, gasped, then heaved again with more violent fury that before. The putrid smelly substance seemed unnatural and endless.

Ew!

Fogle turned his nose away. He glanced over and away again. Something about the exotic nature of their relationship had been damaged. At least he thought maybe it had. She lives. That’s all that matters. Well, I’m certain she’ll want to clean herself up. She’s puking again!

The retching and puking went on for another minute. The dwarven women had thin smiles growing on their chubby little faces. Cass had her legs wrapped beneath her, her body sagging into the arms of the women. She pulled her hair away and looked down at the massive pile of vomit she had created.

“That’s foul,” she said in a meek voice. “Burn it. Quickly.”

The women dragged her back. Mood dropped a torch into the bile. It burst into a roaring flame. The fire burned green and orange, the smoke shades of deep purple and pink, the heat not hot but cold. It hissed and squealed in anger, like a living thing in its last hideous moments of life. Fogle shielded his face with his hand from the strange beacon of flame. It was evil, vile and deadly. Whatever poison Chongo'd had in him should have killed him. He looked over at Cass. It should have killed her as well. He felt fortunate to be alive.

The fire let out a final vengeful groan and then extinguished as fast as it started, leaving nothing but silence and an unforgettable smell. Suddenly, Fogle Boon felt as weary as he’d ever been. He fought to keep his eyes open. It was a degree of guilt that kept them open. How much had Cass suffered for the dog, and how much had Chongo suffered for … Venir?

That’s when he heard Cass’s purring voice speaking in a raspy, not-so-seductive manner. His eyes latched onto hers, and he tried to make out the words coming from her grotesquely coated face. Somehow she was both beautiful and disgusting at the same time as she said, “Come, give your sweet a kiss.”

Something like a tiny mouse ran up and down his spine as he gaped. Then something huge shuffled at his side. Chongo rose to his feet. Fogle looked up and blinked, eyes growing as large as the moons at what happened before them. The dog’s thinning grey coat thickened and darkened to a deeper brown. Its tongues turned pink, its big eyes grew alert. Fogle scooted back as Chongo turned, swayed over to Cass and began to lick the entirety of the muck from her body. She giggled.

Mood’s big hand landed on his shoulder, and he could have sworn he saw the dwarf wipe something wet from his eyes. “Don’t get too cozy, Wizard.” The dwarf gave his shoulder a powerful squeeze. “The adventure has just begun.”

“No time to celebrate? I’ve not even gotten a chance to take my bath.”

“Better make it quick. Chongo’s waited long enough,” Mood said, pulling him up to his feet.

It can’t be time to go already. It can’t be.

Mood whispered something haunting in his ear.

“It won’t be long before ta’ underlings take Bish over. We must find Venir. The world's gonna need The Darkslayer.”

As if the last few months hadn't been difficult enough.

CHAPTER 51

The orange flames of a fireplace danced in her green eyes as she struggled against her bonds. Kam, a proud woman, a little more than thirty, for the first time in her life was helpless. The only thing keeping her mind from collapsing was her baby, an innocent creature even more helpless than her. What has he done with my baby?

The rogues had taken her up the steps and set her down inside a lavish chamber. There, she sat alongside a massive table, bonds biting into her wrists, gagged with a dish cloth. High back chairs of precious wood and velvet surrounded the ancient table. Piles of gold, silver and other precious metals were stacked up from one end to the other. There were jewels, goblets, fine china, tapestries, art and statues—the equivalent of a Royal throne room. A great sword hung over the fireplace mantle, shadows flickering on its ominous blade. There was something significant about it, a story perhaps, but she did not concern herself with that now.

Her belly groaned. Her leg burned, but the wound had been bandaged. Still, she had been sitting for more than an hour since the last man left. Her tight bonds had numbed her wrists, and the rag inside her mouth was dry. Her breasts ached. She coughed and sniffed. Where is she?

She had tried to move her chair, but the ropes were too secure and the chair too heavy. Instead, she sat there, chin dipping downward before rising against her straining neck. She heard heavy footsteps outside the door, the murmuring of voices. Come on! Then they were gone, and only the sound of the dying embers of the fire accompanied her. Her gaze moved to another door in the room, closed and filled with nothing but silence behind. What is he waiting for?

The hot flames kept the sweat running down her clothes. Every inch of her body was soaked with sweat. Every inch of her body had also been groped as the cutthroats took their time and turns, bringing her up the stairs. It seemed that all had taken a squeeze, a grope, a poke added with a few lip licking lusty glares. She’d never been violated in any manner before. She had a bad feeling the worst was yet to come.

Be strong, Kam. Be strong. You can survive this. You have to, for Erin.

Everything had been a disaster since Venir left, most particularly her. She’d been falling apart for months. She could not figure out if it was because or him or her. She was a woman that always knew what she wanted, but lately all she had been doing was second guessing herself. I’m a fool, and now my baby is going to die. She couldn’t help but think that was already a possibility. It was killing her inside. No! Her body shuddered and heaved against her painful bonds as fresh tears streamed down her rosy cheeks.

She flinched as something soft and delicate wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“Even in the most disagreeable situation, you are still the most captivating woman I’ve ever seen,” a voice said from nowhere.

Palos!

She mumbled angrily behind her gag.

A sinister laughter followed as she felt a finger running across her lips. The hairs on her arms recoiled, and fear raced down her spine. Had he been there the whole time?

The voice of a gentleman charmer spoke again.

“It’s a shame to bind your full and perfect lips. They are the color of my favorite wine, and I can only imagine that they taste all the sweeter.”

She thought she had died when he said his next words.

”Welcome to your new home, Kam.”

***

It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.

Lefty sulked within, his mind a place of misery. Gillem was quiet at his side. The tavern however, Palos’s home, the prison of Kam, was full of rude comments and raunchy jokes. The things the men said about Kam and Palos were sickening. Vile. Evil. Incomprehensible to his young mind. All he could do was sit there like a mute, helpless and full of worry. There was absolutely nothing he could do.

Gillem, however, seemed content to smoke his pipe and drink ale after ale. His halfling mentor smiled and played along with all the congratulations of his brethren, like a wealthy brother returning home.

“Master Gillem, can you kidnap me one of those?”

“Who carried the left breast and who took the right? Take me next time; I’ll carry them both.”

“Her back must be strong from carrying all that milk. What meadow did you find her in?”

The master thief just slapped his knee, smiled and laughed. All Lefty could do was wallow within, a silly smile on his face. Smile and everyone will think everything is all right, Venir had once said. What would Venir do? What would Melegal do? Kill them? Stab them? Save them?

One of the cutthroats swayed into him, spilling ale on his clothes.

“Watch yourself, tiny one!” the man said before staggering away. “Yellow-headed rodent.”

There’s must be something I can do. If I could just find Erin.

He’d been concentrating as well. His mind was still at work beneath his thick locks of blond hair. The room was full of rugged voices, each expressing fantasies while the others commented in demented delight. There was no mention of the baby girl Erin, however. That worried him. Please don’t be dead. Someone in the room had to know where the baby was. They all couldn’t keep their mouths shut. What had Melegal told him long ago? What they aren’t saying, their bodies are showing. Watch close and see and hear as well.

“Eat something, Boy,” Gillem said in his ear, interrupting his thoughts. “Blend in. Yer suffering is showing. Palos has little need of you now, so ye act like yer a brother of the guild.”

For the first time in his life, Lefty felt the urge to jam a dagger in another living person’s body. SCUM! They are scum. I am scum. His eyes drifted past Gillem’s bobbing head to the doorway about the stairs. It was hard to imagine what was going on up there. A tiny fire ignited behind his heart. It was his fault. He had to fix it. From the corner of his eye he noticed a man he'd not seen before, entering the tavern. A nasty scar went from his chin to his ear, and his left eye was milk white. He gave a quick nod to the crossbowman called Diller, on the balcony, then disappeared back outside. Lefty was certain that no one else even noticed, not even Gillem.

Diller headed down the stairs and had quick words with one rogue and then another. The two men finished their drinks before departing without another word.

“Gillem,” Lefty said, another minute after the two men were gone, “may I take a moment?”

Master Longfingers' eyes were bloodshot and blurry from all the smoke as he said, “Er … well, don’t go far or be gone too long. And come back with more tobacco.”

***

He still had a heart, Gillem just couldn’t let it show as he ignored the halfling boy's departure. There was little he could do to save the woman or the child, and he felt horrible for it.  It was not natural for a halfling to do such atrocious things. They were simple people that had a knack for getting into trouble with the other races. Why they were drawn to them, he could not figure, but they offered them things the halfling world did not. And like a curious cat, Gillem found himself plunging deeper into the lowest of wells. He never figured it would have gone this far.

Patience, Gillem. Patience.

Even he’d been cut from Palos's loop. He’d been too close to this one, and the Prince of Thieves was privy to that. It didn’t help matters that Thorn had not returned. That would only make matters worse for everyone: Kam, Erin, Lefty and him. It was a dangerous time, indeed. Still, Lefty Lightfoot just might have the stones to figure a way out. The boy could do things that he could not, and his heart was still good. Time, however, would be running out. He’d seen many women come to the Roost but never go, woman or child. So he laughed, swapped stories, smoked and drank. Farewell, friends of fiends.

***

One second there was nothing but a table of gold before her and in the next Palos had revealed himself. His face, still handsome, yet demented, glowered above hers. His image faded out, then solidified once more.

Invisibility potion? A waste of potent magic.

“What are you willing to do to see your baby, Kam?” He asked with hungry eyes.

She looked deep into his eyes that rested beneath two well primped brows and said, “Anything.”

The Prince of Thieves flashed a handsome row of teeth.

“I find it hard to believe, but I like what I am hearing. Hmmm.”

He kneeled down and tore the pants around her leg wound.

“We can’t have this holding back your efforts.” She groaned as he applied pressure with his thumb. “Still tender, I see.” He grabbed a small jar from the table and pulled the lid off, revealing a light blue salve. He gently rubbed it into her leg.

A wonderful sensation, burning and soothing, filled her as she watched the wound close shut. He began messaging her thigh with his nimble fingers. It felt good, comforting, and her eyes began to roll up in her head. No. Stop.

“Relax, Kam. That salve will take away more than your pain.” He kissed her knees. “It will subdue your vanity as well. Enjoy.”

Her head began to roll along her shoulders as the euphoric sensation set in. She felt something being clasped around her neck. A collar.

“This will keep you from mumbling any nasty spells,” he said, lips nibbling at her ear.

She had already made her mind up that she would do whatever it took to see her baby again.  Her mind was still her own, but now she was so relaxed, as if she had slipped into a warm bed of fox fur minks. Palos slowly removed her gag and other bonds. She was free. Magic swelled within in her then flowed back again. The next thing she knew there was a goblet of wine in her hand. She gulped it down. It was good. She felt good. She felt guilty for feeling so good. Focus. You’ve got to see your baby.

“When can I see my baby?” she asked.

“Follow me,” Palos said. He walked with grace that belied his girth, opened the door across the room and passed inside.

She rubbed her wrists and followed. The blood flowing through her body was almost painful from where the circulation had been cut off, but she felt loose. Palos closed the door behind her.

A large candle illuminated an otherwise dark bedroom. A large four posted bed covered in silk and cotton sheets seemed to await her. She fully expected her stomach to curdle, but it did not.

Palos spoke with the most calming and reassuring of voices. It suggested everything would be fine.

“What was it you were trying to say you would do to see your baby?” he said, dropping his robe and slipping beneath the sheets. I can’t be doing this.

Part of her wanted someone, anyone, to come crashing through the door. The other part of her didn’t.

She pushed her matted hair back from her eyes and took a deep breath. She let her clothes fall to the floor. Palos’s eyes enlarged like saucers as she walked over, pulled the sheets from him and climbed onto the bed.

She could see his lips moving but heard nothing. She straddled the man, pushed his hands back over his head and dangled her breasts in his face. She gave them both something they’d never forget as a single tear dropped from the corner of her eye.

CHAPTER 52

Sixty-seven.

Melegal slid his thumb back from the wrapped up coin of continual light and gazed in wonder. He was in a room: not a small dungeon only capable of hoarding a few prisoners, no, this was different. It was another world, capable of housing a tiny village. And that wasn’t all. Mixed in with the man-made architecture were strange formations cut from the rock. It was alien compared to anything he’d ever seen in the city, or anywhere else for that matter.

Not at all what I expected.

He shivered. The place was foreign to his sharp senses. He wanted to completely unwrap the coin and let its full illumination blossom. For some reason, all he could think of was underlings. They’d forced droves of people to find shelter in the city. Maybe they were closer than he even expected. Why couldn’t they be lying beneath the City of Bone itself? He flashed the beam of light over his surroundings and up the steps. The landing at the bottom of the steps had unlit torches at the ready on either side. Somebody’s doing something down here.

He scanned his light across the room, noting the intricate patterns on the old tiled floor. There was something sinister in how the mosaic seemed to twist and writhe, the light reflecting as if the tiles were moving. He moved toward the exterior of the room, unable to shake the odd feeling drifting into his shoes. Ahead, an open chamber beckoned, and along the sides was a series of small wooden doors with heavy brass handles that were similar to the one he’d ventured through.

There had to be another way out. Going back is not an option, Rogue. But this far underground, where would any of these doors go? What was this room used for? So strange. So odd. He made his way along the perimeter of the oval room, every footstep light as the one before. The only sound was the occasional scuff of his boots and his soft breath through his nose. He stopped and inspected the key hole in one of the doors. The opening was large enough to insert the key from the top of the stairs. Interesting. He depressed the thumb lever only to meet with resistance.

Hmmm. It might even explain why the upstairs door was not secure as one would expect it to be. The key! Maybe that was indeed the key. He checked another door that was the same as the first. Pressing his ear to the door, he listened. Nothing. He tried another. Still nothing. He made his way to the open chamber and shined his light inside. Keys! Not one, but many, all lined on pegs along the curving wall, each the same as the first, but different. The teeth, similar to those on the key up the stairs, twinkled in the light. Each key head was different: round, oval, and rectangular shapes of some foreign sort, ancient and not of the common customs. Melegal sat down, crossing his legs, at the edge of the chamber. He’d need to think about this.

Trap. It must be. He rubbed his chin. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven pegs. He looked over his shoulder and scanned his light over the doors. Six doors. Threes keys left and three right. Lonely peg in the middle. Perhaps that was for the key at the top of the stairs, which still begged the question: why was the door at the top unlocked? Even worse, why had Lord Almen come to his study in the wee hours of the morning? Lord Almen would expect him early, but who did he expect before him? He wasn’t one to track the man, but such a time of day was odd, even for him.

He ran his fingers over the mosaic tiles on the floor. The grey grout between the small tiles was thin, but solid. On his hands and knees he followed his light along the outer edge of the round room toward the first key on his left. At an agonizing pace his light and hands scoured over the wall and floor, feeling for loose plates or difficult to see holes. It seemed unlikely that such a place would not be protected by something. After several minutes he slid his way underneath the first key. Good so far.

He rolled onto his knee, shined the light on the wooden peg that jutted out above his nose and gave it intense study. His slender fingers glided over the tiles around the peg. I hate traps. Hate them. He took another long draw of stale air through his nose. Just do it. He lifted the key from the peg like a feather. A tingling sensation ran from his fingers to his toes. He rubbed the cold key in his grip. Good. Now, let’s try door number one, shall we.

The squeak of a door came from nearby. Slat! It wasn’t upstairs. Instead, it was one of the doors in the main room, a door slowly being shoved outward. Melegal dropped his coin of light into his black silk pouch and flattened himself along the floor. The glow of a lantern filled the room. The door, the closest one to the right, was fully open now. I’m dead. He pushed his body backward, slithering over the tiles like a snake, into the shadows of the opposing wall. Three pairs of heavy footsteps clomped loudly over the floor.

Clearly not here to steal anything. He reached his hand down his belly, to the pommel of a well concealed knife. The door clanked back shut. A rustle of footsteps echoed within the chamber. The smell of sweaty men began to linger. Good. No underlings.

“Follow me,” a husky female voice said.

Melegal could see the lantern moving toward the stairs as he peeked from underneath his cloak. They were well armed, weapons jangling on hips, their strides confident without alarm.

He’s expecting them. Excellent. But where did they come from? On silent feet he dashed across the room and caught sight of the two men and the woman heading up the steps before they disappeared around the corner. There was something familiar about the way the woman walked. The way she talked. The shadows in the darkness can remind the mind of many things. Nah. He crept from behind, up the winding stair case, from deep in the shadows, straining to hear any words that might help. A door opened. Three pairs of booted feet made their way through. The door closed, leaving him back in the utter black near the bottom of the steps.

Melegal leaned against the wall and fanned himself with his hat. He licked the salt from his lips. I’m thirsty. He ran the strange key through his hands. A feeling of satisfaction ran through him.

“Ah …,” he clutched at his stomach.

A wave of nausea came, and he doubled over. A feverish sweat broke out on his brow. What is happening to me? He began panting for his breath.

The sound of a door opening burst in his ears. Whoever just went in to Lord Almen’s was coming back. The sounds of booted feet were rushing down the steps, but Melegal was already on the bottom. Threatening voices began to shout. What had happened? What am I doing here?

He shut his eyes and recalled everything he’d already seen with the light. Through the pitch black he bottomed out at the stairwell, stumbled, and dashed through the dark to the last door he had the key for. Without looking over his shoulder he jammed the key in the door and turned. Click. A sense of dread filled him as the footsteps closed in. A cry and crash roared out from above. He propped the door open as he slipped off his boot, ran into the alcove, hung the key on the peg, ran back, pulled open the door, rushed inside and closed it. I should have stayed home in bed. He screamed, or so he thought he did. Something powerful lifted him from his feet, turned him inside out and hurled him through time and space.

***

“I saw nothing, Lord Almen,” the woman said.

Lord Almen stood inside the alcove, touching each and every key. His instincts had never failed him. He had a sleeping guard in front of his office quarters followed by another coincidence.

He turned to the woman that stood a finger shorter than he and said, “But you did smell cinnamon, did you not?”

“As faint as the dew on a honeysuckle,” she said, as the lantern light deepened the scars over her sensuous wine red lips.

Lord Almen walked around the room and said, “No man could have escaped so quickly, but we cannot be certain thanks to these two buffoons that stumbled in the stairwell.”

“It will never happen again my Lord,” she said, ramming her sword in the nearest man’s chest. The other's eyes widened like saucers.

Slice!

Lord Almen hacked that one with his cutlass, biting deep into his shoulder and neck. The floor moaned with life, the tiles shifting and sucking. He watched in morbid fascination as the dead men’s blood was sucked into the floor and disappeared. Their bodies withered and turned to dust. That chilling sight never grew old for the Royal. The chamber of death was as deadly as fascinating. He smirked.

“As for you,” he said, wrapping his arm around the woman’s waist and kissing her neck, “it’s been too long, my little black queen.”

“Don’t you mean Brigand Queen?” She purred.

***

What happened?

The door handle Melegal had been holding was gone. Part of his mind should have been as well. He patted himself up and down. Dagger. Boots. Belt. Coins. Knife. Hat. He couldn’t be where he was, though. The room was still black as night, but his ears were on high alert as his fingers found the edges of a wall. He fully expected to be inside of a corridor or tunnel of some sort, instead it was nothing more than a closet and another stone door. He ran his fingers over the keyhole, kneeled down and took a look. Huh?

He pushed the door open and walked through.

The woman in the room screamed and jumped so high her head almost hit the low ceiling. The startled look on her face was one for the ages.

“W-Where did you come from?” she stammered as she pointed at him.

Melegal shrugged, looking over his shoulder and said, “The bedroom.”

He might as well have been a ghost in her eyes, and he liked it. I don’t know what happened, but that really was something. “Perhaps you should sit down,” he said.

Instead, Haze came over and wrapped her arms around him. He could feel her body tremble like a frightened animal in his arms. Oh, this is good.

“You’re real. That’s all I need to know,” she sighed.

It was the kind of answer he needed for now, and if anyone should sit, it should be him. Keys. There were seven in his life now, one as significant as the first. Great power lay within one, but what power did one have with all seven? He pulled his hat off and tossed it on the peg with a little laugh. He’d managed to dodge certain death. Not too shabby, Rat.

Haze filled his hand with a glass of port.

He shrugged at her and propped his feet up, letting the crackling embers warm them and wondering. What kind of power did Lord Almen have? How desperate must Sefron have been to align himself with him? But, how could Sefron have ever known?

“Uh … I missed you,” Haze said, rubbing his shoulders.

“Not now, I’m still trying to figure out how I got here.”

“But, when did you … I was just in there.”

“All in due time Haze, now shush, and relish in my presence.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed. His heart was still beating like a bunny rabbit's. His moment of doom had passed, but that wasn’t all. His obsession with finding the key had moved on as well. Whatever possessed him to do something so foolish? As desperate as he was, he’d never considered breaking into Lord Almen’s office, and he was certain Lord Almen would have his suspicions. Still, the keys had his undivided attention now. Where did those other doors lead? Could they take you anywhere you ever wanted to go? And what was with all of those strange markings on the wall, the floors?

The dawn's first light crept in through a small stained glass window over the tiny kitchen area. Its bright light ate at his brain. It was time to get up, but all he wanted to do was go to bed. There was something he had to do, though. The Time! Haze squeaked as he jumped out of the chair and grabbed his hat.

“Where—?”

He snatched the bottle of port from the table and headed out the door, bounding the steps two at a time. He had a meeting with Lord Almen at the castle, and he was already late.

CHAPTER 53

After all his years dreaming of adventure, Morley Sickle'd had enough over the past few months. It was time to kill himself. He climbed willow branches. Pickles. Pickles. Pickles. Crawled out on a branch. Cheese. Cheese. Cheese. And dove headfirst into quicksand that awaited him below. Jig. Jig. Jig. The first moments weren’t so bad. The murk was warm and comforting as he sank, ever so slowly, into its awaiting darkness. He could hear nothing save for his own heartbeat. In a few moments he’d be listening to his last. Peace.

Elsewhere, Scorch, the omnipotent man, was distracted. Swamp trolls, six in all, had taken them by surprise. Morley's man-sized captor, blond hair flowing over his shoulders, was swinging a glowing great sword he’d procured from thin air. The trolls piled around Scorch, twelve feet of evil and hate, teeth chomping at the man who’d invaded their swamp. The trolls didn’t stand a chance, but Morley had seen his chance and fled.

Instinct seized his withering bones. His air supply came to an abrupt halt as he sucked his first taste of sandy bile down his throat. It was awful, choking and dying. Suddenly, life didn’t seem so bad. Help! The quicksand continued to surge down his throat, burning his lungs, as he swam with utter futility in the puddle. I’m going to die. His body twitched and lurched. Scorch!

Morley hacked. A deep breath of air filled his sandy lungs. He coughed and hacked more. He was on his hands and knees, his body shaking in pain from his violent seizure. It was pure joy compared to where he was before. The grit of the land was a familiar companion as he wiped away the wet dirt that covered his eyes. The first thing he saw was gleaming steel sunk deep into the ground. A pair of booted feet straddled it.

“Morley, seriously, what did I tell you about killing yourself?” Scorch said, voice tranquil with a layer of agitation.

He tilted his head up. Scorch’s gore splattered face was almost serene, eyes glittering like torches. He coughed and spit.

“Morley,” Scorch said in his upbeat and authoritative tone, “what do you say?”

“Thank you.”

“Ah, now that’s better, and you’re welcome,” Scorch said, squatting down in front of him. “Can you not see now living is better than dying now?”

He spit another mouthful of grit away. Scorch was a manner of man like no other. Dressed in a common tunic of leather, the man made the miserable, fog-laden swamp seem like a palace. His voice was soothing, but pressing, borderline arrogant and annoying. Morley couldn’t help but like the man and hate him just the same.

“I suppose.”

“Morley, why despise me? I’ve brought you no harm. I’ve showered you with gifts and look,” he stretched his arm over the surrounding landscape, “I’ve killed all these evil trolls.”

He looked over his shoulder. A troll, grey and green as a toad, lay sprawled along the ground, decapitated. Another leaned against a tree, clutching a gaping hole in its chest, dead. Entrails hung from the branches, and the foul smell of a charred husk lingered in the air. He shook his head.

“What is it, Man? Why don’t you like me?” Scorch asked, his voice more demanding.

“I don’t understand you.” He paused. Scorch gave him a pleading look. “Uh … you read my thoughts. You’re too powerful!” he yelled, then covered his face, cowering.

Scorch stood up and said, “Ah … so you want my power.”

Morley’s dander began to rise.

No! I want to be left alone! I want you to leave me alone!

Scorch studied his nails and said, “I can’t do that, Morley.”

Why?

“I like you, Morley … and, I don’t want to.”

Morley felt his mind going numb.

“But, I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll make you the second most powerful man in the city.”

It wasn’t such a bad idea. After all, he had been a jig churning nobody all of his life. Now, other than his peace of mind, he could have anything he wanted: Women. Power. Gold. Women. Besides, Scorch didn’t seem to mind what he thought. Of course, he’d gone that route before, only to see a lot of people needlessly die and suffer at Scorch’s will and pleasure. It had gotten to him, but better them than him.

“Now you’re thinking, Morley. Now you’re thinking like those troublesome Royals. So, you ready to clean yourself up and head back to the city?”

Morley nodded. There seems to be no other choice.

“Excellent. I’m starting to miss my moldy cheese and pickles.”

CHAPTER 54

Trinos sat on the water fountain's edge, her sensuous arm dangling in its cool waters, basking in the early sunlight. The fountain bubbled and trickled from the mouth of a large fish, endless and sparkling. Around her were many people, some carrying pots, others clay urns, all nodding or bowing in greeting. Corrin stood nearby, a gangly man of medium height and build, wrapped in a light grey cloak, his fingers tapping on his chest. The man had been a thief and cutthroat all his life, but that had changed now. His purpose had been redefined, but his doubts remained persistent.

“They’re coming,” he warned. “I told you they’d be coming. You can’t just open up a fountain in the middle of nowhere and think the Royals won’t find out. Son of a boar! There’s a dozen of them!” He shuffled closer to Trinos.

She yawned as she gathered her elegant feet and stood. Stretched out in the light, she saw Corrin gawp at her magnificent framework. He had the look of a child seeing a rainbow for the first time. Of all the men she’d encountered, his mind, though savaged by the brutal world, remained respectful. “I’ll handle this. You just see the others to safety.”

“Er … safety?”

She gave him a look.

“Right away,” he said. “Get your pots and go, rodents! The Royals come to fetch their water. They’ll have your hides if they catch you with it. Skin you like hogs. Especially you,” he said, pointing at a fat woman that waddled as fast as she could, carrying a full pot of water between her legs. “Yer gonna need more water than that to wash that thick hide of yours, Tula!”

Trinos smirked. Corrin was as effective a communicator as he was crude, and for some reason she liked the way he said things.

Two rows of horses trotted in a direct path toward the fountain. The men atop the mounts wore heavy armor, swords dangling from saddle scabbards. One lone man carried the banner whose gold and forest green colors she’d already come to know. They spread out, cutting off her path from going anywhere else, as well as Corrin’s. She gazed up at a large man who was blocking her sunlight.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Trinos could feel their needs: their hunger, anger and lust. The dark clad men weren’t here for negotiations. Instead, they were here for humiliation and with orders to destroy, if need be, all the people she protected. In their sight, not one was worth saving. Six of the twelve men swung their legs from their saddles, dropping heavy boots onto the cobblestone road. Corrin became pale at her side as the formidable group of trained soldiers closed in.

The leader folded his arms over the neck of his mount and leaned forward. He had a thick head of yellow hair and a black mustache. He ran his eyes up and down her body, then flicked them towards the burbling fountain and back to her. He cleared his throat.

“This fountain is not for public use. It is property of the Royals.” He took a closer look at his surroundings, his black brows arching. “District 27 is under the watch of the Kling household. You are trespassing. You must go.”

The soldier’s voice was cool and condescending at the same time, his thoughts wicked, but in control. He’d been with many fine women before, but nothing that compared to her. What did women think of such men? Pigs. She smiled and offered a suggestion.

“We are only serving the needs of the Royals. No harm is being done. Come, let your horse and men drink from this fountain of Bish’s cooling waters. Perhaps you would like to help serve this purpose as well?”

The man blanched and swallowed hard. His face became knit with confusion. She could feel the others begin to thirst for something other than herself. Their eyes began to gaze over the water.

A feminine chuckle came from nowhere, followed by a clapping sound.

“Bravo, Radiant One. Bravo.”

Trinos gasped. The horses stirred. Something humanoid shimmered in the air.

A short haired woman, clad in robes of deep purple with copper trim, appeared a few feet away. She was older, her face crinkled like a sun beaten hag, her eyes luminous and dangerous. Many earrings pierced her ears, and mystic power emanated from her persona. She was hunched over as she looked Trinos up and down.

“My, what a beautiful spell you have woven, Sorceress,” she said in a voice as frozen as ice. “I myself may have struggled with such a powerful suggestion. You have all of these dogs’ tongues hanging from mouths, and you have their tails wagging. Next, they'll be romping in the waters like children.” The woman’s bracelets jangled as she lifted her arm and snapped her finger.

Pop!

The soldiers blinked and rubbed their glazed eyes. Trinos cringed. How had this woman evaded her detection? It seemed Bish had surprises for even her.

“I only offered them a drink from my fountain, no spell required.”

The woman let out a short laugh as she rubbed her knobby chin.

“A well versed liar too, I see. Hmmm … so tell me where you hail from,” the woman said, fondling her platinum hair. “What is your name?”

“Trinos. And you are?”

“Manamis. Lorda Manamis Kling,” she said, looking for a reaction.

“Pleased to meet you,” Trinos said, extending her hand.

Manamis slapped it away. Her voice took on a more dangerous edge than before.

“Fool! You’re about to be defiled and then shackled by these very same men. These pathetic people will be slain and fed to the furnace. You dare try to place your hand upon a Royal? I’ll have your hands removed, your tongue cut out, your pretty eyes gouged—”

Trinos fell to her knees. Corrin followed suit, trembling at her side.

“I beg forgiveness, Lorda Manamis Kling!” she cried. “I only sought good—”

“Too late to grovel, you little necromancing whore! Soldiers! Seize her and slay these wretched people! Each and every one!”

Trinos kept her head down, hiding the smile on her face. She saw Manamis’s feet shuffle back toward the men.

“What are you waiting for? I said seize … er?”

Trinos lifted her chin and watched the look on the stupefied woman. The men, each and every one, were gone.

Manamis looked like someone was pulling her tongue from her face. Her ringed fingers twitched and grasped in the air. Trinos could feel the woman’s power growing, her fingers glowing. Manamis’s power was dismaying. Trinos had yet to sense such a force before now. The woman’s shout could be heard echoing over a quarter mile round.

“Impossible!”

She whirled on Trinos, hands on hips, as she looked down on her like a mother over a spoiled child.

Trinos's eyes radiated in the reflection in Manamis’s sunken eyes.

“District 27 is under my good care, Manamis. Go in peace, and do not return ...”

Manamis hissed a reply, “Never! Your illusion does not fool me.” The older woman flinched at the sound of horrifying screams coming from above.

Manamis looked up just in time to see the Kling soldiers falling from the sky. Metal and screaming flesh smashing into the cobblestone road was as sickening a sound as there ever was, and they splattered all around the street. Manamis gawped at the gore as the horses reared and galloped away.

“As I was saying,” Trinos said, dusting off her hands, “go in peace and do not return, or die in a fashion far more horrible.”

Manamis gave her one last look, eyes narrowing like needles before she screeched and disappeared.

Corrin stood up and said, “Think she’ll be back?”

Trinos shrugged, “Certainly. She hungers for power. She won’t be able to let that go.”

“Why not kill her?” Corrin said, examining a nearby pile of flesh.

“She’ll have an awful lot of explaining to do. For her, that’s worse than death. After all, she might not survive her explanation.”

Corrin yelled out, “Somebody get a cart and some shovels. Make it quick, else we’ll have a swarm of flies all over.” He put his hands on his hips. “What a mess, but I like it. The only good Royal is a dead Royal.”

She resumed her seat by the fountain and let out a soft sigh. Next time, I better be more careful.

CHAPTER 55

Tonio didn’t even notice the down pour of rain as he sloshed through the city streets. Tiny rivers were filling the sewers below, forcing him to abandon the sanctity of his rotting abode. The rain splattered on his scarred and split face as he looked up into the sky. The moons were not there. He’d grown fond of them, two beacons that he could trust. Their light gave him clarity.

His mother, Lorda Almen, used to walk with him through the castle gardens at night. She often commented on the moons. Her gentle arm always hung inside the nook of his elbow. He was walking in such a fashion now, down the flooding street, not paying any mind to the district in which he wandered. There was no cause for alarm. Few—barring all murderers and criminals—ventured out this time of night, and the rain made for an even more unlikely reception.

“Mutha,” he said. “I come soon home.”

He growled. His garbled voice was beyond comprehension. Yet he talked to his imaginary mother all the same. Reflecting on fragments of memory, he tried to explain to her what had happened: a two-headed beast had mauled him. He never contemplated how he now lived. He’d died once, or almost had. He'd been resurrected by an underling, only to be severed in twain by an axe as big as the moon. Spidery men had brought him back. Stitch by stitch, their threads laced with fine magic had meticulously taken his innards and put them back inside him. He told his imaginary mother how his throat had been severed and re-sewn, which was why his tongue was thick as leather. He told how somewhere in there, he’d fought a man with a spider's head to the death. His memories were a blur most days, but today they were good.

He looked up to see where his booted feet had taken him. A sign hanging on two chains swayed in the wind. A monstrous creature of color was painted on the wooden sign: a lion, serpent and goat all on one body.

“Kye-mar-ah.”

A familiar feeling swept over him as he stepped inside the entry way. He pushed his way through the heavy double doors and found himself face to face with two men every bit as big as he. He paid the startled looks on their faces no mind as he stood dripping inside the foyer.

A bald-headed man unfolded his meaty arms from his chest, said, “Your fee is triple,” and held out his hand. Tony reached inside the folds of his tattered cloak and handed the man a small purse. The two men smiled, parted and watched him pass. There was a familiar smell, sweet and musky. The interior décor was refined and uncommon. The smoky room quieted as he made his way to the bar and sat down.

The red-faced bartender recoiled. “ Er … What will it be?”

Tonio looked over his shoulder at a table where a finely dressed and aghast couple sat. The table was filled with bottled wine and steaming food. He tipped his chin up.

“S-Sam get.” He dropped a small gemstone on the table.

Sam’s eyes popped open as the fireburst gemstone disappeared under his rag. “Right away.”

For several minutes Tonio sat, motionless, while the other patrons quietly made their way out. One by one they rustled by, casting nervous glances his way, before disappearing through the front and rear doors. If he noticed, it didn’t show. Sam the barkeep, in the meantime, filled a stone cut tumbler with a bottle of grog. Tonio sniffed it and drank. There was a burning sensation, and he coughed. He snatched the bottle from the counter and tipped it up. Down his throat it poured, one ounce after the other, burning like living fire and filling his belly. He slammed the bottle on the bar.

“More!”

More came, and food followed. He stuffed every tasteless bite inside his mouth and chewed. The steak, bread, cheese, and rice did little to fill him, but the grog and ale offered something good. That’s when a strange feeling overcame him. He shifted his big hips on the stool as he turned.

Six Watchmen in brown hats with black bills stood soaked from head to toe, dripping on the floor. A net was stretched out by the two on opposite ends. He heard one of them say, “On my signal, men.” Tonio’s face offered a jagged smile, and he leapt behind the bar.

The net whipped through the air, its weights smashing into bottles and clearing the shelves as Tonio crawled down the barkeep's alley.

“You missed him, you idiots! Kill him! Kill him now!”

Tonio rose behind the bar and caught the tip of a sword being buried in his shoulder. He ripped his sword free with his other hand, sneered and stabbed his assailant's face. He rolled over the bar and squared up against his attackers. In a rush they came, their steel clashing into his.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Their arms juttered like bowstrings as he swatted them away. He could feel something now.  He was alive within, a swordsman.

Clang! Stab!

One man clutched at his bloody belly, his sword clattering on the floor.

He ducked under another man’s blow and cut open the skin beneath a third man’s chin. He punched a forth in the nose with the pommel of his sword. The men came on, one at a time, at a speed that seemed too slow to measure.

Cut! Stab! Thrust!

Down they went.

More men spilled through the back door as others screamed and scrambled to the front. His fingers closed around his other hilt, ripping the blade from his sheath, and the swarm of men began to fall even faster.

Chop! Chop! Chop!

Stab! Stab! Stab!

Thrust! Thrust! Thrust!

He was lightning in a bottle of blood. The screams of pain and cries of alarm were a symphony in his mangled ears as metal clashed and chopped through bone. The decorative room was getting a makeover, velvet curtains and polished floors now coated in red blood and grey guts.

One man, stout as a stone, came at him with a heavy war hammer, only to be sliced like a dinner roast. Tonio felt his sense of worth begin to return. He’d been there before, fighting and scrapping among his comrades, but now he was something else. He was powerful. Supernatural.

“TONIO!” he shouted as the men of the Watch ran.

Others tried to drag away their dying friends as Tonio noticed Sam the barkeep shaking with horror. The man’s blood-speckled face said it all. The barkeep knew him, and more importantly he knew himself now. Smiling, he showed off his blood-stained teeth as he sat down at the bar, his work done.

“Grog.”

Both of Sam’s hands trembled as he handed over the bottle. To Tonio's surprise, the barkeep spoke, “Y-You killed about a dozen Watchmen, T-Tonio.”

Tonio tilted the bottle to his lips and drank.

“Ah!” He wiped his armored sleeve on his mouth and said, “And I’ll kill a hundred more … you included … if I don’t find the man called Venir.”

CHAPTER 56

“Since when do underlings take prisoners, Venir?” Slim was filling a small canteen from a drying stream bed.

They’d been running for what seemed to be hours, but Slim had reassured him they’d lost any pursuers by now. A simple spell, the cleric reassured him, would throw anything off their trail. The cleric, Venir knew, was very resourceful like that, but he still kept looking over his shoulder from time to time.

As for the man’s question, Venir didn’t have an answer. The women, Adanna and her mother whose name he did not know, most certainly were dead. If not, the torture would be unimaginable. He sat on a large stone, head down over his hulking shoulders, drawing with a stick in the dirt. He’d tracked the underlings as far as he cared to go. Any closer and there was no telling what he would do.

He huffed. “Since when does anything in this land do what it’s supposed to do?”

“Good point,” Slim said, standing up and stretching his long limbs. The man looked like a crane in his pale green robes and sandaled feet. “So, you aren’t really going to try and rescue them, are you? It would be suicide.”

Venir looked up with a grim smile, “For who?”

“Oh, listen to you. Ready to put on your shiny helmet and take on an entire regiment of underlings now, are we? Well count me out. I’ll just flap my way north, like everyone else.”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to try and kill them all. As for the women, well Adanna stuck her neck out for me, else I’d be dead already. I have to do the right thing.”

Slim laughed. “The right thing? Since when is dying the right thing? Venir, you can’t do it all on your own. Your weapons can only take this fight so far. It’s a thousand to one, not including all the other creepy crawlies. You’ll be spider food by dawn.”

Venir shrugged. “Anything’s better than the Mist. Besides, I had time to realize that’s what I do.”

“Well, why don’t you get serious about it, then?”

He cocked he head and said, “I am serious.”

“No, you’re being unrealistic. Raise an army and protect this land from the fiends.”

The thought had crossed his mind, but that was long ago. Before Brool. Before he became his own one man army.

“I’d rather raise my one axe instead.”

Slim shook his head.

“You said nothing lasts forever, what then?”

He looked up towards the suns. They were hot on his face, and it was good. He took a drink.

“I’ll become a cleric like you.”

Slim raised his arms over his head and said with exasperation, “You lunatic! Clerics don’t chop the living up into little pieces. What am I going to do with you? I’ve walked these lands for decades, even before you were born, but I’ve naught seen one like you, Venir: half happy, half mad. All at the same time. I don’t understand you.” He kicked the dirt.

Venir didn’t understand himself, nor did he care to. He didn’t understand Slim’s point of view, either.

“What difference does it make if I’m happy or mad? I’m still going to kill underlings.”

Slim responded in a mocking voice, “I’m still going to kill underlings.”

Venir slung his pack over his monstrous shoulders.

“Don’t go all girlie on me now, Cleric. We’ve got some scouting to do.”

They made their way over the slick greenery of the twisting jungle to a cliff face that dropped off behind the trees. Venir wiped the sweat that stung his blue eyes as he crawled to the rim of the edge. Slim slid up beside him as they peered down. Anger and fear began to churn inside his stomach as he scanned the scenery below. He looked over at Slim. The man looked like he’d just swallowed a crow.

“I’m not going down there,” the cleric said, his voice barely audible. The cleric then handed over the small spyglass they’d salvaged from Hogan’s belongings.

He lifted it to his eye and soaked in every detail. Down on the plains, less than half a mile away, were underlings. Hundreds of them milled between rows of small dark grey tents. Their shapes and sizes were indistinguishable, but that wasn’t all. Venir recognized their different manners. The underling warrior hunters called Badoon were there. They had dark leather armor underneath heavy cloaks. The foulest of creatures, the albino urchlings, were there as well, hunkered beneath canvas shades. Four nostrils flared on their faces as their teeth gnashed, and clawed hands opened and closed as they stood chained to posts. They were the creatures that had most recently wounded Chongo.

A rock of guilt stuck in Venir’s craw. He’d convinced himself that Chongo would be all right, that his dog and the rest of his friends were better off without him. He was dangerous. Reality hit him now: as far as he knew, he’d left his most trusted friend, Chongo, to die.

He caught an odd flash of movement in the glass. A half dozen of the giant tarantulas were heading away from the camp in pairs: south, east and west. A pair of floating magi were in tow, each to the side of the basket of underling soldiers mounted atop the spiders. It was a scouting party, and most likely they were looking for him.

“See any sign of the women, Vee?”

He fought the images of the women woven inside a cocoon of webs, every drop of water sucked from their bodies. Perhaps they'd been taken as food for the spiders. He couldn’t imagine what else was needed of them. His head began to ache as the suns beat down on his bullish neck.

“No. I think we’re going to need a closer look.”

Slim’s head snapped in his direction.

“We! No, you!”

“Slim, sometimes you just have to decide what’s worth dying for.”

The slender cleric's jaw fell open.

“What happened to you in the Mist?”

“I realized some things: Living for myself isn't as important as living for others. I’ve been at war with the underlings for a long time, and that will never end. I’ve come to accept that. I think I could have saved more lives, but I’d been trying to avoid the battle for years.” He pointed his two good fingers over the plains. “I’ve a feeling they wouldn't be here if not for my being gone.”

“Your friends stick with you. You should stick with them.”

“It’s dangerous being close to me,” he said, closing the spy glass.

“Well, you are the Darkslayer … and this is Bish.”

“I guess I am.”

“So, what's the plan?” Slim said, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. “Do you want me to fly over like a bird? Or … I could turn you into a snake. You could slither right through them? How about a beetle?” Slim’s long fingers fidgeted in the air. “They won’t mess with a beetle. I like beetles.”

The cleric continued on with one ludicrous idea after the other. In the meantime, an enormous tarantula had broken off and was coming their way, along with a host of underlings and two magi. Whatever was going to be done would need to be done soon. It wouldn’t be long before the spider began to scale the cliff they overlooked.

Venir punched Slim’s bony shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Can you control the spider?”

Slim rolled back over on his belly. His peaceful face bunched up with fear.

“No. I only do that with animals and people. Uh … that thing's moving pretty fast, Venir. It’ll be on top of us in no time. Shouldn’t we be going? Or is there something else that you wanted me to do?”

Venir caught movement from the corner of his eye. Something was rushing over the plain from the north, a small cloud of dust behind it. Venir pulled open the spyglass. A pair of underlings were running for their lives on the backs of smaller sand spiders like the ones Venir battled near the Red Clay Forest months ago. His knees burned at the memory, and he still had the scars from the acid-like venom to show for it. Another quarter mile behind them came a host of riders on horses. A banner of deep red, light blue and white led the charge of a few score war horses.

“Slim, look there,” he said, handing him the spy glass and pointing.

“I’ll be! Royal Riders!”

Venir could feel the thunder from the distant hooves now. He wasn’t the only one. The spider stopped, pivoted its eight legs and headed back north. The fleeing underlings on the sand spiders had made the edge of the camp and sounded the alarm. The underling army assembled in moments, rank and file facing the charge. Venir’s heart began to pound in his temples. He rubbed his hand on the flat of Brool’s blades then slipped it between his pack and shoulders.

“Now’s your chance, Slim. Come on.”

Venir slipped off the edge and began his descent over a hundred feet down where the open plain awaited him. It was more of a steep grade than a cliff, so he slid more than climbed, scraping up his legs and arms all the way down. He didn’t feel a thing. He gazed north. The Royal Riders hand formed a single line formation. A Royal banner billowed in the hot winds at one end and the other. The Royal Riders were a mishmash of elite soldiers from all outposts that represented most all of the Royal Houses. It was good thing.

“Sweet Bish! I never thought I’d be happy to see Royals!”

He flinched as something skittered down the cliff along his side. A beetle as big as his hand hung on the jagged rocks. It was black, with splotches of olive green and white. Two pale green eyes flared at him as two protruding black antennas seemed to make an angry gesture. The black and gold wings hummed to life, and the  beetle soared toward the underling camp and disappeared in the light.

“Hmph …”

Another fifty feet down and Venir noticed something else. Something writhed beneath the clay patches of the sun baked plain. Tiny holes opened up in the ground. A funny feeling overcame his senses. Something lurked beneath the surface: spiders, snakes or more underlings. Maybe something worse. The mammoth sized spiders were returning to camp. The small army of horsemen would have a hard enough time with one of them, let alone six. The underlings, he knew, were full of surprises.

He hurried his descent and dropped the final ten feet to the ground. He pulled out the spyglass and watched the odd gait of the giant tarantula. He was still have half covered in the guts of the last one he’d slain. Atop the creature was another basket of six underling riders, chittering and pointing back and forth. The underling magi floated six feet above the ground like shades, covered in robes from head to toe. His mouth became dry, and he wished he’d taken one last drink.

“Bones of the dead!” he exclaimed as more underlings began to pop up from the ground in the distance. Their jewel speckled eyes infuriated him. “Too many underlings, not enough Royals.” He found himself longing for a saddle between his legs. Chongo. He had to find his beast. He swung the spy glass back towards the riders on the spider. Their faces were turned his way. The spider stopped and turned. His blood froze. Slat! The brass on the spy glass gleamed in the dipping suns. He slammed it closed. The spider reared up on its back legs and charged as the underling magi soared his way.

Venir yanked his shield and helm from the old leather sack, along with something else: Mood’s scale mail shirt.

“Well Bish blast my eyes!”He pulled it over his head, arms bulging under its short sleeves. He stuffed the sack in his backpack and strapped it on his shoulders. The air went still as he strapped on the helm and felt his blood rise. He could see, smell and hear everything as he stood like a gleaming metal statue in the suns. His powerful legs churned forward like a charging bull, and Brool whistled at his side. One second the blue sky was clear in the horizon and in the next instant the underling magi raised their clawed fingers high in the air. The ground beneath him erupted in white hot light.

CHAPTER 57

Melegal had arrived back at Castle Almen in time enough to see the head removed from the shoulders of the sentry he’d put to sleep hours earlier. The gloomy feeling followed him to the meeting that involved himself, Sefron and a very irritated Lord Almen. As usual, he averted his stare, but his tardiness was not to be ignored nor his tawdry clothes and breath bathed in alcohol.

The Royal Lord shared with him a sincere concern, which was odd, about an incident that occurred within the city. He was a scowling hawk when he dismissed him, saying, “I shall deal with you later.” Melegal silently promised himself to do his best to see to it that later never came. Without further courtesy, Lord Almen departed, leaving him all alone with Sefron.

Sefron had been a different matter entirely. There he stood, as the cleric sat, inside the confines of a dark but quaint living room. All of the preparations for the Royal Coming of Age games were in order according to Sefron, who rambled on with one detail after the other. The foul cleric with a mouthful of blackening teeth kept showing his tell, to Melegal’s chagrin.

“The key to this event …”

“… and another key moment … “

“Where the guests are seated will be key ...”

Melegal kept his internal fervor in check. The deceit was confirmed. Without a word, he hit the streets and left Sefron babbling all over himself. I’ve found the key to killing you, Sefron. Won’t be long.

The pressure behind his eyes began to ease the farther he traveled from the castle. For a few more hours I live. How grand! The merchant class was in full swing as he weaved his way in and out of carts, carriages and burly laborers. There had been a time, it seemed so long ago, when he’d been sleeping in with a belly full of wine and playing footsies with a run of the mill wench. Those days might as well have been ages ago. His simple life as a swindler had changed for the worse. Those memories erupted from within as he stepped inside The Chimera.

Retching wasn’t the greeting he’d expected, but that’s what he got. A Watchman, barely a man, was vomiting on the floor. Melegal’s pale demeanor flushed at the sight of all the blood and gore. It looked like twenty men had been slaughtered on the battlefield, but he could only count half a dozen heads. This wasn’t the homecoming he was expecting. Behind the bar was Sam, a stout man with greased black hair and a pock-marked face. Sam was puffing heavily on a fat cigar, nervous, his smoke reddened eyes trying to blink away the horror.

Another city Watchman was jotting down notes on a piece of parchment and nodding in dismay. Melegal walked over and snatched the parchment away, saying, “That will be all, Sergeant.” Buffoon.

The bigger man whirled in anger, but then caught the brooch pinned on Melegal’s cloak.

“You pardon, Detective.”

“Take your hounds and get some air.”

The man nodded, rounded up his green-faced men and departed.

Sam the barkeep gave Melegal a curious look. He was certain that Sam’s memory was as keen as his business sense, so it wasn’t likely he’d forgotten his face, no matter how long ago it had been. Sam’s eyes lingered on his brooch and then on his eyes.

“Don’t ask,” he said, pointing to the top shelf. “How about some wine?” He looked around. “White.”The barkeep reached below the bar, saying, “The good stuff is down here.” He plunked a crystal wine glass on the bar and filled up half the glass.

“Tell me what happened, Sam.”

Sam rolled his sleeves up over his thick forearms and said:

“A man came in here, tall and blond, as out of place and ugly as an orc. He was like nothing I’ve ever seen: face split with a jagged scar …” Melegal stopped drinking. “ … but he had coin, plenty of it. His armor had the insignia of a Royal. He could barely sputter a word, so I gave him some grog.” Sam made a sour face. “He smelled like death. We cleared everyone out just before the City Watch came.”

It can’t be. Tonio’s out butchering grown men like children. Can the man be stopped? Are my own rumors true?

Sam kept wringing the rag in his meaty hands, and sweat dripped from his brow.

“Detective, he was that Royal, the one you and your brawny friend tussled with. I thought I’d never see another night like that night.”

Slat. The barkeep's eyes flitted to the floor where new planks had yet to blend in with the old. Melegal could have sworn that thunderous crack had broken Tonio’s back when Venir slammed him to the floor. Instead, it had only raised his ambitions to a new level. He never understood what possessed that man about Venir.

Sam poured himself a drink and continued.

“Not until tonight, anyway. It was a nightmare gone mad.” The barkeep was a hardened man, a retired soldier, but he was choked up when he spoke. “He mutilated those men. Fast and powerful strokes. Even when they clipped him with a blade or stabbed him, he still moved without hesitation, unhindered by pain and showing no mercy.”

The barkeep wiped his brow and refilled Melegal's glass.

“What did he do after that?”

“I’d never been so scared in my life, not even on the battlefield. After they were all dead, things got really weird.”

Melegal leaned forward, careful not to catch his sleeve on any blood, and asked, “How so?”

“He screamed his name—Tonio. That’s when I knew for sure the monster was actually him.  Then he asked me where he could find Venir. He said he was going to kill every straw-headed man in Bone until he found him. I’ve got a brother with blond hair. He shaved his head weeks ago.”

“Pah! He is the one killing all those people?”

“I suppose, but he’s a Royal, right? Why would a Royal—”

Venir is not even here, and he still causes me trouble. Melegal whisked his blade under the man’s double chin.  In a very audible whisper he said, “Listen to me, Sam. If you want to live much longer, you will forget Tonio’s name. Understand?” He said it while pushing the blade farther up into the folds of the man’s chin.

The barkeep croaked in acknowledgment.

“Another thing … who drugged Venir that night he came back, Tonio?”

“He paid me. I didn’t want to do it, but he gave me little choice.”

It was probably true; Melegal was confident about that. But it wasn’t the first time Venir had been removed from a bar under another’s power. Something else was bothering him about the barkeep, though.

“The night of the challenge, you were part of that. Was Tonio acting on his own will? It seemed very uncharacteristic for the Royal to take up matters with a commoner.”

“Er …  well...”

Melegal drew a thin red line on the man’s neck.

“Yes.” Sam stammered. “There are lots of Royal houses here. Their brats come in and make sport of my women and other patrons. But the Slergs and Klings set Tonio up. I already told the other Detective—the one with the hat—the same.”

Hah! McKnight held back from Almen. I can’t believe it! The Klings have a hand in this. The plot thickens. Dead big hatted bastard had some stones after all.

“Not a word of this, Sam. Because if you think Tonio is scary, you don’t want to meet his father.” He could feel the barkeep's Adams apple roll over the blade just before he pulled it back and walked out the door. Melegal had things to do. The Coming of Age Games were later today.

The Slergs. All but extinct now. The Klings. The 2nd most powerful house in Bone. And they wanted the Almens dead. This card will be worth something.

He made his way down the street, thinking of Venir, the man behind it all. His son Brak was scheduled to die today, and Melegal had no way of saving him. Seems the mute galoot won’t have the fortune of his father.

Tonio, a dead madman walking, was on the loose, still seeking vengeance on his missing friend. Can the impudent bastard even die? Perhaps it’s time to reunite him with his gorgeous, succulent and vile mother. I could arrange that today. By the way, Lorda Almen, your son is the murdering bastard. He’s in that alley.

And on top of all that, Melegal knew something else: there was indeed a key that would cut him for the grasp of the Almens. He just didn’t know where it would take him. Not that it mattered. I see no reason to let Sefron live a day longer. Perhaps he’ll find his way into the deadly arena as well.

He removed his hat, fanned himself and made his way into the shade of the alleys. Blasted suns. It was one of those days, just as hot inside as out. He noted a grey cat pinning down a large brown rat that was inches from a sewer drain. Almost. A small tickle ran unseen fingers up his back as a hooded man in a cloak cut off one end of the narrow alley.

Gaghk! What is this?

He slipped his hat back onto his head and slowed his pace as the big man came his way at a brisk pace, along with a gleaming piece of steel. Perhaps another course would suit me better.

He spun back the other direction on the heel of his boot and was greeted by more twinkling sharp steel coming his way. He thought of the assassin that had hemmed him in months ago. The day the halfling saved him. Not again. He was pinned in with nowhere to go but up, and that wasn’t possible. Or, cry for help. Blasted thieves! He whipped out his short blades, the Sisters. Perhaps I’ll scare them away. The appearance of his blades only prompted a lowly chuckle and a charge.

CHAPTER 58

“This beast is magnificent!” Cass exclaimed for about the tenth consecutive time in a day. “I find it impossible to believe that it serves a man. A warrior, you say? Warriors are hardly known for good character. Nothing but sweat and seed spouting louts that swill too much ale and boast impossible tales.”

Fogle rubbed his neck and smiled. “It seems you’ve already met with Chongo’s master then? Hmm … or maybe you’re referring to the brutes that kept your tent in the mountains? Maybe your true feelings for big sweaty men are beginning to surface.”

Cass shot him a dangerous look from atop Chongo’s saddle as they traveled south from Dwarven Hole. Then she turned away. Please ignore me. The trip couldn’t be any more unbearable. He’d become accustomed to the cool settings below the ground, so the burning sunlight was already wearing him down. He had been picking at Cass and she picking back for the past day. There was little thanks for his part in their efforts at renewing Chongo back to full health. He’d expected some gratitude but was granted only further disappointment. Women!

The woman and Chongo led the journey, to where, he did not know. All he could do was watch Cass’s sensuous figure sway in rhythm with Chongo’s gait. The big dog's thick pelt of brown hair had returned, and its tongues hung playfully from its mouths. Cass was right: Chongo was a magnificent creature, padding across the toasted landscape, stiff black tails whipping back and forth in the air. Without having any idea where he was going, he had a feeling Chongo did know.

“Mood,” he said to the giant dwarf that was riding a horse along his side, “do you really think Venir is in the South? I’d think we’d be heading north, towards the Mist, where we saw him last, and let Chongo sniff out his trail.”

“The pooch knows where he’s going, I figure,” Mood added along with a plume of pale blue cigar smoke.

“You figure?”

“Aye. Whether Chongo’s tracking er huntin’ it’s all part of the 'venture.”

“Well, what would he be hunting if he’s not tracking?”

“Underlings.”

Fogle stiffened as he pulled his horse to a stop.

“Whoa. Now, let’s go over this, Mood. I want to find Venir. I don’t want to hunt underlings.” His bookish voice began to rise. “Which is it? I don’t want to be prepared for one thing only to be dragged into another. I just want to find the man and go home.”

“Ye’ve forgotten how to use the gray matter in that melon head of yer’s already, haven’t ya? Ye can’t be prepared fer everything. You survive with what you got. Now, the land's crawling with underlings. If Venir’s in the land, he goes where the underlings go. If Chongo is in the land, it’s the same. Chongo will sniff out the black little fiends. If we kill em’ first, it’s a good thing. Besides, why you think I brought me kin along? To protect yer eccentric lady? If ye want ta’ go home, then go. Ya can drink all yer mother's milk ya want when you get there.” Mood snapped his reigns. “Yah!”

Fogle sat as glum-faced as ever while the rest of the party trotted past him on ponies that looked like Clydesdales: ten grim-faced dwarves with notable scars, beards hanging down to their bellies, dressed in chainmail, partial plate and leather armor. Bringing up the rear was the biggest one of them all, a Blood Ranger like Mood, except his skin was dark brown and his beard looked like a burning bush. The dwarf’s deep blue eyes met his as he stopped his horse and stared. Fogle noted the two swords that crossed his broad back and the enormous crossbow that hung from the saddle.

I guess we’ll be dining with underlings after all.

“Alright, Eethum, I’m going,” he said, digging his heels into the horse and trotting forward. Saddle sore already.

As he made his way back toward the front, his gaze wandered to the small of Cass’s supine back. The woman, pale as cotton linen, chose to wear little more than her abundant hair draped over a tight rose-colored travel tunic woven by the dwarven women. The garment enhanced her excellent features, adding a more rugged tone to an otherwise soft looking woman. As if in a trance, he made his way up beside her.

“Ahem.”

She left her chin high, pink eyes forward, delicate hands rubbing two of the massive dog's four ears.

He cleared his throat again.

She glared at him and huffed, “Oh … what is it, Flippant Fogle? Have you come to insult me some more? Make light of my yearnings? Boast about your moments splashing in a Dwarven bath?” She turned away. “Please, my sweet, layer it on.”

He blushed. My Sweet. Had he actually said that? It seemed like the entire world had heard. The strangest thing of all was that he was positive he’d never even used the word in conversation before. He didn’t even have a sweet spell component. Once again he found his tongue thickening in his mouth. Blast!

He fell back.

“You fool!” she said, whipping her neck around like a striking snake. “Get up here!”

“But, you didn’t seem like you wanted to speak with me,” he stammered.

“I just spoke to you, did I not, Fogle Fool!”

“Well …”

“And we are talking now, are we not?”

He dipped his chin and shook his head saying, “Yes.”

“Then say what you must say. The journey is long, and I don’t think the dwarves will be providing much conversation.”

Fogle wanted to say everything and nothing at the same time. The woman captivated him like a string makes a cat watch and angered him like a bee stinging a raging bull. I have no idea where to start. I wonder what Venir would say. Ah … I can’t do it. I can blast an earth elemental to smithereens, but I can’t spit out a single word to speak to a woman I’ve slept with before. Speak or die.

“Well, did I ever tell you that your eyes are as pretty as a bed of pink roses?”

Cass’s body lurched as she let out an abrupt chuckle.

Chongo’s massive right head loomed his way and growled. His steed nickered and stammered.

“Easy, Boy,” Fogle said, rubbing the horse's chestnut neck. He could feel the horse's heart thundering the same as his. I guess I should have expected the laughter, but I didn’t think it would piss the dog off, too. Now what? He stooped over in the saddle and trailed a little further back.

“I’m still listening,” Cass said as she stretched her slender arms in the air.

He noticed a tiny grin forming on the corners of her mouth. I think she liked that.

“Er … your hair is more lustrous than the twilight moons. As brilliant in the day as in the night.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulders.

“When I see you, I can think of nothing. When I can’t see you, I can think only of you.” Oh, that’s horrible. Here it comes. More giggles. What will she call me now, Fogle Failure with Pleasing Words?.

She gazed over at him with a twinkling curiosity in her eyes and said, “Is that true?”

He shrugged and said, “I suppose.”

“Hmph. I like it.”

“Well, your bosoms are as—”

“Fogle!”

“What?”

“You’ve said enough. Speak no more, or else ruin it.” She shook her head. “I think I shall savor that nectar that just crossed your lips for now.”

She smiled at him, warm and welcoming, before turning away. A great bit of relief filled him. Maybe he was beginning to understand women better after all.

Chongo stopped and hunkered down with a growl. The beast's shoulders rippled with agitated muscle, his snouts bared dripping canines, ears alert. A shadow shot across the sky, blotting out the suns for a moment.

“What in the …,” he muttered, turning his head to the sky.

A massive projectile of rock come crashing down to the ground, barreling into the small host of dwarven fighters. Dust and rock scattered everywhere, coating them from head to toe in dust and smoke.

“Mood!” Fogle yelled, “What in Bish was that?”

He could barely see a thing. Out of the dirty mist, Mood pulled his mount along his side, giant hand axes ready to go.

“You take care of yer lady! Me and me men shall deal with the giants!”

“Giants!”

“Aye! Huzzah!”

A battle cry rose up from the dwarves as the tiny army scrambled onto their mounts and forged ahead. Chongo and Cass were right behind them.

“Cass!” he cried out, just as another boulder crashed into the ground ahead. He couldn’t hear anything but thundering hooves and bellowing dwarves intermingled with a woman’s terrified scream. Giants and dwarves and druids, oh my!

CHAPTER 59

The call. It had come after what had seemed like another eternity. Every moment away from Bish was as dull as dull could be. There was nothing of interest where he was, only other creatures as discontented as he, bored, lonely and isolated. He avoided them all, watching the world of Bish, waiting for the call. And when it came, he was thankful, if such a thing was ever possible for the imp called Eep.

He hissed with joy as he said his first words on his return to the main world of Bish, “As you wish, Master.”

Verbard, the entertaining one, had recalled him with a summoning spell. He’d grown quite fond of the Underling Lord, despite all the powerful mage had put him through. Lord Verbard didn’t hold his reigns as tight as his presiding master, the underling cleric Oran. Verbard respected his needs to kill and destroy and never made him hold back. And now, he was on a mission to kill again and this time his prey was not as typical as he was accustomed to.

Kill! Kill! Kill!

Eep salivated as he zipped in and out of the black tunnels that surrounded the Current. His large mouth hung open with razor sharp teeth waiting to devour his prey, and his powerful taloned hands clutched in and out. He could see and hear everything within a quarter mile as his bat-like wings hummed through the black. The sound came fast before it was gone, echoing over the waters, and when his prey turned, it was too late.

A troll, twelve feet of monstrous mass, stood in the waters, a large stalactite club gripped in its hand. Eep’s large orb of an eye opened larger before narrowing as he zipped underneath the Troll’s clumsy blow and plunged into its stomach. Eep’s tiny earholes were filled with its wails and screams as he blinked his little muscular body—almost four feet of muscle and taloned fury—into the troll's belly and tore it from the inside out. He twisted the troll's innards, gashed its lungs and ate its heart before he clawed his way back out and watched the dying troll sink into the current. More!

Troll’s blood wasn’t as delicious as a man's, and the smell, even to his hawkish nose, was quite awful as he sputtered the gore from his wings. It was the seventh troll he had killed today, and it never got old. He was hovering over the waters now, head looking back and forth, when he heard a voice in his head. It was Verbard.

Eep, return!.

His long serpent tongue flicked out when he said, “Yes, Master.”

***

The battle with the trolls and the fish golem had taken its toll on the underling army, but those that traveled on foot reported back they had been unscathed. Verbard stood at the helm of the middle barge, alongside him Jottenhiem, his most vicious commander.

Verbard’s silver eyes flickered in the blue lantern light as his clawed index finger scratched at the pale fur on his cheek. He scanned the surface above him, the tunnel once again opening up into a massive cave. Humans. He could feel their nearness. Thousands of them, soft, self-indulgent, weak but irrepressible. Now, he was going to get to lead the first strike into their very heart: The City of Bone. With no more than 500 underlings, at that.

“Jottenhiem, you’ve had more dealings with Kierway than I over the centuries. What do you think his plan will be for me?”

The Juegen commander's ruby eyes flicked to his, a fierce smile turned up on the corner of his mouth.

“Lord Verbard, he’ll try to take command by offering assistance. No fighter believes a mage can do what a soldier does. His plans, however, are always kept close to the vest, the true ones that is. After all, what kind of leader would he be if he told us everything?”

True. Regardless of outcome, one underling always held out on the other, and this grand event didn’t pose any reason to be any different. But why would Sinway go to all this trouble to get rid of Verbard? Was it indeed possible that he actually wanted to take over the massive human city? He couldn’t shake the feeling there was less to it than that.

Something fluttered and landed by his side. Jottenhiem stirred in his armor, but his feet remained unmoved. It was Eep. Verbard reached over and stroked the horned head. My little equalizer.

“Seems such a small army to take on tens of thousands,” Verbard said.

“They’re soft, untrained. They’ll flee the city like rats in a flooding sewer. Even if we all were to die, the City of Bone would never be the same. I can already taste victory, and it tastes good.”

“You seem ready to perish, Commander.”

“All of us Juegen are, but we rarely ever do.” Jottenhiem shrugged. “Soldiers are meant to die on the battlefield, necks and elbows deep in their enemies' blood. I can’t think of a better way to go than into the belly of the vile men, seeing them wailing and crying, burning through the city as we cut them down.” Jottenhiem filled his armored chest with air. “Once it starts we won’t stop chopping until we're dead. It shall be so … glorifying.”

“Hmmm … I, however, have no plans to see any underlings die in vain.” Verbard lowered his voice. “Let me be clear, Commander: our siege shall be slow, precise and deliberate. I’ll not be turning our kind loose on a suicide mission. You need to be certain of my orders.”

Verbard’s fingertips glowed red hot as he held them in front of Jottenhiem’s face. The commander’s tiny facial hairs began to curl and stink as his face beaded with sweat.

“My orders alone, else you won’t be the one to lead the Juegen into any battle.”

Stone-faced, Jottenhiem bared his teeth as the tiny hairs on his face burned and drifted away.  He managed to say, “Lord Verbard, my allegiance to the one that vanquished the Darkslayer is without fail. I’ll do as you tell me and no other. You have my word as the Juegen Commander.”

Behind him, Verbard was oblivious to the strange look on Eep’s face. His fingers winked out. “Very good. Eep, is the rest of the way clear?”

“Ack … Y-Yes, Master.”

“Is something wrong, Imp? You look like you’ve had too much troll.”

“No-No. Troll good.” The imp patted his belly. “Yum. Yum.”

***

Kierway rose to his feet as the first half of Lord Verbard’s army floated into the gray sandy beach that ran alongside the Current. His knees crackled. He’d been sitting for days if not longer, his only company the Vicious who remained steadfast by his side. He dusted the sand from his hands and made his way down the shore.

“Impressive,” he hissed under his breath. It had been quite some time since he had dealt with an army of any sort. Now, before him another two hundred men were at his disposal, and  two hundred more should be arriving later in the day. He had been aware of that much, as well as many other things.

As Juegen fighters, underling magi, Badoon hunter warriors, albino urchlings and other Underland horrors made their way on shore, he spotted Lord Verbard and his Commander, Jottenhiem. A briar of envy began to jab at his insides as he watched two of his least favorite underlings approach. Verbard's silver eyes glinted with power in the cave's strange twilight, which cast a faint illumination below the city. Kierway rested his hands on the pommel of his sword and nodded a greeting.

“Welcome, Lord Verbard. I see your journey bode you good will, but I was expecting six ships, not three. What happened? Has it been reported to my father, Master Sinway?”

He could see Verbard's eyes flare as he hung in the air, looking down on him with a sneer.

“I see you miss your father too much, as always, Master Kierway. Perhaps you should take him the message yourself. After all, I know you are not accustomed to handling things without his direct supervision.”

Kierway glared back and said, “My father expects—”

“Your father expects to hear about success! Not trivial matters. We’ve a mission above that needs our direct attention, Kierway. We’ve a city to take over, whether it be with five hundred or fifty. The siege on Bone begins now, unless of course, you’d rather wait on your father to lead the charge?”

Kierway couldn’t have been more insulted if Verbard had pissed on his head. His claws wrapped around the pommel of his sword. No one should talk to him like that and live! He noted the mocking expression on Jottenhiem’s face as well. The Juegen Commander and he liked little of one another. He’d better be more careful. Never send a troll to do an underling's job.

“I see,” he said, opening up his hands, “so tell me then, Lord Verbard, how can I be of assistance?” Before I have you killed.

Verbard’s robe-covered feet lowered to the ground.

“Other than this army, what is it you wait for?”

“A bigger army.”

“Don’t dally with me, Kierway. Your father's and my conversations have been deep. I’ll have the knowledge that you prefer to hide. What do you have to offer me for this invasion?”

“The key. I’ve an associate bringing me a key that is a great source of power.”

Verbard’s features darkened. His silver eyes flared. “Shouldn’t this key be here by now? What does it do?”

“It opens up a portal into the city.” The likes that none has ever seen in centuries. As I understand it, as explained by my father, the underlings can travel from the Underland to Bone in a single step. An army with the key would be invincible. So he believed.

“And when can we expect this key?” Verbard interjected.

“Any day now.”

Kierway’s heart almost stopped at what Verbard snapped out next.

“Tell me everything you know, down to the last detail. I shall locate this key and make preparations with our soldiers. Kierway, my first wave of destruction into the City of Bone will start soon, with or without this key.”

CHAPTER 60

Shame and wine. They went well together. Kam sat beside Palos’s roaring fire and rocked baby Erin. The troubles of the world had faded, all the hurt and humiliation gone now that her baby was safe in her arms. Never had she felt so strongly about any living thing than her beautiful daughter. The baby cooed as she tickled her nose. Now all she had to do was figure out how to escape.

“Your daughter will always be safe here, Kam, and you as well,” Palos said. “It was never my intent to harm either one of you.” His fingers continued stacking the coins, row after row, on the table. “And I must say, last night my desire for you at all costs was justified.”

The rocking chair she sat in creaked as she hummed a dreary tune. His words, last night and after, meant nothing to her. The words she said to him meant nothing at all either, but it had an impact on him. Palos was in control, for now. She just had to make sure she didn’t get used to it. She couldn’t be too unyielding with him, either.

“I’m talking to you, Woman.”

She continued, her humming only interrupted between sips of wine.

He flicked a coin that struck her on the top of her forehead, leaving a painful red mark. Her cheeks brightened. The collar on her neck restricted. Agony ensued as baby Erin almost slipped to the floor. Her magic, what little of it was left, extinguished, but her burning desire to kill the man did not.

“Must you be such a child!” She was shouting. Baby Erin began to wail. “Now look what you’ve done, my prince! Oh dear Prince Palos, master of the sewers!”

Palos struck the coins, scattering them across the room.

“Silence that baby, you red-haired witch, else I'll have it washed down the gutters. They make a fine cemetery.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Hah! It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.” He stood up, pushed his chest out and rocked on his toes. “Kam, you can have a good thing here or a bad thing, but whatever the choice—it will be here!” He poked his pudgy finger into the table.

He was a snake. A handsome, charming, chubby snake, but not one to make idle threats, either. Don’t push him too hard. Be strong for Erin. She hoisted Erin on her shoulder, patted her tiny back and said, “If I had a little magic at my disposal I could keep her more content.”

Palos's chuckle was low, insidious.

“You have all the magic you need between those splendid thighs of yours.” He wiped a dribble of wine on the sleeve of his robe.

Kam felt her face flush. Repulsive pig. “You could at least let me clean myself up. Bathe my child, too.” She bit her lip and added more of a pleasing tone to her voice. “Feel free to watch if you like. I just need to bathe.”

Palos’s eyes became orbs of lust. “I’ll see what I can arrange,” he said, sandals flapping on his heels as he made his way to the front door. She wanted more than a bath, though. She needed scoured from the inside out. She began to recoil within herself. I can’t keep doing this. I need to get out! Erin’s cries began to subside as she pulled her down and hugged her to her chest. She hummed some more.

Palos yelled from the inside of the doorway. “Diller! Fetch the halflings and some water. Lot’s of water!”

***

Lefty sat inside Palos's tavern home alongside Gillem, fingers latched and thumbs rolling backward and forward. It had been more than a day since he fetched Gillem his last batch of tobacco, and his back ached from taking cat naps on the dirty wooden floor. His world was collapsing. What can I do? I have to do something! Indeed, he had. He’d scouted a little, but that wasn’t enough. He had to do more.

“Gillem,” he said. “Can I try some of that?”

The master thief’s smoky eyes widened in a moment of alarm before shifting back to normal. “Eh … are you serious? You want some ale?”

“The pipe, too.”

“Really?” Gillem said, sucking on the long stem of the pipe before letting it out.

Lefty studied the halfling man’s face. Gillem, always energetic and cheerful, was exhausted. His cheeks sagged under his graying brows and greasy head of busy hair. Gillem looked old, which had seemed impossible less than a day ago.

“I’ve nothing better to do, and I just figured, you have to start some time. And I’m bored. This is killing me. Maybe you can teach me cards, too.” Lefty straightened his back and leaned forward. “I’ve been paying attention to them,” he pointed with his lips, “and I think I’d be good at the cards.”

Gillem shifted his hips on his stool, head still turned away and surrounded by a yellow blossom of  smoke. Lefty felt a tingling on his hands. Melegal had taught him how to draw suspicion from himself. Don’t sit and stare. Be a part of something. Stare from within. Who would worry about a smoking and drinking halfling, anyway? Besides, he’d already figured out where they kept baby Erin. But she’d been upstairs ever since he found the location. It was pretty easy finding a crying baby, but the suffering sounds were horrible.

“Here,” Gillem said, handing him the pipe. “Take a puff, but don’t inhale just yet. The tobacco smoke will sink in through lips and gum.

He thought of Mood, Venir and Chongo and how much he wished they were here. Georgio, too. What he wouldn’t do to have coffee with his best friend once more. He felt the warm smoke and burning tobacco leaves fill his mouth.

“Hold it.”

His jaws were popping out as he nodded.

“Good. Good. Now let it out … slowly.”

He blew a long stream from his mouth and said, “Like that?”

“Yes. Good. Now take a drink,” Gillem said, replacing the pipe with his mug.

Just as Lefty lifted the mug to his lips he heard Diller shout from above.

“Gillem! You and the boy! Prince Palos wants you now!”

Gillem's eyes flickered with surprise before he turned back and said, “Right away!” He snatched the ale away, adding, “There’ll be more time for this later. Come.”

***

Kam’s eyes glanced over and away as Lefty and Gillem quietly made their way inside Palos’s little throne room. Lefty looked pitiful and Gillem mostly drunk as they both swayed and bowed. Palos, a man below average height, towered over them, hands on hips. She hated the halflings, but for some reason she hated the tiny boy more than the man. Traitor. When she got free she just might have to kill him as well.

“As you well know,” Palos began, “the prince has found his queen, and she’ll need watchful servants for her spoilings.”

Gillem and Lefty nodded, wide eyed and eager. Kam sneered.

“The lady’s pleasure is ours.”

“Indeed,” Lefty added.

She caught his eyes for a moment, but the stare seemed much longer. The little halfling had a smug look on his face, something devious. A puppet of thieves. Nothing more and nothing less. Just another male that couldn’t be trusted. What happened to that sweet boy? Where did I go wrong? She pulled the blanket over Erin’s face and snuggled her. I won’t ever let that happen to you. I’m just glad you’re a girl. Boys are rotten to the core it seems.

Palos had a bouncing step as he strolled around in his robes, pale eyes dangerous and full of wonder. He’d been doing more than drinking wine and counting gold over the past few hours. She’d watched him sniff the kind of stuff he smuggled in to ruin the Royals.

“Kam and, er … what is the little nuisance’s name?”

“Erin,” Gillem added, smiling and teetering up on his toes.

“Whatever. So, they’ll need clothes, fine ones. I’ll be needing fresh linens, too. One of those cribs or a bassinet, I believe it’s called. They’ll need bathed as well. Yonder is my tub.”

He pointed to a large tub that appeared to be made from dark marble and inlaid with gold and silver. “She and the child can bathe there as soon as the water is fetched.” He gave Kam a hungry look. “And there shall be plenty of room for the both of us to carry on.”

Kam half-sneered and half smiled. It was bad enough she had to sleep with him, but now she would have to bathe with him, too. Perhaps I’ll drown you in that grand tub of yours.

“Diller!”

Diller swung the door inward.

“Where is the nanny?”

“She’s coming, Prince.” He took the toothpick from his mouth. “Coming up the steps right now.

A husky woman shoved past Diller and made her way inside, her hard eyes dropping on the table of gold. Kam didn’t like the looks of her. Her hair was stringy, her face worn and haggard. She wore trousers and shirts like a man and her bottom lip was jutted out over her fat greasy neck.

“Who is this woman?” Kam demanded, watching the woman fold her beefy forearms under her saggy breasts.

“Meet my nanny, Kam. She’ll be your baby’s, too,” he said as if she was a member of his family.

“I don’t need a nanny, Palos. I can take care of my baby just fine.”

Palos made an open gesture with his hands saying, “Why, certainly that’s the truth when the child is here, but she won’t be all of the time, and that will be most of the time, especially when I want you all to myself!”

The rocker teetered to the floor as Kam jumped to her feet.

“I thought we had an understanding, Palos! I’ve given myself over to you for my child. We both stay!”

Palos had a cool look on his face as he brushed white flakes from his shoulder.

“A happy servant is a pleasing servant. But an unhappy servant is still a servant. Like it or not, the baby comes and goes as I say. And you’ll do good to take care of my needs if you want me taking care of your needs.”

“You filthy bastard!” she yelled.

Diller opened the door to bring in a bucket of water and set it on the table. She watched as Palos produced a corked vial with a pale pink fluid inside and emptied it inside the bucket. The wooden bucket rocked and reeled.

“Quick, Gillem,” he said.

The halfling man snatched the bucket as he rushed over to the tub and poured the water inside. The water kept pouring, as endless as the waterfalls.

Foolish man! Wasting more magic. The reckless use of magic offered a degree of hope. She was trying to think up a plan when Palos interrupted her thoughts.

“Don’t worry, Princess. You’ll have plenty of time to clean this filthy bastard up shortly.” Palos walked over and peeled back a portion of her robe. She recoiled as she felt his kiss below her ear. He stepped away and said, “Diller, if need be, subdue the woman. Nanny, take the baby!”

“No!” Kam wailed. Baby Erin began screaming as Diller strong armed Kam. The nanny snatched and wrestled Erin away, but the wretched woman screamed as Kam clawed a piece of her face off.

“Oomph!”

Kam folded over on her hands and knees as Diller whopped her in the stomach.

Lifting her chin, Kam watched her baby being carried away. She glared at Lefty and said, “This is all your fault, you little halfling bastard!”

The boy just smiled and shrugged. All her hope fled.

CHAPTER 61

The taste of rock and metal filled his mouth as he gasped for air. Venir clawed through the rock that had just erupted below him as his helm screamed at him to move. Disoriented and aggravated, Venir arose from his rocky grave, his entire body coated in debris and dust. His black eyelets smoldered as his body coursed with energy and rage. The Darkslayer was back, and it was good. He shook off the stinging pain from the lightning and yelled.

“Is that all you have, Fiends!”

He snapped up his shield as a small barrage of black missiles assailed him from the robed underling on the left.

Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink.

They reflected away and sizzled into the ground.

“Hah!”

Another urgent warning came to his mind. Power coursed from the other mage's hands, sending a streak of energy searing downward. Venir stepped into it, shield first, and laughed. The mage’s power slammed into the shield with blue and white energy, rocking him back, his feet sliding back in the dirt before the power faded.

Venir flashed the two underlings a fierce grin and charged their retreating forms.

“Now it’s my turn!”

He ran and leapt high in the air. The first creature howled as Venir's fingertips caught the bottom of its cloak and pulled it to the ground. A pair of clawed fingers left a burning gash under his chin as he pinned it to the ground and choked the life out of it in his mighty grasp. The other underling continued its hasty retreat towards the camp and out of sight.

Thwwhip! A cord of web caught his shield. He sliced it away.“Blasted insects!”

The giant spider with its basket full of underling warriors had arrived. Venir held onto his shield as the spider began to reel him in. The monstrous beast's fanged mouth dripped with acid that sizzled the ground, and its beady red eyes were filled with hunger. A javelin glanced off the side of his helm. Another stuck in the ground by his foot.

“I’m going to kill your pet! I’ll kill you all! HUZZAH!”

He was an inferno. His mind, metal and magic one. Underling destruction was his game. Venir was his name. And no spider, no matter how big, was going to stop him from slaughtering them all.

Venir charged. Bolts and javelins assailed him, glancing off his armor and web covered shield. He didn’t feel a thing. Covering the thirty feet between him and the spider in an instant, shoving Brool down to the handle into the spider’s brain. Its enormous body lurched and bucked, tossing the underling riders to the ground before it collapsed. Something sizzled Venir’s skin as he chopped more hefty strokes into the huge arachnid’s brain. Then he whirled on the scrambling pack of underlings, each face aghast and angry. It fed him.

Two, armored in leathers and chain, rushed up from behind, swords clipping at his sides as he dove over the spider's twitching legs and rolled back to his feet.

“There’s no insect bigger than me!”Keep moving! Venir still had his consciousness as he parried their darting strikes that clanged from his shield and clipped the dwarven scale mail. He fought on as all of the underlings closed in, waiting for a blinding rage to consume him. One hard chop followed another, faster and faster. His massive iron-willed thews struck in powerful cobra like stokes.

Slice!

Brool removed a yellow-eyed underling's head from its shoulders, black-red blood spurting into the sky.

Crunch!

He chopped the knees from beneath another, while catching a wild sword stroke swinging into his shield with a loud clang. Venir wrought death, anticipated every move, weaved in and out of harm’s way, every strike a death blow. A taloned eagle fighting sparrows. He cracked an underling's head open with his shield, cutting its attack short. He kicked another in the groin. Spiked another in the neck and cut the last one in twain at the waist.

Venir labored for his breath. His oily sweat mixed with blood and gore, some his, some theirs. Underling bodies were scattered on and around the enormous spider, making up a revolting sight. The stench of baking death was heavy in the air. The fight lasted less than a minute, but it seemed to go quicker. Venir jabbed Brool’s spike into the heart of an underling that was twitching nearby.

He ripped it out and said, “Seven’s a good start!”

He swung his helmeted head around at the familiar sound of battle. Steel crashed on steel, cries of mayhem and triumph roared inside his helm. He’d never seen so many fighting underlings before. The dusty smoke from horse hooves rolled over the camp with a flair of mystic energy cracking in the air. The fight inside him propelled his legs forward over the wasteland, of his own will this time, not the helm's, yet Venir felt stronger than ever. Today was as good a day to die as any, especially if you were an underling.

Faster!

The tide was turning on the valiant Royal Riders as the monstrous spiders closed in on the camp and sprayed them down with webs and anger. Chittering underlings were still spewing from holes in the ground. Venir’s powerful legs lengthened his stride, closing the gap at the pace of a galloping horse. He couldn’t get there fast enough, and his black eyelets steamed behind his helm. Ahead, an underling mage reappeared, and he wasn’t alone. Ten pale white creatures scurried beneath him, all heading his way on all fours, cutting him off from the battle, where he was certain he was needed. Albino urchlings, nostrils flaring and fangs gnashing, closed in on him with the speed of wild wolves. They were the same vicious beasts that had almost killed Chongo. Venir’s head exploded in rage as he raised his axe high in the air and screamed …

CHAPTER 62

Hemmed in like a rooster in a chicken coup, Melegal pointed his blades at the opposite ends of the alley, which was becoming smaller. The big one that blocked his original path raised a club over his towering head while the next man brandished a pair of knives. Hunting knives. Completely inferior to my blades, but the man’s forearms are strung like a fighter's. And there's another one behind him, to boot.

“Drop those blades before you hurt yourself, you bloody rogue, or I’ll have your hands for trophies,” the short man in a forest green cloak said. “Hah, a man swinging steel thicker than his arm, now that’s a laugh.”

Melegal fought the smile of relief that was cracking open on his otherwise stern expression while the other man’s baritone voice rumbled.

“Ho! This can’t be the man we seek; surely it’s an illusion. Melegal would never play with swords, unless he stole them.”

Melegal couldn’t believe his eyes when Mikkel revealed his cheery face and leaned his club along the wall. Billip pulled back his hood, his crafty features still hard, as he stuffed his knives under his belt and began popping his knuckles. Oh, how annoying. But who was the other man? Soon enough.

“It’s good to see you both, “ he said, sheathing his swords and bumping wrists with the men.  “What are you doing in Bone? And who is that?”

“It’s me, Me!”

He didn’t recognize the deep voice, but he knew the tone. Georgio’s curly brown hair was down past his shoulders when he revealed his hooded face. The extra meat he had carried was gone from his pie face, and his broader shoulders suggested solid muscle underneath. The boy, now a man, was at least a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than last he saw him.

“Where’s Quickster?” he snapped.

Georgio’s happy face turned into a frown. “Ah, don’t start, he’s—”

“My pony’s fine,” Billip intervened.

“He’s mine and always has been!” Melegal almost yelled. “Where is he?”

Georgio wasn’t finished.

“You gave him to me.”

“No, I gave him to Lefty. Where’s Lefty?”

An odd silence ensued.

“What?” Melegal asked.

Mikkel slapped his big hand on Melegal's shoulder and said, “Listen Me, Lefty’s back in Three. When we heard about all the trouble in the South, we decided to head back down to get my son, Nikkel. That’s why we’re here. Stocking up for the final leg.”

The four men stood in the alley looking at one another for answers to many questions. Melegal had the most, as he’d not seen Billip or Mikkel since the hunt for the Brigand Queen more than five years ago. But they still hadn’t answered the primary question.

“Where’s Quickster?”

“Same place you’d expect him to be,” Georgio answered.

“I can only hope you’re not still eating his food. It appears you’ve still been eating plenty.”

Billip had to hold Georgio back as the man-sized boy came after him.

“You better shut your rat hole, Me! I’ll pummel your skinny arse. You can’t hurt me, but I know how to hurt you!”

Melegal let out a shrill little laugh. Slat! The boy’s changed, indeed. His threat’s far from idle. “I don’t think so, Boy,” he replied, making a quick cutting motion across his throat. Georgio’s eyes widened and his body softened.

“You’re still an arse, Melegal,” Georgio said, turning away.

“What is this on your cloak … Detective?” Billip said, grabbing the brooch pinned on his cloak.

Melegal snatched it away saying, “Long story, men. I only have time for you to get me up to speed. How’d you wind up in the City of Three? Where’s Venir? And how in Bish did you find me in this pit?” He sat down on a crate that was sitting against the wall. It felt good to sit among old friends for the moment, but time was pressing. “And give me the short version.”

Mikkel opened his mouth to speak, but Billip put him off.

“He said the short version.”

“Mine will be short.”

“Yours are as bad as Venir’s.”

Mikkel bristled.

“And yours are as boring as Georgio’s.”

“Huh … what?” Georgio came over, a bit confused. “I tell good stories.”

Mikkel and Billip laughed, but Mikkel stepped aside with a graceful bow. “Fine, I just want to go eat.”

“Me too,” piped Georgio.

“We know!” the three other men said.

Billip began.

“First, fortune favored us finding you, as we weren’t even looking for you. Georgio caught you ducking into that tavern. Our ears have been filled with stories about the Yellow Hair Butcher. We were snooping around, thinking Venir might have returned. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“No,” Melegal said dryly. “Not since the last time I saw Quickster." Slat! A little bit of guilt swelled inside his belly. Georgio had been tormented, for all he knew by Tonio. It would shake the boy up if he knew the foul man still lived.

Billip caught him up on how they arrived in the City of Three to begin with, which was surprising as they were southerners. Melegal found it difficult to hide his amazement as he learned about their liaisons with Jarla on her hunt for Venir and the trip to Dwarven Hole, where they all last parted. The falling out between Lefty and Georgio left him hollow inside. He missed the time he’d spent with them both. Billip told him about Kam, a woman he’d consider the journey to see, and Venir’s daughter, Erin. Spreads his seed like a dandelion. Then he remembered Brak and his upcoming engagement.

“It’s all fascinating, but I’ve no part in this now. I’ve got my own troubles,” he said, tapping his brooch, rising to his feet and unfolding his arms. “Mikkel, traveling south is impossible right now. A death trap they say. You’d be lucky to make it alive to the Red Clay Forest. The Royals are up to their elbows in figuring out how to deal with the underlings.”

“Venir will take care of it, ” Georgio interjected.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if the big lout was behind it,” Melegal shot back.

“You better watch what you say about him. He saved your skinny neck plenty of times.”

“And he’s almost gotten me killed ten times more, Foolish Boy. You too!”

Georgio fell silent, but Melegal continued on.

“I’d say there’s a good chance your son fled north. For all you know he’s right outside these gates. You’re bound to see a familiar face or two if you scour the crowd.”

Mikkel landed another heavy slap on Melegal's shoulder, saying, “Good advice, thanks.”

“Aye, if we find him maybe we can collect that bounty on this yellow haired butcher,” Billip said, his greedy eyes dancing with thoughts of more gold.

“Stay out of that,” Melegal warned.

“You’ll not be collecting what I can collect for myself. Care to put a wager on the bounty, Melegal?”

I’m an idiot. Should have just sent them away. Billip was just as greedy as was he, but of a different make-up. The man had hunted for hefty bags of underling bounty, so a bounty on a man would give him little to fear.

Mikkel frowned at Billip and said, “I’m not getting into that, Billip. I told you that once already. We find Nikkel! If he’s not here, we’re heading south. That’s what we agreed on.”

“Fine. Melegal, for the time being Georgio has led us to the place called The Octopus. We’ll be there if you need us.”

Perfect.

Melegal’s steely eyes were dancing behind his lids.

“That’s a pretty dangerous hole during these times. I had to leave, no thanks to a man called Jeb. Beat me silly in an Iron Hands contest.”

“What?” Mikkel, Billip and Georgio were all incredulous.

“Took my room and my table, so I’ve heard.

Mikkel’s guffaws of laughter echoed up and down the alley.

“You expect me to believe you fist fought someone? And lived?”

Billip clutched at his stomach.

“I gotta see this guy.”

“Pah! Both of you sots will fare worse than I did.”

Mikkel was leaning against the wall, bowled over in laughter.

It’s good to see some things never change. Georgio was frowning at him as he walked away. “I’ll get down there to see Quickster, Georgio. Stay close to those two. Bone is more dangerous than ever now. And there’s one more thing that I’d like to say.”

“W-What?” Georgio stammered a little.

He wanted to warn him about Tonio, but that might do more harm than good. He changed his mind.

“Go back to Three and live. Stay in Bone and die.”

“Aw!” Georgio turned and walked away.

Melegal’s mind was already elsewhere.

Keys. Keys. Keys. The Coming of Age games. Death to the Slergs and Brak. Slat. He felt more guilty now that ever. After all, the boy had a half-sister and father he’d never know. Stay focused. Live one day at a time. Kill Sefron!

CHAPTER 63

A river of blood stretched across Bish’s open landscape as far as he could see. One side of the bank was an endless sea of underlings; on the other side stood his father, Venir: razor sharp axe in hand, screaming with a maddening look in his blazing blue eyes.

Whack.

Brak jumped up, clutching at his side as the warden kicked him hard in the ribs.

Whack! The ugly man did it again.

“Get up, you big fat headed Slerg! It’s time for the end.”

His stomach rumbled as he rubbed his blurry eyes. Leezir and Hagerdon shuffled by, wrists locked, ankle chains dragging over the floor. Leezir’s head sagged, and his shoulder stooped. Hagerdon, once proud and cocky, wheezed and coughed, his lips thin and pale, almost morbid.

“You won’t have to worry about being hungry anymore after this, Boy,” Hagerdon said, “because soon you’ll be dead.”

Leezir didn’t even look his way as he watched them go.

The warden and two others shackled his wrists, ankles and neck, like the other men, and hooked him to the prisoner chain.

“Criminy you’re a big bastard!” One of the guards said, looking up at him. “Warden, you ever seen this one standing before? He’s like a tree, just not as smart. Heh-heh.”

“Shaddup, Morg,” the warden said, smacking a lash into Brak’s back. “He’ll be an easy target for the Royal wretches. Chopped into firewood soon enough. Now get the girl and get em’ moving. I don’t want to be late, and I’m hoping to get a look for a change.”

There had been nothing but dread and misery in Brak’s brief life since his mother Vorla was killed. Each day had been worse than the one before. The smells, the food or lack thereof, his itching skin, the gummy taste in his mouth. His fingertips were bloody.

“Come here, you little wretch!” The guard said from ahead, snatching Jubilee by the leg and dragging her from her cage, kicking and screaming. “Oh … them boys will have great sport of you. Sad for such a weensy little thing.”

They were all shackled now, moving forward, Jubilee sobbing and sniffling every step of the way. He felt her tears under his bare feet as he walked over them. Her grandfather, Leezir, got smacked in the mouth for trying to comfort her. It seemed that everyone making their way down the tunnel was broken, metal shackles and chains scraping over the cold stone. Brak thought of his father one last time when they stopped in front of a large wooden door. His stomach groaned so loud it made an echo.

“Shame to see a man fight on an empty stomach. Maybe we should have fed him the girl. She’d make a delicious little morsel for somebody,” the warden said, playing with her hair.

Brak could hear noises on the other side of the door. There were many people on the other side, and he had good reason to think they all were going to kill him.

He heard Hagerdon say, “I can only assume I had this coming, but I never imagined my end coming in this manner.” He went into a fit of coughing. “Bish give me the strength to kill one Almen before it’s done.” Hagerdon looked back over his shoulder and said to Leezir, “You got anything left?”

“Just a few rotting teeth to throw at them,” the once vibrant, now glum-looking man said.

The guard made his way to the door and talked to another guard through a small sliding wood portal in the door.

Hagerdon turned and offered Brak some final words.

“Brak, I hate to admit it, but I wish your father was here. You’ll have to do. You see Boy, on the other side of the door is a death so certain, so inevitable I can already feel the heat blistering my bones in the furnace.” Hagerdon motioned to the big door.

“I’ve been there before; your father’s been there before but not under these dire circumstances. Whatever you have left—Let … it … out! I deserve what’s coming, but you don’t. Fight … and die! Just take some of them with you.”

Hagerdon fell to the ground as the guard jammed his spear butt in his belly.

“Save your breath if you want to beg for mercy, Slerg.”

“And save your breath for your orc-faced wife. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it as much as a roasted gnoll's gonads.”

The guard lowered the point of his spear again, saying, “Why you—”

The door popped open.

A glow of light and the feeling of warm air wafted over Brak, giving him chills. There was the smell of food and what he believed was perfume. The guards prodded him forward. Bleachers greeted his eyes, three rows deep going up, plank after plank forming a circle. Most seats were filled with the rumps of people in elaborate clothes, chatting back and forth and muttering as a strange silence began to fall.

It seemed like every eye was on him. It made him uncomfortable. There was a wall inside the circle, higher than his head, guards posted every few feet at ground and bleacher level. Below them were small men, plus a few notably bigger, in polished armor, pointing in their direction with shining blades, laughing. They weren’t men, more like boys, his age possibly, maybe a little older. There was something sinister in each and every one of them. Cruel, cunning and sneering, young hunters wanting that first kill. Brak could tell each of them was hungry for the glory of his death. One of them, bigger than the rest, spat on the ground, glared at him with steely eyes and said, “I’ll be gutting that barrel headed galoot as soon as we finish beating him into a bloody rug. His head's going over the mantle, the big mantle!” The others' shrill laughs pierced his ears. Something about the young man frightened him. His body began to tremble as he hunched down behind Leezir. Mah! I miss my Mah!

“Welcome to the Royal arena,” Leezir said under his breath. “Your final resting stop in Bone.”

CHAPTER 64

There were three of them, taller than trees, throwing boulders like skipping stones at the band of dwarven men. Fogle’s horse reared up as they were showered with rock and dust, and another boulder tumbled by. There was no sign of Cass and Chongo.

“Cass!” he cried. “Cass, where are you?”

Ahead, Mood and the other Blood Ranger, Eethum, were closing the gap between them and the giants. A rumbling cloud of dust was behind them, and ahead the band chopped at the giants' knees. Fogle blinked hard. They’re real! He pictured the statues in the former grand square of the City of Three in his mind. He knew the stories, how the magi tricked the monstrous men into building their city and trapped them. He assumed, like so many other things, they were tales to tell children, legends, like dragons and even underlings. It was time he grew up; he should have known better by now. What had Mood said? “Bish happens.”

He pulled the reins on his mount, bringing the noble beast to a stop. A giant’s club, a heavy piece of carved wood, came down on the head of a dwarf, crushing it and shaking the ground. Fogle was less than fifty yards away when he summoned the energy inside him and let it fly. Two streaks of coiled energy sprung like geysers from his hands. He spoke the words, harnessed the power and guided it straight into the giant’s chest, knocking it from its feet and to the ground with a tremendous thud. A cry of cheers arose as the persistent dwarves piled on.

A wave of nausea filled him as his power winked out. Bright spots flashed in his eyes, and he held his aching head.

“Where’d that come from?” He muttered, fighting for his breath.

The giants, hairy chested men wearing little more than a fur cloth about their waists, stood fifteen feet tall, hammering at everything in sight. The one he felled rose to its feet, angry, and shed dwarves like water before stomping them into the ground. “It’s not dead?”

A shadow fell over him.

“Move, Fool!”

A lithe figure knocked him from his horse a split second before a spiked club crushed the beast into the ground.

Cass was on top of him, then him on top of her as they rolled out from under the next devastating blow.

“Do something, Fogle!” she screamed inside his ear.

Energy filled him as he summoned his next spell. This time he opened the gate inside him further and let loose the words of power. A ball of swirling energy, a brilliant red light, formed in his grasp. He threw it at the giant’s gaping mouth.

Clonk!

The giant batted it away like a stone, sending the ball of energy into the rocky hillside where it exploded in a brilliant flash of light.

“Oh no,” he muttered as the big giant smiled and raised his club high.

“Run!” Cass cried, trying to pull him up. Fogle couldn’t move. He watched the giant’s head descend back down towards Cass. His razor sharp mind told him it was too late.

Boom!

Knocked from his feet, he tumbled to the ground. Everything was loud and dusty. The giant, bald-headed, bearded and ugly, raised its club once more. Fogle had just enough time to look over where Cass once was. All he could think of was Ox the Mintaur being squeezed to a bloody pulp.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, reaching out, but there was no sign of her. The giant's club was coming back down.

He muttered another word of power that added a translucent shield before him. The club glanced off the shield, drawing an angry grunt from the giant. Fogle felt like his elbows were about to break apart when another blow came, then another. It was like when he dealt with the snow ogres, but two tons worse. He’d already spent most of his energy this time. Pinned down and with nowhere to go, he tried to yell for help, but his voice was muffled when the giant raised its booted foot and stomped on him like a snail.

***

“Go for the toes!” Mood ordered back to his men.

There was nothing that got his dander up more than the hill giants. They were a cruel race that was crafty and cunning. His hatred for Horace, his recently dispatched foe, would never settle, nor would his anger ever subside. Most of the giants were as bad as ogres and trolls most of the time. No exception for most hill giants, either. They treated the dwarves like snacks, and sometimes snatched them and enslaved them like pets.

He hunched down at the sound of a powerful energy that slammed into the giant nearest by, felling it like a tree. The dwarves poured over the giant, axes and hammers chopping into it like a piece of wood.

“Eethum!”

The black Blood Ranger and two dwarves swiped at the flesh on the other giant's ankles. Eethum ducked under the giant's clutching grasp, missed a swing at its wrist with his axe and watched in horror as the giant snatched one mailed dwarven warrior up and crushed it in his hands. The dwarf didn’t even scream. Mood heard its bones crack and pop.

“Eethum! Over here!”

Eethum waved his battle axe back and forth over his head, catching the giants’ eye. It swung its monstrous head around and roared.

Clatch-Zip!

Clatch-Zip!

Rocking back on its heels, the giant cried out in fury. Two large crossbow bolts, one in its right eye, the other embedded in the bridge of its nose, were buried deep.

“I’ll be a halfling’s uncle; I missed one!” Mood said, tossing his crossbow aside and charging into the fray.

The giant flailed its arms and legs, roaring like thunder, scooping up dirt and debris and showering everything close by with rocks. The third giant jumped into his path, jaw jutting, both hands coming together and smashing Mood like a fly. His ears popped. His bones clattered, and half a dozen ribs busted as he sagged to the ground. The last time he’d taken a direct hit like that  he'd lain on his back for weeks.

“Get up and fight, King of the Dwarves!” he growled to himself.

All he could see was Eethum, hacking with fury into his monstrous assailant's knees. Hunks of skin, fingers and muscles scattered the sky as the giant teetered back and wailed. Mood raised himself up, pulled his shoulders back and charged the one he had shot. It was regaining its composure and closing in on Eethum. Feeling like daggers pierced his chest, he side stepped the giant’s charge and chopped his axes into the back of the giant’s knees. He cut a tendon and could feel it snap like a bowstring. The giant pitched forward, smacking into the ground and rock. The giant began to push itself up, but Mood scrambled up its back and brought both his blades down with all his might. The first blow cracked open its skull. The second pierced its brain. Despite his victory, his instincts suggested they were losing. Something wasn’t right. Weary, dizzy and body wracked with pain, Mood wiped the blood from his face, tumbled from the giant’s back and fell face first into the dirt.

CHAPTER 65

There it was. A scintillating rainbow of colors encircled a strange view that hung in mid air before them. Verbard heard Kierway let out a sharp gasp as the view cut through windows, people, walls and doorways like an apparition of lightning. Jottenhiem’s rugged chin hung over his shoulder, his nostrils snorting over the back of his neck. The mighty fighters of the Underland gawped in amazement.

“I’ve never seen so many humans before,” the Juegen commander said.

Kierway swallowed hard. “Nor I, either. But that’s just more to kill for me.”

“Pah, I’ll take ten of those white devils to your five any night, Kierway.”

Eep, slow it down!

Verbard ordered, shrugging off a wave of nausea.

“Kierway, what is the name of this human you are dealing with, again?”

It was strange, underlings dealing with men, but it had been done before. Even he himself had indulged in human encounters, though he lamented it. The humans were weak and greedy, as easy to bribe with shiny objects as a newborn taken to mother's milk. It worked on some, but not all, however.

“A shabby man, as pathetic as the rot between an urchling's toes,” Kierway hissed. “A practitioner of dark healings, named Sefron.”

“And how did you come to know this man? How long ago?” Verbard said in a demanding tone.

“We’ve always had our spies among them, searching for what my father seeks. That and other things. Didn’t you and your brother discuss these things?”

Lies. Verbard held a spell on his tongue that would turn Kierway’s eyes inside out. Save it for the mission. He fought down his bubbling anger. Everything was wrong. Every gesture of Master Sinway’s son made him uncomfortable. His words had been accommodating, but not convincing. Now, he, Lord Verbard, one of the most powerful underlings, had just learned that he was not privy to a secret mission that had been going on for decades, if not centuries, beneath the City of Bone. And within as well. He wanted to kill someone. Save it for the humans.

“There were many things we didn’t share with one another, Kierway, but one thing we did always share was our displeasure of your company. Now, tell me, where does this Sefron reside? Certainly you’ve been there in some shape or form.” Verbard turned his silver eyes on Kierway's tightening face. “Oh, I forgot, you’re but a fighter, incapable of hiding from anything but a fight.”

“Watch your words, Verbard.” Kierway warned. “I’ve had high ranking heads for less.”

Verbard’s eyes narrowed as he rose from the ground. “And I’ve destroyed Underland’s most powerful enemy of all. Remember that the next time you shove your steel into sleeping men, crying women and one-armed children, you little gnat. Now answer my question!”

The hulking Vicious bristled behind Kierway’s back as Kierway’s sword flashed from its sheath.

Clang!

Inches from carving a chunk from Verbard’s face, Jottenhiem caught the blow on his sword in a shower of sparks. Excellent, Verbard thought, floating backward but leaving up his shield. He twisted the enchanted metal ring. One can never be too careful. Thanks, Brother.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Blades licked in and out like serpent tongues as the blows got faster and faster. Single handed, they exchanged blows back and forth, one striking, the other counter striking, the next counter striking the counter strike. If only they both were on my side. Ah, what splendid devastation they’ll wreak on the humans.

Verbard brought his clawed hands together with power.

CLAP!

The entire cavern shook.

Kierway and Jottenhiem stopped.

“Save your energies!” he said in an angry hiss. “We’ve more planning to do.”

The Juegen leaders sheathed their blades and nodded, iron and ruby eyes still narrowed as they backed away. Verbard could see the tiniest glimmer of sweat on both their brows.

“Castle Almen,” Kierway said, snapping his fingers. A pair of robed underlings scurried up with a heavy rolled up parchment that looked to be part paper, part quilt. “A map of the entire city,” Kierway said, motioning to the underlings who quickly began unrolling it on the ground.

“That will do,” he said, turning his gaze back on Eep’s vision.

Almen? Almen! Hah! Was that not the name of the human Castle that had given Oran the whereabouts of the Darkslayer? Underling Oran the Cleric had dealt with these men before and had even kept records of it. Still, there was nothing mentioned of a key. He'd known Oran had previous dealings with Kierway, and as he recalled, it had been the Almens who'd been bribed in taking over Outpost Thirty-One. Perhaps Oran knew of the key, and maybe Eep knew something as well.

Eep!

Yes, Master.

Did Oran ever mention a key to you?

No, Master.

Are you certain?

Yes, Master.

I see.

Verbard felt the spell beginning to drain him. He looked down on the map and focused on the banner that Kierway showed of Castle Almen.

Eep, take us into Castle Almen, and find this cleric. We’ve little time.

One second the vision spiraled above the castle spires, the next second they were diving through the block, zipping in and out of corridors, lavish bedrooms and servant quarters.

“Slow your foul pet down, Verbard. I cannot make out an image, and my stomach churns with grubs,” Kierway said, clutching his stomach.

Eep’s eye glided into an arena where the faces of many men sat upright in their lavish clothes and women chatted soundlessly with painted lips and faces.

“There he is!” Kierway pointed.

“My, he is a slug, is he not?” Jottenhiem commented on Sefron’s flabby, half-naked form that was eyeballing a man as skinny and rigid as a rail. “Send me in, Lord,.” Jottenhiem pleaded. “I’m ready to kill them all.”

Verbard shifted his gaze to Kierway and sighed.

“This is your liaison to mankind? He’s the one to acquire this key, and for decades he’s been promising to deliver but has not? I cannot help but doubt your wisdom, Kierway.”

The underling Master shot back.

“The key’s in the castle. Of that, I am certain.”

“How can you be … certain?” Verbard sneered.

“Because Master Sinway told me so.”

I think your father has gone mad. Does he want the key, or the city? Or, is it the key to the city? Doubt subdued his thoughts as he let the scintillating image drift away. The underlings, thousands strong, were overtaking the land of Bish. All he had to do was wreak havoc and destruction from within. But it all still made little sense to him. The humans and the other races were bound to fight back at some point, were they not? Then again, perhaps Master Sinway was right. Perhaps now was the time to strike a blow from which the humans would never recover.

“Kierway, as I can see on the map, I believe the Current leads below this Castle which you are so fond of,” he said, his feet now lifting from the ground.

“Indeed, and your point is?”

“The point is,” Verbard clutched his fists, “you are going inside that castle to fetch the key. Take all the underlings you need.”

Kierway raised his voice, saying, “And what will you do while I’m gone?”

“I’ll do what I said I was going to do,” his voice rising to the level of thunder.

“I’m leading this underling army into the City of Bone! Death to the humans! Death to them all!”

A thunderous chorus of chitters rose up, shaking the streets above.

CHAPTER 66

Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk …

It had been going on like this for hours. One peck after the other. Boon, once the mightiest wizard in the lands, so far as he knew, couldn’t help but envision devious children outside his metal cocoon, pounding away with hammers.

“Dear me,” he cried, but his words of desperation did him no good. The pecking would not stop, despite his angry urgings. He let out a long rattling sigh and resumed sucking the blood from his split lip.

The giants, of all the times for them to be tardy, had not come to his aid. When they did, he’d beg to be dropped in the labyrinth to let his suffering end once and for all. Of course, he wouldn’t be here if he’d just let Venir die. The might of the warrior gave him hope for escape from the Under Bish that—for all intents and purposes—he had banished himself to. But the sack, the mystical power it contained, he hungered for once more. With it he could escape, even destroy the giants if that was what it was meant for. Its power, so divine, unrelenting and unending was worth dying for.

Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk …

“NOOOOOOO!” he moaned, but it kept on going. It seemed there was no escape. If he could will himself to die, he would. Boon was certain most of his sanity was already gone, and it seemed that losing the rest wasn’t far behind.

Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk …

***

Barton was mad. He ripped an apple tree up, roots and all, and slammed it into the ground. For hours, days, he did not know how long, he’d been searching for the toys that Venir had hidden from him.

“Venir cheated! Venir bad! He make the game too hard!” The one-eyed boy moaned, ripping the branches from the trees. “Venir gonna pay for this! Venir will give me my toys!”

***

Boon's bloodshot eyes had been staring at the same grey tile—for how many hours he did not know.

Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk …

He’d drifted off to sleep several times, only to be awakened by the same chronic sound.

Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk …

No life was worth living like this. Nothing was worth this. He should have let the underlings take him long ago.

“OH, GO AWAY!” he yelled from an otherwise dry throat. He said it, but he wasn’t sure he heard it. All he had to note it was a sore throat, busted teeth and, he was pretty certain, a foot full of broken bones, not to mention that his head still ached from the initial contact he made when he fell to the floor.

Something flustered and flapped, and the chronic tapping was gone. A shadow fell over the room, leaving everything dark. Finally, they’re here. Certainly my punishment won’t be as bad as the tapping. Something powerful snatched him from the floor and shook him like a rattle. Pain erupted in his eyes.

“OW!” he cried, his head smacking hard into the metal. Something was looking at him as his vision blurred and everything went black.

***

Fresh air, pain and annoyance.

Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk …

“Aghk …,” Boon said.

It was bright now, so bright he could not see. The air was warm, no longer dank and moldy as he was accustomed to. Still, the new scenery did little to improve his bleak situation. Something was still pounding on his casing, and his brittle bones ached at every joint. Where am I now?

The giants. It seemed likely that only they would relocate him to another place, something more secure. But outside? Now that was hardly likely. Hmmm …. He recalled a black shadow falling over the room and leaving a dozen knots on his head, each of which throbbed like a painful cyst. What had befallen him? But the smell of grass was good.

SPLASH!

Panic seized him. They’re drowning me! All the things I’ve done for them and they drown me.

SPLASH! SPLASH! SPLASH!

That’s strange. Does one usually hear splashing when they're sinking?

A wave of water cascaded over his sarcophagus, icy and drenching. A sound of beating wings flapped away. Where in all of the Under Bish am I now? Boon knew little about the Under Bish other than what he’d seen in the Ziggurat. Everything was enormous in scale, odd and strange, the river he knew was wider than the eye could see. There was Blackie the dragon and little more that he knew.

THOOM!

That was a giant’s footstep. At least now he could get some answers.

THOOM!

Closer it came, shaking and shifting him.

“GO AWAY, TINY BIRD!”

The voice was unfamiliar, strange and garbled. A shadow came, a glimpse of skin, then the dark again.

“Hello!” he yelled.

He was suspended in the air, a feeling he’d gotten used to, but it still jostled his innards, leaving him queasy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ridden on a raft in the river, but this felt something like that. Slowly, he heard the sound of skin peeling away from the metal, and for the first time he came face to face with his oppressor. And for the first time in years he let out a curse word.

“Slat.”

A large droopy eye squinted and shook him around.

“You in there? I heard you. What did you say, Smat?

Boon realized that his situation, bad as it had been, just got worse. Barton! Of all the giants, why Barton? The one-eyed boy man, a giant miscast of sorts, was a trouble maker he’d sought to avoid in all of his time in the Under Bish. Boon knew Barton, but Barton, who was never around the Ziggurat for long, did not know Boon. The giants had seen to that. As far as he understood things, the giant boy man, for lack of a better word, was cursed, dangerous, and maligned. And based off the look of things, Boon didn’t see any reason to take him at his word. Perhaps they’ll find me and rescue me.

“Hello!” Barton yelled inside his cage, his breath as foul as waste water.

Boon sighed. Perhaps I deserve this. “There is nobody home. Now take me back to the Ziggurat!”

“Huh!”

“Take me now or the giants will be very angry!”

Plunk!

“Ow!” Boon screamed. Everything inside him shuddered painfully as Barton dropped him to the ground. “You blasted idiot! You’re going to kill me! Then how angry will the giants be!”

THOOM! THOOM! THOOM! SPLASH! SPLASH! SPLASH!

Icy water drenched him inside his casing. Barton had run away, leaving Boon all alone.

Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk. Tunk …

Boon learned one thing: It’s a bird.  The hours kept passing, and the bird kept pecking. I can’t take this anymore. Where are you, Barton?

Note from the Author

I want to thank you for reading and buying my books. I am truly grateful. To think that people all over the world have followed this series through 4 books is amazing. Your support has helped make me a successful writer and a better writer at that. And it is my hope that I reach a point where I can do this for a living one day, so I can devote much more time to writing stories. Anyhow, you might want to kill me for this quicker than expected ending, but never fear, Book 5 will be out very soon (Late Spring 2013). The thing is, I had so many underling heads in the air, and I wanted to make sure I devoted enough time before I brought them back down to Bish. When a writer gets towards the end of a book, he tends to rush things. I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want devoted readers waiting two more months, either.

That said, I’m fired up with what is about to happen next, and I didn’t want it all happening too fast. Mayhem, carnage, drama, destruction, surprises, and lip biting what-is-gonna-happen-next galore are right around the corner. So forgive me if this one seemed a tad short, but I did reach my goal of 100k plus words.

My apologies, too, if you have one of the earlier versions of Book 1 and had already read about the fall of Outpost 31. I hope you agree that it fit better in this book, and that you forgive me if you ended up seeing it in two books. Besides, I plan to combine all books into a monstrous tome one day down the road. Anyway, with all the work involved, 100K words is the right mark to get my stories out faster, which some of you are asking for.

With all that said, I continue to hope The Darkslayer will be a big success. Right now, not so much, but it is growing, so anything you can do to spread the word, such as posting reviews and recommending to other readers, is appreciated. I want to make The Darkslayer a household name. Feel free to check in with me on Facebook at The Darkslayer Report by Craig. I like hearing from fans and knowing what you like, too.

Fight or Die,

Craig Halloran

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Craig Halloran is a veteran, husband and father. He enjoys sports (mostly football), working out, fishing, writing, watching TV and entertaining mankind. His books are filled with endless action, exciting characters and compelling stories. He resides with his family outside of his hometown of Charleston, West Virginia. When he isn’t writing stories he is seeking adventure, working out or watching sports. To learn more about him go to:  www.thedarkslayer.com

Other works by Craig Halloran

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)

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 Craig Halloran

The Darkslayer, Hunt for the Brigand Queen (A short Darkslayer novel)

The Darkslayer:  Book 5

Connect with him at:

Facebook:  The Darkslayer Report by Craig

Twitter:        Craig Halloran

Table of Contents

- The Darkslayer (Book 4)

- DANGER AND THE DRUID

- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32
- CHAPTER 33
- CHAPTER 34
- CHAPTER 35
- CHAPTER 36
- CHAPTER 37
- CHAPTER 38
- CHAPTER 39
- CHAPTER 40
- CHAPTER 41
- CHAPTER 42
- CHAPTER 43
- CHAPTER 44
- CHAPTER 45
- CHAPTER 46
- CHAPTER 47
- CHAPTER 48
- CHAPTER 49
- CHAPTER 50
- CHAPTER 51
- CHAPTER 52
- CHAPTER 53
- CHAPTER 54
- CHAPTER 55
- CHAPTER 56
- CHAPTER 57
- CHAPTER 58
- CHAPTER 59
- CHAPTER 60
- CHAPTER 61
- CHAPTER 62
- CHAPTER 63
- CHAPTER 64
- CHAPTER 65
- CHAPTER 66
- Note from the Author
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR