The Slayarians - Book One - JM Barnes (different e readers txt) 📗

the slain form of his foster father on a pile of dead men, most of which were from the invading force. The man had fought well and he should have been proud. Yet his breath left him, his eyes burned and his throat constricted. For the second time in his life he’d lost his family. He screamed a pain filled bellow that spoke of such torment and sadness that every still surviving clan member stopped their own mourning to witness his. Tears were their only reply, their only embrace. He looked around and found he looked upon strangers. Once again alone, though he had come to know almost every Dunnaburough, he felt an unexplainable, irresistible urge to flee. Tearing at his father’s clothes he took the kilt along with the scabbard and pouch full of copper coins.
Kissing the beloved man’s pale brow Darkon whispered, “I will see you on Anghar's battlefields father.”
He then took the great sword his father had so diligently maintained and ran full bore down the hills never to return or see his foster folk again.

^ ^ ^

It was in tears and deep sobbing that Darkon had awoke from his remembering reverie. Sevele the beauteous was leaning over him, comforting him, his head resting on her lap. At once he realized joy at finally remembering and sorrow at what he’d recalled.
Later the four companions quietly sat around a campfire. None were willing to disturb Darkon's solemn silence. All knew he must work through the emotions of the past so he could deal with the present. All the while Sevele sat at his side tending his every need, only nodding his thanks to her. He found himself roiling with conflicting emotions. He knew now that after he left the village for good a spell was triggered that had been placed on his mind. Krosten had cast it as a safety measure. He had not had his memory in two and more winters. When a passing carriage had struck him he assumed it had been the cause. Instead the impact seemed to have shaken his memory loose a bit and he recalled things. As time went on the spell weakened and he recalled even more. Still, the specifics were not open to him, until today.
Now he thought of leaving immediately. These three people he had befriended were not involved. He could not shake the vision of men screaming in horror at the sight of him and his scar. He knew he was a hunted man and he did not wish to endanger anyone else’s life, for he might lose them as well. Looking at Sevele he felt strong emotions for her build, though he had known her for such a small amount of time. Galen, he felt, could be a worthy companion for a life of adventuring. Yet he suspected he would not have the time to waste on quests that meant nothing to the Demonslayer cause. Darkon felt the weight of responsibility, as he knew he could very well be one of the few remaining Slayarians. Krosten could have come for him this very season, maybe even this very night for all he knew.

^ ^ ^

Slaytor agreed for once with Cann-Dar. Something either very strong or very resourceful had been in these tunnels recently. The carnage left in the Bealrotti tunnels and the huge carcass in the black lake was stout evidence of that! The two uncomfortable companions followed a trail left by a party of four persons that led to the northern exit. There they ascended the stairs and reached the surface.
One relished the open air, the other cared very little. Cann-Dar was coming to accept Slaytor's presence and learned that when he spoke less so did the dwarf. To the elf that was all the better. So it was that they quietly left the catacombs of Ara’moor behind. Seeing where the trail of the four strangers led they took an opposite route. They did not want to meet the group that would commit such horrors as they did to the Bealrotti. They decided to circle back and head south, hopefully skirting the unknowns.
Later that night as they camped on the outskirts of Ara’moor, once again the two argued. “Now Elf, you know we can’t split this thing up like any normal treasure, so of course I’m going to go with you! I still want what’s coming to me. After all…”
Cann- Dar then interrupted the blustering dwarf. “Yes, yes, Slaytor. For the eleventh time I heard you before. Your father’s father handed that map down to you. Yet again, due to your incoherent rambling I must ask you please, what were those words on the other side of the map and were you told anything at all that could help us figure out what this relic is?”
Cann-Dar’s elven patience was being sorely tested for the dwarf was more concerned with his share of profit rather than the history of the iron cast rune they’d found.
Finally Slaytor did calm down, luckily missing the comment about incoherent ramblings among his own muttering and said, “I remember my father telling me the tale of it but it’s been a couple decades since then. It went something like this…Know you my sons’ sons that the time to be sending your own kin to find this treasure will be known by the albino bat flying over your head. So said my own priests, who were the ones that made this map. They said they were told of a future hiding spot where no treasure now rests. That’s all I remember elf and now my head hurts.”
Laying back and resting his head on his pack Slaytor tried to recall more as the elf pondered what he had been told.
Thinking aloud Cann-Dar said, “So they saw the future resting place of a non-dwarfish relic. Had they ever done something like that before, Slaytor?”
At this the dwarf sat up and answered, “That’s the really strange part about it. Never have any dwarves, as far as my teachings go, been able to look into the future before.”
Cann-Dar finally agreed with Slaytor, which was very strange indeed. He had never heard of such a feat either, not from dwarves. Slaytor cared little for pondering. As far as he was concerned he should get what’s coming to him now. He did as his ancestors bade him and now he wanted his reward. Lunging for the relic he grabbed an end of it in his thick hand, but Cann-Dar's elven speed would not allow him to snatch it away. Grabbing the other end he tried to wrest it from Slaytor's greedy grip. Yet, just as the dwarf prepared to pull back with all his considerable might something happened. A flash of light stopped both of them where they were. Then another flash as they felt something strange inside their skulls, a slight tickle or brushing of their minds. They exchanged incredulous looks, each thinking that the other was responsible. Both realized then that this was something else and they simultaneously looked to their grips and the relic they held there. Recognizing the magical light emanating from it they immediately dropped it, and as it hit the forest floor each of them remembered.
They remembered one another and they even recalled what the artifact at their feet was and what it meant to the both of them. Both men, proud and stubborn, arrogant and disagreeable, both knew without a doubt that this had been a fated meeting at the tunnels of Ara’moor. For not even a decade and a half ago these men, dwarf and elf, were allies, nay, friends. They were the best of friends and as unlikely as it was it was still so. Two men who earlier could not stand the other’s presence then did the unconscionable, they hugged. A fierce warrior’s embrace that reaffirmed a mutual respect and an unspoken agreement. They would never allow their paths to part again.
They separated themselves abruptly, almost embarrassed at their behavior. Imagine an elf and a dwarf the best of friends! Slaytor would let this kind of show of emotion happen only once in his life.
Immediately he fell back into routine, as well as he remembered it anyway. “Alright elf, you know what we must do.”
The elf knew, and he answered, “Let’s go then, my friend. Let us find Krosten.”

^ ^ ^

In the land of Gaul of Europa there was a small kingdom called Genossia. Small as it was no other kingdom within Gaul could match its armies. It had not seen war in over two centuries. It was the nearness to goblin-kin and trolls that kept her vigilant armies sharp.
A sprawling land, green and full of life, the people who lived there were quite satisfied with the family that had ruled them for centuries. That was about to change.
Long ago, Genossia’s king was challenged by none other than his own brother. The old king was kind and remiss about quarrels of any kind, especially with his own kin. Ignoring the king’s protests and pleading his brother demanded a duel. Or else, he pledged, he would raise an army and make civil war. Left with little choice the sad king acquiesced. A duel was then fought and even through treachery from his twisted brother the king was victorious, coolly beheading his vile sibling.
Once this occurred, his brother’s family moved to the far reaches of the kingdom, declining forever after any contact with the royal family. The sons of the treacherous brother and those after them plotted and schemed. They would not rest until they took what they wrongly thought was theirs to take. So finally after centuries of diabolical consortium and vile plotting, the second family had produced a son who they thought strong enough to take the throne. His name, Satar.
Warrior son of the evil sorcerer, Satarnafoon, he was prepared for the day of reckoning. His father’s magic and demonic servants had given Satar every advantage possible. Given a huge amount of magical items, he was layered in protections. Satar was over six and a half feet tall and powerfully strong through magically enhanced muscle. His hair was light brown and tied in braids that ended at demonic totems. He was armored in blood red plate mail etched with enchanted runes and his sword a great two-handed weapon aglow with yellow energy. His arms and neck exposed revealed archaic tattoos, words and letters in no language any human could have ever understood. In short this was a fearsome enemy but the worst aspect of this consummate warrior was his presence. So enspelled since birth, Satar gave off a constant wave of terror. Any lesser being not protected with the correct charms would flee before him as if he were a titan freed from Hades.
Thus he would be the downfall of the first family of Genossia, the fall of a way of life centuries old. Yet even he could not take control without a price. Sometime before, his father, Satarnafoon, had been banished from the earthly plane never to be heard from again.