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

she stayed in Galen’s goose feather bed breathing deep the scent of the rugged prince of her dreams.
She lay for a short while before nearly falling asleep. Before long her reverie was broken by the sound of the main door’s lock being broken. Then the heavy iron door handle to Galen’s bedchamber moved and the door swung open. She had prayed it was Galen and thought it was, because of the unmistakably human tread. She was wrong.
Instead she was witness to pure terror and her mind was stricken dumb by the horror of the thing that stood before her. The innocent Che’burr had no knowledge of the wrong that befell her in the bed she had hoped to share one day with her love. She was not aware of any pain as her physical shell was ravaged and violated, she only knew serenity, in a place far from Earth, far from her prince. Then as the foul horror finished its despicable act, her life was ended upon the realm of mortals.

^ ^ ^

It took some time for Slaytor and Cann-Dar to finally find Krosten's party. They had to retrace the path they remembered he’d taken those years ago when they had been scattering the Demonslayer children. They found him in the lands north of Gaul heading south. Krosten instantly recognized them, for years did little to change elven or dwarven faces. Surprisingly to them he had changed little himself and this they knew was clear evidence that his gods favored him too much to allow old age to be the death of him.
With a little cajoling the young men and women Krosten had gathered remembered the two as well. Though as they recalled them through children’s eyes they were larger than life figures they’d dismissed as whimsical fantasy. Now the memories poured in and they recalled how the two beloved “Uncles” were the only force that stood between them and the endless stream of foes. Foes that had sought the children’s lives.
That night a celebration ensued and Krosten's charges hunted down game and Slaytor provided the spirits, of which he had plenty to go around. Cann-Dar took the time to find out which children had been recovered and which had not. Sadly he noted the son of the Black Tiger Clan was missing. Krosten told him that when he reached the Pictish highlands Darkon had already left the place. The natives there had told him of a small force that came from the sea and attacked for no known reason. Darkon's foster parents were both slain and the boy had become something of a legend. The men who defended their homes bore witness as Darkon had been swept up in a great fury and plunged savagely into the enemy line. It was said the boy was horrible to look at for his grief made him into something other than human. The enemy perceived this as well for they were soon turned back after that. They ran screaming to their boats and never returned but sadly, neither had Darkon.
Cann-Dar smiled at the tale saying, “The boy sounds much like his fathers before him. We must find him, he will be a force to be reckoned with.”
Krosten nodded in agreement. “Indeed, but I am concerned over his well being. We must be prepared for anything, for this young warrior has already been through too much.”
Cann-Dar understood that for not only had the young man already lost his entire family and any home he may have had, he then lost his foster parents. Worse, he was there to witness their deaths. Much more of this and he could become one of the lost ones.
Lost ones were Demonslayers driven mad by any number of things. They wandered the lands and beyond and almost always found some way to enter the Abyss. Rumors and stories said they gave themselves completely to the destruction of demons and their followers, going in and out of sanity. A legend was told at elven campfires, whose memories were the longest, of a renegade Demonslayer who once he’d slain a particular demon lord had then stolen that lord’s power. Legend said that even now he ruled some kingdom in the Abyss and spent his time rescuing wayward adventurers and furthering Demonslayer causes. Of course, these were merely legends.
The key would be to give Darkon some hope and show him he was not alone. Krosten noted that Darkon most likely possessed the mindflow, as did his father before him. It was probable that by now the resourceful young warrior had already made his way past the false memories placed in all the children’s minds. The old priest’s fear was that if Darkon thought he was the last of his kind he might become reckless.
Krosten had long been praying to Astnalia’s children to help him find the wayward slayer. It had, until a few days ago, been working and that was why he was heading south rather than west where two more children had been left in hiding. Recently it had stopped working and the high priest was unsure whether Darkon had perished, disappeared or if he had simply lost the favor of the gods. Nevertheless he’d continued south for he also sought the relic Cann-Dar and Slaytor had recovered.
Now he had the relic but still thought of moving southward for Cann-Dar was correct. The youth would serve well and make a great leader, as was his birthright. Krosten felt that to show respect to the Black Tiger clan he should at least find out what had happened to Darkon. For now though they celebrated this reunion and both Slaytor and Cann-Dar pledged to aid Krosten and his charges once again. Even now Slaytor was giving axe throwing lessons to the young slayers while the priest prepared himself for meditation over the relic. He possessed a limited form of the mindflow that allowed him to attune himself with his surroundings and after some meditation release his spirit from his physical shell and drift about the land unseen. With the additional edge earned from long years of experience he had become a master of his particular mindflow.
Cann-Dar merely watched all this, stoically observing the happy young men and women. He knew this was but a fleeting moment and the times ahead would be difficult, for an entire race could not be restored to greatness overnight. No, this was going to take great effort from all concerned. One good thing was the recovery of the relic. Not only did it mean safety for the Demonslayers once they were inside their city but it also meant that the evil beings that so hated them could not destroy their holy artifacts no matter the power they held. Instead they had hidden them in near inaccessible places hoping none lived to find them. The relics were the backbone of the Slayarian civilization and without them they were exposed and without resources.
Cann-Dar thought specifically of the Flask of Kings, said to hold a drop of blood from every Demonslayer king it was the necessary tool for revitalizing their race. To the chagrin of their many foes they could strengthen their numbers by initiating a non-slayer into the fold. Any race or creed could become a Demonslayer and their children after them would be born with the full characteristics of a born Slayarian. Legendary among the elves of Europa was the scarlet wren clan, which consisted of mostly elven Demonslayers. Dwarves had a presence as well and were called the golden badger clan, though their numbers were never too large. By drinking from the Flask of Kings one opened themselves to the judgment of Astnalia’s brood. If they were found worthy they would become a Demonslayer and the gods would leave with them an image of the clan animal they would become one with. Fail the test and the result would be death. In this way the gods ensured no traitors would walk among them and it had indeed proven successful up until twelve years ago.
Someone who was of the blood had forsaken their own people by taking the relic he and Slaytor had found. Only one of the true bloods could have removed the relic from its resting place. Indeed it might have been that same traitor who scattered the other relics to the four winds and beyond.
Cann-Dar looked to Slaytor then and agreed with his initiative. He would also help train these young people for though they were each well versed in their chosen fields they still had much to learn. One of the most important things they would learn would be the fact that they were an entirely separate race from the normal human. Each had been raised to battle the supernatural and demonic until they had been sent away by their parents. Most humans would cower helplessly at the presence of a demon or anything they could not explain.
Not so, the Slayarians. They relished the encounters that they were bred for and reacted with courage and wisdom upon meeting any foe. Creatures that had once roamed the land in great numbers such as goblins, ogres and even the occasional bealrotti were as nothing to the Demonslayer people. In fact, while an average human mother told tales to her children about the terrible goblins and the monstrous ogres, a goblin mother was frightening her brood with stories of the dreaded Demonslayers. Cann-Dar hoped that he could erase the fears and misconceptions these young folk had undoubtedly inherited from their well meaning foster parents and replace them with the confidence and pride of Slayaria’s children. Of course he knew that he could not likely fail since they were each and every one true bloods.
Still the elf was saddened that only eight children had as yet been recovered. From what Krosten had told him he presumed no more would be directly recovered. It was the high priest’s hope that once these few Demonslayers established a safe home then he could turn his attention to recovering the rest. It was understandable since the main concern was to keep the ones he had already found safe and if they continued to journey conspicuously across the land someone was bound to notice.
Many of the ancient foes of Slayaria may indeed have forgotten them but surely there were those who would never forget and keep vigil in case the dread Demonslayers did return. Inwardly Cann-Dar pledged to Ariel, the goddess of magic loving elves and all of the various fearie folk, to aid the children in restoring their people to past greatness as best he was able. Looking to his dwarven comrade he knew Slaytor would do the same. Above anything, even his own people, that dwarf loved these children. The elf knew that pledge could be the death of him but it mattered little. He could accept death. It was failure that frightened him the most.

^ ^ ^

Merleptus had not yet turned the Scepter of Fire to his control so it sat dormant upon a nearby table. His home was a sunken tower that rested in the bogs of Gaul. Though only the three topmost levels of it were above ground it was still an impressive structure. Solid stone, mined from the not so far away mountains, it was no wonder it sunk several