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

strength to lift it, the mad warrior howled a rage filled battle cry.
Galen waited until the last moment before he answered Satar’s mad charge with a stone solid parry that sent the demon haunted man to the ground. There was no mercy for one as vile as this. There were no parting words sufficient to describe his anger and hate for the man who had done his family and his people wrong. For what he did to Rena, his love. All of his raw emotion was focused in one final swing. With the dropping of the mighty blade, mad Satar’s head sailed, tumbling awkwardly through the air with a trail of crimson streaming behind. With a sickening thud the head smacked against the wall and fell to the floor where it rolled onto its side.
Time seemed to stand still for a moment then, until from far away a voice called out, “Victory! Prince Galen has slain the usurper! Victory for Genossia!”
Galen smiled then as the unexplained strength left his body and exhaustion returned. He felt dizzy and knew he was about pass out so he lowered his blade and tried to sit down. As he did so he caught sight of a gore spattered Demonslayer emerging from a hole in the wall and as Darkon emerged he saw his friend fall limply to the ground. Not far away, magical spearlight revealed an unconscious Ralac, head resting upon a cushion. Graton stood at a reopened, shuttered window and announced Galen’s victory to whomever might hear, never seeing Galen fall or Darkon arrive.
Darkon balked at the sight of Satar’s decapitated form and then spat derisively toward the gushing corpse. As he turned toward his fallen friends he nearly tripped over Satar’s head. He nearly kicked it but stopped when he saw the face. A most peculiar look was upon that face, one of surprise, yes, but there was also satisfaction. Surely the man was insane for he found joy in his own destruction. Darkon left the head unmolested and recalled his promise to the Che’burr that he would bring them back that very head. He then knelt beside Galen. He felt for a heartbeat and found it was still there, weakened indeed, but his friend would live.
As he prepared a dose of the Salve of Noor Graton came down from the window and joined him. The elf relayed to him what had occurred but omitted the part where he aided the outmatched prince. Ralac moaned behind them as he painfully regained consciousness and they both moved to his side and inspected his head wound. Blood trickled from the assassin’s ears and nose when he tried to sit up. A wave of nausea sent him back down and his skull began to throb as if it were about to come apart. He screamed in pain.
Darkon knew his injuries were internal and only the salve could help him now.
After administering the salve, slowly the blood stopped flowing and the pounding subsided and Ralac finally sat up and smiled. “My thanks, Darkon. How fares Galen?”
Galen himself was rising unsteadily but he was whole. “I yet live.” He said. “Though I think only because the god’s themselves willed it!”
Nearby, Graton hid his smile and said nothing.
Darkon truly understood that statement and said, “Praise Anghar, my friend, for he watches over all who do battle. It was he that saved me before I came out of that demon hole in the wall.”
“I know not of your gods Darkon but if he was watching over us then praise him indeed!” The prince replied.
It wasn’t long before the four men rejoined Gemini near the courtyard outside the palace. The mage sat calmly by a huge pool that was covered in a dense, steamy fog. It was obvious the fog was magical in nature for it never drifted and was perfectly coalesced about the pool’s basin.
Before Galen could ask, Tam held his hand toward the fog and said, “Your parents are within as is your lovely sister. They are bathing in the pool and citizens have already delivered new garments for them.”
Galen nodded and thanked Gemini, staring into the dense mist. “You’re family seems very well loved here in Mastalon, my friend.” Gemini added.
Galen smiled and replied, “We are. My father has always had the poor among our people first in mind.”
Galen was still smiling when his father briskly stepped from the fog, strode purposely to Galen and solidly slapped him across the face.
Pain blurred his vision but his father’s voice rang quite clear. “Foolish whelp! You dare speak of me as if you were proud? You who would rather abandon your responsibilities than face them like a man?”
King Garrold Mastalon was a strong, tall, imposing man. His hair was cut squarely about his shoulders and his skin was paling to resemble the gray of his tresses. The man could not have been over fifty but his face said he was older than that. Apparently, Graton pondered, being king was not easy on a human body nor was being imprisoned in a dungeon.
“If you thought you were going to get a hero’s welcome boy, you were wrong! If you think I will utter even the smallest thanks for your efforts to free us, again, you are wrong!” Again the king raised his hand as if to slap the prince but this time he was halted.
Suddenly standing protectively between the king and his son was the aging but beautiful queen.
With King Garrold’s wrist in her deceptively strong grasp she said, “Stop this! He is our son and he has come home!”
The king looked down at his wife and his eyes grew round as he realized she was completely nude. Even at the age of forty eight her tall and shapely form was enough to impress and embarrass all the men who witnessed her nakedness. Body glistening from the mist and dark hair plastered to her lithe backside she could have very well passed for Galen’s sister. That is, without considering her confident tone and the command she apparently had over the king.
When his surprise lessened the king took his cape from his broad back and threw it about his beloved wife’s shoulders, which she accepted gratefully. She then stepped forward and melted her diminutive form with her husband’s in an embrace one would expect was reserved for young lovers alone. Galen stood quietly before the loving pair, head down, hands folded behind his back.
Gemini smiled and whispered to a leering Ralac, “The prince’s most practiced pose. One he has learned since before he could walk.”
Indeed, it did seem that Galen had been in uncomfortable proximity when his parents displayed their affections for one another many times before. Slowly, another small figure stepped from the thick fog and stood beside him. She was barely as tall as his shoulders and petite would not nearly explain her diminutive features. Her hair was a chestnut brown and hung straight and soaked right down to her ankles. Proportioned to perfection her slim round hips accentuated the fullness of her bosom. Skin colored a smooth olive just like her mothers, her smile gave every man a frightful start. Frightful because no man, once bearing witness to this regal princess, would dare think himself worthy of her affection. No. Nor even her smile.
As she stood patiently beside her battered and bloodied brother, tightly holding his much larger hand, she looked over his likewise battle worn friends. From the pleasant elven mage, Gemini, and his youthful one eyed companion, Ralac, to a seemingly nervous elven warrior who wore the legendary griffon sigil upon his armor, and not to mention the filthy, blood caked, savage looking warrior, Darkon. As she donned her brother’s bloody cloak she gave all of them an honest appraisal.
“Father, I disagree. If Galen had not left us he would not have been able to return with this motley band of heroes. He would not have saved us and we would all likely have been dead by now. You must forgive him for are we not together again? ”
The king took in every word and pondered them for a moment before he again looked to his son. When he did, Galen winced as if expecting another blow or more harsh words. None came.
“My son,” The king began, “You’re sister speaks wisely, as usual. Things have indeed worked out for the best. I will not hold your actions against you for surely the gods had some hand in this.” The proud king stepped forward and grasped his son’s shoulder with tears in his eyes and said, “I have missed you, my son.”
Galen in turn clasped his fathers shoulder and said, “And I you, father.”

^ ^ ^

“King Garrold is said to be healthier now than he has been in years!” The old servant said cheerily to another. Beckayn had served the royal family since her coming of age and had seen all the various stages of health and mood of her king.
“Indeed he is.” Answered her friend and fellow longtime servant, Juarna. “Why, the other day I saw him playing roughly with several of the servant’s children!”
“Yes, and it is good to have the queen and princess back to their old forms again. It was getting so dull around here without those two throwing a celebration every tenday or so!” Said Beckayn.
“Oh and the prince has gotten to be so handsome, hasn’t he? Lot of good that running off did him too. My husband says he’s a much better man for it now.”
“Yes,” Said Beckayn in whispered breath, “We would be some monster’s dinner or a madman’s footstool if he hadn’t.”
Both women shuddered at the thought for each had friends who had met those very fates.
Much of the palace of Mastalon was in very similar discussion. Only three weeks had passed since Satar was thrown down but much of everyday life had been put back to where they wanted it. The old guard had been reissued their duties and this very day the traitor mage, Par-Than, would be burned alive. The king saved the execution for when his people would have the time and heart to witness it.
In the outer courtyard, several hundred eagerly awaited the burning. Overlooking the scene from the palace was a large balcony. From there the royal family waved to the citizens and by giving reassuring, confident smiles to them as they watched they inspired the tired people to have hope. Hope that the kingdom would soon return to its solid state and no madman would ever dare attempt usurpation again. Usually on an occasion like this several veteran warriors would flank the royal family but today only the heroes of Mastalon stood watch by their sides. Prince Galen and his friends watched grimly as the executioner and a handful of guards escorted the mage to the huge woodpile and pole he would be burned upon.
Ralac had seen ceremonies such as this more times than he cared to recall and although he knew Par-Than deserved his fate he could not stop the shiver that ran down his spine. He understood very well that his life could have very easily ended in a like manner if he hadn’t made the pivotal decision to not be like those that fostered and