The Slayarians - Book One by JM Barnes (the best electronic book reader .TXT) 📕

you. See it, touch it, open your mind to it and drink it. Take with it the rest, the complete picture, and see.”
Jvar continued but Darkon no longer heard. Instead he saw, touched and then drank. So taking in one piece he was struck by the whole. Swirling in his mind the images struck him in an almost physical way. Mind shocked by the new revelations his body fought to keep itself together as his thoughts swirled to and from a hundred places. Then, as he thought the end of it had come, a face familiar yet forgotten was before him.


CHAPTER 7
REOPENED DOORS


Darkon knew the face was his father’s and remembered this was the last time he’d seen him. Intimidating and powerful and garbed in ceremonial king’s dress this man was the leader of his people, High king and chief of the Black Tiger Clan. Around him were gathered the other chiefs of the totem clans. The Demonslayers were separated into clans named for animals and colors. The animals were a representation of the demeanors of their patron deities. Though they worshiped and respected each of the gods of their people the clans showed how one could revere one god more than the other due to personal inclination.
Darkon’s father, Darkonus, was lord of the Black Tiger Clan. Those who revered the god of battle and cold, Anghar. Thus, the tiger represented the most fearsome of the predatory creatures being masters of the battle between life and death and almost always being the victor. Black, represented the state of mind one could reach, enveloping themselves in the cold of non-emotion and clarity. This made them masters of the mindflow if they were so gifted. Unfettered by overwhelming rage or sorrow or even love they could use their gifts better than any race known.
It was here in the court of the king that one child from each clan was brought. Here in the city of Slayaria, here in the court of the High king, Darkonus had explained to his people that by one chosen child being sent away they would ensure the survival of their race. Even the King would send his eldest son, Darkon. At eight winters old he was to be taken to a family in the island country of the Pictish people. Each child was to be sent to a different area. If one was found no others would be nearby. Out of the twelve clans, twenty children were to be sent away. Eight of the clans opted to send two as a safety measure.
The words from the city prophets and mindflow seers were filled with doom. Treachery would cause Slayaria's downfall and the end of the Demonslayer people. Krosten, high priest of Astnalia, convinced the king these portendings were true and measures must be taken. Of course it was not hard to believe at all for the Demonslayers as a whole. Their lives were made for the killing of demons and defeating of demon worshipers. Each member of the Demonslayer race was raised under the tutelage of an adult, mastering whatever skills they’d shown an affinity for during their first few years. Warriors, mages, priests and even thieves and assassins were the trades learned, among several others. No citizen was without experience in combating evil and fighting Demonslayer enemies. Enemies were slowly recognizing they were not alone in their hatred of the Demonslayers and the various factions and still corporeal demon lords were beginning to align.
Soon the combined forces of all their enemies would overwhelm them by numbers alone. Having the children sent away ensured the people would live on. Thus, Darkon remembered the tearful parting from his parents at the tender age of eight winters. It was Krosten the revered one who took the children abroad and scattered them like seeds tossed to the wind. His only help along the way a party of elves and dwarves who pledged to protect the children at all costs. They indeed did so and at the end of the journey only two remained, one elf and one dwarf. Krosten knew the dangers of their knowing the children’s locations so enspelled them to separate and forget what they knew of the Demonslayers. Their names known only to Krosten, he pledged to them that when the children were recovered he would call for them once again and seek their aid in the children’s training. Darkon remembered the two guardians and Krosten well, they were wonderful storytellers and powerful protectors and Darkon and the other children came to love them dearly.
The images became foggy for a time as things occurred so quickly once Krosten had finally placed him in a home with a middle aged couple who had no children of their own. They were also full of high spirits and their prayers were heard by druids who cared for the earth itself. Gaea was the name they invoked, though Darkon knew they were also worshiping his own Mother of all, Astnalia. He came to be quite happy, forgetting his peril for a time.
The family of Dunnaburough was a small part of a highland clan of Picts that had existed as long as they could recall. Their only troubles occurred when invaders would come from the shores to the hills seeking legendary treasures. Northerners with long beards and great weapons would kill and take whatever they could reach. When they passed over the lowland villages and found naught but women and ale worth taking they would head up the hills to the highlands where a different breed of fighters dwelled. The highlanders held up in their mysterious homeland against any invaders. Even against the occasional monsters that would fly in from neighboring lands. Indeed these were a hardy folk worth admiring.
So, when Darkon was working the small crops his foster parents had growing one day, he couldn’t believe his eyes as he saw the attack coming. Men in mismatched armor bearing a myriad of weapons rushed from the morning mists. Screaming in violent promise they swarmed the unprepared village. Yet even though the highlanders were unprepared their neighbors and protectors were ready. The number of fearie folk and mystical creatures that lived peacefully alongside the Picts were enormous.
So, as these unannounced attackers surprised their quarry they themselves were surprised by the inhuman defenders that appeared in droves before them. Sprites swarmed like bees and pierced eyes and ears with tiny spears, small folk like gnomes, leprechauns and unnamed races used magic to confuse, blind and befuddle. Stone Elves, only found on these islands west of Europa appeared from the very earth and drove their slender blades in precision attacks. The tallest of them only five feet tall their swiftness and skill more than made up for their lack of strength. Their gray skins and earthen colored garb made it very hard for the invaders to find them. Many times the savage humans would turn and strike in retort for a blow dealt to them only to slay a fellow.
Then at last the Picts joined the battle. The fighting men of the Dunnaburough clan streamed into the melee. Iron swords hewing the invaders were spurned on as the fearie began to sing in unison. Every foe that fell would raise the song’s volume as more folk were free to sing. Still, the invasion force was numerous. More numerous than any force ever to have come to these lands so high. Though the battle raged and the defenders were doing quite well considering, many more foul northerners invaded the homes of the Dunnaburoughs. Women and children fought viciously to defend themselves but they were still women and children against seasoned barbarians.
Darkon rushed to his home to help his foster mother and found it already ablaze, his mother screaming, trapped inside. He plunged through the open doorway only to be forced back by the overwhelming flames and thick smoke. The screams came to a strangling halt as he’d prepared to reenter the nearly engulfed building. A voice startled him as a man came from around the back of the home.
“You there,” He yelled. “Hold fast or I’ll skewer you alive!”
The short burly man held a long knife out toward him and Darkon froze. He was muscled and wore only a fur vest and kelt, leaving his scsars and brands revealed. His gnarled face was covered with graying hair while his head was mostly bald. He bore the knife and an axe hung upon his belt.
Eight winters in the highlands were plenty for a youth to learn how to fight though. Already seeking a weakness, he’d acted as if he were terrified, while truly he was preparing to leap upon the man.
The man looked him in the eyes then and said, “Now take your hat off, boy!”
Darkon had forgotten he still wore the cloth hat his dear foster mother had made for him to protect his eyes from the sun and also to hide the scar no one was ever supposed to see. The youth put one hand slowly upon the brim of the hat, never leaving the gaze of the filthy man before him. Clenching it tightly he swiftly threw it into his face. Momentarily blinded the man slashed outward with his keen knife. Catching nothing but air he cleared his vision by throwing aside the hat. The tan skinned boy was gone. Then the barbarian invader felt something constrict over his throat.
Darkon had circled around his foe and slipped a fallen rope over the man’s head. Pulling backward with all his young strength he went down on his back with his foe falling back first onto the bottom of his feet. Holding the heavy man up with his legs he yanked harder until sweat poured from his brow. When the foul man stopped struggling he kicked his limp body away.
Standing, Darkon knew it was too late for his foster mother whom he had come to adore. He then looked to the battle and was rejuvenated somewhat when he saw his people and the fearie easily driving the attackers back. Though, the damage had been done the battle would soon be won. Deciding he was plenty old enough to fight alongside the men of the village he grabbed a fallen pitchfork and ran towards the battle.
Screaming out of instincts bred from being a Demonslayer he yelled, “ANGHAR TAKE THEM!”, and “ANGHAR RULES YOU ALL!”
The Demonslayer god of battle may not have been paying particular attention to that battle up until then but Darkon’s words and visage seemed to have a direct impact upon the attackers. Men looking at him saw his sweat swelled scar and ran screaming from the mad boy only to be hewed down by waiting warriors. Clearly these men knew what a Demonslayer was and feared the wrath of an enraged warrior of his kind. This bolstered the clan and they answered his war cry with their own. Thus sending the foe away from the village and away from the hills.
As the battle was finally over, the humans leaving the fearie to chase away the invaders, all of the men hurried to their homes to save what and whom they could. Many lost their wives, mothers, fathers and even children. Most lost their homes as the fires raged on uncontrollably. Half dug under the earth, the homes would not be so difficult to restore.
Darkon found