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

to him he would reconsider. She may not be the same woman he loved but her beauty would be undiminished. Merleptus had access to magic long forgotten or banished by others that revealed ways to revive the dead. One of those ways involved taking the spiritual imprint left behind at the moment of death and using it as the guideline by which he would then capture and enspell a devil that would then be changed to resemble the imprint. It was a long and involving process that could test even the great Merleptus’ resources.
Sevele’s body would be instilled with life energies. The devil, instilled with Sevele’s own characteristics, would be placed in the empty shell. The last thoughts of the deceased would most strongly define the devil’s acclimation with Sevele’s personality. Merleptus thought he knew what those final thoughts must have been. Foremost was the love she felt for Darkon and that would surely be enough to satisfy the Demonslayer. Although some traits would not be there she would be a very convincing replacement.
Very satisfied with himself he left his scrying pool to search for the tomes that would bear the spells and rituals he needed. He immediately headed for a large chest on which rested a staff the he’d used many times. Tossing it aside he failed to notice the lack of power within it. Nor did he notice the trail of hardened slime that trailed from where the staff lay to the open arch that led out of this bottommost level of his tower.
The escaped imp was not missed but Merleptus was glad it had completed one final task for him. The creature was more annoyance than it was worth but it had proven useful. Holding the ancient tome of Chthar’Enok with his left arm close to his chest he faced again the scrying pool and gestured with his right hand. Slowly and gently a body lifted upward, naked and whole as if just created. Soft like porcelain yet rigid like a board Sevele’s form was lifeless yet poised to take on life again. When she’d been slain the wizard thought that her form might come in handy somehow so he carefully preserved it and repaired any damage it had taken. How fortunate the imp had born witness to the woman’s burial. He chuckled victoriously as he exited the cluttered chamber, Sevele’s body floating weightlessly beside him, and headed for the chambers that were better suited to aid him in bringing life back to the cold body. Darkon would surely praise his work. Yes, he might do anything for the man who brought back his beloved. Already he had a mental list of the things he would ask the deadly warrior to do for him.

^ ^ ^

Somewhere close, right under the mage’s nose, a once proud demon lord did his best to hide. Dardiax had been recovering slowly since his escape from Calic-Matar. He smiled now as his thoughts traveled through the flow and found the mind of Merleptus. In a small moment he knew the evil human’s plans. He indeed had a good plan, one worthy of a demon lord, but now the Darkbringer was aware of it and that would be the human’s downfall. Dardiax had his own plans for Darkon and they did not involve Merleptus. Still, the demon saw an opportunity he could utilize. He would still be able to alert the last Demonslayers about Calic but now Merleptus might provide a more suitable mediator. If things turned out as he foresaw he would be back in power before long and he could have his revenge against the human who was responsible for his predicament.
That did involve Merleptus. Dardiax did not for one moment concede his defeat. He had every confidence the unifier would be defeated as he had been long ago and the Darkbringer would be there to take back his position from among the demon hordes.
Dardiax waited to hear Merleptus’ footsteps climbing the spiral staircase before he relaxed. Lifting his torso with his gangly arms he thumped his way back into Merleptus’ scrying chamber where several magical tokens had been carelessly left by the mage who acquired them. With relish he used his innate propensity for feeding on magical energy and drained the magic from the items and used the energy to slightly rebuild his own lost power. It was nearly a hopeless cause since when upon the earthly plane his normally fast regenerative powers had slowed to only just above the healing ability of a normal human.
It wasn’t until a booming voice startled the demon that he took his attention away from the many locked chests and their hidden contents, of which he fervently hoped, would contain yet more magic to consume.
“I saved you from destruction only to find you here, scraping for energy? How pitiful a creature you are, Dardiax.”
The voice sent shivers of disbelief through Dardiax as he recognized the voice for what it had to be.
“Kabion, great God of luck, I am gladdened you have noticed my plight!” Dardiax knew the god had not took notice due to any true concern for him but he learned long ago it was better for him to deal with gods by giving them the benefit of the doubt, even when it was obviously misguided.
“Do not think I care what happens to you, demon. I have need only of your voice so that you may be judged.”
Those words struck Dardiax like a blow. He knew, as did all creatures of the Abyss, that to be judged by the seven would mean standing before Halren, the god of vengeance. As a demon, Dardiax suspected his trial might be only a formality. Unless, he pondered, he could provide the gods with knowledge they might need about their followers or the unifier.
Kabion, hearing those thoughts quite clearly, said, “We are aware of the Unifier, fool! We are gods are we not?”
“Of course, great one.” Dardiax groveled.
“Have no fear, worm. There is something you may do for me and in return I may find it in my good grace to return you to your past position of power.”
Dardiax inwardly broiled with excitement. For some reason Kabion had seen fit to allow him to live years ago when the huntsman had destroyed nearly a dozen other demon lords. Apparently he would be so lucky once again! As Kabion took the Darkbringer away from the sunken tower with a whim, the demon screamed in pain. The god of luck may have decided to save him but he was not going to do so without inflicting some sort of pain. As Merleptus turned the first page of the Cthar’Enok, the book of vile resurrection, he heard the echoes of an inhuman scream and smiled. The dark gods were apparently pleased at his intentions, and Merleptus did not plan on disappointing them.


CHAPTER 22
TO BATTLE: TO BROOD


Par-Than had been prepared for a blustering, rage consumed warrior, but not this. The prince did indeed come enraged but his dangerous allies accompanied him and he had not been prepared for them in the least. Beside him fought another warrior who fought with cold, methodical purpose. His arm was a wicked sword and his icy glare almost caused some of Par-Than’s apprentices to faint where they stood. He fought beside the prince as if the two had been doing so since birth and whenever a mercenary found an opening the other quickly closed it. Not far away aimed a fierce elf armed with a glowing spear that slew one archer or apprentice after another. The spear rarely missed and armor seemed inconsequential to it. Worse, after the weapon had done its bloody work it disappeared and returned to its master’s grip. When the spear was gone from his hands he fought like a dancer who weaved in and out among combatants from both sides, all the while wounding and distracting his foes with a fine elven blade.
Also, a mighty elven sorcerer with unique golden streaks through his dark hair deftly countered any of the more powerful spells Par-Than attempted. On three occasions one of the student mages attempted to strike the elf with a flame bolt spell only to have it return to them in full force. Those three magelings perished screaming in their own flame. Meanwhile someone or something was quietly slaying what remained of the apprentices, cutting a bloody trail right toward the royal mage’s position in the overlooking balconies. The mysterious person was apparently masked by some elven magic and the only sign of his passing was a pair of bloody footprints.
Five very deadly men, it seemed, had walked through every one of Satar’s defenses and now threatened to overtake them altogether. Par-Than was no novice to battle but he was overmatched. He just made the decision to turn and run but as he turned he came face to face with a one eyed, cunning young man who held a wicked scimitar threateningly out before him. The man’s hands and weapon were caked in blood and the mage realized this was who had been slaying the his apprentices. Ralac had not expected Par-Than to turn and face him so hesitated in his attack. He had been just about to run the man through and be done with him. Par-Than knew he was beaten so he did what any self-respecting, traitorous wretch of his ability would. He dropped to his knees and begged for mercy.
“Please, I was enspelled by Satar’s demons! Mercy, I beg of you!” The man was truly a pitiful sight.
Ralac smirked then and pushed him down onto his face. Placing one foot atop the back of his scrawny neck and the other upon his left hand the assassin sheathed his bloodied blade. Cupping his hands around his mouth he shouted loudly in an attempt to get the battle’s participants’ attention. The battle raged in a bi-level ballroom where the upper level was a surrounding balcony. Partygoers were able to look over the intricately sculpted railings down to where the dancers whirled and pirouetted. Throughout the vast room, from the vaulted ceiling to the marble floor the echo of Ralac's voice did reach.
“Par-Than is fallen! Drop your weapons or die beside him! Par-Than has fallen, do not die for a lost cause!”
Again and again he hollered until his voice grew hoarse, but eventually his words did their work and a score of guards and apprentices stopped fighting and lay prone upon the bloodied dance floor. Another score and a half lay dead or dying beside them yet of the prince and his fierce allies only Darkon and Graton bore any serious wounds. Darkon’s wound was a long gash across his right shoulder. Clearly he had to learn how to parry with his arm without getting cut open above the elbow. His arm itself, in the form of a sword as it was, had as yet been unaffected by contact with enemy weapons or armor.
Graton’s injuries were more serious since he had been struck by three different arrows, each one still impaled in his flesh. The first was in a fleshy part of his thigh and came out fairly easily. It was to the elf’s credit that he