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

trained him as a boy. Earlier in the day he had pondered pleading with King Garrold to simply allow the mage to die quickly but he realized only his own distaste for the method of burning gave him that thought. Par-Than deserved his fate and there would be no saving him now.
The torch was soon lit and the king raised his sword above his head and pronounced, “In the name of justice and by the hand of Genossia, I, King Garrold of Mastalon, proclaim your punishment to be burning at the stake.” As the king lowered his blade he said, “When you get to Hades traitor, you may tell Satar that the people of Genossia will profit from his family lands and holdings.”
Chills ran through every person gathered then and not a one doubted that the King himself would aid in Satar’s eternal damnation when he too passed from the earthly realm. Such was the renowned Mastalon capacity for revenge.
From somewhere a drum started beating a quick cadence and the executioner touched the burning torch to the very dry wood beneath Par-Than. All the while the mage said nothing, though he was not even gagged. He knew where he had gone wrong and that his fate was well deserved. There would be no denials or begging from him. Not this time. For three weeks he had been subjected to torture in both mental and physical ways. Having eaten live insects and rodent every day and vomiting it up every night he was in no shape to plea or struggle. He closed his eyes as the flames licked at his robe, tears streaming down his cheeks. Tears caused by both smoke and an evil man's plans never coming to fruition. The queen turned away for she could not bear to again witness a man burning alive. The king, prince and heroes all watched stoically, one and all satisfied with the punishment. Nearby, standing in the shadow of her father, Brie’shanna looked on as well. Before today she had never been permitted to witness an execution. An uncommon occurrence at best but they did become necessary when murderers and traitors were discovered.
Brie saw her mother turn away and she knew she would not be thought of any less if she followed suit. Yet the princess was no longer an innocent, impressionable young girl. She had become stronger and harder since Satar’s occupation and capture of her family. She could not help but feel some satisfaction when the last living cause of all her pain and hardship began to scream. The man screamed an inhuman howl of pain and horror as the fire first consumed his feet then worked swiftly up his legs. By the time the hungry flames reached his face and he was ablaze he could no longer scream. Only the fact that his mouth was wide open and his bubbling eyes were alert showed he still lived and felt the pain. When the pain was gone there was shock, then death.
The gathered citizens cheered and the princess started. She could not at first believe the level of avarice and bloodthirstiness of her beloved people. They had lost so many among them and this mage was much the cause of it. She understood their anger though she still felt that no murder was truly justified. She had even tried a week ago to convince her father to simply banish the evil man but the king scoffed at the idea.
Brie’shanna looked at her parents and saw no joy in their faces. They felt as she did and she was glad. All that they had been through had still not made them heartless or cruel. She looked to the four friends of her brother and found them all looking away from the bonfire. Not a one relished the sight of this clearly evil man burning alive.
Soon, nothing remained of Par-Than other than blackened bones. Most of the citizens retired to their homes or work. The only ones still standing overlooking the scene were those on the royal balcony and a small group of travelers who had been standing unnoticed among the crowd.
Darkon was first to remark about them. “Strangers come for the festivities?”
It wasn’t hard to tell that they were travelers of some sort. A stout, weapon bearing dwarf, a warrior garbed in forest green and two lovely young women. The shorter girl had a look of strength about her and her face looked as if carved from marble. With her was a tall, brown haired girl whose honest, natural beauty truly gave him pause. She reminded him of someone, but he could not quite recall whom. It appeared that her companions were hanging on her every word and she was talking to them without pausing.
Gemini stepped in close to Darkon and followed his gaze to the courtyard and after a moment said, “That woman is a priestess of some sort and she appears to be chanting a spell.”
Darkon turned toward the elf and raised his eyebrow in question, allowing the flow to speak for him. Gemini said nothing but began to cast a spell of his own. Behind him the Griffon lord produced his magical spear and awaited word. The king, seeing the concern on the faces of the young men, hurriedly escorted his wife and daughter back inside the palace. No more would Garrold grow lax in the protection of his family and throne. A moment later and Gemini finished casting his spell.
Darkon, nearly bursting with curiosity said, “Well, what have you learned?”
“They are good folk with well meaning intentions but what those intentions are I know not.” Gemini answered.
This did not satisfy the Demonslayer. He was now convinced he must know who they were and what they were doing here. Closing his eyes he left his mind empty of all thoughts and concerns and allowed the flow to lead him to his targeted mind, that of the priestess. Through his mind’s eye he saw the swirl of the mindflow and all the thoughts it was composed of. Colors, he knew, defined a being’s aura and allowed him to pick through those he witnessed. It wasn’t hard to spot the steady stream of concentration flowing from his quarry’s thoughts and Darkon, still learning to use the flow, took note of that steady stream and would remember it any time he was seeking someone who might be casting spells. The thought stream she created was translucent, as all things were in this state of awareness, and they took the goodly colors of blue and green. All about his awareness he saw the stringing trails of thought created by passersby and he could not help but be amazed at the strength and consistency of thought this stranger could achieve. In this moment he realized he had discovered how to discern someone’s true nature and understood somehow that the colors a demon would put forth would be a stark contrast to those of mortals.
As he closed upon that stream of concentration he decided to touch it and thus hear what the priestess was chanting.
He did so and his mind echoed her thoughts, “Aeleostrimine guide my steps and show me the path to our lost brethren, Darkon the Demonslayer.”
Darkon’s eyes jolted open before his full will returned to his body. When he could once again see clearly he was looking toward the group in the courtyard but now they were looking back. Kirstana had apparently finished her prayers to her goddess and realized her prayers had been answered. He waved to them and they fervently waved back. As they hurriedly approached the balcony the hard man in forest green removed his tattered headband and upon his tanned brow was the unmistakable mark of the Demonslayers.


CHAPTER 26
A NEW HOPE


They talked long into the night, the Demonslayers and their dwarven uncle. Recalling their time together years ago when Slaytor was taller than each of the chosen Slayarians and Cann-Dar would amuse them with magical illusions and simple tricks. Darkon had wept tears of joy and relief as his brethren embraced him earlier that day. He had not known until then how much he had feared he was alone. Nor had he realized he had been subconsciously blocking the memories of his time with the other chosen children and Krosten. He had kept his mind clear of the things that would distract him and now all those forgotten emotions flooded back.
He remembered Treacor, who was even then a loner, and Sirsi’, daughter of Krosten, and how stubborn she often was yet how tenderly she would care for one of her fellows if they were injured or upset. He remembered Kirstana and her gangly sister, Clarrissa, who were so often jealous of one another for reasons only they ever understood. Kirstana assured him they did not still act that way but somehow he doubted it. He laughed as he recalled Aldon and the mute, Rax. The two had been best friends since not long after birth and stuck up for one another with a mad zeal. Xavandra the annoying was what he called the little girl thief among the children, and Testhra the touchy the overly volatile would be priestess of Throngaer, who had not been found as yet. Not so fondly remembered was Dharmone’, with whom Darkon had gotten into so many scuffles with over who would lead or who was the strongest. Krosten always smiled during those confrontations saying it was merely fate the son of the Black Tiger and the son of the Silver Lion would contest so strongly. The old priest always assured them that no matter their differences they needed each other to understand what they must one day become.
All of the others he remembered as well, those who had not yet been found by Krosten, and he understood that they all had been chosen for a reason. Together the last slayers would either rejuvenate a lost people or die trying. Slaytor explained that time was of the essence and they should head back north to meet up with Krosten but Darkon did not agree.
“Another day or two won’t make a difference either way. I must give my friends an explanation and time to consider if they’ll join us.” Darkon said.
“We’re your family and friends Darkon,” Treacor coldly stated, “We have no need for outsiders.”
Before Darkon could refute that point he was cut off by Kirstana, “Treacor, you know very well our purpose will soon be to strengthen our people and that means converting outsiders.”
“Will they convert? For all we know they could be demon servants waiting for the right time to…”
Before he could finish that sentence Darkon was on him. Had this arrogant ranger just accused Darkon’s friends of being demons? The son of the Black Tiger was much heavier and stronger than the wiry ranger and Treacor suddenly found one thick forearm pressing his chin skyward and the other reaching under his left arm and joining its match around his neck. Treacor quickly felt the dizziness caused by the loss of blood to his head as he was lifted a foot above the ground. Dimly he heard the exquisite voice of Kirstana, pleading for his release, but oblivion began to silence the world around him. Then, as soon as it started, it ended. With a crash he landed on the hard ground, Kirstana was immediately at his side.
“What is