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

the lovely priestess that were more than just simple attraction. The ranger seemed entirely taken by her and that would have been a good thing had she shown the same feelings. Kirstana had treated him only as a beloved brother, not realizing his true feelings.
Frustratingly for Treacor she seemed to be growing more and more fascinated by Darkon, who still spoke of his lost Sevele with heartbreaking adoration. The good side to that was now he was talking, not brooding. Galen had informed the dwarf of his friend’s vast improvement since rejoining his brethren. While Darkon seemed attracted to Kirstana he never stared too long and always acted aloof when Treacor was about. As entertaining as it all was to him Slaytor could see where there would be trouble on the horizon. Love had often been the cause of terrible battles and treachery. The Demonslayers needed none of that now, especially amongst themselves.
Soon enough the party was heading northeast, as they had been for the past three months. Over and again they told what tales they could recall and what stories they had been a part of, to any who would listen. Nearly everyone it seemed wanted to hear they’re tales, so it had been a rewarding journey. While the Demonslayers took their turns around the fire or upon a table in an Inn, Gemini, Ralac, Galen and Slaytor continuously watched their backs. They watched the crowds or guarded the nearest tree line as they kept one ear to the speakers and the other to the traps Treacor and Ralac had left for any unannounced listeners. Besides those occasional incidents there were never any situations beyond the watcher’s ability to handle. They all realized though that at every turn and every stop there could be a trap awaiting them, and the more stops they made and tales they told increased those chances even more. Thankfully the scattered cultists, demon worshipers and the like were often unorganized and kept their distance from normal villages and civilized areas. They did keep spies among the people but Gemini’s spells and Darkon’s mindflow had allowed them to find those few who had noticed that Demonslayers were passing through.
It was most likely that only the older of those groups even knew what a Demonslayer was. Telling new initiates or their children about a race that once successfully stopped their evil plots and designs was not something the cultists would want to do. To do so would instill fear and doubt, thus thinning evil’s already cowardly ranks. A select few would have been trusted with that information and they, being the more intelligent of they’re kind, would have kept a wary ear toward tales of any living slayers. So it may have been some of those wary ears the Demonslayers had been forced to leave dead on the road behind them. The road ahead, thankfully, had always been clear.
Until now.
It was four days after leaving the Yellow Tankard in the town of Kelmornus and the forest was growing thick upon the hardly used trail. The horses, given to them by king Garrold of Mastalon, were growing skittish. Eventually every noise, every shadow, seemed a precursor to attack.
Treacor had been trotting ahead of the small troupe and it wasn’t long until he came back to the others announcing that they were not alone in the darkening woods. He had spotted tethered horses here and there along the trail ahead, nearly hidden among the overgrown forest. Occasional human sized boot-prints would appear along the edge of the trail and disappear again into the trees. Mentally, using great concentration, Darkon told everyone he thought they might want to charge ahead in hopes of avoiding being surrounded on the trail. Gemini answered him while Darkon held the contact with his mind and expressed his concern for that plan since it was possible they might instead hurry into a dangerous situation. The others agreed and both Treacor and Ralac volunteered to scout ahead and discern if there was an ambush. Darkon saw the sense in that so quickly agreed, verbally announcing to all gathered what the two were going to do. Treacor seemed insulted at the inclusion of Ralac to what he assumed was his duty alone and whispered harshly to Darkon his view. “I need no one’s help for this! I am capable…”
Darkon, not wanting to embarrass Treacor any further replied through the mindflow. “There is safety in numbers, my friend. You are Slayarian, you cannot be lost to us. You know this!”
Treacor backed down immediately, recognizing the truth in Darkon’s words. Yet he could not help wondering how it was he had lost what little authority he had in the party. Since Darkon joined them he had taken the role of leader almost immediately. With his three friends always agreeing with him, Darkon had already won any argument Treacor could conjure. He was the son of the ruling clan in Slayaria and a natural leader. At least that was what Sirsi’ kept telling him. He understood, but he still felt a bit of contempt. Perhaps, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, his anger was not for Darkon but for Kirstana instead. The son of the black tiger may not have noticed but Treacor saw clearly the respect and admiration in the priestess’s eyes when she looked at him. All the while he wished she would even ride beside him as they traveled. Wracked with inner torment he spurred his steed onward without warning. Ralac had to hurry to keep up with him.
After a short while they both dismounted and tethered their steeds under some concealing fir trees. They quickly found a worn path that ran adjacent to the trail and fresh boot tracks were everywhere. They quietly followed the path, always staying away from one another to avoid both of them being noticed. They were in little danger of that though for both men were quite adept at concealing themselves and besides, there wasn’t a single sentry to be seen anywhere. Apparently all the tracks led in the same direction and the two wondered if they might be stumbling into some sort of gathering. That would be good news in that no ambush awaited them but bad news in that a large party stood between them and their destination.
As they continued onward for several tense moments the sound of voices began to trickle through the trees. Closer and closer they crept, Ralac eventually meeting up again with Treacor. What they came to witness was a most foreboding sight. At least two score men, all clearly warriors, rallied around a massive stump of a long dead oak. Upon the ten paces in circumference stump stood five men, two of which were holding wriggling, screaming babies. One man was speaking and he seemed to command the attention of all those gathered. He was garbed in leather and robes. The leather covered every inch of his torso and reached just below his knees and forearms. Strapped to his left hip was a short, broad sword clearly of Greek design. He was tall and of dark complexion, his straight black hair was cut just under his jutting chin. His age was hard to decipher but by the respect held in many of the older men’s eyes Ralac knew he was not as young as he might appear. By his accent he seemed to be speaking only passable Germanic, his native tongue most likely was Latin. The man appeared to be speaking not to the men who strained to hear his every word, but to a deity of some sort. Treacor informed Ralac that through his lip reading skill he believed the toddlers were about to be sacrificed. Then he pointed to two filthy, bedraggled women, both weeping mournfully at the foot of the stump.
Ralac said nothing but he heard Treacor’s teeth grinding beside him. Treacor was obviously on the verge of erupting into action but for the strength and numbers of the cultists. Ralac lightly grasped his shoulder then and signaled that they should return to the others. Treacor hesitated at the sound of the babe’s crying.
Ralac grasped the ranger’s cloak tightly then and began walking away from the scene. Treacor was at first angry at the treatment but he could not deny having given enough reason for it. Still, he could not bring himself to walk away from situation without trying to help.
Taking one heaving step toward Ralac, he appeared to comply. Still looking at the scene upon the great stump the ranger saw as the shaman prepared to strike a killing blow. As Ralac let go his cloak he turned suddenly and shouted at the top of his lungs. Nothing comprehensible but it was enough to distract the vile men from their ceremony.
Ralac, shocked as he was, smacked Treacor hard across his head. “Are you mad?” He cried.
“I cannot allow this ceremony to continue.” He quickly explained while ducking another swing from Ralac. “We can distract them long enough to regroup with the others and attack!”
“Attack?” Ralac was furious now. At the very least he could have stolen the infants away or even slain the cult leader but now there was no chance of that. The sound of men trampling through the wood was already growing around them. The cult leader yelled commands to find the source of the disturbance and silence it, but to do so he set the baby down and the ceremony was broken.
Treacor and Ralac simultaneously sprinted back the way they came, though with much less consideration for silence and much more for self-preservation.


To be continued in book 2 of The Slayarians
WE, THE CHILDREN OF GAEA

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Text: Joseph m Barnes
Editing: Joseph m Barnes
Publication Date: 04-20-2012

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