The Slayarians - Book One by JM Barnes (pdf to ebook reader .txt) 📖

god steel through the heart of any worthy foe. Including the son Odin.

^ ^ ^

A young boy watched as his father was slain before his eyes. Demons ripped the great man to shreds before he was finished his first war cry. Behind him his home burned. From the peat-roofed house that was buried halfway in a grassy hillock he heard his mother scream her dying breath. From the main door then came a most horrifying creature. It was another demon. It was laughing, a woman’s head in its right hand. As it lifted the head and let it face the transfixed boy the woman made a final attempt to communicate with her son. Over and over she mouthed the word, run, as her mind finally became aware that she could not possibly be heard. The boy struggled to find a single word of defiance but as he forced his mouth open all he could do was scream…
Darkon awoke covered in sweat, his blanket thrown aside. He sat up quickly and looked around, trying to remember where he was.
The Yellow Tankard was an average Inn within the town of Kelmornus, which was north of Macedonia and far south of Germania. Darkon and his friends and brethren had decided to stay the night and though he had no reason to dislike the idea he regretted it now. So many nights under the stars had made him forget how the hard ground had kept him from dreaming too much. In a semi-comfortable bed of hay mats and pillow he quickly fell into the nightmares that so resembled his memories. He heard the loud snoring of Slaytor the dwarf upon the floor nearby and hoped he did not awaken the other occupant of the small room, Ralac.
“Another nightmare?” Ralac asked, propped up on his elbows in his own nearby cot.
Darkon nodded an affirmation though how the one eyed assassin saw the motion he knew not.
“You would think with that ability you have with thoughts and such you’d be able to avoid any unwanted dreams.” Ralac added.
Again Darkon did not reply. He nodded though, for he had thought that same thing himself. Apparently the flow was limited in ways he had not considered. For the second time that night the Demonslayer buried his head under his blanket, hoping the nightmare would not return. For the second time that night Ralac shook his head in bewilderment. Once again he was shown that no matter how strong, confident or untouchable a man might seem there were always weaknesses. Darkon's apparently, were within his own grief-burdened mind. The assassin knew that all would be well when the sun rose and they continued their journey north, but he feared Darkon would not wish to stay within any of the towns the rest of the way. He understood, of course, but eventually every man must confront his fears lest they control his life.
Ralac recalled the many dirty faces of those he left behind in the alleyways of his hometown. Many of those folks lived by fear alone. Some utilized the advantage it could give while others only spent their days running from their fears. Those who chose to run never enjoyed the luxuries those opposite them nearly always acquired. Ralac began to fall to sleep with hateful thoughts of those who had tried to use fear against him when he heard a bellow and sounds of combat. The noise came from outside the thin door of their room and even Slaytor awoke from his slumber. In a hurried moment all three men, weapons drawn, prepared to open the door and deal with the disturbance. Just as Darkon grabbed the door’s latch a heavy thump shook the doorframe and a body came crashing through the door. In the shadows they could not tell who the unmoving person was but the attacker was in the doorway.
In one hand a lantern and in the other a long knife the man was startled to see weapons pointed his way from within the room. Head shaven, except for a long tail that started at the top of his head and face scarred from some likely lost battle, this man was no stranger to a fight. He was middle-aged, which often qualified as old for human warriors, and he appeared to be outgrowing his armor around the waist.
Snarling, the man put his knife away and said, “Allow me to finish my fight with that boy and we’ll have no quarrel.”
From the way the fallen figure had not stirred, Darkon figured the fight to be already over.
Slaytor spat at the man’s feet and snarled back, “You interrupted my dreams of home and broke down our door! You got yourself a new fight, stupid!”
Darkon wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment, as did Ralac, who feigned disinterest and drifted backwards into the shadowed room. Slaytor menacingly ran his thumb across the finely honed blade of his war axe and smiled leeringly at the grizzled warrior.
“Have you a name,” He asked, “So I might carve it upon your grave?”
The man didn’t blink as he replied, “They call me Tolumus the hated. I fought in Greece for the lords there. I fear nothing, least of all a half-man.” Many humans who had never seen dwarves before often referred to them as half-men, assuming they were merely men who had stopped growing or were from the fabled land of the Picts. They were wrong. Dwarves dwelled deep in the mountains of Europa, away from humans but very near the several hostile races that huddled ever closer at the encroachment of mankind. They were tougher, stronger and in many ways wiser than the average human.
With a toothy grin Slaytor strapped his axe to his back and clenched his small but solid fists. Tolumus, a veteran of countless bare-knuckle brawls, charged forward. Slaytor immediately took advantage of his shorter stature and easily ducked the human’s first arcing swing. Then, with Tolumus off balance, he rammed his right fist into the ale stinking man’s soft belly. The left quickly followed by going directly upward and pounding Tolumus’ jaw in a viscious uppercut. The dwarf hooted with glee at his accuracy but was silenced as the human leaned back and kicked straight outward with his right foot, catching Slaytor unprepared and with his mouth open. The clack of dwarven teeth meeting so suddenly resounded throughout dwarven skull.
Darkon watched closely, always ready to leap on the top-knotted man, but he knew Slaytor was not finished yet. The dwarf reeled backward but was smiling again as he caught his balance and threw himself headfirst toward the advancing Tolumus. Tolumus never slowed his charge, thinking the dwarf finished and his headfirst attack foolish. Both men’s momentum, added to a soft belly and a thick skull, resulted in a terrible collision.
Slaytor, though striking that soft gut with only battered armor protecting it, was stunned. Lights filled his vision and though his head seemed unhurt his stocky neck stung badly. Tolumus was the worse off of the two. Having spent the entire night consuming ale and food he could he could not help but spill his belly’s contents. With a great splash his night’s celebration hit the floor, splattering both Slaytor and the fallen victim of Tolumus’ bullying.
Darkon nearly heaved while Ralac turned from the old warrior’s back and exited the room, not wanting any part of the clean up duties. Slaytor merely guffawed and said, “I win ya fat bully, and no attempts to bribe me with your spew will make me say otherwise!”
If Tolumus heard those words he didn’t let on. Instead he merely fell breathless to the floor and falling face first in his own vomit, he passed out. A groan stopped Slaytor’s celebration and reminded him of the original worry that provoked him into fighting the smelly human in the first place. The heretofore unconscious man garbed in drab green, as seen by Tolumus’ discarded lantern, turned over onto his back and blinked repeatedly.
Darkon’s jaw went slack and Slaytor bellowed out in surprise as they discovered who that person turned out to be. “Treacor!” They cried in unison, and the only reply the ranger could give in return was a mouthful of blood that flowed down his chin.
The next morning, outside the yellow tankard Inn, Darkon and his brethren and companions alike prepared for leaving. Galen and Ralac joked quietly about potato stew and dwarves not mixing, while Gemini cast a precautionary spell to better discern any hidden persons who might be taking too much interest in their departure. It would not be the first time during they’re travels since Genossia that he noticed an evil man bent on informing local bandits or cults. Each time before the man had been killed both quietly and discreetly. Once a man fell upon a pitchfork, another time a man appeared to have fallen in a well and drowned. Each time the incident was taken care of efficiently both by the stealth of Ralac and by the incantations of Tam Geminilanthis. Murder, under normal circumstances, was not something any of the gathered men and women would consider, but the salvation of an entire people hung on the safe passage of Darkon and the other Demonslayers. They had been spreading the myth and lore of the Slayarians while keeping the last existing few alive and safe. One over inquisitive interloper could not be allowed to thwart their work.
Treacor had remained silent the entire morning and would not meet the questioning gazes of Kirstana and Sirsi’. The two women had heard the commotion the night before and knew he was somehow responsible. Neither of them knew any details though and no matter how hard they pressed the others, not one would volunteer any more. They were sure that the men were attempting to save Treacor's honor by not speaking of it any further and that angered them to no end. The two, strong women knew they were being thought of as ladies who should not be regaled with such tales, but they felt they were equals among the group and should be privy to as much as anyone else. Still, not one of the men opened his mouth. The only clue they finally received was by the crowd gathered at the sight of where a man had fallen from the upper floor of the tankard to his death on the hard ground. By the long tail of hair that was wrapped around his own throat they realized they had seen the man last evening in the Tankard’s community room. He had been loud and very drunk and took an instant liking to Sirsi’ and Kirstana, which seemed to anger Treacor to the point of nearly drawing his sword and attacking the man.
Neither young woman was grateful at his protective behavior though. Both had grown into capable people just as the ranger had and they felt they needed no ones protection. Especially not from some drunken old fool, even if that fool was a hardened, ruthless killer. In irritation they had left the bar and the ranger behind.
Slaytor saw the ire upon the young lasses faces and knew well enough to avoid getting caught away from the others by them. The dwarf was a stubborn fellow but even he might melt under the pressure of the two, persuasive girls. Only he, Darkon and Ralac knew what occurred between Treacor and Tolumus and they each agreed not to tell anyone, especially Kirstana. It was clear to the gruff dwarf that Treacor had unspoken feelings for